Wednesday, January 31, 2007

The S nk

too crazy. my story is that i blame the moon. turned away like a skull ignorant. outside, for the sssigarette, i watched a group of eerily similar people approach. it was if they were enconed in a different plane. their gestures, there, could only communicate one thing to me, but everything to each other. they were deaf, touring the city together, animate. but the noise they didn't make was remarkable. no footsteps that the hearing make. no snuffles. as if we made these sounds simply to keep ourselves company. to reply. for me, it felt as if they were a sinkhole for sound. even traffic was muffled. other passersby were visibly staggered. it was blinding to have them pass by. apropo. i have to go. i'll try to write the version i've kept for so long another time. blog entries on shrooms. how dumb.

The Sink

A thought struck me today. Not a spectacularly clever one really, so perhaps it didn't strike, but rather bonked or doffed. But, what if I were to run a cleansing exercise (for personal reasons... I am finding a possessive crest rising along my spine. I am becoming a reptile. I need to inspect this closely...) at the same time as writing a story LIVE as it were (unedited, unfermented, unmediated by time. Though it is an story that occured to me 3 or so years ago because of a vision abnormality I had. It's since disappeared). So I tied up the odd email, bought a coffee, went outside for a smoke, pinched and ate a half gram of mushrooms (dear roommate: the little beggars were asking for it. i swear its not for [purely] recreational reasons), sat back down feeling as if EVERYBODY knew what I'd been outside for, fired up Amon Tobin... and here we go (see if you can catch their onset):

The Sink

If she hadn't taken the mallet to the sink, she could've bought that dishwasher they'd always talked about. Instead, that money went straight down the drain: plumbing fees (emergency, if only for the dire need to have someone see her wringing her hands), the two-basin steel replacement, the superficial damages from the ensuing flood and inexact method of the actual extraction. Now, there she was, always there but never there, suds deep, cutlery clunking dully like someone climbing up a pool ladder, staring at this tinkered remembrance. A brand new waste receptical. This sink would never be clean. How portentous, an old thought for Judith, but not yet old enough. And how boring! The day the ring had swirled down the drain was the day he'd not returned. That evening, eyes slanted, she'd watched Paul Jr., only 4 then, eating his lasagne, straining at the words with which she'd tell Paul about the sunk ring. Casually, of course, as if pointing out PJ's new haircut or fingerworming a hole in somebody's sock. How too to entwine the statement with the obvious question. Put PJ to bed with a book and a few coos to his questions. And sat longer, head in her forearm crook, staring at the plate. Damned if she was going to clear up after Paul this time. Ran to the phone. Called the cops. No ma'am. One sleepless night later, now knowing, she'd strode, nightgown flowing, past the plate of hideous lasagne into the kitchen with a fucking sledgehammer. First strike glanced off the counter to smash a floortile. But the next folded forward the lip of steel, took the door off the cabinet and felt orderly. Felt right. Boom. Boom. Anvil to her anger. Splinters of a size she'd not imagined fell off the head of the mallet on her upswing. And the downswing! A carribean steel-drum band of singular intent; all the marriage bands in the world in a cosmic bag hitting the face of the sun; the last curseword of a doomed jumbojet; it was a sound that only the clutch she had on that handle could produce. Eventually, her breathing actually becalmed through all that effort, she rolled up her sleeves and bent into that hissing, spluttering wound and plucked up the ring. Turning on one foot and popping open the wastebin with the other, she dangled the delicate morsel over the maw, inspecting the sapphire for only the briefest of moments, and let go.

And here was Judith. At the sink.

MERCY! here's perhaps the moment I need to reflect. the story i had in my head IS SO VERY DIFFERENT. i'll print this and start again. poor Judith and PJ are actually supposed to be in a much worse predicament than this.

Saturday, January 27, 2007

helplessnesslessness - belonginglonging

I saw the Aronofsky movie 'Pi' again on Wednesday night. It is spastic and delirious, creepy and hypertrophic and most of all subjects the material to little underdressing of intent: the audience has to keep up if they want to undo or resist the disturbance it instills. Problem is, the mainman, Max, is on performance enhancers and already has a preternatural gift for numbers. Try catching that greased-up nerd. The next day, I sat at work, looking down at the drill in my hand, wondering if the opposite effect could be induced. As if reality could be widened with power tools. As if some of the books I've never read, but want to have read, would fit on a shelf I install at the back of my head. Morelike it'd become one of those everything drawers that contain greening pennies, ocular devices, stale loveletters, gunky teenage-sized retainers, broken bracelets and trinkets, tacks, gammy-looking condoms, pebbles, stray cheetos, baggies, defunct lighters, CD covers, capgun ammunition...

Then on Thursday I read the comments on a friend's blog, thought some, added a comment and then thought some more (which may've been less), and decided to try and borrow part of the discussion: What determines personal reality and does it relegate public reality or inform it? Isabel referred to a NYTimes article about predetermination; Steve to determinate causality (in regards to Amy's 1984 quote); Eve to the choices made within that causality; and me to-------


There's a secret smile we can all wear, and all wear where we can. We all want to belong, to ourselves and to more than that, to something greater than ourselves (and yet something that befits our attitudes and beliefs). If I understand this correctly, both are forms of transcendence. Both rely on manners of transposition. Upon joining a group, we are impregnated with the greater personality, the ideology, the identity, the mission, the communal project and we are outside ourselves. Our own personality, while intact, is temporarily transmutated.. we can exceed our own limits (as we see them). This can be (and always is) done on an everyday, individual basis. We know it as a state of flow, or immersal, or involvement, a state of grace... in mammalian terms, as learning. You become bigger than yourself. It's been my personal belief that laughter is the most obvious form of this (I've suspected laughter as a type of momentary metamorph for some time, but there's a dearth of existential investigations about this.. if anyone knows of any...). And, in my humble opinion, the most important aspect -as the only form of immortality (so closely linked, we can't even separate it from our consciousness) yet created; an instrument so powerful we can't really even realize it- language shows itself as transcendental. Paradoxically, we want to resist our horizonal leaps (in the form of seeking security; hidden behind a palisade of Ps: permanence, persistence, protection, principle, prestige etc) and stay the 'ego' as static. As soon as this happens, a whole slew of abstract problems begin to erupt: intellectual, emotional and spiritual. And this becomes a tiny death that we pass off as bad luck, poor self-esteem, lack of confidence/competence. Lived daily. We are meant to outdo the ego. Be in a constant state of becoming. Project. To conceive of ourselves. For further reading, try Edmund Husserl and Martin Heidegger and friends.

This recollection helped me today while I breathed toxic floor laminate dust. What sayeth you?

Wednesday, January 24, 2007


in a post far, far away i'd spoke of a headbutt towel that i'd once 'conceived' to help distinguish between the genital-drying spots and the cephalic-drying spots. to help illustrate i did a perfunctory google only to find that someone had made the idea commercially viable. those fuckwits! i thought about it some more, and the idea of idea-stealing became unbearable. sure we hash and rehash, borrow, reclaim, and repeat stories, notions, opinions, facts and fictions (did you know that lying requires more brain activity than telling the truth? proof again that the US president actually believes what he says...) and why shouldn't we? what is language but an acculturated appropriation of other peoples' ideas? so, because i can't get mad about some sort of ethereal property rights (for a while i'd honestly thought i'd made up the conceptual problem of 'the singularity' - calling it things like 'the aggregation', 'homogefier' or 'collapse' [not nearly as snappy or appropriate as 'singularity'..] and horded it like a madman until it was pointed out to me that no, i was just waaay late joining the dialogue. so after i realized that i'd likely soaked up this information from somewhere else, adopted it for my own and then proclaimed my own genius, only to see myself as a buffoon a short while later, i'll relax my grasp of a few other ideas have (because i don't have the resources to make ANY of them happen, they might as well be free, so can save my hubris from later rashes).
  • a portable music player that plays mp3s! (ok, i'm kidding, though i did once meet a man at Biftek who'd claimed to've invented snowmobiles, cellphones and $20 bills. he was pissed about not getting any of the royalties. i think he was trying to impress a drink out of me. ultimately, i was intrigued by his stalwart belief that it was true. it's quite mesmorizing to witness someone else holding witness to themself that way.)
  • a fanny pack that has two belts you can attach to your ankles and drives the energy spent walking to a battery and inverter so you can recharge your phone and shit while you walk around. then you could have all sort of wicked attachments like personal fans and cooling devices for beer during the summer and heat coils for the winter. etc. etc.
  • pants that you can sit down in WHILE STANDING UP! i think that's a great idea. basically, they inflate or lock girders in the seams so that you can sit as if you were in a chair, but weren't! how funny would that be if physics and society permitted it to happen!
  • personal hooks to hang off a body-brace for when you go shopping. hands free consumer enjoyment. insert ready-made joke about mallrats looking like hookers here. or elsewhere. whatever...
  • an umbrella that DOESN'T break. why haven't those been invented yet?
  • the Levity System.. can't tell you about that one, as its got sentimental associations. and I will be instituting it one day.
  • street canals, for when it rains. we could use them for transportation AND energy production (put some sluiced turbines at the end, voila, lots of power). they'd be pretty too.
  • public urban orchards.
  • 24 hour business days (then 2 people could live in the same room at the same time! it'd deal some with overcrowding!! this is an idea one might call STUPID. we'd have too much about human nature to reinvent.)
  • a hairmelter for men, shaving is NOT fun and nor is this monstrous beard i'm sporting.

a lot of other inventions don't come ot mind right now. what are yours?

Monday, January 22, 2007


Friday, Lucy and I saw Pan's Labyrinth... a splendidly bleak faerie tale with its share of gore and wonder and fascism. Then we trundled through the powdered streets of the Old Port, craning our heads up to the heights of those magnificant buildings, and waxed over the edificial bulwarks of the past. And then went to Igloofest at one of the piers. We passed quinceys and firedrums and entered a strange openaired dancehall. Overwhelmed, we found some stairs to a catwalk and bopped until the beats eddied us away and we ignited with dance. We later found our mates (Steve and Chris and Jo, and their companions) and danced some more.

Nextday, Lucy worked her shift at Miami, and we set up a maskmaking table. Make masks we did, regretably for me at the expense of Grae's party (which would've been near impossible to've attended for ex-tenuating reasons), among the masks made were a brontosaurus, a potted plant, a polypsychadelicacy, a Greek tragedy Star Wars creature, a sequined volcano, a lick-a-stick bunny o' death, mad glasses rims and a pair of oversized lips... then we took off to go dancing at the Saphir (metal night...) and flogged our neckmuscles senseless. Getting scoffs from all the black leather-heavies... at first... we showed them what gravity was(n't) later, when we stomped like wild things through the strobe-stricken dryice smoke as mean and tough as any evil stepmother's backhand. Like it says in the post below, it was a weekend of abundance. Any in the area next Saturday, maskmaking from 6-10 at Miami Bar!!

Leviathans of Frank Goddio, The judge on war of Cormac McCarthy

Imagine. I tried once earlier today, but must with all haste assure you how much harder it is to do at day. At work. Powersaws buzzing digital vertigo. Feeling a mind, mine?, concussing my esteem. But escape that and imagine the seacrusted megaliths, tributes from a different world, brooding for encapsulated aeons amidst this murk. 4 miles from the current shoreline, concealed from our squabbles, outlasting us, entombed. Have they smiled unseen for this long, godess Isis leaning to Hapi, god of abundance, just like us this weekend, we danced a lot too, to smirk together, concocting whispy plans immortal. Did they have the lived egos to match? These people even defied the sea. How many striations of cultural silt are there on this planet? Priceless, to worthless, to priceless.
- - -
...All other trades are contained in that of war.
Is that why war endures?
No. It endures because young men love it and old men love it in them. Those that fought, those that did not.
That's your notion.
The judge smiled. Men are born for games. Nothing else. Every child knows that play is nobler than work. He knows too that the worth or merit of a game is not inherent in the game itself but rather in the value of that which is put at hazard. Games of chance require a wager to have meaning at all. Games of sport involve the skill and strength of the opponents and the humiliation of defeat and the pride of victory are in themselves sufficient stake because they inhere in the worth of the principals and define them. But trial of chance or trial of worth all games aspire to the condition of war for here that which is wagered swallows up game, player, all...
...Moral law is an invention of mankind for the disenfranchisement of the powerful in favor of the weak. Historical law subverts it at every turn. A moral view can never be proven right or wrong by any ultimate test. A man falling dead in a duel is not thought thereby to be proven in error as to his views. His very involvement in such a trial gives evidence of a new and broader view. The willingness of the principals to forgo further argument as the triviality which it in fact is and to petition directly the chambers of the historical absolute clearly indicates of how little moment are the opinions and of what great moment the divergences thereof. For the argument is indeed trivial, but not so the separate wills thereby made manifest. Man's vanity may well approach the infinite in capacity but his knowledge remains imperfect and howevermuch he comes to value his judgements ultimately he must submit to them before a higher court. Here there can be no special pleading. Here are considerations of equity and rectitude and moral right rendered void and without warrant and here are the views of the litigants despised. Decisions of light and death, of what shall be and what shall not, beggar all question of right. In elections of those magnitudes are all lesser ones subsumed, moral, spiritual, natural...
- Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy

Friday, January 12, 2007

Things are more like they are now than they ever were before - Dwight Eisenhower

I like generating axioms or heuristic phrases, some are pretentious and others pithy. I don't live up to them, or even really aspire to, but they have a certain soothing quality.. and I like to leave them behind in places (like scrawled quickly on the underside of a floorboard I'm installing, for example). 4 or so years ago, one hit me with some force: Time is not a measure of distance, but of consequence. The whole point of it was to convey the primacy of evolutionary progression to -and through- consciousness, now today, I read about something called The Law of Accelerating Returns in The Age of Spiritual Machines by Ray Kurzweil (I've wanted to cut out some portions to place here for some time now). Here's the thought provoker (or relativity resetter..):

"What determines whether time speeds up or slows down? The consistent answer is that time moves in relation to the amount of chaos. We can state the Law of Time and Chaos as follows:

THE LAW OF TIME AND CHAOS: In a process, the time interval between salient events (that is, events that change the nature of the process, or significantly affect the future of the process) expands or contracts along with the amount of chaos.

When there is a lot of chaos in a process, it takes more time for significant events to occur. Conversely, as order increases, the time periods between salient events decrease. We have to be careful here in our definition of chaos. It refers to the quantity of disordered (that is, random) events that are revelant to the process. If we're dealing with the random movement of atoms and molecules in a gas or liquid, then heat is an appropriate measure. If we're dealing with the process of evolution of life-forms, then chaos represents the unpredictable events encouraged by organisms, and the random mutations that are introduced in the genetic code.

Let's see how the Law of Time and Chaos applies to our example. If chaos is increasing, the Law of Time and Chaos implies the following sublaw:

THE LAW OF INCREASING CHAOS: As chaos exponentially increases, time exponentially slows down (that is, the time interval between salient events grows longer as time passes).

This fits the Universe rather well. When the entire Universe was just a "naked" singularity -a perfectly orderly single point in space and time- there was no chaos and conspicuous events took almost no time at all. As the Universe grew in size, chaos increased exponentially, and so did the timescale for epochal changes. Now, with billions of galaxies sprawled out over trillions of light-years of space, the Universe contains vast reaches of chaos, and indeed requires billions of years to get everything organized for a paradigm shift to take place. We see a similar phenomenon in the progression of an organism's life. We start out as a single fertilized cell, so there's only rather limited chaos there. Ending up with trillions of cells, chaos greatly expands. Finally, at the end of our lives, our designs deteriorate, engendering even greater randomness. So the time period between salient biological events grows longer as we grow older. And that is indeed what we experience."


Pretty sweet, eh? I've got a few problems with it being called a 'law', as there's at least one cosmoverse of unknowns among us arrogantelope. Also, found this and it could be mildly construed as related but DEFINITELY worth the buffer time to load. It's awedropping!

Thursday, January 11, 2007

Who once got so hammered he had the most notorious hang-over of all time?

The question came up a few nights ago.. what would Jesus do-do? Tried to make a twist of the 'b' in gobshite, and failed. Thought everso briefly of the last supper, but it was boring and probably involved fish and bread and stuff, and so decided that instead of properly informing myself, I might as well embellish upon my ignorance with absolute impenitent irreverence. So it comes down to whether or not Jesus pooed in the first place. I'm thinking that'd be a big yes, because why else'd he bother eating? So he didn't seem too modest? God must take dumps (cause we do, and we were created in his image etc. Unless we're His equivalent to a quick glance into the cosmic toilet before the post-wipe flush [All this makes me want to say: Intelligent Design, my ass. Why is my ass, which poos, so close to (and greatly comprising) my erogenous zone. That really is tantamount to having built a novelty playground over a regularly occuring geyser of feculence, or, in otherwords, STUPID (not intelligent). That's my addition to the debate over the proposed inclusion of ID to scientific syllabi.]) so Jesus definitely must have. Ok, extending that mortal inclemency onto Jesus, it must be reasonable to suggest that He had other bodily functions, such as the urges orgasmic. We had a decent chuckle over this one the other night too, as the obvious question this prompts is, what can the son of God safely yell during climax? "MEEEEEEEEE!"? "DAAAAAAAD!"? Dude was a carpenter, and every carpenter I know can swear the hair right off a dog.. so what was in His roster of expletives? Did He even one day unwittingly anticipate his death? Which lands me right in the middle of my next point, one that bothers me a lot... poor Jesus received his surname from his mode of demise!? CHRIST!!! How horrible is that? Opens up a lot of post-humous appellations though... Jesus Does-This-Lump-Look-Normal-To-You?; Jesus Ran With Scissors; Jesus Aww-Nice-Doggy; Jesus All-You-Can-Eat Chinese Buffet; Jesus Smoked In Bed; Jesus Peanut Allergy and so on. Now, I DO know that the major design of this type of commemoration is to underline the persecution he suffered, but that's really all just marketing, no? If He was such a humble guy, would He have wanted us all to know about it in this fashion? Make an idol of Him? I doubt it. And if He could truly heal the unhealable, then why not just patch Himself up? Too many inconsistencies for my liking. I'm not saying that He's bogus, by any means, just that we've made a real meal of His memory.

OK. And to show that there might be some things worth venerating, I caught on the front page of the Gazette today that 'The Eagle Nebula's "Pillars of Creation" May Have Met Their Demise' but we've got to hold our breath for a good millenium before the fireworks reach us...

Monday, January 08, 2007

Subvert Normality

an excerpt from an excerpt (this citation needs not ethical practice...) after this last indulgence, the post's'll all return to the rambling prattle herd you're used to.

"Perhaps the greatest impediment to peace is a failure of nerve, a lack of imagination. What if we could hear the echo in the human heart of a vision which haunts and lures us - a vision which is the true source of life and its goal - a vision of deeper communion... The Australian poet, Kevin Hart, has written a little Haiku poem:

Each day forces us
to totter on planks we hope
will become bridges

Those planks don't seem much; for some they won't be enough. Of course this little poem lacks the rhetoric of the quick fix, the easy answer. But the "planks we hope will become bridges" are real, and small, and within our grasp, and this image exposes an inner stubbornness, a resolute willingness to be captured by something more. Our future is beckoning, and it shapes us even more than our past.
Is it possible to let go of the self-defeating parables we too often tell ourselves, and to live out of and into the vision of a deeper communion?"
- Philip Carter
So I've taken personal solace in this, despite its call for a deeper unification of collective desire.. sight to see the now, vision to see the future and the will to see their seams.

Saturday, January 06, 2007


When I lose purpose, I have a tendency toward paranoid speculation. Peoples' presence unnerves me, in all forms, I have difficulty even just meeting a passerby's eyes or the jocular banter of a simple muffin transaction. I feel washed away by the interaction, as if the weight of the other ploughs right through me: I become invisible and feel highly impressionable by anothers' judgement. So I avoid the planet. It's a knee-jerk reaction, to reduce all my relationships, the ones I should by rights be depending on and using to inform my good health and sense of self. I just shut them down and mope. It's sheer selfishness to do so, and severs myself from people I really respect and love. I just don't feel 'up to it'. This also manifests in my avoidance of taking practical steps to right my listing ship: I try and go back to some kind of first principle, I don't write, answer the phone, but read and mither to myself in my room. It's completely backwards and solely a learned emotional response. For one who's closely inspected the minutae of depressive thoughts, mapped and charted every lonely inlet of the desert island, I'm always so surprised to find how protracted the effort to get out of the isolation chamber is. Instead of creating or reasserting meaning, I ask it to prove itself. It's pretty stupid, and antithetical to my eventual aims, but I maroon myself there.
Here's a brief list of the steps I usually take if I'm left there for any length of time:
1) write with the other hand, at least the sensation of something new'll wake the sleeper (youcan actually feel your brain itch after a period of some time). variations include, using a different hand for the mouse, switching knife/fork sides, brushing your teeth with the other hand, petting the dog etc.
2) force laughter. this is a curious catch, as while it helps project the voice and presence, its basically absurd. I'd usually do this in the shower, not only because naked is funny, but also because it's something to do. it is surprising how quickly forced laughter becomes genuine. laughter is like immersive yoga.
3) read out loud to myself. studies've shown that the pedestrian act of talking also massages and increases bloodflow to parts of the frontal lobe commonly associated with depression.
4) guided visualization: if you look at what you want from life, you're obviously more likely to direct yourself toward it.
5) we are unequipped to really appraise ourselves (let's assume we don't like our life, then how can we truly trust ourselves to say we don't like it? even positive appraisal is regressive.) so leave that up to other people.
6) impact your life more fully, not less. i am a meaning miser, paring down connections rather than expanding. we need constant expansion. we need to confront. we need to crash against others. we need to string necklaces of meaning. that's all life is! craters left behind by people and events. that's not to say it doesn't vary, but we become stagnant always before we notice it, because we all seek stasis, involuntarily or not. that's why i believe we put such a priority upon achieving happiness and marriage and other contemporary abstractions... because we view it as a static platform where all'll be ok.

Friday, January 05, 2007

Meaningful Meaning, Fool

I have yet to organize my thoughts and feelings for the last few weeks. That process will all be in my next post which'll be up in only a couple of days time (the one advance I can give is that I bunkered down, self-obsessed and munched on many many sci-fi books, realizing of myself the paradox of just how terrified I've been of creating a future Me whilst salivating over speculative concepts like transdimensional data-transfer, Dyson Spheres and post-singularity ethical dilemmas.) Instead of expounding on anxious and self-negating logosighs, I'll transcribe some notes I took when I adminstered myself a sizable dose of Ketamin a few years ago:

1 of 2
Ok. so perhaps I entered into this but a little naive. all I know-know now is pear shaped, as it were. the weekend that of the Friday 24th. Bex spoke of 2 dimensions opening up into a field of relativity. I rolled the lotto ticket, propelled K -------> and ever so suddenly didn't move anywhere. at all. locked in the bathroom glad I wore the shirt I did, it set the sepia tone. Mother came home from eating pies, I'd forgot, mayve peed a flourescent lasso in the direction of here. so, K experiment:
choose your washroom/locus of security well. it is only a folded surface. my exits were blocked and that was the excuse I gave to stay in here.
generally I see myself in a mirror perhaps once or twice a week, but there've been few mirrors I can't approach. like my mum. so approach her I wont. it's fine if she comes to me. though high, it all makes frothy, delerious sense. ninjas, who are existentially anchored by mind and body, they could link in.
though already 2 beers in, the rest is washed away by baking soda. I must now practice the slow.
call me the impulse. words untethered smash through syntax and all reign is ceded to the executioner. physical precision becomes an ever depreciating counter-balance and plays at the sniffled whim of the idealists. many actions have become available for use. LORD? ----> the design of word crawling lines creating aural shadows in the reader's ______. what is delivered is the how. all 'over-sensory' appetite retreats, and in the mirror I see a dwarf. lamenting our cobwebbed differences but heralding them exposed. perhaps I am open to suggestion. got any good ones? can the constant edit the editor? editee. edited.

draw the life... finely tuned strings snap most easily

2 of 2
ok. so I've seen this look in others before. listening to B12 amazed that someone can podulize/release and compel (am I stuck. I'm tired of always returning to myself. perhaps I've blanked and let my environment converge on me and through me. why all things fell like cheese and I'm slipping. people want this written this way. I would. if I could only create music like this. invite it in, is it you or are you it? all today I knew this was happening. tiny doors. ask more what time do you have? not what is the time? what biological putrescence will I spew? how did we fool ourselves this way? people in a mode. i've seen this look in their eyes...

transmission appears to end. this is likely the point at which my mother asked why I'd been in the bathroom for so long and if I needed a suppository or not. I mayve said no and remember subsequently astounding myself by doing a handstand in front of the toilet for the entire second half of the B12 album. the only sensation I truly remember is feeling like I'd shrunk into a little gnome given to doing a vast amount of gymnastic feats.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Whilst living on the island, back in the fall of 2004, I'd sometimes lever myself from where I slept (sister's floor, a couch, my rented boat) and try to assemble (resemble) my life down at the local cafe. On the back of brown paper to-go bags, I'd jot down brief descriptions, an exercise in dressed up honesty, trying to evoke laughter in me somewhere, or of chasing that rare consolidation of world-view where all notions and concepts come together to inform each other and impregnate your perspective with fresh modes of evaluating your life... So I found a few while digging through a box of old notebooks. Here's the transcribable of them (most are simply illegible, and others just plain embarassing)
  • 3 dog turds looked like coffee beans having a potato sack race. The dark roast was winning.
  • Passageways made from eyes' sidelong glances. Invisible threads of sense escorting fresh stimuli. Meaning beads up, breaking tension and falling into place through association... but what of the heart? Stand up all and be counted. Emotions and their garlands of behaviour. The Joker is left least funny of all.
  • Crow - a lilting read, topo and graphic. Raw and refined. A contradiction of a first novel: indulgent, but for the reader. (This was the loosest and foremost characterisation of a long story I'd wanted to write, prenatally and immodestly called The Murk and Sky. It was going to be a classic 'underachievers making good again' story, but this time with a floating pirate radio station as the 'magic carpet'. The station was either to be called FMRL or DSMN8. It would've taken place around the Gulf Islands.)
  • Death by bacon.
  • If I could use my mouse icon to pick my teeth, then technology'll've truly helped me smile.
  • Chestnuts dropped the sound of cracked knuckles.
  • Her teeth were like chiclets. Chiclets chewed with a mouthful of corn.
  • Her chin was an inordinate distance from her hands, which were nervous and clutched at each other for company.
  • eyes adjusting to the dark... the moon's influence and the strain to generate colour.