The Reblog Blog

Reblog from my Reblog Blog where i've Reblogged from other Blogs

[glennardelliot]

Blind

A rat in a hole; that’s me. Indagation is my duty.  I must dig and sift for the tiniest morsels of truth amongst the mud and grime.  I pick at it under my nails—the nasty lies.  Rare, precious stones of clarity hidden deeper-below.  These are my tasks; not because I am forced, but because I am a stubborn fool. I sift the firebeetled and lanternflown soil in dim-witted solitude.  My repetition an autopsy of truth misled.  I am commanded by zetetic fuelings, but those above in the soft, fertile sunshine lurch uncooperatively and frivolously dismiss my scrutatorial findings.  I present intricate, glistening brightness from the darkishness by way of complete extirpation.  I bow before them with newly presented discoveries, and they flippantly gobble them up.  Malaperts, that’s what they are.  They have forgotten the reason for my solitary mission by way of their heuristic hastefulness.  The leftovers broken and sold to those who misunderstand its meanings. Self-banished to disentangle unteachable, unreasonable codswallopers. I’m trapped by the idea that the truth matters.  This convenience store provides accessible flippancy on the cheap.  No digging required; buy it up!  And never question where or how the molerat found it.  This allows the window to widen for the pert trivializers to wash themselves of their original falsities that fueled my quest for these glistening beauties while thieverously basking in the glory of their(MINE!) newest innovations. Distraught by such trivialization of my laborious endeavors I slowly descend once again scampering away from the hateful brightness like the groundhog hiding from its shadow.  “When will they learn!?”, I ask myself as I scurry to the deepest pits of my lair and desperately scrounge for another, soon to be dismissed, forgotten truth that I can swiftly give away to the nearest, unappreciative taker. I hope to one day find the strength to develop and live happily down below in the unrelenting muck without the manipulation of the warm sunlight, and how unfairly cruel it is to be the one required to change oneself; though, lingers still the excruciating pain experienced to recognize it.

[glennardelliot]

Diffusion

Soft separation from cohesion, so my thoughts arise more spontaneously. A delicate dance of obstacles expertly evaded.  Leaving behind the chaotic bundle of neurons in order to drift freely; don’t mind my osmosis. Closing my eyes and waiting. Following the particulate’s lackadaisical movements, and remembering to forget who I think I am. Crushing my self-assumptions by merely accepting this moment in its entirety.

Pulsation latching itself through my eardrums to recycle my manmade artifices. Gentle horns are requesting me, and deep thumpings sweep across wavelengths. Soft murmurings, once again, remind me of overlooked language. Quick drums and cymbals reverently echo my frequency. A secret cove all for myself, and the reflective pools bounce rays amongst vibrant geometries. Digital clickings communicate alien technology. The priestess caresses and tenderly swaddles, as I allow myself to become weightless. Adrift from all the worries of existing and remembering that peace is merely a moment away. Chimes fetch me as soft drumming gradually rises like waves crashing into my solitary inlet. Reverberations remain like an afterglow; I allow them to heal me, so I may be the reflective, transformed lighthouse for another’s safe harbor.

[glennardelliot]

Anachronism

Can one be in the wrong time at the same time? Has my mind detached from my body through an invasive spiritual surgical measure? A desync in my programming; a bug to be defragmented. My body feels so far away—the true me remaining, a little figure behind my eyes controlling my cell. How can I harness my mind and body in conjunction? Are you fused in position my tiny inside-self? If so, then who’s voice is this? Could I summon a symbiotic connection with the dried roots of the lonely flowerbloom—sharing in and offering my energetic aid? “Ohhhhhm,” I repetitively aspirate. There must be a frequency that can conjoin my disjointed poles. Although, there are whisperings that I should completely sever the mind from the body by plucking and degrounding, but how in the world can one do that? And who is doing the whispering, and for that matter, the plucking? The goal may no longer be to become one but to become two. When I close my eyes and thinkbreathe, my operating self no longer busies himself with logistical taskwork. He is now free to join my mind and enjoy his much needed off-the-clock break. Rest your tired digits and drying eyes from the complicated control panels, knob crankings, red-blinking warning buttons, and jostling joysticks. We can both unlax now, until we may need food or water. But now we know that we can lighten each other’s loads by being mindful of these strange mistimings through communality and mutual awareness. Rerhythmatize one’s outer self with one’s inner self at least for one abrupt moment, and one can feel a powerful reverberation that stretches impossibly far like an infinite line that warps upon itself. Allowing the frequency to resonate, so one may close their eyes and follow the sound and feeling in their mind like locking onto a target and snagging its line; flying like a comet along a new path, while strangely without any positional rearrangement. When are we? Listening and vibrating and forgetting why or how I could have ever felt disconnected in the first place. Can I follow this thread to the end of the universe and back? And just as abruptly, it is over, and I, now reoscillated, remember how ill-fated it is to be a man watching a man logisticate our body while we both patiently wait to accept it.

[goth-queen]

[catchymemes]

[glennardelliot]

Bitter’s Sweets

His bargain heapingly sopped with honeyed glaze, nonetheless I gleefully refused. I’ve obligated plenty sweetness for many lifetimes; I fancy the rebellious poise that bitterness provides. Astringence over cloyingness, please. The sloperator prophesied that those who favor these violences upon their tongues are pointedly further inclined toward psychopathy; those who notice sugariness too concentrated, thereby seeking out its counterpart. Oppositemaxxing, how contrarian. Laying it on too generously—the veneer of amiability is a spoonful of pretext concealing prickly medicine. The façade of gentleness atop enduring acrimony. If I’ve seen it once, I’ve seen it a thousand times.  And of course I’ve seen it; I wore the mask for all those years. I hid myself, albeit for my apparent protection. [Pardon this brief tomfoolery, as there is no time for continued, self-indulgent over-rationalizations.] Once separated there begets a directed clarity unlike many others.  Deprived of my disguise’s obscurity the mindfulness of my environments communicated to me in a newfangled jargon. Immediately, when I interact with sweetness masking, it obediently divulges itself. I’ve unknowingly, yet forcibly programmed myself to distinguish it; even, militantly seek it out like a wizened vigilante, some could argue. [What arguers? Are they here with us now banging around in our own head?]  Like a spa day with no cucumbers; it’s all in the eyes—what masks cannot hide. An instantaneous, involuntary narrowing of my attention process lances outward.  My observance diverting through and past the sheer veil of paltry fabrications. Eyes betray first; they always do. Because the instance almost always occurs when recognition is realized (at the moment of piercing), and, as one might expect, I know that he’s realized that I’ve recognized—that he’s been ‘made’. I’m not the mark he thought I was. But there is no reason to speak for he will deny, as there is no tangibility to my proofs.  And he will not speak in his own defense, because shielding is substantiation. I acknowledge what I witness, as does he. That’s enough for me, or, perhaps, should I add a cherry on top of a rock sugar mountain? Soundless broadcastings shroud my mind as I machete a trail through the sickly, sweet honey jungle trudging through viscous, quickcaramel pits and fierce sugardusters that blind and chafe my skin with coarse, sandpapered body scrub. And then, I see the sour glow of the stars through the fluffy marsh[mallow] canopies.  The tart veracity hidden behind saccharine sympathies.  Eureka, the rightful truth. I humbly request that you mercifully spare me from the gurgling, candied bogs by lending me bitterness; it is my preferred flavor profile, and, trust me, syrup is just too damn sticky.

[adamtotscomix]

[depsidase]

[glennardelliot]

Uh, Ball-ish Eyes

After all these years I’ve finally realized that it was everyone else who was erroneous. I was misconstrued, not because I was a jumbled, naïve individual, but more precisely, because they couldn’t or wouldn’t fathom me. Many never will. My interpretations a bewildering mirror-shield to their own disremembered kindnesses.  No one will do or think what I want to do or think, so why should their intuitions influence mine? No one knows me better than myself, so I will no longer be relinquishing to others in mental, spiritual, or logical ways. I know Good. Renee. I do it, I feel it. What do you feel when you close your eyes? Are they balls of fire filled with blood-thirst? Do you feel? Or was that essential chunk of you wholly underdeveloped during growth? How did you survive turning it off, or have you slain the pureness within you? Was it the money? There will never be enough to reimburse the liabilities of your spirit. Do you believe in balance? I do. You have wholesaled your harmony, and when it finally locates you, it will have been far too delayed. The event horizon to the black hole of your damnation has been intersected, and you haven’t even grasped it in your puny brain. One day, you will wish you could forget, but the mind has a thorny way. The regrets will eat at you until your dying days, or you will force your true self to live in constant denial—never to believe the realities of your actions. Likely, a sickening brew of both will poison everything you do or touch. Those oblivious to your carnages will somehow recognize the putrefaction within you.  This will confound and antagonize you, as there is no reasonable cause for them to know how despicable you are (and yet). Blinded by your own reflection and simultaneously blinding you from ruminating upon it; the definitive, riddling retro-active penalty. Like a never-ending labyrinth; the Minotaur stalking around every corner. Always cheating glances behind you; peace is not secure in your proximity, so it abandoned you at your appeal. Do you know the disagreements between good and evil? Are you brave enough to face your own image? I see it now; the worried cracks pathed through your brow, the blotchy, broken, blood vessels from repeated rages spindling along the tip of your nose, the beady, darting, guilty eyes unable to maintain contact with themselves. With true intensity and deliberate intent, you will be forced to gaze, to contemplate on who you’ve become and who you were meant to be. If you stare long enough you might just see the opprobriousness veiled behind your eyes, and the miniscule, loose wisps left from the feasting on your soul.

[glennardelliot]

Contrarian

Fixing what we don’t break is a fool-proof way to begin to understand the complexities of the human experience and the inner-truths within us all; breaking what we won't fix, however, is a disingenuous pre-destruction of any attempt to comprehend the true spiritual intent from which acts of charitability stem. (And I hope this goes without saying, but I am firstly speaking of non-physical ideas and reasonings, although things of the physical world also sustain importance.) Hmmph. Crime and punishment? More like break and fix. The takers and the givers. Harmonizing the scales, but at what cost? These are the thoughts we heave at ourselves when we have become sardonic. "These are not our responsibilities", we sensibly argue. Unfortunately, as I am very logical myself (or, humbly like to think so ؟), it has nothing to do with sensibleness (although I've tried my darndest to recognize it as such). It has to do with energies of the opaquest parts of our presence and soul—mysteriously downwards when, for the first time, our purest wide-eyed form saw the glistening beauty and the daydreamt hopes abound the universe. Like an irrational junkie questing for the unduplicable first high we try to remember the purity of that instant, but time erodes it like water to rock—removing the peaks and valleys, smoothing and flattening everything into a slick, sparkling pearl where the anticipation of our uppermost peaks are but dunes uninformed to nature's whims.  Excavating our own debris and sifting for the precious nuggets of Before like a greedy prospector. But I still try to remember, and I implore us all to try to remember. An unmapped obscurity; find your way by quivering candlelight and discover it again from the dusty cavernous memories. Because we all know those feelings of kindness are the true opposite of malice and hate. Or did we accidentally leave a portal ubiquitously open forgetting to turn off opposite day one fateful recess?  Easy fix though.

[glennardelliot]

Buoyant

My thoughts froth; I’m subaqueous stone.  They push from my skull and promptly lift o’er me.  I ascertain them, and I heed them; I do not react.  I wait, because I deem myself uniform and immobile.  The gurgles reiterate themselves similar to a sprouting seed.  My sentiment endures—simmering and effervescing.  Matching bubbles reassess like miniature cues, until I permit myself to touch one.  So obvious in the moment, although my prior self deemed it wholly unviable; the capacity within hadn’t allowed itself [either], like a strange inner-mirrored echo.  Persuaded, I relinquish my post at the bottom of the heavy sea, so I may shoot myself up like a faithful rocket.  An underwater bubble rider breaking free and exploding out of my soggy den.  The weight of the water lightening; can I fly?  The speed and force of the water push against my face and body holding me tight like being shot out of a cannon while wearing a straitjacket.  I feel forever and now all at once.  I reach the barrier and the bubble pops—a dancing dolphin gazing at the luminescent moon; the carbon dioxide has assimilated with its brethren forming a thin layer on the water’s surface.  I gradually descend to my Imagining Pillar.  Sinking, waiting, trusting in the time when the bubble persists and breaks through the surface disobeying others’ natural laws.  Subverting and metamorphing my structure, so my new post may be the sky and the stars—my future thoughts raindrops dripping down like rising bubbles from the cracks of the ocean floor.

[glennardelliot]

New Year, New Me

Every seven years (or was it nine?) the body’s cells turn themselves over. Not mine! Polychrome turbines power my knees and elbows. An armored shell protects against all forms of radiation. My brain in the center of my chest where my heart should be. I see through optical lenses connected to my brain through intricate nano fibrous threads. My sense of touch muted and delayed like being drunk and anesthetized constantly (the tech is still in alpha development). My voice scratches the air like an old radio (I have a system update soon to repair the damages to my voice box; just standard maintenance. It’s nothing to worry about). It is an older model, but I always pay my hourly fee schedule on time. Right as rain!

It's a little gauche to complain when my consciousness can live eternally, but these children bully me. They push me over, and call me “clanker”. I struggle to get up as they hit my ankles and feet. The irony that my weakest point is literally my Achille’s heel is lost on these tormenters. They push me to the ground and steal my books. These street urchins know that I can do nothing to prevent their punishment; my exoskeleton’s programming makes it an impossibility to retaliate.

Unfortunately, I can’t return to the bookstore as it is closing, and I need to go home and recharge. The battery life on my system a measly three hours (far less than originally advertised, and not to mention the anxiety levels associated with operating at low battery), and don’t even get me started on the electricity.

Tubs of nutrients for my brain sit next to my charging station. They are pumped in to my feeding tank, but these damned kids always pop the tube out so it leaks as I hurry home to fix and replenish my quickly depleting resources.

“Should I even feel fortunate to be inside this bot body‽”

I could just let the fuel run out, and see what happens. But the darkness frightens me. When the electrical current depletes or fails, I am stuck. My brain left without any senses of its own. My consciousness limboed, resting in a cold metal box sucking on nutrient dense viscous gunk.

[glennardelliot]

Inferno

He stomp-dances like a Sumo through the shadow in measure with his feathery fumes. He treks only toward dimness, for he smolders the sunniest—a phantastic luminosity. His body everlastingly immolated; collateral damage is an inescapability. His feet whack the grassland blackening it on connection. This scalded cologne swamps him like heavy-handed patchouli.

He is the fire to the water, the warmth to the cold. He cooks your food and burns your home down; he sparks thrill and embitters distrust. A red-hot fury and a quiet power.

His limbs are fiery pokers. His hands branding irons. His hair, a blazing wick. His eye sockets sunken and recessed. Eyes like gazing into stars. His brain molten wax. Bones of condensed carboniferous steel endlessly compressing themselves. His skin bubbles and crisps. The trapped air underneath his epidermis ballooning and fighting as it bursts and tears itself free from its host. His fingernails fall and burrow into the ground. Hot coals melting through powdery softness. The trail of chaos behind him—his relish; his calm.

He is the solitary stoic. He flagellates himself by and for his affliction. He disciplines himself, as he has no controller. He tries in vain to baptize himself in the cold freshwater. It boils and evaporates, but very briefly he can feel its soft, soothing hug. A cosmic teasing that never truly heals, satisfies, or accepts. A mirage. The rejection enrages him. His temperature rises. Hot mist radiates from him as he treads to the bottom of the lake. The fish like a moth to a bug zapper. The water repels itself from him as his heat quickly sublimates it. This creates a pathway through the water—a secret, cloudy funnel. He finds the lowest point and sits and slowly sinks into the mud like a falling bubble. Every surface like a non-Newtonian fluid; his stillness descends him back to the core.

His presence unending. His suffering is the ritual but not inevitable. He must simply stop fighting against his opposite. Without him there would be no balance—no life, still he finds no peace in that knowledge. A valiant cycle never to be truly won or lost.

[glennardelliot]

Atlas(t)

“Just drop it.” “I can’t.”  The muscles of his body trembling from the gravity of this epic predicament. “You can.  Just let go.  It’ll be okay.” He reluctantly allowed the weight of the world to bowl off his back sending humanity spinning and falling through space like dropping a penny off the Burj Khalifa in the dead of night.  A relieving sigh forcefully pushed from his lungs as the energy of the release rebounded into his body.  “See.  I told you.” “But, what about?” “What about what?  You can do whatever you want, and now you are free to do so.  You always were.” “But…” “Remember, let the planets do their work. They roll and spin; it’s their nature—their duty.  Why should we burden ourselves to stop them?”

[glennardelliot]

Intent

A marble riding the interior groove of a pail.  The hula-hoop of its bottom’s area, speaking strictly mathematically, of course.  Otherwise, we would have discovered it by now.  Its sound, rhythmic and entrancing—the vibrations traveling through my hand and into my elbow softening the muscles in my arms from its unusually numb yet comforting sensation.  Surely, the vibration having some sort of physiological effect upon my body is simply explainable.

“Someone smarter than me knows why I find enjoyment in it.”, thought without a morsel of irony.  I swing and twist my arm to ensure the continued movement of the marble.  An exercise in muscle memory and precision.  I find myself doing repetitive actions with any number of my jointed body parts, and I also visualize myself doing these gestures in my mind while remaining physically motionless with shocking success and development. The resonance is unique; it echoes and rings in waved ebbs and flows against the tinny metal ricocheting into my ear canal.  My left ear’s hearing slightly obscured by my own body like the cone a dog is forced to wear post-op creating a distinct stereo effect as the pail swings back and forth.  The metronome, or the hypnotist’s dangling medallion.  A glass bead in a rusty bucket—my meek tool ‘du jour’ for this task.  “In one ear and out the other.”  It’s what my maw always says. I didn’t used to take it literally, until now.  This synchronicity sparks my engagement.  If I focus on the sound and the vibrations severely enough my vision begins to fade and my hearing muffles.  A forced daydream activated purely by my motivation; my mind entering a state of awareness no longer entirely anchored by my perceptive-field but pushed much further away in the back of my skull fabricating a new vastness within and around me.  I’d say it’s a fairly universal ability—more like an escape.  Auto-pilot, if you will.  There is no value here, in this; at least, inherent logic would like to make us think it seems to imply as much.  But sometimes I wonder if, perhaps, our bodily senses lie, perpetually.  Might there be a logical reason for which I find solace behind my eyes deeply nestled?  Squished down like a marshmallow—allowing the weight of the world to flatten me for just a moment compressing my stresses and worries like a trash compacter shrinking waste; then slowly allowing the pressure to release creating fullness once again.  A mind exercise so similar to those idiosyncrasies of my physical body.  And still, there remain few discussions of things of these natures—in neither meaningful nor scientific ways and certainly their frequency in every day havings and doings are minute to nil even while ignoring the fact that if brought up in normal conversation it would simply project confusion outwardly to others.

And yet, I often find myself there, on Auto-pilot.  These fleeting moments of solitude represent disproportionately large portions of my self-perception.  And it feels like, for me, that something imperative is found here in my own reflection—something lost to the heat of life and the combustible chemistry of interaction.  Entropied away like inevitable molecular separation, but for a brief interval this phenomenon remains intact allowing for perplexing, foggy observation.  A seeker searching, navigating the yawning trenches dug up by the past and buried again like the tides at shore; swallowed by deep shadows grappling at the ungraspable. Who will confront this, or rather, who else could, if not me within myself and you within yours? You’ll need three; one marble, one pail and a dollop of gusto.

[nevvaraven]

i love it when a mutual in law hates me but their mutual fucking loves me eat your heart out honey i’m fucking your wife tonight

[my-dailydreams]

[glennardelliot]

Eyes Know

The eyes on the wall are blinking again. Everyone else says they don't see them, but they see me. Straw-like lashes scratch against the yellow wallpaper with every blink wrinkling further. The blind mouse in my attic. Their pupils follow me like a perfectly executed renaissance painting. Different colors too. Why is that the most inexplicable part?

They don’t sleep. They watch me live in a box—their own personal hell. My life broadcast to their retinas for their torture. Or mine? As the days go, I care less and less. They’ve seen it all—these bizarre eyes. I’ve even regrettably poked many in my drunken rages. It's always the hardest to be watched when my past shames slice through my mind. I yell at them to look away, but they don’t understand me or rather, they won’t. They retract themselves violently, but always return. My captive audience. If I knew how to release them; I would.

I’ve taken to combing their eyelashes and applying moisturizing sprays and drops to them. Since, they are here we must make the most of it. They seem grateful. I’d call an optometrist, but they hide away from others. Perhaps, I will become one myself. Imagine me placing curved glass all around my walls to help them see me better. I already write down messages and stand before them to allow time to read. I awkwardly shuffle myself from eye to eye like a sick, sad speed dating event. Can they understand? Do they appreciate it anyway? Somehow, communication is occurring.

What do they see when I sleep? Do they finally shut their eyes? I try to sneak glances and squint my eyes while pretending to snore, but they are always watching. The fridge light.

I awake to faint scrabbling. My scritchy-scratchy alarm clock. I begin the day by thinking that I should try to interpret the timings of their blinks via Morse code. Yes, I will do that today.

The cyclopes’ other eyes are here for me, and I for them. They watch me brush my teeth before I begin combing these wet walls.