dear hulu, mediafire, youtube, netflix, amazon, google and other sites i frequent on a near-daily basis,
pleez pleez pleez
could you pleez continue to ruin my daily browsing experience with more advertisements i don't and probably never will pay attention to. i've come to depend on your ineffective marketing strategies in recent years and i don't know where i'd be or which products to purchase without your helpful intervention. thanks for pointing me in the right direction. nothing makes me want to rush out and buy buy buy something more than having my favorite programs and content interrupted by irrelevant advertising no doubt pushed by greedy suit-sharks with no concept anymore of how the human mind works--being so detached from the human experience themselves as a result of having spent the last thirty years of their lives cooped up in board rooms devising ways to dupe the general consumer. as a general consumer, myself, i just want you to know, that it's working. it's really really working. not only are your ads highly relatable and funny and quotable and cutting-edge and provocative (believe me, i talk about them everyday at work with all my best friends for life by the water cooler--i'm probably going to name my first born "wassup!"), but they're totally working. i swear. they really are.
i don't know how you do it. some say subliminal advertising is a sham. but i for one can attest that it is in fact a reality. i catch myself sleepwalking, in the middle of the night, sometimes, to the local supermarket, inexplicably in search of the latest holiday-themed corn chips.
thanks for carrying on that great american tradition of wrongfully taking what was once free and more or less the property of someone else (the internetz) and corrupting it with archaic ideals that have proven historically not to work; conquering vast stretches of free content and commodifying it in the name of enterprise. you truly are pioneers.
fuck you
-working class rube
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
zombie punchline
lily white and all-teeth grinning
the retching and the drool
pick apart a single line
and see that it's no use
here they come to skulk among us
here they come to feast
to resurrect an empty vessel
and sing you off to sleep
disenchanted lullabies
and saccharine for the swill
a single drop of toxic waste
they'd rather see a spill
my head's a mess of heavy fog
my mind's already made
i'm gonna join the cause, i guess
at least i might get laid
hare-brained schemes in the
godless hours
the longest stretch of night
ill-conceived in the cemetery
by the darkest light
the retching and the drool
pick apart a single line
and see that it's no use
here they come to skulk among us
here they come to feast
to resurrect an empty vessel
and sing you off to sleep
disenchanted lullabies
and saccharine for the swill
a single drop of toxic waste
they'd rather see a spill
my head's a mess of heavy fog
my mind's already made
i'm gonna join the cause, i guess
at least i might get laid
hare-brained schemes in the
godless hours
the longest stretch of night
ill-conceived in the cemetery
by the darkest light
ideaaaaaaa
here they come
to skulk among us
to impart upon us
words too vague
to analyze
or pick apart
and all the same
it's filth
it's rotten
vulgar to the bone
separate the meat
and maggots teeming
find it on your own
there is no use
in dwelling in it
stewing in your filth
there is no use
in comprehending
anything at all
here they come
with all-teeth grins
to sing you off to
sleep tonight
vomit-caked and
lily white
to send you off again
they walk among us
with a taste for blood
moving slow but when they
assemble
there is nowhere to run
to skulk among us
to impart upon us
words too vague
to analyze
or pick apart
and all the same
it's filth
it's rotten
vulgar to the bone
separate the meat
and maggots teeming
find it on your own
there is no use
in dwelling in it
stewing in your filth
there is no use
in comprehending
anything at all
here they come
with all-teeth grins
to sing you off to
sleep tonight
vomit-caked and
lily white
to send you off again
they walk among us
with a taste for blood
moving slow but when they
assemble
there is nowhere to run
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
metacognition
tonight, the moon is full of closeted ideas and repressions of thought
of memories, too difficult to communicate
still, it radiates, it glows
over everything
leaking mystery everywhere
showering the world in a threadbare
hardly visible
but still recognizable
spray or mist of inspirational fluff:
the hack-artist's most treasured dream-vision
the lifeblood of the high-art mongoloid
he situates and/or positions himself in front of
a typewriter
he imagines a monitor screen where an open window, a drawn curtain,
contaminates his head
with stock imagery
recycled debris and ash from
far greater poets
far greater writers
still, he persists.
he lets his hands float above the letters, anticipating the click, the quick dragon-snap
of ink on or at paper
he wonders why he's never investigated the inner-workings
of the typewriter
the mechanics
he's never been one to investigate machinery, so why does this interest him now?
finally, a strand of words appear:
i am/no/this/this is me
i am me/typing this/no matter how unlike myself/
these words may seem/
they are me/try as i might/
i cannot abolish myself/
what is essentially me/
anything/any idea/that leaves my body/
never wanders far/
it is bound and shackled to my brain/
like a dog on a leash chasing a boomerang/
back to me/marked by own stubbornly persistent/
voice--
he waits a second and reviews what he's just typed. this is
crap, he decides. pure and simple crap. he rips the paper from the
typewriter and crumples it up into a little ball.
for just a second, he contemplates throwing it--far--out the window, perhaps,
imagines
the thick thud it will make on his neighbor's side-panelling.
finally, he just drops it on the floor--less of a drop and more of a
simple letting go or releasing from his grip (note: this is not a metaphor--unless you'd like it
to be, in which case, it's completely relevant).
he leans back in his chair and lights another cigarette
i know so little about writing, he decides. i know so little about myself.
he looks back over the poem, to the best of his ability, in his brain,
he keeps coming back to the dog on a leash line
the line about the frisbee
(or was it a boomerang?)
being bound and shackled
he can't stand it--the lack of inventiveness
the exhausted metaphors
the cliched cliches
he thinks briefly about a dream he had: dead babies stuffed between the mattress and the wall, under a heap of bedsheets and trash, dumpy girls with dumpy flat asses and dumpy personalities, the shimmer of fur
that might make a good poem, he thinks. if only i knew how to put into words.
he reconfigures his body once more in front of the typewriter, the open window, the only thing
different now being the crumpled ball of paper beside his chair
i've been thinking about thinking about thinking, he writes, and i've acted out of pure selfishness, killing everything i loved....
of memories, too difficult to communicate
still, it radiates, it glows
over everything
leaking mystery everywhere
showering the world in a threadbare
hardly visible
but still recognizable
spray or mist of inspirational fluff:
the hack-artist's most treasured dream-vision
the lifeblood of the high-art mongoloid
he situates and/or positions himself in front of
a typewriter
he imagines a monitor screen where an open window, a drawn curtain,
contaminates his head
with stock imagery
recycled debris and ash from
far greater poets
far greater writers
still, he persists.
he lets his hands float above the letters, anticipating the click, the quick dragon-snap
of ink on or at paper
he wonders why he's never investigated the inner-workings
of the typewriter
the mechanics
he's never been one to investigate machinery, so why does this interest him now?
finally, a strand of words appear:
i am/no/this/this is me
i am me/typing this/no matter how unlike myself/
these words may seem/
they are me/try as i might/
i cannot abolish myself/
what is essentially me/
anything/any idea/that leaves my body/
never wanders far/
it is bound and shackled to my brain/
like a dog on a leash chasing a boomerang/
back to me/marked by own stubbornly persistent/
voice--
he waits a second and reviews what he's just typed. this is
crap, he decides. pure and simple crap. he rips the paper from the
typewriter and crumples it up into a little ball.
for just a second, he contemplates throwing it--far--out the window, perhaps,
imagines
the thick thud it will make on his neighbor's side-panelling.
finally, he just drops it on the floor--less of a drop and more of a
simple letting go or releasing from his grip (note: this is not a metaphor--unless you'd like it
to be, in which case, it's completely relevant).
he leans back in his chair and lights another cigarette
i know so little about writing, he decides. i know so little about myself.
he looks back over the poem, to the best of his ability, in his brain,
he keeps coming back to the dog on a leash line
the line about the frisbee
(or was it a boomerang?)
being bound and shackled
he can't stand it--the lack of inventiveness
the exhausted metaphors
the cliched cliches
he thinks briefly about a dream he had: dead babies stuffed between the mattress and the wall, under a heap of bedsheets and trash, dumpy girls with dumpy flat asses and dumpy personalities, the shimmer of fur
that might make a good poem, he thinks. if only i knew how to put into words.
he reconfigures his body once more in front of the typewriter, the open window, the only thing
different now being the crumpled ball of paper beside his chair
i've been thinking about thinking about thinking, he writes, and i've acted out of pure selfishness, killing everything i loved....
Friday, September 17, 2010
never never never
sample dialogue from a movie i'd pay full admission to see:
guy a: sometimes--i'm talking to people and it doesn't feel like i'm talking to them at all. it's more like--i feel like i'm playing a game of chess.
guy b: you don't know how to play chess.
guy a: exactly!
guy a: sometimes--i'm talking to people and it doesn't feel like i'm talking to them at all. it's more like--i feel like i'm playing a game of chess.
guy b: you don't know how to play chess.
guy a: exactly!
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
smut
so, i've calmed down a bit lately--i haven't felt as neurotic or anxious. i think a lot of it had to do with work slash over-thinking. too often, i try to pick apart every facet of my being and it always results in me spazzing out because i feel like i'm losing myself, in one way or another--that i'm somehow losing control over what makes me essentially me. generally, these are qualities i treasure--things that come naturally to me, usually having to do with some form of self-expression (i.e. my ability to write, to talk, to make people laugh). the problem is, once i start thinking about how i do something, the actual process itself, i feel like i can no longer do it. and this might have something to do with me forcing something that otherwise isn't forced or doesn't need to be forced--like i said, things that come naturally--so that, i'm no longer doing them automatically, but trying--actively trying--to do them in a self-reflexive state of mind--like a severely debilitating incarnation of metacognition. really, though, i think i just need to relax. indulge myself by going with the flow, so to speak. i need to stop trying to control everything and just let it happen. it doesn't do me any good to consciously deconstruct my own essence because, at that point, it dies.
a friend of mine put it this way: try to dissect something and it dies instantly on the table. we were talking about art--specifically, the science of aesthetics and trying to pinpoint the universal quality of "good art" but i think it's still applicable in this case. the moment i stick the knife in, i die. i lose my train of being--my momentum. maybe it's not immediate--there's a brief period of intense pain before finally succumbing to a fatal wound--and maybe i can still recover, but it's still something i'd like to avoid.
i'm not going to say i cease to be myself the instant i start to question why and how i do things, that self-reflexive contemplation necessarily leads to the murder of the self, because, even when i try to act out of character, i'm still me, i'm still performing out of character as myself--that's something i learned a long time ago. try as you might, you cannot abolish the self. still, it'd be nice to not have to worry about these things. i guess deliberately avoiding my own neurosis sort of contradicts my whole "go-with-the-flow" argument, but...whatever. no matter what i do, i will always be me. nothing will change that. maybe i'm just supposed to be fucked-up. but i know i can get better, that i've felt better, less anxious, than i do now and i'd like to feel that again. it's hard to put into words--my strategy--but i'm going to try so i can avoid getting into scraps like this later--so that i'll know how to deal with them when the time arrives.
anyway...
a friend of mine put it this way: try to dissect something and it dies instantly on the table. we were talking about art--specifically, the science of aesthetics and trying to pinpoint the universal quality of "good art" but i think it's still applicable in this case. the moment i stick the knife in, i die. i lose my train of being--my momentum. maybe it's not immediate--there's a brief period of intense pain before finally succumbing to a fatal wound--and maybe i can still recover, but it's still something i'd like to avoid.
i'm not going to say i cease to be myself the instant i start to question why and how i do things, that self-reflexive contemplation necessarily leads to the murder of the self, because, even when i try to act out of character, i'm still me, i'm still performing out of character as myself--that's something i learned a long time ago. try as you might, you cannot abolish the self. still, it'd be nice to not have to worry about these things. i guess deliberately avoiding my own neurosis sort of contradicts my whole "go-with-the-flow" argument, but...whatever. no matter what i do, i will always be me. nothing will change that. maybe i'm just supposed to be fucked-up. but i know i can get better, that i've felt better, less anxious, than i do now and i'd like to feel that again. it's hard to put into words--my strategy--but i'm going to try so i can avoid getting into scraps like this later--so that i'll know how to deal with them when the time arrives.
anyway...
Friday, September 10, 2010
update: why do i feel like shit every time the seasons change?
well. i can't begin to describe how terrible this week has been. i woke up for work last night and thought for sure i'd gone crazy. my thoughts were going spastic. i felt like i'd lost it. and maybe i have. i just need to remember that, no matter what i do, i will always have it in me--the potential to be what i need to be in order to be happy--productive and in-tune with myself. it's always there. i just need to focus less on the mechanics of it--the why's and how's--and just start letting things happen. because, once you start thinking about how you do something--something so natural--you start to lose it.
i strongly believe in the theory of entropy. at a certain point, yes, everything deteriorates. nothing lasts forever. before it goes away completely, it has to decompose. wilt away and rot. before it finally dies, it has to turn ugly. i wholeheartedly believe that. but i've become so preoccupied and obsessed with this idea that i can't allow things to naturally run their course, i have to interfere, so that it's impossible for me to hold on to anything. it's like, once i acknowledge that i have a sort of knack for something--whether it be writing or talking or thinking--my mind will form an attack against it. and i don't know why. it's like trying not to think about something. if it's already in your head, you're going to think about it. that's just how it works. the brain--actually, i shouldn't generalize; maybe it's just my brain--is so self-destructive, sometimes it's unbearable.
i shouldn't say this, but...
i really want to die.
i just want it to be over.
i can't handle this.
i've tried everything. pills, therapy, talking it out, devising strategies in my head....nothing seems to work. i wish there were a quick and easy solution. some amazing magical pill. maybe a whimsical encounter with a vagrant hypnotist. who knows? i just want to be ok. enough to not feel stressed all the time. anxious. i don't want to have to sleep all the time because i'm too afraid to be awake, too afraid to confront my own thoughts. that's not the life i want to live. but it is the life i live. and i feel like it's only going to get worse. just when i think it can't, it always does. it always gets worse. never better. i just continue to spiral down and out of control. i wish it would stop.
i strongly believe in the theory of entropy. at a certain point, yes, everything deteriorates. nothing lasts forever. before it goes away completely, it has to decompose. wilt away and rot. before it finally dies, it has to turn ugly. i wholeheartedly believe that. but i've become so preoccupied and obsessed with this idea that i can't allow things to naturally run their course, i have to interfere, so that it's impossible for me to hold on to anything. it's like, once i acknowledge that i have a sort of knack for something--whether it be writing or talking or thinking--my mind will form an attack against it. and i don't know why. it's like trying not to think about something. if it's already in your head, you're going to think about it. that's just how it works. the brain--actually, i shouldn't generalize; maybe it's just my brain--is so self-destructive, sometimes it's unbearable.
i shouldn't say this, but...
i really want to die.
i just want it to be over.
i can't handle this.
i've tried everything. pills, therapy, talking it out, devising strategies in my head....nothing seems to work. i wish there were a quick and easy solution. some amazing magical pill. maybe a whimsical encounter with a vagrant hypnotist. who knows? i just want to be ok. enough to not feel stressed all the time. anxious. i don't want to have to sleep all the time because i'm too afraid to be awake, too afraid to confront my own thoughts. that's not the life i want to live. but it is the life i live. and i feel like it's only going to get worse. just when i think it can't, it always does. it always gets worse. never better. i just continue to spiral down and out of control. i wish it would stop.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
it's impossible for her to talk without fiddling with the closest object in sight
my head is fucked. i just played a show--smoked way too many cigarettes and drank way too much caffeine. it always happens when i have caffeine. mostly, when i have caffeinated soda.
there was one point, on the drive home--i was talking to andrew and i sort of lost my train of thought not just midsentence but mid-word. it was really scary--like a bad acid-trip or something. there were several moments where i couldn't find the right words, i could feel them, i could feel the neurons misfiring in my brain, but i just wasn't making the connections. and it's been like this for a couple days. i'll start to talk and, where i once thrived off that feeling of not knowing for certain what i was going to say and how it would sound coming out of my mouth, i just draw a blank now. it could just be my mind making me second-guess myself--over-thinking it. but it could be something else, something serious. and that's what frightens me.
i think the pills i'm taking may have something to do with it. i can feel myself slipping, in little increments. there's always a period where i freak-out--i feel like i'm losing my shit--and then i recover, i adapt, adjust myself. i find that little groove where i can feel, at least, semi-decent--well enough to function. my worst fear, though, is losing myself altogether--somehow going crazy or retarded. and i feel like it's happening. but it's probably just me being irrational. it's really hard to describe what exactly takes place up there--i don't really have the language to articulate to anyone what goes on in my brain--it's just not something that can be communicated. but i want it to stop. i want to feel normal again. not dumb. just OK. that's all i want. getting there is the hard part. actually, figuring out a way to get there--that's the big challenge. but i have a meeting with my psychiatrist coming up and i'm going to see if he can do anything for me, if only he were more than just a prescription-writer--throwing pills at problem that never seems to get solved. and not just throwing any pills but the same ones that haven't been working for a year now.
oh well. i guess it helps to write it all down. we'll see, though.
there was one point, on the drive home--i was talking to andrew and i sort of lost my train of thought not just midsentence but mid-word. it was really scary--like a bad acid-trip or something. there were several moments where i couldn't find the right words, i could feel them, i could feel the neurons misfiring in my brain, but i just wasn't making the connections. and it's been like this for a couple days. i'll start to talk and, where i once thrived off that feeling of not knowing for certain what i was going to say and how it would sound coming out of my mouth, i just draw a blank now. it could just be my mind making me second-guess myself--over-thinking it. but it could be something else, something serious. and that's what frightens me.
i think the pills i'm taking may have something to do with it. i can feel myself slipping, in little increments. there's always a period where i freak-out--i feel like i'm losing my shit--and then i recover, i adapt, adjust myself. i find that little groove where i can feel, at least, semi-decent--well enough to function. my worst fear, though, is losing myself altogether--somehow going crazy or retarded. and i feel like it's happening. but it's probably just me being irrational. it's really hard to describe what exactly takes place up there--i don't really have the language to articulate to anyone what goes on in my brain--it's just not something that can be communicated. but i want it to stop. i want to feel normal again. not dumb. just OK. that's all i want. getting there is the hard part. actually, figuring out a way to get there--that's the big challenge. but i have a meeting with my psychiatrist coming up and i'm going to see if he can do anything for me, if only he were more than just a prescription-writer--throwing pills at problem that never seems to get solved. and not just throwing any pills but the same ones that haven't been working for a year now.
oh well. i guess it helps to write it all down. we'll see, though.
Friday, September 3, 2010
gestalt swirls
it's easier to be impressive when you don't have to be
sketch idea:
guy crashes at co-worker's place for the weekend--shows up at his house unexpectedly. he only speaks in three phrases: hi, jim/yeah, jim/yeah (variations of those three phrases), think papa lazarou. the co-worker, who is a bit of a p u s h ov er, takes him in, because he can't say no. the whole time, he's uncomfortable. makes multiple attempts at reducing the awkwardness. tries to start conversation. goes nowhere. it's hard to talk to someone who only says three things. he puts in a movie. the guy stares at him, maniacally, through the opening credits. he thinks better of it and turns it off. at night, he sleeps on the floor, next to the co-worker's bed. but he doesn't sleep. he just hovers over co-worker's bed. co-worker asks him if he's ok. if there's anything he can do, to which he responds with yeah or hi, jim. endless cycle. co-worker wakes up to crazy guy still staring at him, in the same exact pose as the night before. end.
then there's the poo guy idea. which, i'll get around to later. basically, guy sells pet turds--his own--setting up stands at local flea markets and street fairs. charges astronomical and absurd prices for his feces (ex. one jillion dollars) and gives each one a name, something high-flown, like a fancy-pants french or latin designation. people walk past his stand and they're caught off guard. it takes a while to register, but eventually they get it. and they can't believe their eyes. each turd has been staked with a cardboard sign attached to a mint-flavored toothpick, crudely marked with the price and "official" name of each specimen. after a few h i l a r i o u s encounters, someone decides to make an offer, just as an offer. yeah, he says, i'd like that one--the one for a million gazillion dollars. the guy hesitates, mutters something incomprehensible under his breath. it's not for sale, he says. and why not? the man asks. it has a price and everything. i mean, that's why you're here, right? to sell? the guy can't bear the thought of parting ways with any of his merchandise--he's become too attached, in the way one might with a child, the separation would be too painful. he makes up some excuse and the man walks away, laughing at having outwitted this oddly eccentric stranger. the thing that really makes it funny, though, is that the guy selling the turds lives in his own world--a world in which it's conceivably plausible and accepted that people would pay outrageous and made-up prices for turds, which he's developed an abnormal reverence for. kind of juvenile, but still kind of funny.
i guess i won't get to that later.
that was easy.
sketch idea:
guy crashes at co-worker's place for the weekend--shows up at his house unexpectedly. he only speaks in three phrases: hi, jim/yeah, jim/yeah (variations of those three phrases), think papa lazarou. the co-worker, who is a bit of a p u s h ov er, takes him in, because he can't say no. the whole time, he's uncomfortable. makes multiple attempts at reducing the awkwardness. tries to start conversation. goes nowhere. it's hard to talk to someone who only says three things. he puts in a movie. the guy stares at him, maniacally, through the opening credits. he thinks better of it and turns it off. at night, he sleeps on the floor, next to the co-worker's bed. but he doesn't sleep. he just hovers over co-worker's bed. co-worker asks him if he's ok. if there's anything he can do, to which he responds with yeah or hi, jim. endless cycle. co-worker wakes up to crazy guy still staring at him, in the same exact pose as the night before. end.
then there's the poo guy idea. which, i'll get around to later. basically, guy sells pet turds--his own--setting up stands at local flea markets and street fairs. charges astronomical and absurd prices for his feces (ex. one jillion dollars) and gives each one a name, something high-flown, like a fancy-pants french or latin designation. people walk past his stand and they're caught off guard. it takes a while to register, but eventually they get it. and they can't believe their eyes. each turd has been staked with a cardboard sign attached to a mint-flavored toothpick, crudely marked with the price and "official" name of each specimen. after a few h i l a r i o u s encounters, someone decides to make an offer, just as an offer. yeah, he says, i'd like that one--the one for a million gazillion dollars. the guy hesitates, mutters something incomprehensible under his breath. it's not for sale, he says. and why not? the man asks. it has a price and everything. i mean, that's why you're here, right? to sell? the guy can't bear the thought of parting ways with any of his merchandise--he's become too attached, in the way one might with a child, the separation would be too painful. he makes up some excuse and the man walks away, laughing at having outwitted this oddly eccentric stranger. the thing that really makes it funny, though, is that the guy selling the turds lives in his own world--a world in which it's conceivably plausible and accepted that people would pay outrageous and made-up prices for turds, which he's developed an abnormal reverence for. kind of juvenile, but still kind of funny.
i guess i won't get to that later.
that was easy.
zombieeee
it's happening again and i don't know why. i feel powerless to stop it. part of me wants to say it's absurd--it's only in my head. it's happening because i let it happen. but there's another part of me, the part that i can't control, that refuses to believe this, even if it is completely irrational.
i wish i knew what triggers it. then, i could possibly come up with a ready-made solution, a process of dealing with it. i mean, i want to shrug it off, but something won't let me. my mind fixates at on it. it becomes an obsession, where days before, it meant nothing. it was so easy to just block out, to dismiss as ridiculous and carry on with my life. i guess all i can do is look for recurring trends--try to analyze it by pinpointing certain events or modes of thought that cause it to happen. it seems like it always happens when i'm just on the verge of a major breakthrough, when i'm finally content enough with myself to not feel any anxiety whatsoever, when the world seems so easy, finally, to figure out--words pour out of me so effortlessly, i feel as though i'm speaking through some divine medium. it's when i become conscious of the process, wishing to hold onto it, for fear that i may lose it (like now), that i do in fact lose it. like hemingway's butterfly analogy (a butterfly becomes conscious of its flight and, therefore, forgets how to perform something that came so naturally). like the butterfly, i am grounded. and it's always just as i'm taking off. finally, feeling my way around. getting my bearings. then, i plummet to the ground, nosedive into the pavement. and i'm helpless. there's nothing i can do to stop it. at least, i don't think so. i get so excited. finally, i think, i'm flying. i'm really doing it. but how? and it's at that moment, that i fuck up. because i realize that i have no idea how i ever left the ground and therefore there's no guarantee that i'll ever be able to sustain myself, to keep myself from falling, crash-landing. it's scary.
what it all boils down to, i think, is metacognition, the same affliction, i believe, responsible for jung's mental collapse--documented, apparently, though never published for the public, in his red book. he tried to understand how the mind worked and went crazy. thinking too much about thinking inevitably leads to insanity. it just does. trying to pick apart and analyze why your mind works the way it does and how it works is something, i feel, shouldn't be explored. it's like the tower of babel all over again. one of those things we were never meant to understand. it truly is the great and vast unknown. it's too much to take on, too limitless. we're treading in unsafe territory--infinite openness, wander out too far and there's no way to find your way back. it may sound trite, but it's true. and i don't care.
there is truth in pop knowledge. it's standardized, it's widely accepted and often cited for a reason. there's a critic in my head, an amalgamation of some of the most cynical people i've known in the past, that simply refuses to let me say the obvious. but i need it. i think that's part of the problem. unlike most people, i have no foundation from which to veer. i'm constantly veering, wandering off in my own direction because i simply will not allow myself to return to what almost instantaneously becomes familiar. i have to be different at all times. i thrive on the unexpected. and, frankly, i'm sick of it. i'm a little burnt out on the creative life. maybe i need a break. but then, do i stop growing at that point? do i lose everything i've worked so hard to gain, a well-established voice, whittled from so many painful hours of deep insight? or do i just pick up where i left off? do i start all over again, at square one? i don't know. i really don't. and i'm fine with that. or, i wish i was fine with that. but i have to know. i have to subject myself to misery and i don't know why. i'm a glutton for looking when i don't want to. and every time i flinch, my mind goes blank. i black out and it's the same thing all over again, ad nauseum.
maybe i just need to sleep.
i wish i knew what triggers it. then, i could possibly come up with a ready-made solution, a process of dealing with it. i mean, i want to shrug it off, but something won't let me. my mind fixates at on it. it becomes an obsession, where days before, it meant nothing. it was so easy to just block out, to dismiss as ridiculous and carry on with my life. i guess all i can do is look for recurring trends--try to analyze it by pinpointing certain events or modes of thought that cause it to happen. it seems like it always happens when i'm just on the verge of a major breakthrough, when i'm finally content enough with myself to not feel any anxiety whatsoever, when the world seems so easy, finally, to figure out--words pour out of me so effortlessly, i feel as though i'm speaking through some divine medium. it's when i become conscious of the process, wishing to hold onto it, for fear that i may lose it (like now), that i do in fact lose it. like hemingway's butterfly analogy (a butterfly becomes conscious of its flight and, therefore, forgets how to perform something that came so naturally). like the butterfly, i am grounded. and it's always just as i'm taking off. finally, feeling my way around. getting my bearings. then, i plummet to the ground, nosedive into the pavement. and i'm helpless. there's nothing i can do to stop it. at least, i don't think so. i get so excited. finally, i think, i'm flying. i'm really doing it. but how? and it's at that moment, that i fuck up. because i realize that i have no idea how i ever left the ground and therefore there's no guarantee that i'll ever be able to sustain myself, to keep myself from falling, crash-landing. it's scary.
what it all boils down to, i think, is metacognition, the same affliction, i believe, responsible for jung's mental collapse--documented, apparently, though never published for the public, in his red book. he tried to understand how the mind worked and went crazy. thinking too much about thinking inevitably leads to insanity. it just does. trying to pick apart and analyze why your mind works the way it does and how it works is something, i feel, shouldn't be explored. it's like the tower of babel all over again. one of those things we were never meant to understand. it truly is the great and vast unknown. it's too much to take on, too limitless. we're treading in unsafe territory--infinite openness, wander out too far and there's no way to find your way back. it may sound trite, but it's true. and i don't care.
there is truth in pop knowledge. it's standardized, it's widely accepted and often cited for a reason. there's a critic in my head, an amalgamation of some of the most cynical people i've known in the past, that simply refuses to let me say the obvious. but i need it. i think that's part of the problem. unlike most people, i have no foundation from which to veer. i'm constantly veering, wandering off in my own direction because i simply will not allow myself to return to what almost instantaneously becomes familiar. i have to be different at all times. i thrive on the unexpected. and, frankly, i'm sick of it. i'm a little burnt out on the creative life. maybe i need a break. but then, do i stop growing at that point? do i lose everything i've worked so hard to gain, a well-established voice, whittled from so many painful hours of deep insight? or do i just pick up where i left off? do i start all over again, at square one? i don't know. i really don't. and i'm fine with that. or, i wish i was fine with that. but i have to know. i have to subject myself to misery and i don't know why. i'm a glutton for looking when i don't want to. and every time i flinch, my mind goes blank. i black out and it's the same thing all over again, ad nauseum.
maybe i just need to sleep.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
did i ever tell you the one...
every night, at approximately the same time, he stepped outside to take a piss on his own front lawn. the neighbors complained. they said they could smell the stench all up and down the street. it was especially bad, they said, in the summertime, when the piss had time to sour in the hot sun all day, taking on a new stench, more deadly, they said, than carbon monoxide and more potent than the most pungent of cheap filling-station knock-off perfumes, imitation sleaze at a quarter-a-squirt. no one on the whole street knew his real name. though, they had a wide variety of names for him. no one had ever had any sort of interaction with him, not even a simple hello. he stayed inside all day, except for that one designated point in the evening when he walked outside to relieve himself.
when he died, the stench lingered. it lingered for days and days. you can still smell it, they say, on especially hot days in the summertime, when the sun is out and playing tricks like deja vu on the easily amused.
when he died, the stench lingered. it lingered for days and days. you can still smell it, they say, on especially hot days in the summertime, when the sun is out and playing tricks like deja vu on the easily amused.
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