Birthing a Spider Mansion
O my, who knows-- my foot is probably broken, definitely needs time at least to heal. How things ache longer the older you get, but I don't want to give senescence any power or attention. It helps to put humor on the aching + pitifulness. Hobbling up a hill. I don't know how i'm going to work.
Slept naked + wet with a towel. Someone got me a pillow. Hollow gut hangover, whoozie with no headache. Feel shaken + sad. Hungry. Sipping on my second bottle of water. Last night I daubed rosemary sprigs all over, up + down my arms. I still smell a little-- its responsible for protecting me.
Non-judgmental, intelligent, intensively aware + yet in the moment, in mine. I may never see her again, as well I shouldn't. Chinese-Indianapolis Fey, the cogent human butterfly. Writers r good for enlightening other writers. Girl last night I remember was having a problem with the way the Church Leader was being.
Mycelial hyphae of of black dog hair clung to a substrate of finished basement thin carpet the color of lava. Dander, mites- the unseen horror of filth's active transference, all there under my head, where I slept naked + wet with a towel, someone got me a pillow.
I tell u, its not a dignified mode of travel, crutched on a stick cut for a five-foot nerd to practice stage combat. I look like a hobbit. I feel like my feet are hobbit feet. I pulled black shards of iPhone glass from the arch of my other foot. Drinking + a life falling apart. I need edibles for the plane ride to Miami, especially, definitely
From the Texts of the Beloved Peoples' Victory
Unbelievable shittiness. How to keep the mind going without thinking. Where going. stagnating, making infinitesimal transgressions- happy accidents. My mother called me that once. She was trying to be endearing but its no fun to think of it that way. Create complexes, the type to lie to her kids about the holidays- Santa is a thing- U feel duped, lied to, separate but not necessarily sovereign. Just disrespected, beholden to a caste, inferior, sullen inequity. Banished.
Bartender asks if it hurts to write so small for so long.
Used to, I responded with a smile, not anymore though.
The content is the painful part.
Editing it later is what hurts, I told her later when she came back to cut fruit in half + tamp down into fresh juice to mix with libations, straining my eyes to make out the dog shit content that I hate, + then hate myself for having written in the first place. It strains my eyes going from page to type.
Alyssum calls where we work Cafe Lardo. I like that better. Yes, precisely that.
Poor fuck on crutches reminding me of a miserable summer with a fractured heel my roommate Hyde spent feeling like the world owed em something for being broke, poor, prodded + desperate. Eager, ambitious, + stagnating.
Two books that I gifted to Hyde: Hopscotch, which I read my own way: following the straight route + then feeling giddy toward the end + searching through the expendable chapters to formulate clarity for what is intellectually over my head. Its really fun that way, too. Especially in the end where Horacio jumps out of the window + is being taken care of in random Hopscotching snippets, jumping about the expendables. A Mobius Strip of a book.
Book two; Cosmos which i havenât yet finished.
The authorâs eponymous narrator + his paranoid thought processes. Gombrowicz really hones in on the neuroses of complex, inward reasoning. Â He is emotionally visceral + prone to violent outbursts. Â All of this taking place before the field of psychoanalysis really had time to learn from itself; with years of experience now. His narrating character retains some sort of human vitality, the destructive element that is thrown into psychotic mania, a feeling of tenseness by the unfolding mental complex that is seemingly spawn of the characterâs own ennui- creating a horror-thrill for himself out of complicity for his friend who is avoiding the responsibility of going back to where he works, sharing his life in an office with a coworker who hates him. Â Lots of imagery. Â One of my favorite things about the book so far is how the narrator describes how he interprets what he sees out the window, grounds overlapping, the eye making the distinction between things really. it was a thought i've had before, like synchronicity, I think literally the same day IÂ began reading the book or before, I was looking out of my bedroom window at the trees on top of the hill, I suppose, when I realized the distinction of individual houses + apartments in stratum up the hill, + how this view was intersected by middle ground, the metal, black chalk chimney of my next door neighborâs home, one of their bedroom windowâs adjacent to mine, + then inside in the foreground thereâs myself, my desk, the furnace, the heat, the light + smoke reflected off the body mirror in the corner. Â How turbulence exists in complex textural + aural forms outside, but inside here, i can barely make the distinction between my eyeballs' surface tension + what i convert, from stimuli into language; into art, into illusion.
I used to take many more notes on authors' use of language, have kind of chilled out a little in regards to that with these last couple books. Â Katasiaâs dead catâs name is Dawidek, like the polish version of David, Beloved.
That my hands were at one point feeling like dead spiders + now they feel like something else. My whole being feels useless. What have I done today. Zoned out on the internet. Intake. Wrote a bunch + then transcribed on my computer. Drank a lot of coffee. Is it the beginning of Spider Mansion: the Real Story of My Time with a Cult Leader in a Spider Mansion, my summer frolic that i wish i proselytized better + named Aphids + had it be about human sap-sucking ways, the lifesblood of the pacific northwest: the sights + alcohols + pots.Â
Looked at covers of literary outputs from dadaist poets, felt inspired. Almost the same way I did when I was in my early twenties with punk aesthetics, influenced by those Lautreamonte influenced. DuChamp + I canât think of anyone else. Tristan Tzara, duh.
That the Church Leader has been an unruly dick mountain since I got here, since before then it would seem, is that me projecting my sexual frustrations. Do all these details take place offensively in a real time arena or in a mental, metaphysical, subtle one. The spiders are in real time. The ghosts straddle the two worlds like a vesca pisces. The visions are different. Him reaching techno arms at 10:30 at night through the roof of an empty house + perforating out window panes, empty but he + I + my planetary ball of stress over the amount of noise- I feel our neighborâs horror like the light from a spotlight illuminating a laser path to the nighttime clouds- her baby crying. Her baby fucking screaming- u think her little head would snap in half + sound like a needle drag. Like a pause in a meltdown. The next day he told me he was anticipating some french girl from up the street who was smokinâ hot but that he didnât need to come over,Â
Like thatâs all I need; Another girl in my life.
Thatâs my Church Leader.
His eyes eager scared stirred up with a smile, that?
He (I stressed the E), yes
Before I can remember the memory escapes me + so our eyes must have parted.
West Queen Anne sad patter indoor weather, first true rainy day of fall, shitty coffee shop.
Because our relationship to materials is too big, too much, + completely out of our control, the worst of the hurdles, the walls for most a subject-object problem. I gotta look elsewhere, look down around the corner of a galley-else. I go further + further, i'm a plasma of experiencing within the grooves of the floorboards, covered in dust, cat hair, black specks of resinous ash. Viscus + traipsed by the tail of one of the animals from the garbage bin to everywhere. I'm peeping out of the porous white paint of the bedroom walls, like nematodes or the shai hulud. Kalimbas r playing perpetually. I got so why anything at one point because of this running away. So, the canopy is glowing beautiful in old growth stacks, u r either alone + happy, or afraid + so the one u r with is beautiful + glowing, too. Why anything. Vegetation is lush + emerald, her lips I pain to remember. Clamming + calling, why anything. u can't go that far out- to the lesser lights- where the experience of being in ur vessel's space-time continuum is taking in geometric gods of white light scaffolded, some interior angles glowing the many colors of light's refraction in a spider web. U can't even take it all in- ur blown to bits, part of u is in a spaceship looking out the windows like a Jetson, being nursed by androgynous voices telling u to work hard + be good, + to be good to others, while the angels of right now descend back down the exterior of the opaque glowing stipe that birthed them earlier into that vacuous state of awareness. Trapezoids in perpetuity through the foreverness of space. + so blessed too do u feel to have ur health back, as raw + beaten as u may be coming down- with raw guts, u ask what am I seeing, what is the pertinent information + a voice softly arrives from nowhere, Maya.
Completely different r the thoughts that manifest within, + the ones that float in like a photon, the ones that come through a breeze through a window in the soul's firmament. There are environments here, within my neighborhood even, that are conducive to this feeling of awareness. Where the thoughts float in + out, + it doesn't take much mental process or meditation even to achieve a state of inner quietude so that one may feel the breeze roll backwards cartwheels through word-barrows + feelers within themselves.
Physical Arenas of Trans-Dimentional Susceptibility [Launchpads] of Queen Anne:
The Galer St. Arterial Footpath
I've only traced this one from where the artery is intersected by 15th Avenue W, up to where it dissipates into hobo jungles over the 99 overpass, the monkey bar jungle gym of the stairwells, the smell of crackhead camps hanging like horrid meth-yellow mammals, attached intrinsically to their sleeping hosts- black-brown huddled-humps of camouflaged laundry, sleeping fatigued on picnic benches, to + from the path that leads to South Lake Union via Dexter Ave, etc. etc. But from that very intersection, in fact, a strong serenity engulfs as one sets eyes upon the task ahead; the pathway east is a pathway up, + one of the most arduous walks 15th Ave W has to the summit, around about 6th Ave W. + then again, from east to west, at Nob Hill + 1st Ave N , the true peak- about where the girl died falling down the stairs + beginning an already existing lore of this path's perceived haunting.
But if it were that as a catalyst, the untimely death of a girl, it is no longer a chain of experiences fused to this circumstance-- Not that i'm any expert on the paranormal, nor profess to know how these serenity portals, magic doors, whatever u wish to dub them, open. I suppose a death taking place could punch a whole in the firmament of reality- after all, there would be an expulsion of energy taking place as transference of vitality to the termination of the life of a youth sparks like a synapse- but don't let me be crude, this is-for sure- an effort in tandem- the imagery, the weeping flowers with ecstatic, shocked wide open mouths bloom + die in an instant, bathed in lunar blue dust, dissipate under grey light into their shadow tombs. Iris' straining to hear them, their visual language, art arguably it's closest human equivalent. Try as u will to ingest it all, the trek in the crisp, frozen dark of morning- about 5AM- u see only peripherally the totality of what's all's going on about.
This was only the most clear of my visions on Galer, it began in a chasm deep as a well within my mind's eye. My childhood at the age of seven, the first standalone house my parents rented for just the three of us, old as fuck- like a hundred years old in the 90's + directly bordered by the ancient living moss of a dilapidated cemetery- interred, the founders of our town, in part anyhow- men, women, babies- familiarity in objects, between what is being observed in the present state of lucid clarity + acceptance-surrender to IAM-ness, seems to be critical to the process, + so I do not imagine that the spirits or transplanar realms of vision-experience will be the same for everyone, but that I suppose they will all be deeply personally meaningful, in a way that I have no idea of. They can't actually. Breath correct, in + out like a see-saw, moon crescent curvature. The house is to the left up about 50 yards of shadow bathed hillock grass rolling upward, the first of four to summit number one + an awe-inspiring estuary of mystical potentiality, this I can confirm. + for me the vignette, as I'll have to call it art its closest ancestor, began at the bass of this grassy hillock preceding the wood thatched house that set off a trail of memories, alms, whathaveyou, that began my path of susceptibility + led me up + up. The experience took place in the summer + preceded the frost I document this tale in now, but like its trail of unlocking glinting treasures, it blooms now to make aware, + this is how it went.
The backside of this my parents' first house just-the-three-of-us-+-a-mausoleum, around the back of the porch, not through it, (there was no other way out except for a basement I don't believe we had access to, + still appears in my dreams, seething with redness at the seems in the kitchen floor, that old linoleum glowing under the potential of the rotted world below) was a hill of roughly the same ilk, in my memory its descend to a grisaille of fog + massive white portabellos, + thorns + nothing else. + in this commom estuary of nothing else, like standing on the rift of a lifehack, a fracture between two worlds, IAM hinged in surrender to this place between places, 15th Ave W + W Galer st [94 Main St.]. In the fog, in my own suchness, my own clarity, ready to accept. + the vessel progresses up the hill, passing the wooden white thatchings of the house, the door out from the basement, a couple of lawn chairs that is one turns around has a full command of the Puget Sound's View; A stark contrast between the two planes.
In the summer I also encountered fractals of the vegetation's spirit, felt its many-eyes upon me, in great white spiders, like statues malleable by the beaks of Stellar's Jays, criss-crossed as the sun crept up on the Cascadian mountain line.
I believe I stopped this because I couldn't explain to people how properly to align themselves, their physicality + physiology with soundness of mind, + an open clarity to visual/aural stimulations, as to be able to allow their vision to be made manifest. I also held, + still hold no hope that we all experience the same content person-to-person from opening ourselves up to such susceptibilities in awareness. I couldn't achieve honesty or the truth, telling someone, anyone, many people, 'well, my ego died at 27 years of age of a poisoned feeling of being alone with the people who knew me all my life but wouldn't dare to know me + stifled my progress toward becoming; Scared + made ill, conditioned to feel guilt-ridden + to be complex-filled, but that's everyone's parents.' + really, could u imagine a dialectical worse than parents shaming their parents for as long down the bloodline as they can, some morbid continuum of desperate, repetitious cycles of sorrowful story-telling, of how birth is a mistake, how no one wants it, nature doesn't seem to care about us, it seems indifferent at best, + the guilt, whose guilt anyways, tells u it's because ur existence kills the planet, kills ur mother. that u may have a part in correcting the issue of greed + unchecked power + tyranny if u'd just awaken the people in ur general vicinity of ur efforts, of how to commune with spirits, how to find their names + their ancestors + their angels, + their pathway to where it is they're going because that's what the calling is. U got there from studying Maya, it made sense to u, when u read the stories, u were like, o ya that's exactly how my life has felt, like from the beginning talking to the cracks in between the window sill + the window unit air conditioner to Pazazu split into manifestations of the masculine-feminine + sharing in of our timeless moments, planting alms in the desert planes of the memory to be recovered from under their stratum, restored to a crown upon adulthood marked by a call to morality. But to get there u had to die first. + u died at 27-- when u cut all that shit off from ur life, all that outside influence corrupting ur visions, not accepting what u r-- Ab-dead to borrow a Mievillain term. Negative Polar power- + there may be much to learn still in zodiacal studies. As I understand it, my constellation is tied up to its partner so that they may find each other. For example, stop using phrases like 'fuck my life' for when the mundane business of stubbing one's toe occurs,or paper cuts or blisters, missed buses + the concurring long walks in the cold + rain- U chose to be out here.
Conversely if some asshole asks if that's 'marijuana or tobacco' from 25 yards away + u sense that he ain't looking to buy any, u stand ur ground + tell him up front to mind his own business, asshole.
I hate acknowledging it as such, because Pokemon is so far after my time, but that's what it is- it floated in, gusted through the floorboards impossibly through my peripherals + is gone in an in-the-moment solitary silence of my pupils adjusting to what my iris ingests. Dead silence in the moment staring at the bare floorboards, perfectly undisturbed.
The first host existed to let let me know nothing ends. That we r eternally passing through. I closed my eyes + fell asleep + everything stayed the same. That is I saw the arena, the realm on the thresholds for what it was, or what it was in a way, + there he was I suppose in a way I can swallow, for another Invocator of Horus. As above, so below another of the many renderings of this teaching. The Man in White with the White Beard. Like a sugar skull on stilts + wide-brimmed hat, snow-white mustache obscuring an expressionless visage. He who would walk from the primordium of Spider Mansion, where the cats congregated Hail to his Beasthood!* + formed a constellation above the house, interconnecting any of us to the rest of the world- where I was seeing him in the first place from a face plant in the couch, where I would close my eyes + still my vision would irreversibly seep through the cushions to the nicotine blue vapors of Hyde's teeming basement dominion. Diffusing through thickening, breathing cell walls, Spider webs, cob webs, dog hair, filth-hyphae. + because the vision was panoramic, three-hundred + sixty degrees + Glowing, Bleeding purple in fourth dimensional vehicles, The Man in White was present + he was hiding! That's important to note, at most times he was cat cornered + observing from behind. All his noodling lanky movements defied the material world. His limbs all in white, Black Holes like LVTHN tentacles.
This time last year I donât even know what. Tan journal, books, El Diablo, etc. when the fall came on what I was trying to convey was, the fall arrived exactly when it said it would, September the 22nd. The weather temperature had dropped dramatically + the air was cool + crisp. Like it had been there all along, neglected + angry + as if to prove some point, slammed the door shut on summer for the year. it was very unforgiving. This year you can feel it coming on gradually. Â walking in like prog rock polyrhythms, syncopated. walking with a crutch. its all quite the bummer. who knows what can even be done.Â
The girl in line how she looks like KG, who is not KG but from the same bodacious babe planet- they donât even look alike, really, not in the slightest. Girl-in-line, whose name I learnt + cannot remember, because it does not matter. Her nervous energy, hands pressed tightly against her ass in her boyfriendâs jeans, Sauconyâs, looking like she saw Taking Back Sunday back in the day, piebald or some such shit, + that's if Iâm lucky- If thy kingdom come; she went to basement shows + reads fuckin books, if only. In any event, who the fuck is Alyssum playing in Lardo today. Discovery or some such shit.Â
From the Texts of the Beloved Peoples' Victory
Dickholes, doughnut holes- Alyssum overwhelmed in her tasks, me feeling useless. Ignoring the dilemma of her own lack of inclination. Who knowsâ (Never see her the same again)â Â It doesnât matter.
People acting cute or acting out, When brought into the Wise River's water, dark + piercing now, how do they feel, always, always, always how does the other feel. I wonder how her interactions have changed, dealing with new segueways into conversation, 'did you get contacts,' etc., but she looks lovely- how to tell someone. Should have told her right off the bat. Insane mental illness finding its way to the Wise River's all-seeing, non-judging fields of view.Â
It looks like Travixâ muse decided to switch it up for herself. came in today with her daughter + her jeans rolled up looking like mom worship + frugality all in one. Sheâs so pretty. These women here could all be models, stupid, sad observations. "I could stand to look at you if you were a picture in a magazine."  elements of observation, leave the poor girl alone. what is your problem with what she represents in your dumb little head. That damn it, I find, I find so much utterly beautiful + perfect. Why does she apologize for her daughter as though sheâs embarrassed or yielding, a silly face.Â
The group I saw waiting for 5 Spot to open is here now with panning bug eyes + vapid stairs in a cluster of 'Hawks' swag + natural curiosity, which is obnoxious, unctuous, cloying when in groups. inappropriate. One of them makes a break for the bathroom + I consider going back to reading. They are gawking at me in turns like a multi-headed hydra beast.
Iâm slouched terribly on this bench trying to keep my foot elevated. Be nice, I remind myself, what does the strange little fucker strive for. Of course being representative of my own insecurities, of how i look to others or what even to strive for appearance-wise + other such confabulations. my third sketchbook in two years. pride + insecurity pulling like the spiral arms of galaxies coalescing. i donât know what iâm getting at.
They look at me with such rotten disdain + yet every summer I convince myself to stay + learn to love humanity, equally neglecting natural divisions + faking patience. It never works + I am cyclically bound to my moodâs repetition given the stimulus provided.Â
(1:32 PM) The Church Leader has called me back. He is urgently in a rush to help me out now that the second half of the money I committed at the expense of my parents' frustration + my own, at having been forced to ask them more or less for their help, has arrived. But my god how when I listen to Library Subterranean... Â He has a 3 o'clock to kill on top of Queen Anne but when heâs done he said he could take a load back to Queen Anne from Capitol Hill. after picking me up here from Lardo. Â We will have to see how everything goes. Today I am out of money, nearly our of weed, + need to demonstrate to my current roommates an attempt to vacate. Iâll feel so much better once its all moved. until then I shall remain patiently here, smoke a bowl.Â
I finished Notes From the Underground + should say that I enjoyed it from start to finish + thoroughly too. Painful study of human behavior from the priceless perspective of the loathsome cloth we are seemingly both cut from. His perspective is invaluable to me. To read his exact same experience + pathos in coming to them. The emotions + illness. No oneâs got more than him. Â What (left) to say about his writing even. Indispensable. A true psychoanalysts truthful account of human nature + behavior from the point of view of a misanthrope + someone with bipolarism. An intelligent + introverted cripple.
(4:20PM) Still waiting for the Church Leader to hit me back when heâs finished with his 3 oâclock. I wonder if he feels a sort of superficial indebtedness on account of the rent money arriving for him today.Â
What to include. Getting bombed in the afternoons, stealing food from the markets, passing out, waking up at midnight reading + writing feverishly, obscuring a headache, hangover + shame. Intense feelings that well up until I convince myself that this isnât reality. This war + battle I tease myself with. All just winging it.
Time might have been a smooth bridge over water, from Tampa to St. Pete or vice versa- the one that Andrew liked. Maybe not many places to come to in Seattle anymore to partake in such solitary activity, but thatâs the mind creating a challenge out of what the earth does not readily provide. The city is for social people, not as a rule- maybe there are pairs of people who are not necessarily social, not social but together. Loneliness but still metamorphosis, what then. People typically do not grow together.
Now I see + remember why I was reading Salammbo, besides it being mentioned in Hopscotch + The Savage Detectives. I read that Satie said he was inspired to write Gymnopedes after reading it.Â
Perhaps time tainted Flaubertâs ideas + aesthetic or that fantasy novels by now are rather formulaic. Unlike his that begins with a feast + ends with death + defeat. I think there is another version of the ending somewhere in which Mathos doesnât die at Salammbo's feet in the very end.  What I got out of it were golden skies. Cotton white vegetative plumage broken up by ruby orbs of glistening pomegranates. It felt very hot despite the icy imagery of the trees. makes me think of some worlds in Super Mario.
The descriptions too of the mercenaries who fought for Carthage + drinking at brackish wells walled with camel bones, the eaters of unclean things, nomads, vagabonds + their practices, scrupulously researched. My red book is an endless data reference. That is why these r important despite their inability in certain ways to be replicated. Like when I get sad reading through it. Its ok. Its room for other things to be written or typed out here + u can begin to create.
Now I remember tipping her extravagantly + why: She bought me a drink. Said she liked talking to me. She was probably telling a half truth- would rather talk to me than any one of these squares who come in for lunch hour. But she most likely wanted me to keep racking up a tab- saw how quickly I was suckinâ em down. So I tipped her maybe more than 10 bucks to say I was sorry for getting bombed. But I left because I canât stand myself when Iâm drunk like that. start to reach for things, names, words, comparisons wet yucky baby hands reaching needy; blindly, like grubs in soil. start to steal things too... Our society is so fucked I hear the Third Upstairs Tenant in the Church Leader's arrangement call out in a dream. Describing beers to others, sellin em to us with a political node, + of course, awarding actors + actresses for portrayals.
But I wanted to talk about opening channels. Because first thing in the morning I walk alone through the cold protected by my headspace, until I get to public arenas again like the bakery, the thing Iâm contemplating now i feel like a paranoid clam. I canât remember how to interact. I gave Nikki Herbst my copy of Ok Computer + she played that thing every day. I get weird looks + weird topics of conversation arise. Again I pin it on the beard exalting me to(wards) new arenas. I sold my mushrooms to some dude at Red Papaya. I probably shouldn't go back for a while out of respect. I donât wanna see her, want to torture myself until I make the right decisions + connections + do the right thing. Itâs weird behind the counter of Lardo on Queen Anne. U look at people + its like a rendition of the Artist is Present from the angle of a pion.
If iâm being honest, braining myself this last time was instantaneously painful. The central theme of the Scar is Uther Doulâs austism spectrum disorder.
Bitter cherry + black hawthorne stripped of obovate + still as statues- sprigs upon the counter + tables in slender salt shakers of eight glass faces, sans a sodium whitewash. Onward, forward, the censor speaks + his body runs or tumbles down a Queen Anne hill. Heâs smoking weed. itâs 28 degrees; people especially donât give a shit today. I especially donât give a shit today. have to call my grand father + go back home to get a phone charger to do that (not mine, left mine at a friendâs house), I came here to regroup behind a bitter grenade. hops + cannabis are both derivative of the same kick-ass creation; like Pepper Tuna + my best efforts, no mirrors- in the early morning when my conquering energy is greatest + the chill baby says seize. carpe only carpe. + asks its love what + why + sometimes traversing haunted arteries that scale hills + a strata of illusions on all sides plays out its morbid + foreign charade. To weary Biercian children who ride aloof the zombie-geist, all the way to work, school, its a trap. Imprisoned in a Dionysian nature. A character archetype. Loving the key to Spider Mansion's annex the Church Leader + I have buried. I came here to rethink, regroup a little, I know its not done + hidden, not in an infinitesimal way but out in the open, that this is something else. The mandala has sprouted branches with eyes + they are multiplying their own rhizomorphic trajectories. The tangled pathos web of Uther Doul. Statues of shadows + not the other way around. Keep a clean mind + practice right speakingâ absolutely impossible. Vonnegut says fuck semi-colons but i like em. Plus I fuck everything else grammatically speaking, so whatever.
Reasons I Quit El Diablo:
-My inappropriate feelings towards Pat
From the Texts ofthe Beloved Peoples' Victory:
I didnât know we were recording tonight, I arrived near quarter past 7pm.
it was impromptu, Brian said + stared waiting + vapidly.
Whereâs the Church Leader.
I donât know. he has his kid, maybe he went to get dinner.
The house was quiet + the lights were on. The air is fall flexing a pillow, stamping out the lights on summer + her death is wet bloody vengeful. The nights are humid + uncomfortable - haunted, purple.
His arrival was abrupt + invasive as always. Needing to gauge the temperature of the Mansion's mood. He sensed my irritation. I lied to a degree + said I was working until 9, but at the time I honestly didnât know if I was lying when it came out of my mouth.
I was walking, ignoring thew graffiti on the street signs + Honeybuckets + the weight, lopsided in a tactical briefcase given to me by the Church Leader, when I caught eyes with a dark haired woman who looked supernaturally pleased to see me, sitting under an awning at the bus stop past Galer. When I was adjacent to her, I noticed she had a small boy she was playing with, her kid most likely + context to her laughing face.Â
excuse me, she asked without removing her eyes from mine presumably this entire time.
Whats up, I yelped in one swift word- it snipped the air like a jewel wasp.
Do you have change for a five
I donât think so, i checked my wallet.
Sorry I just have two oneâs for the bus.
Oh. she passed, Youâre taking the bus, she motioned up the road.
Just then I noticed the Church Leader had arrived in a ghost wagon. He floated like a vapor + hung about the fog + waited unbeknownst to the entirety of the aforementioned set of occurrences. Not to mention that this was a feat of impossible physics given the four cylinder, automatic + tenured nature of his VW but this is how it was.
Sure, I said in tandem with hunkering to the passenger door. do you have change for a five.
I donât think so, he checked. no
We descended the hill. I needed to get to the top but this was the ride I chose. I was taking the bus anyhow + it cut out a significant amount of the walk. Again, this tactical briefcase.
On the ride he pushed the point of his band, the recording he was doing with Brian on the night before, how Brian seemed irritated with him, didnât wish to record at the same time as the Church Leader (who knows how much any of this is the truth) + eventually the Church Leader went to get pizza with a Diamond + an Eagle + a Leaf, but not before adding some wind tunnel, distorted effects to Brianâs drumming which makes me want to involve myself in the production. I see where I am useful + gravitate in that direction.
The day-to-day of my life feels so very not up to me, dictated by a work schedule which is growing more confusing + this is a fact that spreads me out in space time during the week when Iâve been comfortable going day-to-day all summer. know the needs are hibernation + work production. Â + moving presumably because I donât feel safe where I live + even for the sake of art my body + brain my being healthy. I can (i HAVE found a hundred times over, alone) find the Lynchian Promise of the Pacific Northwest + life is will not feel so boring + why anything.
Read more Ryu Murakami - Coin Locker Babies
Because reading my writing has become a hinderance + an issue I am switching to word processing. the Tao desperately seeks output + to feed. Â I think the hungry ghosts are very hungry indeed + the time is neigh to feed them. they eat meals of the brain. They eat history + histories of others + impermanent objectsâ intrinsic worths. They also (hopefully) eat fears that keep one from creating to begin with. shouldnât this be true. shouldnât fear be entangled in a quantum sense to failure + by nature destroy itself once creation takes place. I mean, I donât feel very afraid or hindered. Â Easily distracted or confused, maybe, but iâm not afraid to create.
Iâm not going home tonight or at least not yet. I worked until 6 + then went to Alyssum's + got a little buzzed with her + her roommates. Â Now Iâm back at Lardo brewing a half pot of coffee determining the best way to get to work on what it is Iâm working on + also deciding on what that is anyhow. Is it a book of prose called Aphids, based upon the piece of shit that I am or have been, or the pieces of shit we all are when the sun comes back out to anoint our dung coronas. Or is this a story about living with the Church Leader + all the insane + beautiful shit that simultaneously comes out of his skull + doing.
That if i'm doing this to satisfy anyone or worse, anyone in particular, then I have very sad wants indeed. Very sad + narrow priorities needs for delusions of grandeur, not me. I don't need any of it, just some Jane's Addiction, a little Ritual De Lo Habitual action, Wikipedia reads a quote from Alice Cooper about his hopes that this album would inspire later generations of people, well, my mentor was, I am now too. It's been three long years of songs other than Been Caught Stealing + Three Days seeping in on the peripherals of daily life here to admit that the album on the whole is genius. The peak of their ability, yada yada, nothing I could possibly expand upon in terms of its impact + greatness, it makes me want to play music every time I listen to it, that to me is a perfect album. Everything Toby has ever done has made me want to do that + like a handful of other albums, like when I was a kid punk, metal, avant garde albums, then later classical, + jazz albums did this in segments, the latter in a whole, sweeping, religious current- Coltrane, Sharrock, Ayler, Davis, Ra, Cecile Talyor, etc. Frozen in panic, the Upstairs roommate descends to outside on the porch to smoke a cigarette, spiders hold still dead center of dusty webs in all 12 corners of the living room, foyer + stairwell. If u get too close to them or turn a corner without reverence they gyrate in fierce whirlpools. Spinning assholes. Not fair, only present the facts, no spiders have harmed me- they only make my skin crawl to look at + they act combative, or defensive.
From the Texts ofthe Beloved Peoples' Victory
I learn to live with the filth, the spiders + the discomfort, for exchange I attain oblivion. I kept repeating yesterday that the more I give the more I will continue to have. Last night I was just passing through-- today Iâm scared, aggravated, alone. alone intrinsically from birth, truth Iâve always known but canât somehow manage to live, on 10th W + Galer looking east to a rising sun + the stars still.. I see truths that were truths a hundred times before me or scattered celestial memory fractals, but when I go in- when I ask to see myself to have âIâ then I know its ok, over + over. Doomed cycles, canât know wonât know- Why anything is a question but questions do not exist in absolute truth, right.
But poetry is life, Kayo said to me on the porch. He was lying down naked + as black as god made emÂ
You can write it anytime because you can write + thatâs what it is
But what is it, I begged to know
Its when u skirt around the issues + destroy the words u hate
Like when u use u instead of you like I do cuz its colloquial or how u, for instance, hate using the word âjust' Because u think its superstitious.
I donât believe in it, I said automatically. Nothing is just, in any sense. its-
Disillusioning, Kayo asked without asking
Yes, he was exactly right. I think
Or how u hate using question marks because u never want to indicate to the reader or have on record anywhere That u care about anything, or whatever. He made whatever sound like the death rattle of a drowning queer
The air was impossible, vacuous, invisible
U worked ur ass off all weekend. worked over 41 hours all together. Scrounged to pay ur rent which is rising every few months it seems. U made over a hundred thirty dollars. Ground it down to 9 in hours. over what. 4 or five drinks at the bar.
Saw each + every one of ur roommates tonight + so felt justified still while it was happening because u were filling ur last work book (still have the big orange one, if I go to that for writing, Iâll switch to white canvas book for art, or else stop drawing all together*), being social with no one. Was rude to June probably canât help being so. I am useless as people as june bugs, jewel insects costumery,more fake than foolâs gold, Egyptian lore.
itâs only 8pmâ what it needs to be. Kayo is having an orgasm in the grass. I wonder if his name is Kayo for a reason relating to me. Like debris from my mind. Kayo is being loud as fuck + so i bellow at him in my nasally loud voice, âKAYO Â COME INSIDE.'
Heâs by my feet covered in grass. I feel utterly clueless as to what to do + also a bit haunted.
the suckiest part of being truthful + in the moment is that the truth is so ultimately horrifying to what we are**. the hairs that stand up. the horror we couldnât imagine,
 wouldnât reflect, in a million contrivances, in in the window paneâ at worst its another. at most itâs a spider.Â
*Dostoevskyâs head will still appear,Â
Kayo being a ghost, traipsing like an animated corpse in the yard making steps + shovel noises
BF Skinnerâs head will appear still alsoâ what i mean is that i wasnât being truthful but relying on a contingency to negate for the sake of onward, forward progression
** Unit structure; ComplexÂ
The frigid exhale of demonic possession
I felt it yesterday in Ballard leaving one place
+ afraid as i always am of the next move but
Iâm not talking about me,
Palms were pointed forwardÂ
Concrete sidewalk, myself stretched upward
90âs block vhs rainbow trapezoid steps
Through the clouds, anchored to the bookstore on the ground
The one across the streetâ no, the one across the street
Large Drip lost his brother
His sâs are sharp whistles of the reaperâs scythe
The last beans sound like a rain stick nearing the rainbow
So what is it I do. I toil over the same course of actions, maneuvering through impossible uncomfortable positions because I won't sit upright in a chair facing a clean desk that Is a ready work station + why not, because I won't take the time to feel good to straighten it all up so I may work productively. Why is that, so that I fall into the same bed on the floor + stare at the wall aimlessly but not in meditation. In utter confusion, in a flood of thought + irritation- the cat outside my door meowing incessantly to get in but I can't let them even If I wanted to for fear of them spreading their fleas to my bed. I can't afford flea medication for them- they're Hyde's pets anyhow, His + the Church Leader's + all of them have fleas. He won't stop meowing + scratching. Qliphoth, separate + u want to clean ur desk + cry simultaneously in the moment. A lack of energy. But a burning otherwise. Where to go from here, all musical mediums are disgusting me flooded with commercials because I can't pay for them. Everything Is squeezed. My breaths, its all got me, the sounds of the Upstairs Roommate + his random declarations- like he's been on the same phone call, on an ever meandering train of thought. Over the Cascades, over the Olympics, to Mt. Everest, a sherpa on the other end. The baby crying next door, a tumbling bowling ball behind my right eye. The sad sensation of panic, I wanna cry. A well in wet grass in a downpour with a bird's eye, deep pools overfilling. No light to reach at the bottom.
This morning, what came first:
7 chairs + six spots at a dinner table
Who is the chair for, what does it want
Growing a Lord Travix Betula Occidentalus at Home
Nothing was committed here the other day.
These hiccups in productivity r the result of a curse stemming most likely from the Church Leader for non-compliance with the machismo conquests of the band Karate Mustang, his pussy wagon. The picachu monster or the ride upon the red dragon where the forked tongue path branched into three, to six, to 314, 16. + I arrived from whence I had come originally, a genesis, perfect + pristine + devoid of question, a stream of pure being- Laser luminosity in multitudinous I AM-ness â neither of these events were committed to page, + I've yet to include the second of a dozen or so areas conducive to inner-outer susceptibilities. It's gonna have to be where the red dragon dropped me off, the mani-forked tongue path, then getting home + the whole laser shedding, waking up having been called to study texts on Maya
Cafe Lardo has been overrun, is over-spilling with zombie-geist crazies- the autistic talk lockers who materialize under ur nose faithfully every afternoon when u'd least expect- although u've been dreading their arrival all morning- think fast! The nuns who cluck like hens or r otherwise yelling at rambunctious children + their bourgeois parental units for allowing their little monkeys to rile about as such- as though the cafe belonged to any one of them- as though it were anyone's.
It's been a shit show, Alyssum reports. The Kid Who Lives Outside now spends the too-rainy, too-cold mornings upright at the counter along the window, dancing like a gigolo to silent techno invisibly commanding the waves. Imperceptible under shaggy brunette feathers + beneath a Waldo snow cap. Its apparent enough that he sees what he sees + is deeply conscious, but keenness to one's perceptions + the acknowledgement thereof does not denote wiseness standing alone. It only means a part of him is sharp, relatively speaking- to the hens + to the kid lost in his own comic book artist, B horror movie cast list labyrinth of sanity's undoing- He's been talking at us for two hours strong now, though Alyssum's canopy of white light, rinsed in Wide River's balancing calm + back to blonde. How the Kid Who Lives Outside interprets the most dense stratum of data he cannot help but absorb, through forced osmosis, to his clear social detriment, do u know how irritable data waves can make u- he lives outside after all. If he had his choice, he'd be dancing in the cafe all day to the rhythms of the hen's dismay + sugar-high rapture-cries of raptor-monkeys + the cooing of dumb broads encrusted with diamonds. + anyhow, most people can get on the same level through a few deep breaths, eye-contact + silence [smile].
All the words, like all the notes + all the colors- so fortunate to see all the shades of grey-blue in a shadow + the heat of a hand casting its shadow on a page + the vividness of light in sound which is not color though the Sufi mystics adorned them as such, as did the Thelemites. So did the scholars of Tlon.
But back to perceptions: When using words out loud in physical arenas its important to take a sort of temperature of the surroundings. For example if Super Dad spots u out + about + wishes to bring the debate back, it would be best to breath the air around + narrow ur perceptions down to a satori-sized pinhole of right now- That' where its all gotta go. U should be doing this any time u enter another's lodgings. T
reat everyone as ur enemy- the Upstairs Roommate asleep is a wave of growth upon the stipe which has crowned the Bell monster, petrified in hollow ringing- the cylindrical pied of an organ gold + brass, crowned dead + writhing upwards + alive with eery communique from a sleeping non-prophet.
But isn't that how most other's live without even thinking about it, without being able to help it. The awareness of ur breathing in this state makes for easier word flow + helps to steady the eyes. Although, people will assuredly by caught off their guards by this outside the lines, off-the-tracks, detached + held in place by time's orbiting field, rocking in tandem to the shared vortex motion of all the other planes cosmic chandelier.
I reach a sheer under his arm + clip, barely perceptible. His eyes widen, + where there was no-thing adorning his relinquished limb, a black mask now rest. Now there were leaves branched out from a slender youthful birch body + he was taller than me + in my hand.
I planted him in a large clay pot with a wide brim, the exterior painted a hunter green, the mauve of clay throbbing through. A Lord Travix Betula Occidentalus clone now rest in a flower pot fit for a human bigger than myself. Definitely a little larger anyhow, Been having a hard time with spacial parameters- my depth perception could use some calibration. + he's already growing. His slender branches reaching as the mask observes itself narcissistically. The pulpiness of his leaves, the serrated obovate of water birch. He is happy, I imagine, because our living room is dark + quiet with large bay windows to his south + west.
In my dreams he maneuvers slowly up the steps in rhythmic creaks of pressure. I hear his droning, sullen sound oscillating at the doorway to my bedroom which here has no door, only a glowing, pulsating doorway. The walls are heaving mammoth with involuntary breath- r violet waterfalls ten feet tall + all the creaks between the midnight blue of jungle brush. Lord Travix Betula Occidentalus looks around thoughtfully.
Wow! He exclaims, Ur room stays a lot darker than mine.
I'm fixated on his feet that r wearing the same black work shoes I wear in waking life. I'm marveling at the phenomena of a free-wheeling Lord Travix. He sees me + because I am not sharing in his vision he is gone + I awake feeling dizzy on thoughts of missed connections. How many times the Kid Who Lives Outside has thrown his last dollar in change into our tip jar + we didn't notice because our minds were fervently on other things.
He's saying hey, I'm likable, I'm poor + insane, I play crossbows with sticks that I find in those bushes, but ur comradery in our united struggle against the enemy is a plenty good enough reason to chuck my funds. I'm saying, u can have my money even though ur in better standings than I, financially speaking. I'm either teaching u a lesson in compassion or shaming myself to stay warm by the fires of self-pity later this evening when ur cafe doors r locked + the night is cold + nobody cares. There's too much stimulus for some of us scientists. U artists, u studiers of form I'm a scientist, defining in concrete data the limits of these forms + numbers too, comrade. Giving it to u, here's a dollar. Here's another dollar.
I get home + i've had it. The walls are a glowing mystery, phantom red without a fire going. Only tea lights arranged in a trapezoid around Lord Travix Betula Occidentalus. He is sleeping or somewhere else. The somber imprint of his facade absent, no longer a fixture of indigo mimicry. There in its stead, a reedy corona.
The animals r not fed nor do that have any food.
Aw, they only come out when you're home, the Upstairs Roommate calls out clear-as-day from a trauma-induced slumber. The Church Leader is drunk, so r the members of Karate Mustang + so they lay still in heaps on two couches, with frowns pointed in different directions like the eyes of a spider. The belly laughter of a college-aged female reverberates momentarily in the heart of the primordium, where I complete this ring-around structure paused in the foyer. The Upstairs Roommate descends.
Trying to escape the strangle hold of these emotions. Of being trapped in a body that repels, with sinus infections that feign aneurysms, + has to piss immediately when the door is reached. Of a mind so full of glass that all rivers are rebellious friction, gushing up behind, the source down to the bed, it's ridiculous.
Fuckin ridiculous, the stipe impales.
Roots like parsnip fingers stemming from the memory of the mask that were upon the crown of Lord Travix Betula Occidentalus, reaching for a haul off Hyde's tobacco fumes teeming through the living room floor's woody rifts.
In Pornografia, 'the disgraceful passion of spying on people. 'here he reflects on his unavoidable habit of people watching, which the author must have gradually cultivated over the years, for [or out of] a love of writing about things.
I too have gradually learned to love the Disgraceful Habit. But only just noticed through the last few years how shameful, how doubly guilt ridden the practice is.
Two main motifs in perversion, or three continuously from the get out; the few are the olds obsession with growing old, or the search for adulthood (but why) the old's obsession with youth as some sacred element to humanity. So much that the author cannot eve bare to put his thoughts down solidly to paper without making the words boy, girl, + youth parentheticals. Frederick + Witold both, or moreso Witold astounded by Albert, the youth's lust for Henia's mother.
That youth may be too close to itself to truly appreciate its duality expressed by gender opposites + therefore finds the beauty [although it is not that to the adults], in the ugliness, as perceived by the adults within themselves, in their old age.
The young sense that they are too young to 'get it,' the blunder lost in each other.
Sex is a means of penetrating the body, where sin penetrates the mind.
So where does that leave you + I. What i'm searching for in the words of others goes unanswered. Some study of psychology already established + attempt to explain my own. That she was young + beautiful + also kind to me, at times perhaps maybe even flirting [delicately tastes the mocha off the tip of her finger, looks to see if I am looking]. The way we caught eyes + it sent a spark through my being, that possesses me to write + play music, draw even today, even after a year + a half's absence. Even after I shunned your youth + beauty for holding on to reasons I couldn't understand for her refusal to believe in my same ideas of the collapse of the world's wealth + monetary systems That I so wish to be replaced with anarcho-syndicalism, [what am I saying even, get out of my head, Chomsky!]. + I did my best to murder her off in my head during the only time, only moments out time together would matter. That she took my compliments with embarrassed, sincere attention. + because [clearly I'm mentally disturbed + terrible with goodbyes], I ensured I would never see you again. + what does it matter. You stood to taunt me with what I couldn't have; you, the house in Ballard with a drumset + telecasters in a living room + a study with Jung's Red Book resting on a greek column under a magnifying glass. See ya. You waking up in an MF DOOM t-shirt next to-- UGH.
Remember that u wanted to apologize.
But how would, how could one go about apologizing for some ridiculous argument that didn't even really take place anywhere but in my head. Although I suspect she too brought it home. But what was my part. A frustration with her age, with her views- her 'get money, fuck bitches' attitude, prevalent precursor of all youth today-- UGH. Who has time to put it that way. When did I become such an old Ferdydurke. When, more to the point, did I find myself out of sync with hip, young people. All of these words, these last two sentences, r not my thoughts, it's not my tongue. Not how I feel. Not how I've ever felt. But would you have ever liked me. How I am truly, whatever that means. Karaoke in an empty humid, smoky club on a Monday night downtown Ft. Myers getting bombed [is that how I really am, though. I moved Here. How I had to get away from that + came here to where u r. Where I never knew something as good as you could have ever been. I never had the mind even, in all my years + places, in all my lessons that there could be somebody like you. A one to attain to, aspire to + want. Yearn for in another. That is why I don't even look [well, that is a lie]. To my left, to the feminine voice ordering the larger of the two sizes of wine. Or the poor one alone next to me. In all black immersed alternatively in her phone, to her beer, to my black ink + blue sweater + eyes. I have no eyes + no ears for another. [+ yet this pen does not skip or omit, you keep this pen going + this mind burning + this knowledge of the self + the world around me, attaining-- ur memory strips the impurities of my history to an essential blood- a primordial ether within a foundation I thought, or hadn't even thought, to think] had eroded to granules to cling to God's eye, but u don't believe on any of that. U wouldn't. Ur too smart to even personify that ether into meaningless monosyllabic shards of shadows of a life I once knew Lost along the road to personal hell. To inner turmoil. Tiny ghosts in the machine, peeking the blink of an eye of what once was- a ham. Hundred times a million. If only u know how funny, I began with an apology, as insane + defensive as my know-it-all ass could offer + ended[neverending] with gratitude + a thanks + leaving me where I apologized. I've said what I've learned + haven't come to any understanding about musings, or of that deep + holy name. My Irish grandmother's + all the loves of my life. No one else truly interests me. + human nature would make her too into a bore over the monotony of a timeline, given we were to ever attain one another. But how I sincerely do not have even the eyes for others. Almost the same rotten meridian through which I shunned + shot down her thoughts on world economics, ethical ideologies [like either of us even know what we're talking about- her, 20 at the time, + me with a fuckin youtube video, wikipedia education for all I profess to be internal, instinctual, the visceral emotional response these topics reveal]. Long chestnut hair from a diagonal adjacent flickers, her boot kicks- baby-like + flirtatious, from a cross-legged + I don't even have the time to be disgusted. Don't even have the attention. Can't even pay it the mind. Only you, always + forever if u'd only have me. I know this because even in ur silent, imageless absence the black flames burn still like a fever every morning, day + night, a hundred times over, like samsaric cycles of my behavioral folly. How I've wronged u + must show u my remorse. Don't steal a glance now, like a head coming up desperate for air in the mysterious awakening of birth; a morning without a dream or recollection of night. I am always in ur ocean. Wading + waiting, never stagnating, but never not drowning.
All this bullshit. Why do I even keep a journal. So I can look back + hate myself for what a puss I am. Try to proselytize the mundane moments of my existence better as I peddle about with drug addicts + dealers in the truly most boring circumstances of lying about on mattresses without box springs listening to music alone + drunk from the speakers of a phone plugged into a wall- until u either get diner food that sucks, isn't good for u, + u can't afford, or go to sleep tired + hungry getting bitten by flees until u wake up + jerk ur tired aching dick. Feel like ur dying prolly r. of lung cancer. Midnight.
What is wrong with Lord Travix. Nothing. I'm only shocked he's doing so well + I can see the trajectory of supple leaves protruding from the firm stock in reverse spiralettes. Because I am shocked my mind goes a mile a minute + I wonder how he is doing so well here, where nothing else seems to grow but a web of shit beneath us, fed on smoke + the unknown. Where the animals retreat to hide or to wait out being fed again. I wonder, does he like the dark, is he stimulated by the difference in culture. Does a plant have any concept of high or low brow.
But its growing. I planted it, without even thinking really + its growing + its happy. + its showing me something right under my nose I can feel it.
I can sense it right there + yet, its as unattainable as always.
With a see-sawing breath. In as much as u can, out as much as u can- u can do it. The cat won't stop whining, the sights won't stop swirling, Something like a chill electrocutes me from between my shoulders + volts up my neck, the flicker of phantoms' garments as they fishbowl about my room , still as smoke when spotted. A memory on a sunken ghost ship.
That I am human says this cat needs to shut the fuck up I can't think with it prattling on like this, my fingers r greasy mozzarella sticks of fire. I have no food, so I fantasize I eat my fingers. Awake to a bleeding miracle.
My sip of beer + the smell of trashcan that reminds me of FL living, the early summer morning sipping sierra nevada with JR on a back porch, watching lady fish jump up in crescent water plops in the canal. I belch at the humidity but its a different kind of wetness in the air, its cold + revitalizing. Not hot + stifling. One way or another a part of me is drowning. Still haven't found my California or my California girl.
Most all u ever do is think. When ur stuck not working I mean, ur like that old man in Cosmos. U sit + twiddle ur thumbs under the proverbial dinner table, unbeknownst to those who regulate that sort of shit, so in a way enlightened to a fact that, even the motivated choose their fate. Probably they don't, this is just a logic puzzle. Riddle me this: U have 15 dollars left- 4 dollars in cash, 11 in a gift card that doesn't belong to u. How r u gonna keep this thing going. Ur going to the corner store. Then ur gonna get something later for 4 dollars or steal it because fuck em. Who r u justifying urself in front of. Every man is called to moral duty + I have no obligation to these people who r indifferent + stand to fear u. fuck em. Ur starving + broke + they're fine + winning their games so all is well. No game. Women no look. My problem, my shame.
Physical Arenas of Trans-Dimentional Susceptibility [Launchpads] of Queen Anne:
The forked tongue of a west Queen Anne road of ascends, then descends west near-an armory of ancient brick that is covered in scaffold, forever in some semblance of repair in the far right corner
 Attitude like Kanye to just get it done + fuck the haters
I did work today, created the characters. Fuck em all. White trash, the beloved people's victory fuck em all. Who all- the characters gon come trough.
The primordia is fundamental in determining the growth trajectory of the fruiting body. How the spores shake out will shake loose into the hands of others + the cowards will dissolve beneath sword of my wrath + thy kingdom will come together
Soulful like Bonnie Raitt ambition like Janis wanna kill it
There is still much to be learned about primordia development. Primordia fruit bodies expand rapidly through the absorption of fluid
For other reasons the next day was difficult- my mind was wrecked, plus the manner of the Church Leader which was disarming, + the circumstances!
I had been expecting to have to deal with some shit. I've been getting away with adulthood on my own terms more or less. Meaning I've been called to morality to a degree, at least see a good chunk of it for myself that isn't necessarily preachy + up-- OK kick this train of thought, the writing is not working out this evening. It just doesn't feel right. The Church Leader's door was open, one of his Harem was in the bed + laughing about being naked. Weren't we all kicking it naked in the hot tub earlier this summer. Must be the circumstances. Of all the things I couldn't convey immediately that morning, I knew I hand't spent the night dealing with any shit.
I took the most automatic voyage one could imagine, resting in the throne of exaltation between the scales of a red dragon that nimbly raced toward its own tongue, + as it dumped me off where its tongue branched too many fold to discern a path. I arrived in quietude, ascending a lunar scaffold, the Armory, I'll never know where the voyage terminated + I was left a constellation, like the constellation of cat names in spider mansion connecting us to the internet. I hardly remember getting back to the house on foot so I must have stayed at that star-gate on 8th Ave W + Olympic for a good while not contemplating at all, seeing only envisioning. Until I was transported by esoteric means up the road, now I am in front of what I know to be spider legs pointed upward infinity into the fog all around. Glowing ribbons of brown + white light alternating farther than my eye can see upward in deep grey. All was throbbing nightmare red. A spider the size of a gable home headfirst in the hill + throbbing red. Onward, forward. Or do I even remember, I wasn't afraid to begin with, but I was especially sure when I saw the rosemary guarding the entrance- I knew this was strictly positive polarity, + so I proceeded.
Did I walk right up the stairs, did I have to immediately run to the downstairs bathroom as is typical, or did I pull another usual move + zone out standing in the kitchen. No, I simply walked lengthwise from the button, up the stipe that was penetrating all layers of this throbbing, arachnid dimension. Spider Mansion was hurting. Was in it's death throes, undying, unbecoming. All was change + this I knew up the stipe through the bells of the picachu monster, also impaled by this succulent, fat stipe leveling us up.
Split in half, how u r + what u do like this + looking at a keyboard + looking at ur endocrine system them blue veins that supply oxygen + the red ones that supply blood in the absolute absence of color in the profile of a boy I once was a la Charley Harper science book.
The church Leader descended the stairs as opposed to taking the route through the diamond-shaped exit we were all growing used to. I was on my way to go write about it. Not knowing I couldn't but having been given that sacred alm of a word to go + research. + down he came. I remember her laughing because she was embarrassed. There in the buff he embraced me. Slow enough to where I knew weirdly he wasn't a threat in any way, + anyway, nudity has never hit a threshold for me. It must have looked strange for all whatever eyes were on us + there were eyes, that much I was keen to. He told me he spent the entire night sobbing into that poor girl's chest.
I have no idea, it was my birthday.
Aw, happy belated birthday, the Church Leader lowered his tired purple eyes ingratiated.
R u off to work, he asked me.
Ya, off to Lardo, but first I was off to another cafe at the bottom of the hill.
Cool, r u down to get together on the Hill later + jam out.
For sure, I told him. I believe that night it ended up just being Brian + myself exploring the funkier regions of the Clash + the 90's.
All the influences. Even the modern ones. The ones who have just come up in the last few years. In the oughts. All of it helps it grow all of it upward on ward forward growing upward wet onward forward. Wet + blue + healthy the color of life's purveyance, perseverance.
Like the closing track to Gay Parade 'we find that u make great company' Witold Gombrowicz, then next paragraph, x-mas drinks with my people. King Crimson plays in my head, Robert Fripp endlessly schizoid man of the the 21st centurial order. Dude kills it, stares it dead in the eyes, the camera whatever year, scarin' these white folk; whitest of the white folk [u see Kurt, there's a way u can use it as a tool- u were too old + gristle to give it sum] No dude, i'm here, 21st century schizoid man. All of of nature's most obvious solutions r underneath our foot like mycelium. Mycelial solution. Eat the mushroom, realize ur destiny. Take control of ur life. â+ all agree that u make very pleasant company.â Saxophones, wtf happened to saxophones. Where r the rest- All of the Skeriks, the Coltrane purists. He started a religion for fuck sake, I can feel the connection to God when I follow [+ yet + yet isn't all this scorn upon myself for not too resurrecting His truth].
O ya, well, I never worried that I wasn't it. I know where I am. I know what I'm doing. Every morning I wake up, I'm pluggin' away at that machine.
My hate chips away at that machine.
I'm raging against that machine.
I'm so ignorant + I hope still at the black phlegm that I'm young still, that I got time to learn my way, though I don't fool myself into knowing, as i've had time to see others with Whom I've shared love go before anyone would say was fair. I hate myself for my health + hold that demon down below their graves I hope 7 feet further under combat cleat, the battle no one sees, no one knows but me, but I assume others know for themselves but seldom talk about. It takes a certain aligning of star systems, a pisces meeting a leo, a leo entranced in a pisces' year. Look at that, the spiral arms of galaxies violently, naturally colliding. I mean, there is a point of impact eventually. At some point. Does consciousness yearn to see it. We may have something close to infinity if the future or anything is truly unforeseeable, we collide, pisces, + leo at some point. Yes. Bare witness to intergalactic mayhem. Is that what i'm here to see. Where my blood has not. I wonder if it already has, whereas they all seem so out of touch at their rope's end. Somewhere else. Grampy Jack to Auntie Jackie. Off the planet, did the astronauts say they got away from their ghosts, were they that far removed from the planet. Maybe they never had a sense of that on earth even, they did not feel it in outer space.
Is stupid to split into three
Because I feel like just a thing
I don't even feel like that.
Not even a thing, trying to find a ride
To float out without a one noticing.
But no one gives u credit for just being
Who was I trying to impress
A figure of a girl always the curve of illusive bells
Mirroring the reflection of the moon in the river's calm
Lapping on a sand grain, tinted pink + tan.
