non arduous

Bloop and then if so i mean what if could be of course so what and should i not have been so marginalized i know bop bop it’s not automatic craftwerk canned worm hand hurts fan dom as little as possible entertain to interest intersect Agamemnon and the rest

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Whell

It has been an interim. The only reason I’m writing on here is because I just put my computer away and, here at work, I don’t wish to save any documents on the “public” network, so, I type in the WORDPRESS so as to file my thoughts away in THE CLOUD. A real treat for those of you who happen upon it, as THIS document, was intended for personal use only. And you, public, are impersonal, and thusly usurping the author’s intention. But for the most part cloudy. Some sun.I was thinking, just now, that music is basically rhythms right? No, no wait, hear me out, this is great, I swear. It’s worth your time. Trust me. See, rhythms are what music is. And a rhythm is basically, in the most general sense, a pattern containing other patterns, and also making up other patterns. Now, we as humans, what do we tend to do with EVERYTHING IN LIFE? Whehehell I’ll tell you, do you think you know? Oh, yes! We like to find PATTERNS. Aha! I said to myself, sipping my non phat chai with cherry flavored fucking asshole, I have discovered what is something now very very good yes! So, us being pattern seeking creatures, as is evident in our stories, or our science, some would say our religion, but isn’t that really just STORIES? Isn’t it all stories??? Hmmmmm, but you see now, what do we do ever so most ethereally out almost past the realm of symbolic comprehension? We make music. We make patterns and vary them ever so teasingly… Oh i wish i could play the example to you, it’d be like this: DU-DU-DU, DUDU//DU-DU-DU, DUDU//(see, a pattern! The point here is the little endorphins that boost in your brain when you feel that you’ve figured out the pattern. You smart mammal you! But wait!) DU-DU, DUDUDU// DU-DU, DUDUDU//(Holy shit what’s happening!! Oh wait it’s okay. The point here is variation, which provides ANOTHER rush of endorphins when you evaluate that the novelty is acceptable and not a threat, oh the deftest of subtle manipulations!) But! And then this is really the most mysterious and significant point to grasp, the patterns may not be the point. Because, beyond these patterns and their science and the story of it all, there was maybe something else? Wasn’t there? I mean I think I saw it, or something. I’m not sure, I don’t want to seem naive… No. There was something. There was a feeling, there was a flickering sense that perhaps possibly we really do exist. That there is really a SOUL. And all of our STORIES  are just vessels we swing around blindly trying to capture some of that feeling. It’s in the air, but it can’t seem to be figured out. There doesn’t seem to be a pattern. Unless that it seems to fall in the vessel when we are looking away. But we have to look away naturally. We can’t just look away in order to see it. It knows. It’s in control. It must be respected. It is there. You can meet it. But it isn’t about meaning. iT’S nOT a sTORY). But you must keep entertaining yourself, and us, and them, in order to distract us enough to see it. \But it’s just one of two possibilities, meet it or don’t. And since I am human I want to know what it means. Context. Story. But it is not human and at the historical pinnacle of humanities’ access to information and considering my privileged position among those with access to it I will advance a hypothesis based on my studies. It does not recognize the value of our story making contrivances, but it humors them. It perhaps is leading us to something, more? Or just something else? Something other than repetition of patterns and triggering of endorphins. I had a dream once that I saw written on a black board in a middle eastern looking structure with the roof blown off in a war zone, the chalk board had scrawled upon it a word that we all marveled at, my fellow makeshift students and eye. It was a word whose definition implied a sudden overwhelming and unanticipated revelation of sublime beauty. And I have not been able to remember the word itself. I was afraid in this dream, but the feeling that could be called a concept related to this unknown symbol of a word on a blackboard was salvation beyond the realm of violence. It was untouchable by anything. And I’m thinking now that perhaps this word is, maybe obviously now, beside the point. I just want to follow the thing, the thing that I was talking about earlier, which is also this forgotten word, which is also you and I, but also not you and I, I want to follow it and let it make me realize endlessly. We live in a universe that is literally unbounded. Reality is infinite it really is. Go down and down and there’s no basic unit, up and up no all encompassing, evolve and evolve never ends, progress and progress always something better; anything, infinite. Allow the great thing to lead you along. On the day we coalesce with it forever, we go on gasping in wonder over and over, scratching out our own little plot of eternity. Eternity is like wind blowing in your face not hot or cold or looking at or thinking about anything and just stopping to stand there with no forethought, just stopping to uncontrollably brim over and overflowlng flowing flowing with blissful ecstatic jubilation, FUCKING JUBILATION. Everything is done. Just play with it and love it. Come here and let me kiss your cheek.

MWAH!

and really fuck what a beautiful thing god it is so incredibly incredibly beautiful really. We’re on the edge of it now. I’ve led you this far. I’m going to put down this clunky apparatus of a language machine i’ve been operating for you. I’ve done what I can. I can resist this beauty no longer. It beckons. I fawn and go, subsumed in the satin pastel green endless bliss, the fading waves of sound lapping, lapping. Soothed.

VILLAGE KIDS FIVE

Echoes of an era ringing hollow in the edifice. Heart rate maybe warning signs i see with wary drooping eyes. Have the mind and heart for change but now something is still missing. Getting caught up in the way i like to see/say things, so i don’t say/see anything. Really.

And that’s- why- music- is better – for me.

Rhyme strategy is easier than plotting stories.

And making noise is fun and editing is boring.

Although i do concede I’ve made same discoveries that way.

I find that the manner of my spoken voice is vastly different from my writing and my singing’s in between.

It’s hard to tell if it’s rain or fan or something else,

In the background, supplying my ambiance.

I wrote it down and checked it, so i could shout it later.

I’m tired of the whisper, sick and shitting from the whisper.

Listen here i love you.. Everyone in every way. Come to me I’ll love you, give you shelter, let me stay.

Open to me.

(As Madelin woke from her morning-terrors quaking no more violently than usual, she sprang to awareness of the fact that a change had taken place in her sleeping quarters. She was absolutely (and suddenly) positive of it, though maddeningly unable to pin down just what it was. There was a feeling in the air like syrup spilled in dust; everything was sickly and undesirable, but it was something like maybe in the coloration or temperature of the room. Some background noise relegated to the periphery of her awareness. It was just a nagging discolored sense that something wasn’t right.

She looked around. The room was empty besides Theodore, her lazy and obese ferret; him sleeping on his perch by the window as was certainly normal. The rug was there dingy and maroon, the curtains shredded and limp, the painting her brother had made in his schooldays still cast at the same intentional askew. Her hands were now missing, her teeth ground to dust, she writing agonized/and as God lost his patience her reality suffered and the whole inarticulatable feeling dissolved with Madelin and the rest of her life until God’s anhedonic crawl hit a bump and he got some urge to force a small “givin’ it a go” again.

See: floating here now outside any old world. Is the void white or black or clear like water? Where is nowhere? What is nothing? But then what is this and here too? This is not nothing, as is so easy to say, but something’s as meaningless too. This is, this is, ah, this is. This is it, and is nothing but that. I am nothing but me and too late for no reason. Graveyard graveyard solipsism’s estrangement justifies its’ solipsism. Me only me and so nothing else new. Me only me and you laying down sleeping so there isn’t much meaning for me to expound. Why?

And words like FUCK cigarettes and booze, marijuana, porn, sex, annihilation. Skittering around in the wall little rats with their hands on their dicks chuckling, hee hee hee, our pink eyes and snouts. Bastard. BASTARD! You’ll see what i mean. In fact, no you won’t. My feathers are green. Why)

and if okay

David foster wallace said in infinite jest that ;individuals biologically predisposed to stimulants find talking the easiest form of thinking. (Paraphrase) yes, well i think i’ve been talking about that book too much lately, but i find some truth in the sentiment, and i think that maybe writing is good for me because my talking tends to be just thinking and not so much about a conversation = i’m listening to Debussey. I do not have a lot that is possible to justify or even explain. I want to feel good about myself, and i try to too. The tune is like a sentence in a language with emphasis encoded, and that is what’s stronger than
“speaking”. I’m not angry. I am not content. I am impotent. A fraud to myself. An inhibition codified. An effort of the regence. A plume de la despair with the thick dark hair. An incompetent flair. An insidious stare that don’t meet where your effort glares, except for the blaring signal that you shout into a vacuum.

D

Each person’s death is unique. In it, like some trans-dimensional photo negative, a purpose to the life can be read, by the soul, for the self. It is in the collation of positive and negative.

A detour is required here, because the terms “positive and negative” (Probably coming from Latin or Greek, root words something like that which is, that which is not, or whatever) are like all terms, being repetitively appropriated and re-appropriated. True point being that ancient words over the centuries acquire meaningful layer over ironic meaningful layer. Now the words positive and negative have a relatively average association of cliche, weak advice, fatigue. Now.

You have the ability to make choices regarding your own interpretation of the more ethereally charged words in your vocabulary. As far as positive and negative are concerned I mean, here, that, from the perspective of a self there are: things you think you are and try to be; things you think you aren’t and hate in others. You are in reality both, neither. Your self isn’t necessarily “real”, like the only reality. A certain facet of understanding of the self can be represented by an intersection in an extremely simplified unliteral duality here labeled positive & negative. It is life. It is both that which you see and that which extinguishes sight.

N.B.

Having looked up the actually root words (latin indeed) I find that posit means “placed” or “laid-down” as in “very-sure, convinced.” Negate means “deny.” Arguing words. Beautifully indicative of the very distance in layers of meaning between myself and the origin of the terms. I have no wish to argue, none at all. I do not seek conviction. My desire is to make good in my decisions. My aversion is to be cast around in passivity.

I seek to obtain pure awareness by destroying the ego image.

This would entail, more specifically, the annihilation of all preconceived notions of myself in every opportunity that arises through the course of normal action with the exception of one minor alteration, allowing the opposite of that notion to form of its own volition just as you would normally apply the constraints of your design, without any will permission but a flowing of energy such as occurs naturally when you deign to enforce the limits you set on what’s decency and letting yourself be caught in what’s degraded such observations part of the letting it exist encouraging things to blossom that all will say are poison and yet you like them cus they look and smell a little different than every other bloom you’ve seen every other one of your days and see and the really important main thing is to smile when noones looking

all all all you can eat

Z.Smith DFW

I’d rather use the phrase ‘ulti¬mate value’. Whatever name one has for it, it’s what permits the few heroes in Brief Interviews to make their gestures on the strength of the absurd, making art that nobody wants, loving where they are not loved, giving without the hope of receiv¬ing.

(I hereby edit to include the clause that this is a sentence and a half from Zadie Smith on the subject of DFW’s collection of short stories Brief Interviews with Hideous Men, and thereby release myself from any future accusations of being responsible some underhanded purposeless plagiarism. It is overhanded plagiarism, though i remain pessimistic to the capacity of all to notice.)

Village Kids IV

“Boughl! Boughl! Come here! You’ve got to come here!” I wake from a dream about rocks stacked on top of each other to my good friend Baskatl shaking me awake. I need no explanation beyond opening my eyes. There in the sky is an image: shimmering, fuzzy, phospherescent; It’s bright It’s sitting there just motionless in the sky except for the shimmering of its outline, which you can only see in your peripheral vision. It’s a beautiful blossom coming up from a hearty stalk and leaves and tangled roots reaching out across the sky. The sun is just north of its bloom and and without any reason i know that the sun represents the spirit: the universal all, everything, IT, the one I AM. The beautiful petals represent the soul: that bridge from the self to the all, the meeting ground of emotion and feeling, intuition, sense of beauty, all you create and are in your highest ideal, your sacred aesthetic tastes. The stalk and leaves are the mind: the picker and chooser assertion maker victim abuser the ego the I the analyzer. The roots are the body: the gift and shell of the mind with a mind of its own hungry and tired or healthy and energetic. Now i have fallen asleep again and Bask sinks back in shock and awe.