a cheeky wee monkey
some food
little demon piglets

20 of them here
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Friday, April 18th, 2003

: 2:19 am
: I don't like it here right now and haven't for a while. I don't know when I'll write here again. (still writing letters, of course)

Thursday, April 10th, 2003

: 10:11 pm
: Godspeed You Black Emperor played here monday night. The show was one of the best I've ever been to, they played for almost four hours. It didn't seem like they were even there to perform in a strict sense, just to play music. No interaction with the audience, no eye contact, four hours of beautiful music. I'm blow away by these people.

I started writing letters yesterday and realized what a large project this is going to be.

doctorobnoxious and publicrant still need to send me adresses if they want... You are two people who I really want to write to, so do it. I'm not a stalker, just a weirdo.

Threw a frisbee around with a friend for a few hours today, was gorgeous out. I'm going to spend alot of time outside this summer, play frisbee golf. That's right frisbee golf...
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Tuesday, April 8th, 2003

: 9:00 pm
: I feel More like a tourist. A naughty one who is constantly confessing. Every gesture and word betrays me to the world at large splayed naked on the lens of some creature's giant eyeball. What would someone who "knows" me think of these confessions? They would feel the immediacy of the message that dwells in the text of a special communication directed solely at them. Some writers find a streak of similarity running through a population and tap into it, like tapping into a gold mine. Popular writing is predominantly a one way shot: The only exchange is one of "value", so a currency of illusions is passed around in an attempt to garner approval. The readers (fans now, perhaps) often become enamored by the writer (who is, by now, a character) and information is propagated, thrown into that fertile and chaotic sea made up of our/your mind: mesmerizing pulsating purple/gray glow, integrated and perhaps one day regurgitated, imitated, synthesized and recycled squeeks will be merged with the greatest future achievments of sentient beings. A way to a sort of immortality, it's the size and authority of voice that lick that giant ice cream called the sky, phhhhhhhfffffft.

I'm feeling a little... inadequate. Like I should be doing something more, like people are zooming past me sometimes and I just stand there watching their progress. Sometimes I think I am working on something and making some sort of progress...? Progress? Pffffffffffht. Booooring! Learning something, anyway. I don't share it with anyone, I don't even write much of it down except in condensed packets of indecipherable metaphors layered over, under, and around each other. Longer projects last for a few months and fizzle out, some of them unfinished, many finished but without excitement or inspiration, I'm dissafisfied with all finished projects, so they never feel finished. Finished. Finnish. Pale, black haired scandinavians? Yum.
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Wednesday, April 2nd, 2003

: 1:21 am
: ecstatic.
: I have all these masks for dealing with different situations, my toast comes out perfect I act one way it comes out burned I act differently, if it were to come out covered in metallic syrup we'd be in a totally different situation, maybe it'll be a little green androgyne stepping from the toaster with that knowing gleam in it's eyes... One aspect is "voice"

voice (vois)
n.

...

7. Grammar. A property of verbs or a set of verb inflections indicating the relation between the subject and the action expressed by the verb: “Birds build nests” uses the active voice; “nests built by birds” uses the passive voice. Also called diathesis.

diathesis
n. pl.
1. A hereditary predisposition of the body to a disease, a group of diseases, an allergy, or another disorder.
2. Grammar. See voice.

ok so maybe that's what it's like and I'm eating language like america eats mcdonalds 900 billion served so things get fuzzy logic reactor shopping mall executions become more popular than santa claus towards the same extreme that rome reached but with worldwide coverage in "REAL TIME" watching ourselves watch ourselves and so maybe we'll achieve consciousness but what kind of creature will we be?

p.s.Collapse )
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Tuesday, April 1st, 2003

:literary endeavors...
: 9:43 pm
: My new project is to write letters to people. Not e-mail, but good old fashioned paper. It seems like a good way to get some exercise and expand on a few ideas I've been playing with lately. Most of my close acquaintances(roommates) and family will be getting one, and I'd like to send some to people who I don't know very well. So, if you're reading this and would like to receive something in the mail, drop me a line. There are no obligations express or implied: you don't have to write back or even read the letter, though I would thoroughly enjoy it if you did.
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Thursday, March 27th, 2003

:woah my turn
: 7:58 pm
: ecstatic.
: i'm back from the mountains

it's warmer the further you move towards or into the southern hemisphere

a high valley in spring there was a ridge in sight and i climbed up to it getting lost in dense underbrush i barely avoided being tangled in barbed wire

but now i'm back and just want to leave again for a place to submerge into

and I remember sitting around a fire a few days ago with people I had never met before getting drunk and just listening to laughter

idyllic scenes and I'm pulled towards that life but I know that isn't where I'm going. It's not going to be a pastoral life, a dying way of life. A dying way of life? No little monkey this is the age of slimy humanity, fleshy blanket strewn across a full spectrum. Burrowing deeper. That is our sea, and our children's sea: A massive and utterly compelling ego looking into a perfect mirror. You can't swim in solid matter dolphin boy save us! Oh no I can't my flipper has fallen off! But what will we do D.B.?! Learn to iceskate! We are dominated by a superior force and manage only to hold it at bay, giving concessions:rendered unable to decide

But seriously I'll never live on a farm no matter how much a part of me desires it. I'm after something. Catching and understanding a "movement" of any sort be it a finger tapping a key or trend mapping nah nevermind what I'm actually talking about is the gritty sort of feel I detect in certain places usually urban areas with high stress levels inner cities, very old places and cities. There's tension. Web pulled tight. Intricate relations, as tangible as the periodic table and as intangible as... you know what.

Trance states. What channels run through me. Furrows. Sometimes I think I write everything for myself, to reference back to, coded information. But I rarely ever read anything I write again, unless I'm trying to learn it well enough to read aloud. Which means seldom. Sel dom. F? Where have you been?
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Thursday, March 13th, 2003

: 9:58 pm
: i'm not here. i walked away. there weren't any birds chirping when I left. When I stopped being here. It was quiet. i walked away without whistling. you know that I Am not Here and that i Walked away. You know that it was quiet when I stopped being here. Your knowing is a silence. I know that I'm not here and that I walked away without any birds chirping and that you know and that your knowing is silence. I know. And I'm not here. I never was. I didn't write this. You didn't read it and aren't reading and and never will read it and there are no birds chirping right now, it is quiet. But you can see these words. You must have written them in silence without any birds chirping when I walked away, when I stopped being here. You wrote all of this and I am reading it as I walk away quietly. There are no birds chirping but they are here, all around and inside us. They were inside me when I walked away and they tried to chirp but silence is a black iron prison. The moisture on the bars doesn't quench thirst but instead makes for treacherous footing for anyone walking away silently without any birds chirping. I slipped on those bars and the noise I made shook the world, reverberated throughout all the birds in your head chirping silently. The noise I made when I slipped shook the world but no one heard it because silence is a black iron prison. The metal on the bars tastes like your hair. Birds roost in your hair and try to chirp but they cough silently because your hair smells like rotten metal. I walked away quietly when I stopped being here and smelled your hair like rotten metal chasing me through a forest of iron bars stretching upwards indefinitely. Quietly. They never reach the top no matter if they are here or not, no matter if they walked away or didn't, no matter if they smell like your hair or they do not. They curl, indefinitely, obliquely, and smell like your hair. My bed smells like your hair on quiet mornings like the one where I walked away silently and listened for birds chirping but heard nothing, obscured by rotten metal flakes falling from your enormous head which was trying to squeeze between the bars of a black iron prison. The vibrations you made squeezing through the bars of a black iron prison shook the world and reverberated throughout all the birds in your head chirping silently. It was music. I am not here but I walked away to the music playing, your head squeezing and black iron prison bars creaking silently, all silently, in black and white except for the birds in your head which glowed a faint neon pink. There were not any birds chirping when I stopped being here, when I walked away without looking back at your heavy head caught between two black iron prison bars that smelled like your hair. I didn't look back to see the faint neon pink light from the birds in your head begin to leak out from your head which, like an egg, had begun to crack under the pressure from the black iron prison bars to the music of reverberating silent chirps. The noise which didn't sound like anything followed me as I walked away and even though I'm not here anymore, and I did not write this, it leaks under my doorway at night as a fine pink dust. Even though I did not write this and you did, and I am reading it, the pink dust from the neon light of birds chirping silently in your head still leaks under my door at night, and sometimes through cracked windows. Even though I walked away and slipped on moisture collected from your forehead onto black iron prison bars I still smell like your hair. I still smell like your hair and there is a black iron prison bar running through my abdomen and stretching off into space even though I walked away to silent reverberating chirps and pink dust leaked from your egg cracked head. There isn't any blood coming from my abdomen just fine pink dust which must have leaked from under my door or through a cracked window. Your head is still there pressed between the bars of a black iron prison even though the faint neon light is not so faint and even though your hair still smells like rotten metal. The faint neon light is not so faint and it follows me. I walked away but it follows me. I'm not here but wherever I go you write these words and I read them in the light from your neon pink head just over the horizon, sickening silence with light. Maybe the birds will fly from your head and take you with them through the bars of a black iron prison. Maybe your head will mend and faint pink neon light will stop leaking from it. Maybe your hair (and my fingernails) will stop smelling like rotten metal. But I still am not here, I still walked away in silence without any birds chirping and you still wrote this to the music of black iron prison bars crushing your head. Maybe you will hear the music. But I swim in fine pink dust and your head glows like a sickness spreading like light over silence. My side aches from a black iron prison bar stretching obliquely through my horizon and through your horizon. But I still am not here. The empire never ended. I walked away. Nothing changed.
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Saturday, March 8th, 2003

: 9:43 pm
: Do I spend a lot of time on the internet? Not exactly. I work 40+ hours a week... sleep about

sunday/monday: 4 hrs
monday/tuesday:

When we hear about events, we perceive them. When an event is perceived, it has occurred to the individual perceiving it... to one degree or another. Current simulations of events pass on a degree of description, building on previous instances of the same or similar experiences. There is a threshold "experience" for each individual: when there is "too much of this" divided by "too much of that"

wow there are about six firetrucks that just roared up in front of my house...

(across the street, actually. hmm... makes me wonder what I would take with me from this room if I had to evacuate. A firefighter with terrible acid burns melting his jacket into oatmeal-flesh striped yellow, bellowing his last words in a valiant attempt to warn the neighbors: "Run for your lives! Oh the pain! It's gonna blow!" Before he dissolves and we all have to flee the area and behind us is a slow explosion of syrupy-yellow-green light like a fourth of july on ebola (prescribed as an emolient skin cream) melted the world into a pock marked crescent-shell)

10 hrs
tuesday/wednesday: 10 hrs
wednesday/thursday: 7.5 hrs
thursday/friday: 7.5 hrs
friday/saturday: 4.5 hrs
saturday/sunday: 4.5 hrs

we get a "jaded" rating for the event. The subject now no longer reacts to the event pleasurably but with entropic antipathy drawing eventually to a singularity at exactly zero experience (invisibility)

supt strup mitch glass jaw tattoo handbag minnie nineola squashpushing along a manhandled mom let's get kooky withy dezire babe cuz trhe chickens come HOME to roost haywire wymans hangers on and satan's pawn strive for riches glory tamed gringo toes tee nose bleed martian antiquity gritty mean have board ghost ly izing striving maligning horse fly jamboree pal to yousef al harqada harpoon lassie springtime melody bling bling my nidzgsche gone jule lujy july july try to fly my way high they called my namebo so i had to tango

so that adds up to 49 hrs so my total accounted for time is 89 hours and there are... 168 hrs in the week (strange number) so I have 79 hrs "left" a week which is 4108 hrs a year out of 8736 hrs total in a year. So, hopefully we notice that the proportion is roughly a bit less than half "free" time versus time spent working or sleeping. Where I am now, in this society, at this time, as a good citizen of my country, I live roughly a bit less than half my life.

And maybe you say that I am putting sleep on the wrong side of the equation
And I say that since I am the "average" mainstream citizen, the time I spend sleeping is a sort of hibernation time where nothing much occurs, just the body refilling on certain chemicals that have run low, muscles resting. Some of these refillings cause hallucinations - signals being sent from memory to receptors which normally only receive from outside sources which creates feedback - feedback is life - hallucinations are parasites, feedback loops propagating through information, all life is parasitic

hallu

sinutions

hallusimulat

ionsimulations

end: 23:09
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Thursday, March 6th, 2003

: 3:03 am
: crazy.
: and I walked home about three miles from a friends after waiting outside in chilled air for a cab that just wasn't coming. very small bits of water had been falling from the sky at varying rates throughout the day and frozen over most horizontal surfaces like the sidewalk. in many places snowbanks are melted and reformed in flattened shapes growing underfoot in the form of grayish slabs of slick ice. in other places bare ground was covered in wispy layers of crystallized water grown and shaped uniquely to fit precisely into an environmental niche they reflected brightness and speckled rainbows

i don't know how to move from where i am anymore.

but it was beautiful and redeeming and my purpose seemed clear for that moment - to stand with my back straight and laugh and laugh and laugh with great(a your last thought is that you will become a noise another lost and empty noise)gusto

just tired, justly tired. want to touch someone. just my glass of water here. just some music, a banana peel, and my glass of water. Camera a dead eyeball in the corner. I can't be more specific, my deficiencies are manifold. Many folded. Together. An they said to me they said they said that it was folded into itself in their slick jackets and space boots... i'm thirsty for it what is ok for me to write here that is a modifier a sort of chosen static editor butlacking the natural capacity for an editor to be in fact a contributor.

subtractive proceses

week long paid vacation soon. where am i going to go? i don't want to stay here. a chance to just hop away for awhile.
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Wednesday, March 5th, 2003

: 12:30 am
: comeon come on come on now enough silent squanderings winter wonder wanderings failings and fawnings it's dawning on geronimo that it's time to go to pull these woolen blinders from softly deaf ears with a single finger pressed to her lips breath fanned out to each side steam burns on wedding rings and the taste of rotted metal dots a vein lined from wrists to tongue repeat with slight oscillations rest retrieve a reprieve from roosting rioters in my dream there was a crotch like a roto rooter and slick lie gleaming teeth set into a jeweled head flashed coded messages that only my hindbrain could understand reptile hisses evaporated from one corner of my mouth, hidden ransom notes from the other and the feathered deathsucker laughed for an entire production of "full metal jacket" performed by icelandics with downs syndrome my heart leaps with trepidation when the phone rings i know it's not you and never will be because that is gone some things only happen once once is not enough for a flu light glowing in a cat corner gone beats sour muzzle blasts my uncategorized horror fist over cheek dance groove muscles strain against saran wrap and other improvised party favors hairpin tortoise shell napkin iron grate mannequin your hand popped out of a molded fiber chest grasping like a dream that a television might have about love if we get our wires crossed just right and enough noise filters through our gills we can simulate anything my pixel party favor i'll be the horns and the pastel fanfare tooth decay wedding cake i'll be the confetti you can be the bonfire and i'll be the confetti and the mannequin will be the witch
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Tuesday, March 4th, 2003

:t shirts
: 7:20 pm
: here it is

this spring's hottest new casual wear!

Read more...Collapse )
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: 6:04 pm
: Let seed be grass, and grass turn into hay:

I'm martyr to a motion not my own;

What's freedom for? To know eternity.

I swear she cast a shadow white as stone.

But who would count eternity in days?

These old bones live to learn her wanton ways:

(I measure time by how a body sways.)



-roethke
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:a little golden man read to me from a dirty book
: 2:33 am
:wolfish.
: Little to say but a lot to talk about.



Made this tonight...
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Monday, March 3rd, 2003

: 9:25 pm
: I just woke up in a small puddle of my own saliva. Hungry... The t-shirts we made are here, finally, I'll have to model some. If anybody wants one let me know, trying to spread it far and wide. Make sure you wash them before use... I made that mistake a few days ago. There's some chemical used in the creation of the shirts that needs to be washed out. I wore one to work without doing so and my nipples hurt all day. That isn't any kind of fun.
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Sunday, March 2nd, 2003

: 9:19 pm
: discontent.
: In a dream last night I was on an airplane en route to Japan. The plane landed for a layover somewhere in Ohio and I got off thinking that I could score some food, but the plane left before I could get back. Standing outside the terminal I looked around a barren landscape of grey and white, tire tracks in the snow the only evidence of movement. Wind. I turned around and couldn't find the entrance to the airport and ended up following a path through some dead underbrush, emerging eventually to a set of train tracks dissapearing into the distance. Three people happened to be walking along in uniforms of some sort - not police but officials, maybe park rangers or something of that nature. Two males and one female. I walked with them along the tracks for what seemed like a long time. Gradually the landscape closed in around us and the tracks dissapeared, we were hunched over walking through a tunnel, then on all fours. A snake crossed my path, then another. A few seconds later, hundreds, thousands of brightly colored snakes were crawling everywhere, throughout the tunnel - it seemed like the tunnel was made of them. Brilliant hues of every color. I felt like I should be afraid but I was just anxious about stepping on one of them and hurting it. They weren't aggressive at all, just kind of minding their own business. I remember that a few of them had two heads. These were yellow or orange.

The tunnel ended and I crawled into a larger space through a metal door which seemed far to small to accomodate me. As I crawled out I looked down on a neatly arranged pile of coins, brand new, shining - nickles, dimes, and pennies. No urge to disturb it. The room I emerged into was some kind of industrial space - I was back in the airport, in the basement or boiler room. The scene changed very quickly, still the same dream. I was in a house with a family who had given me a place to stay because of my missed flight. I don't remember much about this part except being in a kitchen. I think it was the next morning. I left the house with the intention of going somewhere, I had given up on the idea of japan and was thinking just to vacation for a week before going back home. I wanted to call colette because I knew she lived in ohio somewhere but I couldn't remember where much less remember her number. I thought about calling someone back in portland to go on a computer and contact her and get her number for me, a pretty detailed plan for a dream. But instead I met up with this busload of old hippies heading out west to a commune in california. I decided to tag along with them.

Then I was in a supermarket somewhere and I thought I saw colette in the distance so I walked up to her but her face changed and she was someone else by the time I got there. Then I was having sex with a woman who's face and body continually morphed and changed color, shape, texture, et cetera. (this is recurring) In a bathtub.

The end.

You used to be a star...Collapse )
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: 2:12 am
: why can't i ever get more than three hours of sleep? why can't people just have a little respect for getting up at five in the morning? so i have to waste my whole afternoon napping because i'm so tired when i finally get home

i feel passive agressive and that means that i'm about to get nasty.

if i was the only person on the planet i would be perfect. as it is, i'm a poisonous fork tongued bastard. and it's all your fault.
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Thursday, February 27th, 2003

: 2:15 am
: uncomfortable.
: picture203Collapse )
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Wednesday, February 26th, 2003

: 2:46 am
: "To make the network operate for the network by a machine whose end is to operate at all costs, is not to give it a will. One lives in the very Rousseauistic idea that there is in nature a good use for things that can and must be tried. I don't think that it is possible to find a politics of virtuality, a code of ethics of virtuality because virtuality virtualizes politics as well: there will be no politics of virtuality, because politics has become virtual; there will be no code of ethics of virtuality, because the code of ethics has become virtual, that is, there are no more references to a value system. I am not making a nostalgic note there: Virtuality retranscribes everything in its space; in a way, human ends vanish into thin air in virtuality. It is not a doom-laden danger in the sense of an explosion, but rather a passage through an indefinable space. A kind of radical uncertainty. One communicates, but as far as what is said, one does not know what becomes of it. This will become so obvious that there will no longer even be any problems concerning liberty or identity. There will no longer be any way for them to arise; those problems will disappear a little below the horizon. The media neutralizes everything, including, in a way, power, and virtuality itself is not able to turn itself into a political power..."

-Jean Baudrillard
Cybersphere: a discussion with Jean Baudrillard
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Monday, February 24th, 2003

: 2:24 pm
: I feel sometimes like a tourist in my own life. Unwelcome, but tolerated for nutritious value. I'm smiling though. Sort of.
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Sunday, February 23rd, 2003

: 10:42 pm
: As soon as I start writing something that even remotley starts to sound beautiful to me I immediately erase and begin stream of consciousness sorts of rambles the breaks are self-consciousness and the pauses carefully arranged white noise everything that comes from the television in the other room mixes with the music from my speakers and the sound of my fingers hitting keys and television-noise somehow always ends up sounding as if two lukewarm slugs were fucking like maniacs

Broken up by these long pauses I started this entry 11minutes ago

I always seem to end up here if I come home for the night, no matter what I've been doing all day. I can all get lost in however many lives my imagination can handle, the distinction is "validity"

I had a feeling today about meeting someone, a particular feeling about sharing something, even if only for half a second of eye contact. Steering information around a human network. Not by speeches and philosophy or even spoken/written language at all, but by our ridiculously complex set of "unconscious" or "involuntary" movements. Twitch of a finger, thigh, scratching motions, assorted forms of fidgeting, facial expressions. Many people have no real concept of their own facial expressions beyond a sort of "happy, sad, mad" trilogy - elaborations on a single theme. This very specific body language is ridiculously more efficient at spreading information than written/verbal language and the newly emerging visual/symbol languages
but
it's not consciously processed
which renders it currently useless to skin encapsulated egos

I'd like to think of writing as if it were sculpture. There is noise, and by subtraction you slowly carve away pieces of it in different shapes until it is revealed a pearl of yourself, crapped out like a kidney stone onto the page.

But I had a different feeling today about meeting people for those brief moments of contact. Sometimes they are the blink of an eye and sometimes they stretch out for weeks, months, years. The shorter have their poignancy and the longer have depth. We speak poetry for a few moments and then jump behind the curtain again.
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Yes, this is your weird little pet: a cheeky wee monkey.

Look at my:figs
little demon piglets
20 of them here
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