#enthusejots

[autogeography]

[pan-pan.]

i am brave for learning to recognize my grievances. i am braver for trying to accept my faults + failures. i am bravest for using it all like colour for a scene.  

(you might need to zoom in to read this one. sorry!)

[autogeography]

the end of the semester is here again, and i feel like sleeping until the reaper is nigh. on the outside, i’m enthusejots, but on the inside, i’m really the mayor of flavortown. 

[autogeography]

Temporal Arrest

I said "I didn't miss you", in a lower-case thought, my fingers formed intertwined behind me, self-taught. Each parked van in our lot blared symphonies, without an owner in sight to steer any sense. The blur of the rain only made this seem romantic, but that weather only blessed us with mutual flu. Vowing to Asimov, I rip out all of my circuits in the high hopes of warping the hippocampus. Revealing too much until your jaw locks shut, as the onlookers pity our retainer-stricken lips. In subtler octaves, you feast on gritted molar until your stomach sank heavy with exaltation. Twenty-four hours, awake inside of a warehouse, crafting cliches about a positive future as the sink overflows with regurgitated black bile, as you leak sickness to stain the tan-white tiles.  Later, we lather in sins of fetishizing incoherence to shed soppy morsels of withstanding guilt.  Seized attacks towards our coffee-stained ids, egotistically seizing in notion of connected numb arms whilst we lay and linger in light of previous flames scorched in this bliss like masochistic arsonists.

[partycardigann]

Zac wrote Gareth Campesinos an essay to put in the liner notes of a book you'd get if you bought a vinyl copy of We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed. Haha, that's where the photo/text is from.

Thanks!

[autogeography]

maze of the pews.

paying mind to the maze of the pews, i walk, through the candlelit church. whilst deities hang in my field of vision, i ponder as to where my own deity sits.  if i were to ever meet G-d, if he were to exist, would i become one of those who would learn if all those words were really written by him? would he damn with hatred, damn with morals or simply abstain from damning entirely? in the after-life, would i roam over clouds or coal? with an outfit of the most aryan shades, a  fig and nothing else to my name or the type of garb i tend to costume myself within? of all the possible entities you could pray to, would such a G-d turn a particular interest to a specific one? inside the hearts and minds of those who celebrate a certain mid-winter holiday, would G-d prefer it if you were to choose a certain one? if he were to exist, that is?  G-d wouldn’t give our lives any meaning, would he? how could one be so cruel, if they were a supposed G-d. most would take a solemn comfort in knowing that, their lives weren’t some interminable doomsday clock, but rather a means of a slice of a species to embellish in days, nights, the jaded serpents, the neutral endings. would the longevity of our skin remain immortal in the ruins of life after any eternal conclusion? as a race, would we end up scolded for questioning the ways of biblical scriptures? if it were to exist, would the seven layers said to dwell below resemble that of a totalitarian world?  each level from top to bottom, more worse than the last? the orbs of the ones who chose to go out the easy way, would they all wind up punished for their longing of the other side? from birth, i’ve been one terribly petrified of the concept of G-d, the idea of a man holier-than-thou to create ones reminiscent of his shape, his bones, his languages would we have picked up his traits, his values along with his vices? if G-d were to exist, would such a deity really be one big illusion, an amalgamation of our tolerance, and our intolerance as a species?  St. Peter wouldn’t have enough vacancy for all the right in the world — does that mean he’d shelter the right in with some of the wrong within ill-mentioned layers of the damned? on weakened knee, i would surely find myself (pleading for G-d to simply let me linger in the soil disintegrating like the rest) with only a most morbid hue to dance within my sunken eye-sockets. nary a care on Earth, for the after-life, or within the layers but rather one with the plants, in the dirt. the orphan’s solution of donating his corpse to science for the sake of  a human’s wrongdoings.  

[autogeography]

scent of paint.

[autogeography]

[autogeography]