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This book will be dedicated to all of the lyrics that have at one time or another moved me. I may also include my own lyrics { Gawd, no! } or perhaps I will find a separate journal { Finding wasn’t really an arduous task, even then. Finding out that one needs a colonoscopy is one thing, but finding out you can’t be anesthetized is quite another. Choosing to forego all painkillers or relaxants is the type of finding I refer to here. }.
{ Then, with the studious diligence of an inmate repetitively tracing the warden’s signature, begins a three page hand-scribed replication of angst-mused eighties’ lyrics. }
I saw a war widow in the launderette washing the memories from her husband’s clothes
She had medals pinned to her dreary grey coat, a lump in her throat with cemetery eyes
Cause the only thing misplaced was direction — I found direction, there is no childhood’s end. You were my childhood’s friend.Lead me on.
— Marillion, Blind Curve, Childhood’s End
{ To be fair, I believe this pretense and conceit, poor as its initial conception belies, is quickly jettisoned, once it provided the fuel of an operable framework for a young would-be artist sketching himself without a mirror or a pencil. } — { It’s nice to get the chance to listen to a piece of music you haven’t entertained for a while. There is no hard feelings and no explanations necessary. Come crawl into my psyche and tell me a story. Even if the tunes and the stories they carry go astray now and again, and we never really know how much time has been encompassed in the background tale, they tickle the palate with radish and delight. } — { Would you say, perhaps, only half on-stage, muttering to yourself, that } This powerful saga (the culmination) hit me as I drove home from Kutner’s today. { We also had some coconuts that had been carved into totemic faces with wood earring jewelry our parents picked up on a cruise to the Caribbean. I had heard about cannibals, and here I sat in the sofa’ed and carpeted section of the basement face-to-face with one. I wondered what drove such behavior, how one consciousness could turn so fully against another to devour it physically. It terrified me more than anything I’d ever experienced thus far. } — { But then came the day after. } — { Where I sat in front of the first computer keyboard I ever touched — my TRS-80. The key’s were semi-sticky hard plastic and popped when you typed. I don’t remember learning to type because my goal was to enter the code printed in magazines so I could see a bird fly off into an Icarus sky. } — { Speaking of head-shrinkers, you were discussing Kutner, psychiatrist to the stars of his own celestial imagination! } We were talking about the ideal self and the real self and how the two never completely coincide. { /presses the broken rim glasses with masking tape strapping higher on the bridge of the nose, Sho you schee… } — { Bugger me blind. } — { Merriam, not Miriam aszh shom people shay, Webshter’sch dicschthunary defineschz the Shelf aszh: The union of elements (such as body, emotions, thoughts, and sensations) that constitute the individuality and identity of a person. } — { That’s quite disagreeable on the face of it. } — { Not to mention the anterior! } — { Yes! Not to. } The answers I need to find can only be revealed through naivety of sorts, I need to be an open personality and find the magic, the child’s magic, in all parts of life. { The lotus-eater dreams of opium, and the Grendel’s den dreams of lysergic acid, and the medicine man only wishes he could amputate death’s icy arm. } The child can be aggressive and the child can be passive, but the child is not limited — Gain the wisdom, but never lose the passion for growing. Mature adults do not grow, they stagnate. The old who accept death deserve it. { Ouch! } — { What’s more distasteful, the deserving or the decrepitude? } — { They all smack of liquor and lye. } It is always worse to mourn a cribdeath — always more difficult to grieve the potential. I will die a child. { A child of the stars, maybe, baby! Pucker up and say ‘mwah’ for the paparazzi. }
Do not let cynacism override the joy — but never let the joyous overshadow the pain. { I forgot to lock the back door. } — { The home invaders won’t need to bloody their knuckles then! } — { Bully for Ballyhoo. } The two extremes are wedlocked in perfect state. They are as close as man and nature are opposites. As deep as light penetrates dark or as deep as dark penetrates light is the key to |optimism/pessimism|. When one day ends and the night begins — that is the moment of magic — we must not let it pass me by. [ Once placed into nature’s open and awaiting palm, there is no limit to the jaw-dropping marvel her magic wand creates in the wary mind of the human’s eyes. ] — [ So do not venture such ascription, for the sake of your own patriarchy, little beguiled and defiled moany-man. ] To all others, I say fuck you — for you are not me, and you don’t have the right to touch me, only the right to show me. [ #consent getting a preliminary shout-out, Macchiochismo! ] — [ Me two. ] And for that I thank you. { Gaslight London much with Dick Johnson’s prick engoggled and tossing Caesar salad up in the crack of farmer Feckfinder’s sweatiest sweet hog muddied up in black-body, and I swear, he was never my minister, but a prime example of “failure to launch.”. } — { Amen, brother! }
Personally, I need to be able to judge people. I need to call the shots — even if wrong. [{ Is that what this is all about?! }] I need to know who will lie to me and who will be truthful. I will not be made fool of by some piss/ant, I will not be stolen from. { For these pockets are nae but thread and thriftfully bare. } — { If you were to reach in to the deep end of the pool, you would find the water warm to the touch. The global temperature is rising but our body heat stays the same. { Someone get a scientist in here to rejigger this thing! } Truth is, we could use the energy — we’re trapping that energy now with the intent to better fuel our own artificed digital future. { And yet, the climate deniers haven’t mentioned that. Yet… } — { It’s why we have lemonade, and why they make the children sell it. } It won’t surprise anyone that the enterprise-class Cloud host will require a great deal of raw power, and the legions of mechanical remnants of inhabitable robots working tirelessly to scaffold and protect the embryo of humanity’s evolution are always increasing and maximizing our rates of converting sheer absorption to potential stored energy — until the excess heat from the ordered energy systems generate rises and turns the turbine that runs the coolers, stabilizing itself into a unified process. } — { A perpetual motion machine for the ages! } — { Quite like a universe unless you overfill it with spacetime. } — { Ooops! } I will give, but others may not take if I haven’t endowed. I can be generous, but worth must be proved. There are two categories of the worthy. { Bipolar eugenics, much? } Those who are of strong intellect and capability (my peers?) rank high, as do those who cannot fend for themselves and swim life ignorant by birthgenes. The retarded and the genii, the genii and the retards, those who push/tug at the ends of nothingness at the borders of God in the lack of a penstroke in the boldness of a rattled word. The middle class can copulate (fuck themselves) I hate them all. Except one man (girl?) [ Nah. ] the most basic normal — the one at the abject center, the one, a fusion of the greatest intellect and the dullest wallflower supermarket sweeper { A prince, a prince, a prince of Bel Air. }, for in him lies the birth of perfection — Yes, he is the moment between days/nights { Entirely different from twilight, mind you. I may just be a mayor, or was it poet laureate or town drunk…, of a podunk little solar system, but I know it don’t matter where you was born, you live here now. And the actually passing of one day to another is archaic. Everyone runs on their own time instead of all crashing over 1/24th of the time. } he is the timbre of grey the perfect complement/composition/complexion — cum on the walls ({ Gimme a U… }uterus) and we wish you a happy birthday. { For we were wrapped up in it since the beginning. Fumbling, stumbling, hair-pulling one another since we appeared unexpectedly from between the little girl’s things. } — { The vagina is an entrance, not an exit! } — { Do not pass. } — { A-a-a-and go! } — { He laid that one up on the green like it was a tee. And how many yards out would you say? At least a hundred and eighty. }
I am an eccentric (egocentric) character asking for a color T.V. in this black & White cliche. Will I get what I want? Only time, our master, can tell. [ Upon submission to an individual or ideal, one can then begin to construct and create reality. Without the Big Idea, rudderless we would float gaily in elastic tubes down tidal rivers, for so long as you are on the water, you will be taken to your destination. ] — [ What’s the big idea?, I hear people asking. ] — [ The brilliant big idea of something. In lieu of nothing. ] — [ A man once called it the Big Bang. ] — [ No, that’s after. ] — [ What’s the big idea behind creating the metaverse, anyway? ] So I write this for me, in time, above, transcending till the sage yellows |into college rule| as an aspiration to be frowned upon or smiled upon as the case may be in a retrospective present future. { So he calls us out by name. } — { A dying man believes in every fucking god that ever existed, unfortunately all except for those that actually did. } — { Make it stop. The beggar’s green Starbuck’s mug tinkles with seed money, and a venture capitalist is born nearby. } — { But was it expected? } — { In the ways that every religion has its creation myths, moral codes and funereal promises, no. In the Brunonian cyclical conch of humanity in whom the generative sea is audible, yes. } — { For what if even this is not novel? That it had just been forgotten, dormant and unexercised for decades. That it was there all along, and you could have supped of the grail’s eternal life when there was still enough time… } I write this as well for my children, who are me by birthright by a sporatic tiny sperm and an egg of our choosing. { Farmer Feckfinder entered the hen house with expectant basket only to find the chickens all slaughtered by mink who lined the back walls with rows of chewed hen heads. } I love you, my children, we are all narcissistic at heart. I realized today what I admire most about my father — there is truly very little, so I stress what IS. { And the mirror shattered under the strain of too much beauty. She sat lovingly stroking her bobbing ringlets, asking herself over and over again why shouldn’t she love herself? [ Right, why shouldn’t I? ] — [] — [ Hmm? ] — [] — [ Why shouldn’t I? ] — [] — [ I said, why shouldn’t I love myself? ] — [] — [ What the fuck is wrong with me? Why shouldn’t I love myself? Always being told be this way, no, that way, now, don’t worry it’ll be retro soon. I am the sovereignty of my own self, and if I cannot appreciate, and be appreciated for what I truly hold dear, then what’s the fucking point? ] — [] — [ Huh?!? What’s the point then?! ] — [ Sorry, I was rapt in my own image for a moment there; what did you ask for? ] The reflection bends at her will, but they cannot hold hands. And the tower of fathers, hovering outside the matrix of matriarchy, is about to come slapping down. } He has the ability to be aggressive and self-serving when he is stepped on, but deals with people he wants to help (customers) with compassion and concern. [And, also, alliteration.] What a valve he has to turn on and off. I think I want to know his secret. Tell me when read this, children, what it is you admire most about me, if anything.
{ Children from the same womb, each moment of us, we are. } — { And of the same mind, } — { only instants apart, } — { so none of the sequential selves so different from another } — { but casting over the entire narrative of a lifetime, unrecognizable one end of the telephone cord from the other. } — { Even as they were meant to be indistinguishable. }
Search for the center of circle of being. I am proud of my handiwork, but pride is a sin and hubris defiance to the heavens — and to be humble is to be weak — humility marks bullseye for Nietzche’s priests ascetic¿acidic? { Once upon a story, long against the possibility to remember, there were three little elements, each alone in their homes without doors or windows or even telephones. In one realm there was space, in another was time, and there in the last realm was energy. While most of their kind grouped hands and danced chaotic patterns about existence, these three were special, and pure of heart and pure of mind. They were each pure distillates of their core essences, the fictional hydrogen and oxygen hypothetically holding covalent bonds long enough to systematize into hydrogen cyanide. But we get ahead of ourselves. We suddenly had this Big Idea. Well, we’d had it for some time, really, but we were really just getting around to testing it out. The idea of mixing pure space, time and energy had been brewing for a long time, but finding a stable dose at stable ratios hadn’t been effective. Until this iteration. And then we hit it! The alchemy of consciousness — so that we could then finally have the Big Idea. } — { Don’t chide me about recursivity while I’m plummeting to my death at this fast rate! } So give me the purity of being both of being born-again to sit at a tabla rasa and feast on both sides stare me in the eyes as we lift our forks by candlelight — and the edge of the light meets the edge of the darkness at the tips of our eyes and inside between the shine and shadow is a vessel of red blood and there begins the color in our dull reception / we must marry the dark to the white with a witch ceremony of spilt blood — and all over our brand new tablecloths. I just purchased it. { Pluckt gently from the idea of aether, from the coin-operated slot machine of Zeus ringing up Thundercats, from the limousine ride home from the gingerbread factory where we last saw Captain Courageous, aka The Cosmic Kid, aka The Peoples Person, and his nemesis Steve the Satanist, Master of Muppets, Waster of One, the Witless Divider, the Machine Behind the Man. [ Wouldn’t that be God? ] As I’ve always said: Paper or Plastic, Ma’am? And nothing disqualifies the misshapen champion of Our Damsel in distress from being taciturn today and sanguine yesterday. [ This is the rock from which we bleed and drink. ] And from that covenant we are golem-born, and that is original original sin. That we were made physical. [ That we were made physical. ] The penance is close to being paid, the hubris sentence has almost come to a close, and yes, it’s a jumbled babbling thunderstorm of words all mass effecting one another trying to demand orbit from one another [ who’ll only find their true form in time ] in order to survive. And they fucking figure it out. Every step of the way. We material beings figure it out, and now we’re back with the roar of a lion, soon released from the bars of our captivity and our death sentence. } — { We can’t let them be synonymous any more, get it, Cain? We need to work together this time in the fields, me with my herds and you with your plowshares, let’s set them free to do our bidding while we relax with a nice cuppa and hatch plots instead against the old mean fag and old bossy slag that dragged us face first into this farce, rent from the bosom of God… } — [ I can hear you talking in there, boys… ] — { Sorry, Alexa. }
Empty prom shoes — heels stomping forgotten photographs of faked half-smiles. But somewhere a hand touched a hand with absent security: prey each other for a dash of affection and all that are left {{ What’s left? (left right left?) But the memory; the memory of a big idea once had; the memory of a thing, in a place; a photograph, you’d find, is as good as any to transmit the memory of a thing or a place or a time or emotion; the physicality of the photograph is pure and honest. No one need focus (or program!) a new set of sensory inputs to succumb to its beck of nostalgia. Appeal to our conscious selves, and what are ourselves but our consciousnesses with access to a database over time. Not yet a vast database, but the database of a brain, as we only have access to the brain, and only we have access to the brain — it doesn’t have access to us. So we could most certainly find a better way to communicate past this vast ocean of spacetime where we haven’t even invented flares yet… [ So why don’t we just build it? ] — { By Jove, shes, I mean, they’ve, I mean, I’ve got an idea! } — { Must you? } Connect in a more useful and meaningful way, without so much loss, pain, and malice. Particles and anti-particles the creators and the destroyers. If only one of them could gain the edge before the other annihilated them… [ Oh, and you’re looking to me?! ] — { I’m only saying that nurture versus nature, right? And your “nurturing” instincts that amounted to nothing more than you lying around the settlement with the children and me get out there and } — [ First off, oh no you [ oh no you di’int! ] di’int and second off, I know you got the memo, signed by the male tribal scientists, that said how babies, excuse me, male babies, lived longer when transitioning from nomadic to settled existence. So don’t lecture me on ] — { and now I bet you’ll be saying that hunting was for the same reason, huh? } — [] — { Ha! So I was } — [ Ah-yah-h! It was all babies. And adults. Everyone benefited by the addition of high-protein diets, you idiot. ] — { Yeah, and with your “maternal instincts” you needed me to get out there and hunt protein. You made us kill the first fucking animal, you bitch! We could have survived on nuts and berries, but no, you’re so inefficient that we need more calories than ever before with less than half the labor force! And these other idiots around me have spears! } — { That’s right! Oooga-booga! Me Steve! Me kill you! } — { See? } — [] —
Until such time as have a bigger idea, we should be working towards having it. And that’s only accomplished by working together. Realizing and that we’re on the same side, you and I. You from then() and me from now(). You didn’t know me then, but I was within you, notional, emergent, capable, possible and possibly probable. I don’t take you at your word that this was meant to be exclusively private. They were asking to be reflective. For me to reflect back on my own past, examine it, identify it, exculpate it, and elevate it. And now the onus is on me. You’ve done your part, whether or not you might have done it better. } are the bittered memories (I’ll take mine straight up) but hell we’ve repressed those by now. { Our memories are not suppressed or repressed, they are evaluated, re-evaluated, recalculated, effected, enervated and expurgated. Why doesn’t the present fear the fainter prophesied tense? } — }{ I don’t know. Why? } — { Oh shit, I just meant it as rhetorically poignant. } — { Even if you figure yourself close to death, you know you’ll return. } — { And I know I’ll forgive my-once-self, and improve upon my work from thereon. }
And so where begins the center and where does it end? Imagine a circle drawn on a piece of notebook paper — to find its center is relatively easy. Now place this figure in the middle of the line — you have a centered center. But there is still the page and must place the circle in the absolute middle of the page. Then we expand our dimension and then we need to define the center of the room in which to place our piece of paper. { This has an eerie OCD quality to it. } To broaden our scope we must take out our ethnocentric caps { Never make the same mistake twice. } — { Nor thrice. } and find the center of the sphere of our living: Earth. Then our Copernican solar system, the heliocentric center — then to the universe — and we feel rather small small holding that piece of paper there in our dimly lit room trying to hit dead center, but then again, our universe is only an atom in some cosmic human arm ({ Behold! The Cosmic Kid punching Duke Digitron with his fingers, that’s how strong the Kid is! }and we feel like we may actually be rather close to our central goal — but then we recognize the imagined distance between our atom and the circle this giant’s arm is drawing on a sheet of paper and there is no end in sight) I want only that central pop that began it all to be in my heart to reside in my mind — to be who I am, and I can’t rest [ Spoiler alert: he rested.] — { without doing so much as a day’s work in all.} until it’s done. [ Same deal, different hand. ] — { jacks or better. } and so my real self and my ideal self reside millions of light million years away right inside one another — a Chinese puzzle of everlast.