Sunday, August 28, 2005
i'll hold my hand tight to that of the sawtoothed world's chameleoneyed daughter . she will smile like a bridge while another sun rises onto her face .
Saturday, August 27, 2005
another tonite . the mind will lick the slime off the tops of so many thoughts . the taste of brake cables & engine timing , charleston s.c. , friends with tears obscuring voices , the yesterday that flowed thru today , cellular telephones , rambled tunes & those usual layers absorbing their usual energies all settle in the base of my skull , that point where the spine taps its nerves into my soul .
Friday, June 10, 2005
nothing seems real . everything seems possible . these two ideas are connected in so many different ways .
Sunday, May 29, 2005
i dont want to be at home with my cat , sucking on a beer im pretending to like . pacing the floors wondering how long im going to have to wait until something will distract me . playing potential futures over in my head . calculating my probability of being on more drugs , any kind of fucked up , to stop more nothing from hanging around . ill run a little bit faster , see what can keep pace , devor it & try to forget about it without regretting or missing it . its not anything substational i want . im done with wanting things the way they could be in someoneelse's dream & tonite ill get drunk under the brightest star i can find again . no more stories or overwhelming feelings of promises . everything needs to be louder & move in such a blur . always nites with the urge for trouble . this gesamtkunstwerk is an adventure with a cloud of exhaust dancing with the whirling dust & i always feel like im running late .
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
for as intentionally harsh as the past has been blindly sought , deftly charged through , immediately lived & questionably necessary , a look over the shoulder one last time again to catch , reflecting around every corner , that light bouncing off of everything towards the eyes occurs . that chilling echo of the opening & closing of doors lays across my face . the wine glass , tipped , kisses the bridge of my nose with such passion its habit is hidden . this dear glowing warmth between those two broken fingers hugs me through the skin & flesh & grasps the bone on its way to the heart . a blanket caresses my tongue making the throat slick , employed at its perfect task . only the wisteria can snatch me for a moment from the sleepless dream & only the grimy crack between each arm reminds there is a world outside of my mind . without questions but with all the answers to them , i sit down again to collect the contents of my file so as to present it again with the ill hidden hope that basic assumptions exist [ every step connotes [ a sense of ] relative movement ] .
Thursday, May 19, 2005
cant seem to smoke enough cigarettes to distance the day . purposefully filling the time with anything to avoid the nothing underneath everything . trying hard to lay a glaze over these eyes to delude the world into being anything else . and now in this moment of unavoidable surfacing with a bitter taste i can still hear my thoughts burdening my lungs , each breath lived at bes as a full harsh sigh & the pauses between each one grows quiter & stretched until it hurts more to hide from the next breath than to breathe another .
Thursday, April 28, 2005
standing infront of the window , the mumbling tones of publicly funded radio bouncing their muffled ways into my right ear , i blankly emptily stare at the workers applying cheap aluminum siding to my neighbors house . the job sat half completed for days in the rain & now they are back to work , in the rain . the water collects in pools of dusty dirt emulsifying into mud & the dull birds flit about in the puddles , evoking images of roman bathers dandying about , secure in their form & purpose . the scene changes little daily & in my mind i recreate its potential future ; a movie plays jerkily thru my imagination . nickelodeon style images stutter about . it is the progressive movement thru the images captured by a camera set infront of the window facing my neighbors house , set on a stand of one sort or another , facing & pointed either exactly or approximately in the same specific direction i face every morning as i drain cups of either too thin , too strong , too cold or too old coffee , coffee brewed from a machine cheap & ugly when it was new , a machine now stained with time & countless spills , a machine captained only by the waking dead & those wracked with despair . this camera on a stand located either exactly or approximately where i locate myself every dull morning , including this morning when i looked out to see the workers applying etc. , this camera takes the pictures i see every morning for years & years . at some point the images are collected & organized in chronological order so as when viewed rapidly in that order they give the impression of movement . this apparent movement is meant to give time a manifestation . by seeing every day pass by in 1/24 of a second , every frame the same image of the same independent objects arranging in roughly the same order spatially , the fast progression thru the images hopes to afford a glimpse of time . the camera hoped to eschew depth as the 3rd dimension of perception & replace, substitute , it with time . this is the movie i imagine in my lumbering early morning imagination . certain obsessions & preoccupations nearly always find ways to allow themselves entrance to the mind's soft meanderings & this early morning coffee & staring session seems to be no different .
now that my mind has gone along its little cinematic journey starring the side of my neighbors' house , the dull birds the like to pass the days in the overgrown bush outside my kitchen window & time & projected those stop animation style observations of the world via my neighbors' house , etc. i demand that it mean something . i say Yes , it must have been about the indecipherableness of objectivity's existence & my inherent subjective stance in relation to those assumedly objective camera captures .
ugh , the mind quickly jumps to wonder if the camera itself isnt in some way subjective & therefore tainting the objectivity of the film of my neighbors' house etc. & time itself . well , i think too much to myself , who put the camera where it was put ? being inanimate it didn't place itself & that placement , even if wholly random , is still subjective . this thought then jumps across my mind , riding those electrical impulses , those chemical actions & reactions that science so assuredly proclaims - therefore , even randomness is subjective , therefore , the universe as it is understood i.e. big bang , equal & opposite actions & reactions , etc. is subjective in its impetus as well as in its perception . we are subjectively viewing subjective things . this compounded subjectivity sets me wondering even more because i am fairly sure that objectivity does exist in some form . things do exist a priori in themselves . oh , i say to myself , subjective things then are also objective . things are objective in their subjectivity . i wonder if this makes any sense whatsoever . i wonder if all this metafiction ive been reading & existential dread ive been feeling & this dishearteningly obsessive compulsion to somehow convert my subjective existence into some kind of justification for the search for absolutes - read : objectivity - is working things out or if i am just feeding myself what i want to eat . am i tying the knots in a way that the string will eventually connect its end with its beginning so seamlessly that the world & more importantly my mind wont be able to directly disprove this absurdist theory without somehow contradicting some other inherent part of the argument . i am afraid to go over my thoughts because in them most likely lurks that same self-serving type of philosophical argumentative structure where the end is inherent in the beginning & one deftly jaunts from basic 'observation' [which is itself subjective] thru subjective reasoning guised as objective reasoning wearing the hardboiled cloak of logic to somehow wander out the other end with something eagerly called 'objectivity' in hand . like all the rest i am afraid i am somehow teasing out of perception some form of subjective experience , a thought removed enough from recognizable subjectivity that not too many will pipe up & call it what it most likely is , just more subjectivity .
this inherently insatiable hunting for absolutes in order to locate objectivity or the hunting for objectivity in order to locate absolutes is so blatantly impossible its obvious how all this metafiction ive been reading erupted in the first place , how subjectivity got recognized as the only thing one can know . well hell . i know that that coffee is cold , but only in relation to what is was earlier , no , only to my subjective experience of what it was earlier compared in relation to my subjective experience of it now . but still , that coffee is sitting in that cup , right ? i am drinking coffee , right ? there is something outside of myself , right ? ah , here we can break into the psychological for a bit - this whole 'subjectivity pervades every perception & therefore every experience & therefore every thought & therefore the self , nothing is truly knowable outside of that subjective perception & experience , therefore existence is subjective & ultimately truly unknowable' bit is so narcissistic , so self obsessed its no wonder im so obsessed with it & so turned off by it . the universe most likely will continue to exist without me there to make some bullshit subjective perception of it . buts its this 'most likely' shit that sends me goin in the first place . i cant say anything with assurance outside of perception . & i wont really get down with it right now on that choice of the word 'say' , communication is such a quagmire of subjectivity it would really just take too long to map out . ive got this whole bit about communication as ultimately just metaphors & metaphors inherent subjectivity …
with another peek out the window , the rains appears to be clearing for a moment & throughout the world plenty of people aren't questioning the existence of things in themselves , they just want my signature on this piece of paper or that , a copy of this form or that so as to be able to file the next form in a long series of forms in some great chain of forms like some third year college student trying to do a real good job of ripping of kafka's illustration of existential dread for their creative writing course . so i , as character in some kid's B+ short story must once again throw myself into that world out there regardless of whateverthefuck it is . ultimately i do what i can & must to sustain this existence so i can continue perceiving it so i can continue thinking about it so i can continue trying to understand it so i can die in peace . hell , whats the point of dying in peace ? so therefore , whats the point the point in trying to understand existence ? so therefore whats the point in existing ? on & on it goes , like a huge knot where the end & the beginning are seamlessly linked together .