heavy eyes

Black History Month

National Nutrition Month

Arbor day.

9

“You see these girls?”

“I see lots of girls.”

“I mean these swanky bitches, these girls that are done up; fashion slaves.”

“Fashion slaves?”

“Yeah, they're slaves to their ‘looks’, they're always hyper about physical presentation.”

“I don’t know if I would say that they are slaves just because they care about the way they look, but I am pretty sure I know what you mean.”

“There was a real looker on the train the other day. She had those big sunglasses… toned skinny arms... nice looking collar bones. Real tight pants tucked into some Eskimo-job boots. She looked real hip. I looked at her for a while. I wanted to kill her.”

“You wanted to kill her? Why didn’t you?”

“Nice, you douche. I decided that I wouldn't kill her because I was afraid I would get caught by the police and that they'd put me in jail. Come on... killing some ignorant bitch isn’t going to cleanse the world of all stupid bitches and all the bullshit that made them the way they are..”

“Well certainly you were afraid... or you didn’t really want to kill her. And your just being a dramatic cock-sucker”

“Nah, I wanted to kill her, I wanted to take her into a subway tunnel and stomp her face on a rail. I wanted to break her down and fucking grind the pride out of her.”

“But you'll never do anything like that in your life. And neither will I. First off I don't want to... and second I wouldn't have the balls even if I found the thought appealing.”

“Nah, one day I'll just slay one of those bitches. I’ll stalk her until I see an opportunity and murder her; brutal kill, make her pay for being careless, i'll make her pay for her little fashion choices. Do my part to put these socialite sluts on their toes.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“What?”

“Keeping socialite sluts on their toes?”

“If I kill one of these socialite sluts then there will be a news story, her friends and family will be affected, it’ll be something.”

“I'm pretty sure it would be viewed as an arbitrary murder/rape”

“Yeah, I would probably rape her if I was gonna go as far as murder.”

“I don’t see the point. Well, I don’t see the point if it is actually about hating young socialite bitches. On the other hand... If you’re creating this scenario in order to mask your basic desire; to have sex with hot fashionable underage girls, then I follow your scumbag reasoning completely. It would flow something like this: You will justify the murder-rape of some innocent girl by claiming that her ignorance is a detriment to the free people of the world. Her poor understanding of poverty and power struggles makes her an awful person and you are going to be the one to snuff her out. In your world of self-aggrandizement and insecurity you can feign a hero status instead of recognizing yourself as a deplorable murdering rapist.”

“I’m not actually going to kill a chick.”

“Yeah it's all hypothetical, except for your obsession with hot fashion girls. Because if it was actually about hating a certain sort of predictable girl bullshit, and you really wanted to bring change, then why would you choose a solitary murder. If you really wanted to make an impact you would have to go into a serial killer mode. Or take some other equally extreme angle. It doesn't seem like your motivation would hold up. As a matter of fact I am curious what it is that you hate about these girls."

“Seriously? Get off my dick. And for real... those girls rub me the wrong way. Just the way they come across. With the sunglasses, the boots, the fucking elitist posture, the way they walk, they come off cold and disconnected, but then sometimes they see someone that they feel like they should impress and they start some really chatty bullshit, some smiley valley girl shit that's worse than anything else they could do. I guess I just don’t understand where their coming from. You Know? What the fuck are these bitches trying to do? Are they trying to land some rich dude with a big dick? Are they looking to get into some fucking opium party with celebrities? When I see these hip bitches they make me think that we aren’t the same species; like we’re so different that we couldn’t even mate right, like we would have some fucked up degenerate offspring.”

“I still don’t understand what you're getting at. How do you want these girls to change? What would make them better for you? Would they be better if they vividly realized all the elements of their surroundings? Would they be better if they paid more attention to people like you? Would you like them more if they were willing to blow ugly dudes? I would be willing to bet you my next paycheck that you would talk shit on a girl if she was with a dude that you thought was uglier than you. You would wonder what she was doing with that guy and have a subjective moment where you told yourself that you could definitely fuck her better, and show her a better time. I am guessing that you don’t have anything profound behind this and that you're just socially disgruntled and sexually frustrated. And you're talking all this shit about murder because it's the next most passionate thing. Really you just want to pound out some girl that has the look of the moment.”

“Man, you can go fuck yourself, all I want from these bitches is some awareness. I wanna shake em up. I want the bubble to burst for a few seconds. I want them to think that it’s all coming down, just for a minute. I’m not actually gonna do any weird shit. I don’t have the heart for that. I’m not cold enough. But I do hate the way those bitches are. The only way that I would stop hating them is if they became completely different bitches. If they got grittier, if they got so I could talk to them without feeling like I was being looked down at.”

“You are a disaster. Is this what you think about on the subway? These murder schemes, these counter culture moves? You are going to have to accept your little jerk off fantasies and scum it out like the rest of us. Unless you get up the balls to go out and crush some girls face, which would be relatively hardcore. If you became that serial killer you would get an underground kind of respect, to a small degree, along with the warranted societal fear. Actually, if you were to make that leap, you would be outcast, rightfully so, but I would respect your ability to transcend the norm. That being said; I would probably turn you in to the cops myself.”

“Would you turn me in to the cops?”

“Probably not... but I would be tweaked the fuck out by the whole thing. I would have trouble being around you. Actually, I think I would stand for one final meeting and I would ask you for the details of the kill and the fuck, I would try to bless you with some words, give you some cash, and formally part ways with you forever.”

“I can’t tell if the thought of going through that final meeting makes me want to kill a bitch more, or less. That would be a fucked up day. Imagine if we met up like that. I would probably just sit there and smoke a cigarette. Not saying shit to you like a hardcore bastard.”

“I don’t consider the taking of life to be funny but I would probably laugh if I saw your mug shot on TV. 'Maniac rapes and murders another sixteen year-old girl." Knowing that you went ahead and crushed like that, knowing that you went through with your hatred bullshit, knowing that you didn’t even have a good reason and seeing it all manifest might fuck me up. But you know what? ... that's what all this nonsense is about, the events in our existences don't need to be logical or rational... not in our subjective bullshit. We're just left to face whatever the brilliant inadequacy of cognition leads us into. If you witness your grandfather spit in a prostitute’s mouth, then you've seen it and its done. Its in your catalogue, if you find your cat dead in your driveway then you're left with that image. None of it really serves any purpose, none of it makes any objective sense, you just have to put up with it. Instinct has been abstracted and all the lines are tangled. Existence is fucked up... our survival tools have made us weird creatures. So you can choose to keep working on whatever's in front of you or you can get caught up in the frivolous battles of analysis. Some people choose to create long-term goals, some people use their brain power to focus on one immediate thing; love, string theory, whatever, and some people try to soak the entirety. Every potential use of brain power should be accepted on one level or another. Because when in doubt you can ask; "well what the fuck else should they be doing with it?" And that's the nature of the nonsense; A flexible abstracted bullshit. Logic and truth don’t have to have much of anything to do with it. If you choose to rape-kill some innocent socialite girl you are entitled to that choice. Most of society will hate you. Most of society will claim that you are in the wrong and they will claim that you do not have a right to your freedom. They may even decide to take your life.I maintain that if it is within the realm of possible action then you are within your rights as a free being to do it. You will face the consequences imposed by the social paradigm… and that is a reality, but the people that you reach with your action will be forced to handle it in whatever way they can. There is no other option, events cannot be erased, the species will move forward... the ecosystem, the universe, and so on. It's illogical... and it may even seem completely haphazard from a distance. But the illogical nature of decision-making changes nothing about the range of choices that are made. So we see a lot in actuality... a wide range of things in spite of norms... in spite of ethical structures... but what do we gain from ethics anyway? The ideal world is comical and the actual world is phenomenaly impressive as one compares it to the ideal world. So… do whatever you want. I think I would probably undergo some personal growth if you went through with your plan to kill girsl. I wouldn't even decline to watch the video tapes if you were to make them. I want to see how far you are willing to go. How far beyond the boundaries of fear you can go.”

“Get the fuck outta here. I caught that bullshit about freedom of choice as a free being. That was fuckin retarded.”

8

i like to think of the artist as extreme procrastinator, with three days left until a major gallery opening, he stumbles into his agent's office, stoned and drunk... and timidly pulls something from behind his back... "I shit in the hat... And that's all I've got."

6

My mother's had a cough for 14 months. Her face contorts and she hacks her throat out. Her body tenses to a point, she arches her neck forward, and her lips curl under body pressure. Her shoulders rise and sharp bursts of tainted air erupt from her mouth like dragon fire. My life has no direction. My most engaging endeavor is watching my mother fall apart, emotionally and physically. I am a soulless vagabond. I am still lusting after my ex-girlfriend. She is currently a drunk, in and out of rehab, and more generally... she is a hopeless sensation fiend. She has many negative qualities tucked away... but her most prominent characteristics happen to be very desirable charms; she is playful and she is classically beautiful. She is the type of female that has been grabbing sexual attention since she was 12. Not that she looks like a harlot, she rarely ever dresses like a slut, nothing like that, it is just that she has a slender toned body and an amazing face. She looked great in every situation. I have some wonderful frozen frame memories of sexual moments with her. A few in particular come to mind: spreading her ass cheeks to look at her asshole. Pinning her legs up, looking back and forth from the sweat beading on her tits to my dick penetrating her pussy. I remember looking at her neck while she would nibble my ear. The extreme close quarters of intimacy. The smell on her neck, sort of like her hair... also like her hands. It cheapens those moments... thinking of it like this... but its already gone. What's the difference... a reflection on my character perhaps. I haven’t moved on. She's still in my thoughts.

I have only spoken to two people, in person, in the last three weeks; my mother and her brooding male friend. Her brooding friend is an interesting study. He is a man that cannot control his anger, and he is miserable beyond reconciliation. He is abusive to every person that he is familiar with... and the notion he holds of himself far surpasses his talents. He is talented… he is a good singer and a generally intelligent person… but he has bolstered his internal image quite a bit. If you are familiar with terms that stem from existentialism then you will be helped by my description of this man as an absurd hero… or the absurd hero. He constantly harps on the fact that life is weighed down by the burden of maintenance. He delivers speeches condemning lawn mowing, condemning the laundering of clothes, praising David Mamet, praising Astor Piazolla, condemning people that lack culture, praising the last woman he had an affair with… these speeches vary somewhat but whenever he speaks passionately he comes back to the same basic points and the same key words.

i should clarify by saying that this man is not the absurd hero in the classical existential sense but he fills an almost identical role within the current cultural framework. he shares some traits with the classical existential figure because he recognizing the futility and presses on with his baseline functioning in spite of his recognition.

classless. degenerate. he and I.

is and am

5

Every little dance move that you’re doing means sex. I don’t know what you think it is when you start moving around like that, but all the gyrations, the circular motions, the changes in tempo... all of that speaks directly to my penis, feel free to continue. I'll be eye fucking you over here in my boner pose.

4

She blinked again and I read it. I study her face with passion. I like the material. I like the shape, the content, and I even like the aroma that emanates from her body as she passes. Tight zip-up hooded sweatshirt, wife-beater underneath, and velour pants over a nice looking causal sneaker. I love that look, the light shine of the material, the strings that hang down, both at the bottom of the hood and at the crotch of her pants, helping to accentuate and extend the line from her chin down between her breasts to her vagina. The aroma hits as she passes, it’s a fresh scent, sometimes lightly vanilla, sometimes lightly fruit, not a specific fruit, a synthetically acceptable fruit that gains its acceptance through emanation from such a tight bodied exemplar. There is a sliver of exposed skin between the bottom of her shirt and the waistline of her pants. There is a tease of stomach and hips and a cloth barricade above her trimmed patch of pubic hair. I steadily imagine it.(The desire to know that she wants you to slip your hand beyond that barricade can be overwhelming; overwhelming if you are infatuated enough.) The skin is there to intrigue, the creep shows and the normal people alike. There are no mistakes in this atmosphere. I smile from one hip bone to another, in control… but fancifully dazed. I wouldn’t be in danger of walking into a table, but my formulations are single track.

I don’t give a shit about hygiene, love, or consistency; I just want to cuddle up to some tenderness.

3

What was my perspective then?

What choices brought me this?

I don’t care for labels.

not looking to judge myself.

I simply want a record.

But how? How did this momentum build?

Bringing me to question.

Believing certain things to be the case.

Bleeding from my soul.

My soul is not my spirit.

can’t escape the history of the word.

My concept is something all my own.

soul is a series of thoughts that I have about myself.

then the pattern breaks.

The rhythm that lulled me to comfort has ceased to be.

Not only have I stopped hearing it. I have stopped feeling it.

I cannot imagine it.

I cannot recreate it or fight toward it.

I cannot ask anyone to duplicate it.

I have no point of reference.

And all the sources of comfort from the past…

Every one of them has become a chilling reminder.

A reminder of the changes I see in myself.

Words stop changing situations.

There is nothing to be said.

There is only the momentum that we find ourselves within.

There are brute facts

And

Brute weaknesses.

There are ways in which we speak to those who do not know the truth.

And ways in which we confess to those who exists outside the pressure of the realm of appearances.

There are fine lines

And

There are dirty deeds.

You know she sucked his dick.

You know you were out of sight out of mind.

And that horny slut went looking for a new thrill.

That stings you.

It stings me.

it’s the past.

Others aren’t so lucky.

claiming to be in good stead.

The isolation only shields the recluse from harm.

But what of growth?

What of reward?

What of the future of your kin?

I am right to turn to away.

And you are right to stand firm.

We are all correct.

Because the world functions as an undulating mass of relativistic nonsense.

Objective viewpoints?

Logical reasoning?

Shall we infuse the manifold with anything more ambiguous before we crumble under the weight of such shadowed content?

Shall we look at the stars and guess that they are the lamps projecting our image?

How beautiful it would seem above a melody.

It would be perfect.

Useful for seduction. a goofy tactful sort.

it all crumbles.

The façade is fleeting, of course.

Of course, of course.

We see it.

We recognize it.

Everything is so carefully done in order to have the benefit of hindsight.

But wait!

What have we done and begun, begun and done?

Everyone is waiting.

Calculating.

Everyone knows that they must approach somehow.

You are aware that you are disposable.

So you must entrench yourself.

You must establish your position and play it right.

But it can be done casually.

In stride.

It can be done without much thought.

Follow your propensities and improvise when trouble brews.

It is easy to run.

There is so much for sensation to do.

You need not be fulfilled.

You need not be solid.

You need not have a beautiful life to get you to sleep at night.

You can stay awake.

You can push the substance.

Live the hazy dream.

Escape from all that is.

BUT I KNOW

I know what it was like to be special.

I know what it was like to be in the throws.

Hours through days and days through weeks and a blur of events tied together with fucking and conversing, kissing, eating, showing up together, showering alone, laughing, being told to stop, bad moods and breaks, the pleasant return and the inexplicable acceptance.

The brilliance of the thing that engrosses.

Completely without understanding.

Only with a willingness to be there.

A form of choice that works out.

A form of choice that yields companionship and fulfillment.

For a time.

And I feel inclined to ask.

Will you wallow with me?

Will you wallow with me in the fetid bullshit of those that cannot find what they want within emotion?

Those who are so fucked up that they run around in a daze thinking that there is supposed to be something that cleanses the pain.

Have you seen them?

Have you seen yourself?

I think the subjective answer is implied.

Where is the catharsis?

The release comes from the process.

The process builds.

There is a momentum that carries us.

And in order to engage in the process there is an initial effort that must be put forth.

There is a sacrifice that must be made.

There is a form of choice that yields results.

This form is based in certain principles of character.

More words.

The moving mouth of wisdom.

The moving mouth spouts the doctrine of a given form of choice.

And those that adhere are unknowingly admitted into the halls of cathartic embrace.

They live out their lives in the midst of a cleansing ignorance and The Wretched, the people of awareness, stand in the street screaming as they claw at their rotten stomachs hoping that the pain will stop and that the beauty of the remainder will come around to make the smells and the sights of a glowing memory from a better day.

And there he was.

The middle school pussy ridiculed for his choice.

The soft faggot trampled by his girl.

The bi sexual miscreant that nervously bought a dildo only to throw it out a month later because he couldn’t imagine being caught with it.

The sentiments drift.

The sentimental drift.

When the good times remembered incite a longing in the subject.

The protagonist recalls… despite his effort to stay engaged in the present… recalls an afternoon in which the time was good.

The way it passed.

The way it came out of its surroundings.

The way space flexed with strange color when he pressed on his eye lids after a nap in the sun.

He realized that there were no choices to make and all he had to do was reach over and touch.

He would be allowed. He would go unhindered. He would be encouraged and kindly responded to.

There are no boundaries to the level of pleasantries that one might know in such a situation. Is she free enough to let you violate her vestiges of innocence? We she let you fuck her in the ass? Fuck her face? Pull her hair and call her a whore in anger?

NO.

She has an image of her self, an image of sorts. She doesn’t like the thought. She doesn’t feel right. She puts herself in a category of exclusion. I imagine it could be called self-respect. But you can shove your thumb in her butt when she’s drunk enough to slur some empty words. Consistency is lacking. Come to accept.

It doesn’t matter.

Experience continues.

Hardship.

Nicety.

Complaint.

Resolution.

We are far from caring what we overcome. There is the hope to avoid something unpleasant. There is the hope to be free of the concentrated flow of that which requires a concentrated effort in relation to that which leaves us disinterested, the hope to avoid that which does not entertain us, that which does not keep up stimulated and occupied in the most engaging sense. There is the desire to be one place while in another. There are sensations and thoughts. But I only care about my sensations. Everything else is subordinate. Any chain of events, any dialogue or preparation, it all belongs to the business of sensation.

But, the nobility… it must be taken into account.

Its existential position must be recognized.

Certain pieces in the pattern must be offered as stalwarts.

We must have a sturdy picture of the ways we should know and teach.

And what ties it all together?

What brilliance can be said to unify?

What has you listening to the sounds and knowing the concepts and keeping tabs on the state of your body?

What is that inexplicable inner sense?

The constant stream of content-filled perception.

I imagine it is something in the structure of our brains.

But what on earth is that?

More symbols?

More token language?

More box diagrams sketched up to explain something that intelligent people are far from understanding?

Clump information into broad categories and hope that someone more energized and informed will hammer out the details… bang up job… you quasi-scientist shits.

But there are social versions of these quasi-entities as well.

Use your attributes.

Use the gimmicks.

Please the crowd when you must and always… always remember that you must have an immutable character.

Your consistency and your admirable qualities will breed respect.

You will come to be known as a good kid, and a stand up guy.

A happy gal and a nice person to be around.

And you will be free of the character you seek.

Lacking substance.

I am comfortable grouping you with a chair.

You are capable of formulation but you are only causally related by default. You have nothing to offer and your knit picking style order made-to-please trend riding bullshit makes me want piss on my feet.

I am both disgusted and disgusting. I am not in the business of using my ability to choose. I allow myself to enter courses of action without knowing exactly what drives me. I am scatter-brained and inconsistent. But my inconsistency is not bound to commitment. I am allowed to drift because I do not owe.

I want to fall through. I want to see the others get what they deserve. And we… the community of degenerates will fall to the unyielding pavement. We will be crippled and the only option we will have for social sustenance is to turn to one another and view the mangled fool that lies crippled next to us… and after soaking the horror we will be forced to converse about whatever we can muster. The silence would be broken by the groans and the screams. Nowhere near enough discipline for silence.

2

There are layers to the way that you function. There are the appearances and the motivations, there are the genuine desires within the realm of interactions and there are the strategic movements within the realm of interactions, there is an intricate lattice that involves the perceptual apparatus and an inexplicably complex set of factors which accounts for the propensities of individuals and the way that these propensities work themselves out in order to create the unending social rhythms that can be seen as scenes. The din in your elementary school lunch room and the buzz at your local dick farting coffee spot, people are bound to deal with each other. The din and the buzz are not the same. Sometimes it’s just the acoustics but other times it is the content within the interactions. Some will gossip about Jude Law’s current sexual partner while some others get enthusiastic about dragon lore. It is a simple theme. Socially involved beings are usually different, the sample in consideration has been taken with each individual in consideration without a self-fulfilling prophecy involving trends. I am not looking for trends. Synthetic patterns may be backed by the data, and we may have propensities. But I believe that the mold can be broken in any instant. I, the cock mandible creep-lord have had intercourse with some extremely attractive women. I have received fellatio and passionate sexually fueled kisses from multiple attractive women. It is a reality that I can extend out into the world. I do not do it to brag. I will not attempt to identify myself or the women… this is only an indirect glory ride, the glory being the joy I receive as I realize that I am smirking at my computer screen with a limp dick and a shitty finger remembering the peak visual moments of my rounds of intercourse with these rather impressive vixens. I actually cared about them at the time. I assumed nothing in my courtship of them. It is as though I was a different person then. I was a different being. I did not have this inward focus. I wasn’t so quick to judge. Maybe I am jaded. Something must have occurred, something that made me sour, something that sapped my enthusiasm, something that brought about the brilliant misery that makes me more valuable then the next asshole with a brain. I laugh as I see people focus, I laugh as I see them hone their skills, as I see them refine their goals in concert with their achievements… I see a world free of talent. I see buffoons stumbling around on ice. I am not worthy of help or acceptance. I realize that I benefit from living within a socially cooperative society… I realize that I do so while expressing views of isolationism and rigid cynicism, but not caring about that has come to me naturally. It is as though I am one of these fools that hope for world peace. It is as though I am one of these sheltered credit card hippies that doesn’t understand the way that power affords the privilege of freedom and the luxury of comfort. All those good feelings of a warm existence are founded on someone else’s work to maintain power, someone else’s work to maintain the necessary standing for privilege and luxury. The only step required for me to actualize the nature of this degenerate viewpoint that I have chosen to express and speak from… is the move that involves destroying my laptop. Throwing my cell phone against a wall with all my strength, telling my friends to go fuck themselves, followed by truly unkind tirades involving the flaws and insecurities that I have picked up on after knowing them and observing their lives for a period of time, an abrupt farewell to my family, with similar, but shorter tirades involving their flaws and insecurities. Oh it would be marvelous, like a scene from a gimmick whore comedy, I would stand during a family dinner in my grandparents dining room and I would go around the table spouting hate at the people that have shown me unconditional love, unconditional love makes me sick, we have abstract cognitive capabilities now, instinct and compassion can fuck themselves… through us… I am allowed to let myself drift into a state of physical and mental failure, I am capable of putting myself in a terrible position to achieve reproductive success. I am the immaculate king of ungrateful bullshit. There are no more idols, there are no worthy, living, icons. There are not nearly enough valuable and interesting people within any given social scene to make social climbing a worthy goal. There is no pinnacle. The only pinnacle that I can even imagine is a fully synthetic painting of a world that could only be maintained with special horse blinders and tanks of nitrous oxide.

There’s no telling how far it goes. Or why it goes. There is no reason that can be seen. There is no logical structure to the ways of a fiend like me. I am sure that some analyst could paint you a jazzy picture of what it is that goes on with me. But I am smarter than the analyst. I have not failed to do my homework. There are many people alive that are better than me, but I could even beat some of those that are more talented by playing my position correctly. I am the drifting nothing. There is no burden of victory on my shoulders. In my picture… all relevant forces come to a point of defeat. Everyone will give up, at least they will give up if they choose to press my front, they will fail and enter a regression involving attempts to regroup and reformulate, but my strongholds are amorphous. This is not a matter of overconfidence or narcissism, I recognized long ago that my depression and my rumination stemmed from low self esteem and a slew of insecurities; in fact, I am going to say that, in general, my entire outlook can be traced to a lack of confidence. I wish I was better looking, I wish my dick was bigger, I wish I was smarter, I wish my toes weren’t hideous, there are all sorts of eccentricities working behind this mask. But I have entered a different realm, I am not in the business of fighting the mask. I went to therapists when I was younger and they assumed that I was a naïve child… lost in the folds of development, caught in the pitfalls of some shit they heard an interesting lecture on, those mustached pricks and warm-talking cunts made me laugh to myself, I wondered if the balding 35 year-old clinical psychologist made funny faces when he took a shit. I was more concerned with the character of the therapist and the strange hollow feeling in my chest than anything that was being said in the sessions. There was too much experience to take in, too many details in my surroundings to try to reconstruct a firm notion of the core of my self. Therapy may help some people, but I have always been a steam roller of my own experience. There will be no fixing, it will all be flattened into a path, it will be archived as a record, a record that none will have access to, not even I can revisit the ghostly theatre of my past, the hazy colorlessness of my dreams, those things were moments in my brain that I cannot effectively access. They are gone and all the damage that the events of the past have done to my core, to the self that is mine, all that damage remains and makes me what I am, there is no fixing, there is no learning how to cope. There is just a base desire to move forward and a recognition that something must be done during the experience of the sensation of temporal movement. The body gives signals, sleep----wake up----- muscle spasm==[[arm’s asleep----- the phone rings----I get horny---- I write a paper---- I go out---- I speak to a person I have never spoken to before---- I roar at familiar people---- sleep--- I don’t remember going to sleep and I ponder that---- sleep

The pattern is foolish without introspection. The lack of introspection brings about the buffoons on the ice… they are not adept enough… they cannot fathom the choices or improvise in a way that is novel enough… the lack of talent shines through again… but my acquaintances tend to accept people as they are… as long as a certain boundary is not crossed at one extreme or another… as long as a style is within a certain realm… then the person gets by… it helps if they are unassuming and it helps if their acquaintances don’t give a shit, if their acquaintances don’t set high subjective existential standards… whatever the circumstances… most people find networks and form social backbone… somehow the buffoons manage to function. Sometimes the buffoons produce in areas that I wish I was producing… the buffoons manage to avoid handcuffing themselves in situations that I find myself constantly restrained… I handcuff myself through indecision and a lack of focus… these little doubts creep in… I consider the absurdity of my claims and the brittle thread upon which my perspective hangs… how it might all change if a pretty, smart, funny girl were to become my steady intercourse friend. There might be a new outlook, I might come to deserve the criticisms of my former self while still agreeing with the doctrine of my past self in principle but acting upon the pleasant sensation of a new momentum in actuality. There is very little room for me to interpret the stream of asinine thought that comes through my inner sense of things. There is a sort of lying and fleeting story line. I craft fictional situations and forget them, I decide to change my life in various ways, and I lose motivation, I lose interest and I revert to the masturbating stagnation. Responsibility does not exist, I am accountable in the sense that I have riddled myself with anxiety, my unpleasant moments outweigh my pleasant moments approximately 20 to 1, but that aside, I do not have any sense of responsibility. For example I do not feel as though I should do anything to change the nature of my situation. I am content knowing that my being is a brute fact… and I do not view my life as a progressive project… I just view myself as a series of time slices that I may reflect upon and dissect within my chamber of self-loathing, my inner sense. It is a strange blurring of every thing, but somewhat addictive once you have been familiarized with the practice. Non-risk takers can’t understand the brute fact of having explored such an unacceptable thing. To stay alone and fight yourself… to face the things you hate… to ignore crucial responsibilities within the synthetic goal realm… The non-risk takers are lame in ways beyond the general understanding… and even ‘the general understanding’ should be subject to intense scrutiny, the general understanding is neither exact nor worthy of reference… regardless, the absence of risk is a horrid property of my surroundings… everything is done so carefully; the planning of outfits, the allegiances pledged, and the courses of action avoided in order to maintain a projected image, specific to general, I range as I move forward, and I only briefly look back to explain on the fly, the ranges may vary slightly due to the lack of planning and/or editing. This is not good writing, but it is certainly honest, and this form of honesty comes through a subjectively tainted lens. I am the type of person that cannot control particular forms of lying… I have been fooling myself in regard to the way I feel and the opinions that I truly hold and the things that matter to me, so much so that some of my formulations are guarded without conscious effort. In a sense I have pigeon holed myself as an automaton in certain areas of my emotional life. I am not in control and I am bothered by that fact.

Nights like this are bad for my soul. And I don’t use soul in a sense that can be directly defined in any of the traditional senses. My notion of soul has to do more with a general sense of the state of self. It isn’t an explicated thought… it is more of a direct perceptual thing. It has to do with the level of comfort that you achieve upon exiting a deep breath. Would you describe it as a pleasant release or a momentary respite? The soul is that general ambiguous awareness of the self imposed moral standing of the thing you view as ‘you’. The heightened status that one gives to certain aspects of experience shine through in the readings that are given through the functioning of the soul… and sometimes… it is just known that the soul is in a garbage state… because shit is upsidedown.

The shapes and the angles as the neck extends up to the cheekbones and out with the jaw. And the way in which those shapes and angles change as the neck accommodates the object. When the action is performed skillfully the shifting of the angels and the contour of the shape can be extremely physically pleasing. Stimulation--------Numb, repeatedly, is not good for the soul. (my notion of soul)

1

I do not feel foolish saying that I am a person who can produce a quality product from time to time. But I am certainly inconsistent and there is no telling when I will hermit myself in a room with nothing but electronic music and porn… only leaving the room when I need to eat… and maintaining that pattern from anywhere between three days to two weeks. My need to hermit makes it so that I cannot have a job. I also have phantom health problems that seem to come and go without any causal connections to grasp at. I have some friends, but very few that I end up spending time with. I attribute this to the fact that I truly believe that I am better than most of the people that I see around. I cannot say what the objective standard is when judging myself and others within this realm of better or worse… it seems to be based on a subjective feeling and the relation of certain observed characteristics to a set of standards stemming from other subjective notions. I blacklist anyone that happens to smile and cock their head when listening to another person speak. I am fully aware of my superiority when I hear people spend entire dinner conversations gossiping about the events of their drunken weekend, and I am clearly superior to anyone that cannot play sports, write music, and organize words and ideas in a somewhat novel fashion. Most people are worthless. Most people are uninteresting. I have no reason to pretend that I like these people. I have no reason to pretend that I am okay with their existence. On the surface of my misanthropy I often claim that I want the world to be a desolate place without community. I want the world to be a network of hermits that run into one another on rare occasions. And I imagine the hermits using their extremely infrequent meetings to exact profound realizations through the juxtaposition of their isolationistic musings and the musings that stem from their dialectics with one another. Undoubtedly there will have to be fuck farms. Places where these hermits can show up and have intercourse with female insemination bots. They could be cybernetic or organic women… as long as they can bear viable human offspring. There could certainly be female hermits as well. But the majority of females that I come into contact with are too tainted by their instinctual predispositions to be of any true substantial value. In other words the insecurities and social survival strategies of females make it very hard for the average female to have any worth to the adept hermit observer. If a female is physically attractive she will have a default worth merely because of the visual and sensual pleasure she can provide… but it takes and extremely special combination of elements for a female to be stimulating to the point of being worthy for adept hermit status herself. I have encountered zero females of this caliber in the 23 years that I have been alive. I am sure that there are some that have lived and died without finding a female that had what it would take. The female issue being out of the way… there are also very few males that would qualify for adept hermit status. This all fits perfectly with the picture that I am trying to paint. I want the world to be socially destitute. The world is already socially impoverished in the sense that most social interactions are vapid, yet necessary norm development, support network forming, entertainment providing, shit festivals… but the social destitution that I speak of has to do with the quantity of social interactions and not the quality. I believe that there is a relationship that can be expressed and recognized between the quantity and quality of social interactions. My hypothesis being that the quality goes up as the quantity goes down. Even if people became unfamiliar with the ways of handling the physical presence of another I believe that there would be more honesty and less habitual ritual. The interactions of the hermits would be epic sharings. What is there to do in isolation other than masturbate, move around and think? When the hermits finally bumped into one another… perhaps it would be awkward… but they would share and they would have to deal with each other’s refined and isolated concepts. Some more adept hermits would school the less adept hermits when it came time to debate or discuss… but to become an adept hermit at all you must be a discerning individual… so there is a good chance that any meeting of individuals would result in a clash of two well thought-out programs.

There is no true joy in the inebriated celebrations of the modern social existence. The popularly envied positions in society are void of content. There is no character in the role models of the social world. Popularity is influence and the influence is having a negative affect on the well-being of humanity. Everyone is taught to escape into the joys of money and glamour. But there is no character in money and glamour alone. These bitches that were born into millions of dollars are not the types of people that will help our species perpetuate… however their behavior is being admired, contemplated in the sense of entertainment, and even emulated by pop-culture immersed portions of global society. Such dynamics, if they do in fact exist, do not bode well for humanity, the global society, whatever it is that we are talking about when we feel pain in our chests and stomachs upon watching reality television programs or looking at celebrity gossip magazines. What the fuck is going on? Where are the thoughts of the masses focused? It seems that the focus of the masses will be asinine in all scenarios, unless there is some sort of impending doom force around to be contemplated and feared. At times of potential death people will watch the interesting stuff in the world. But other than those times, at any time when an understanding of political and global dynamics requires the synthesis of information and a certain level of research… at any time such as that the masses will have their heads up their asses… watching famous for no reason, skinny air heads getting performing fellatio on camera, drinking alcohol and having intercourse… whatever it is that popularly acceptable people do to have fun these days. Our culture blows. There is nothing… there are lots of cookie cutter females flocking around with the same brand of boots on… they sport an array of looks that all come from within the same domain… tights into boots, jeans into boots, throw back to the eighties shoulder cut sweatshirts… or whatever the trends of your era are… there will be packs of piggy backing bitches running around sporting the looks of the moment… and there is no substance or thought going into their decisions that goes any deeper than wanting to be successful within their local or relevant social hierarchy and the opposite sex. Sure if I was fucking a hot girl at this point in my life I wouldn’t be sitting at my computer wearing the only clean piece of cloth in my apartment… and I wouldn’t be asking for a complete social paradigm shift to a world of nomad hermit philosophers… but that doesn’t mean that my hypothetical way is not the way that would maximize the human experience and lead to the most considerable level of intellectual achievement… not to mention the world that I am proposing would be much more objectively respectable than the world of trite interactions that you can find whirling around you in BMWs, super markets, malls, Nissans, shoe stores, restaurants, and barber shops everywhere. Start throwing a little hate around. Let the disdain set it. Stop drinking the pain away and get used to the fact that everything feels shitty because everything is shitty and it is going to take some personal effort to start the progress toward a state in which you might possibly be able to feel better in your default state. This constant urge to be entertained and altered is fucking horse dick… all these malcontent, lazy, quasi-bohemian shit bitches need to be killed or snapped the fuck out of it… we are not in a position to live lives of privilege… I believe that we should be living lives that involve turmoil and discovery… risks should be taken and important things should hang in the balance… we have become a stagnant species that doesn’t have anything on the line. I am not even sure that I am willing to say that we are progressing… it seems that technological advancements are just moving us in a direction in which we will lose the interesting hybrid nature of human existence… for example we are still land animals, we are diurnal, we seem to need exercise and activity… but we also have complicated cerebral existences. This makes it so that we interact with the physical world on a number of subjectively obvious levels. We are subject to the physical causality of our surroundings and we may also have a slightly undetermined physically mental life that allows us to manipulate the way we view our environment in interesting ways. If we keep pushing technology it seems to me that the only place for it to go is to make the mental environment into an all encompassing environment that engulfs the physical in a realm of automated experience. There will either be artificial physical enhancements or everything will be simulated… making it so that some of the qualities of the misunderstood organic human being existence will drift off into the records of the past. I like this misunderstood organic structure that my “I” perspective seems to be resting upon and within… I do not want to grasp everything and float within a well defined matrix of entertainment modules. I want a raw and slightly uncoordinated seeking experience. I do not like the fact that we follow “promising” trends blindly. Fuck that.

making me a liar

end.

defeat and departure

i am nervous today. i am realizing that my perspective has gone stale. i shouldn't be affected too deeply in the long run... but these hours of realization have been unpleasant. my pursuits have become the pursuits of a sheltered fool. i have lost track of practicality. this is a world of social endeavors and i have taken up a firm position as a misanthrope. my position as a misanthrope makes me bitter. by definition, i am part of what i hate. i analyze my surroundings and i analyze my fellow social beings... and the analysis yields a wide variety of faults... i see faults everywhere... i see arguments that can be presented and systems that can be improved... sometimes i formulate the arguments and sometimes i am capable of devising a plan to improve a system... but i am not nearly capable enough to present solutions to all the problems that i believe i am recognizing. therefore i am judging and critiquing without doing anything constructive... my life has become a drawn out deconstructive effort. i am fetishitically addicted.

lame/

peace.

laugh it up dipshit

you just got hit by a fucking snow-plow. your legs are mangled. your face is unrecognizable. you are just completely fucked. fucking deal with it... you don't have any other options... your limbs don't work and you haven't thought about biting your tongue off. just fucking sit there and deal with your cognition. you fucking pussy.

i'm the fucking pussy. i am the "you"... why the fuck don't people ever interpret my shit the right way. you fucking idiots... god... i am totally kidding. i want you to like me and continue reading...

.872364.

one sock off

one sock on

one sock gone













just a lust crush.
a win fuck.
everything was casual.









nigga please,

your persona screams attachment issues and depression.

you should watch the slur sir

but thanks for your suggestion.

i opine so kind your mind is simply fucked.

maybe i just need affection.

stop lying faggot... no more hiding in your questions.

lame/

i was certainly meant for the mountain

(the girl in the picture goes by the name natalie, i would contact her if i had her information... it would be good times... we could talk about shit like what we were doing in this here photo... channel the bliss of reminiscence... i am a human being)



who are the phantom people? it seems as though they are thinking but i often think that they are automata. minor correction... major... i don't think that they are automata... i just recognize the possibility. just a bunch of spooks dancing around the internet. there is no chance that we will get in a fist fight. there is no chance that you will let me tap that flat behind that you are hiding in those pants. you know what i mean? your flaws are hidden... you can choose to show them... but you get to choose the pictures you post. you get to temper your thoughts. i like your myspace!!! here... friend me... and render me not so fagnonymous. we are friends!!! i want to be able to be as creepy as i am... i don't want you to read my foul stream from the safety of your computer spot. if we are to interact i want it to be in such a way that you have to face my awkwardness... or my charm... whatever it may be that i bring to the situation. what the fuck if i just run off at the mouth with cliche sex talk? what if that leads you to file a lawsuit against me? sure you would like to avoid that... but if we want windows into each others lives we should have to pay the price. and people aren't willing to pay the price... socially inept retards run around inebriated... no longer afraid... now we can talk freely... we can speak openly... and say the witty loose shit that we always wish we had the tits and balls to say. these are all standard complaints.

let me highlight. why do people high-five? it is a sign of mother fucking frivolity. have you ever witnessed a high-five? have you ever done a high-five? have you been in the midst of some joyous rush and reached your hand up and touched another person's hand with some force? think about a high-five. there is no concern for survival going on when people are in the midst of a high-five. think about the body position. the physical dynamics of a standard high-five leave you open to attack from many angles. you are in a poor position to defend yourself and because of the revery that is usually part of the aftermath of that which incites high-fives you probably aren't even thinking about the danger you could be in if someone were lurking with a shiv. there are people out there that will fucking kill you for fun.

so i rant that in some chicks ear when i am stoned... and she walks away scared... i should have had more booze before smoking that blunt. i always think that i have a tar build-up feeling in my body after smoking a blunt. probably because it was raid-weed the last five times we smoked. the kind that made me feel my heartbeat throughout my entire body. the entire thing of my body... i am talking to YOU.

so. why can't we get it together? why do we choose to be ghost/possible automata for all these other ghost/possible automata shit-cunts out here? face to face interaction is cold. most people are afraid/anxious or wrapped up in their cell-phone mouth-fucking or daily drama recall making sure the ass looks right with the walk rhythm shoulder blades raised for maximum figure correctitude. what the fuck kind of subjective experience am i having here? i better be a dillusional hypochondriac depressed knuckle-fuck... or else our domain is on the fast track to empty set... you know what i am saying you hairy-sock fucking degenerates?

these posters that i have in my room are sagging off the walls... but it doesn't matter because the only people that come into my room don't give a fucking shit about the decorations... a drunk girl was in here a while ago and she commented on the photographs that i had on my wall... that was nice... it wasn't sagging then... i did not fuck that drunk girl and i have only seen her once since then... we did not speak in passing... so all streets lead to fucking loserville on this island. WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO?? right right... she was drunk and she was in my room and we were talking about the photos I DEFINITELY COULD HAVE FUCKED HER RIGHT??? I DEFINITELY SHOULD HAVE FUCKED HER RIGHT?? yeah bro... be the man.

yeah bro... be the man. i told her that my name was mike and that i was from ohio. neither of which were the case... she went for a high-five and said "mid-west baby, i'm from minneapolis minnesota"... at which point i told her that i was lying and that i never do high-fives. she laughed it off... but she didn't like it... the photo talk happened later... and we didn't get naked together... you like those little gossip stories? such classic funny shit to talk about at brunch with a hangover... yeah yo we can all be real together and have auras of fun and togetherness, anti-fakeness... comfortableness/swanging bodies and confindence in the genitalia that we have to present...

the fat chick that works behind the dish counter takes a moment to assess herself: "Oh god my pussy is so gross"... she is not confident in the genitalia that she has to present... plus she is fat so it wouldn't get to that point anyway unless an escaped convict broke into her house and chose to hide his seed in her belly. even then... he might give shit about her nasty roast beef sandwich.

so... i am happy with my seven-inch dick... could use a little bit more girth... but it seems that once a girl has committed to us get to that level of naked... as long as i don't have laughing-stock nuts we should be okay... or at least she will ride out her drunken horniness and just not call me after she or i leave the room at 5am/10am. "that kid had a skinny dick and small nuts"

so... we can't deal with each other's pressure presence. some people can... and they are socially ballin'. those people just rock the house with every sauntered/athletic step... cause you got the people with the looks and the curves... or the people with the "i will fuck you up" confidence. those people might walk circles around the masses in their unassuming social mastery... but i would venture to say that most people are not those. most people are likely to avert their eyes and hold back the verbal manifestation of what they are thinking. because something about their experience just leads them to not doing. it ain't worth it... it would be so awkward. there is a giant ampersand skull-fucking the slutty girl that sleeps in the hallway. AMPERSANDS HAVE COCKS? NO PULSATING PISS-STICK WAY!!!

so... some people escape to the no-pressure world that the internet provides and become deranged with that in the picture... other people do not go the internet route... they just do coke and listen to music without checking if someone left them comments or responded to the comments that they left or who posted new what or who e-mailed them back or who poked them and shit on their facebook wall or what e-vite they got this week or how hip-to-the-shit their style is staying or how many people have viewed their profile or who commented about their away message or who did whatever the fuck in this realm of no pressure leave the text up to be observed mother fucking animal porn downloads off rapidshare bootleg martin lawrence movies at 5:20am when i wanted to be sleeping at two ay-em. not that i couldn't have been sleeping at 2am and then downloading at 5:20am but i am not even sure how many people would have thought of that.. because it is all cummy blocks cruise control at this point... you are either in a trance or just completely disgusted or whatever... i leave myself some escape routes... all escape routes as a matter of fact....


here we go. all of this shit that i have just written is something that i will stand behind as a creative creation... right right... and wait wait... or whatever.

everything i just said or whatever.

maybe it is just that i consume too much dairy. i have read in many "life-journey this-is-the-way little symbols on the fingers" books that too much dairy is real bad. i can try to change that... but it may be too late for my ulcer infested misanthropic parasympathetically fucked mongolian sheep bladder asset.

i want the pressure to be recognized and it's victims to be absolved from all blame... but only after a long period of reckoning. chop chop you stupid little fucks. i am typing by myself... but i am imagining that the masses will feel the wrath of my accessible message. so like i don't give a fuck but vibe with me because i have chosen to put something forth... is that cool enough for people to understand and like? right right... get crossed up with the insecurity flow.

so.... the period of reckoning will involve philosophy training... the scheme mapped out in plato's republic will be implemented and reinforced by the threat of military force... the new international military... the members of which will be trained by an impartial international council of justice drones. philosophy will guide us to the light... people will know how to analyze situations and all their awkwardness and their giddy little gossip fetishes will make holes in their stomachs just like the holes that get made in mine. because everyone will understand the nature of the absurdity. they will begin to notice the repercussions of cognitively complex beings being stuffed into structures and areas en masse... and being forced to sort out all the stimulation and carve a path to something that resembles fitness. we ain't ready for this shit. our design didn't have this in mind... i say we have a few more centuries to tweak out... then the critical flaws will rear their beautiful heads at full force and the causal chain will snap our tweaky little specie-neck. we flocked too fast... intelligence helped us over some critical humps and then just fucked us into a ball of hurt.

the big pain won't come in our life times... it will just be lots of melancholy bullshit and anti-depressants for us... the cause that will be worth fighting for may not be recognized. and in the artsiest of artsy sharts we will fade out like neophyte hippies chipping ketamine off a plate.

i'm feeling better than usual actually.

miraflores

two daughters of south america within my comfort zone. i know their neighborhood. they invite me to their home. often we sit in the backyard. the nice gardens and the nice fountains on their property are set against vine-covered steel fences. the fences are 15 feet high. the daughters are beautiful. they live in the city. they know the reality. but they wear nice earrings and well-made tank tops. their bathingsuits are tasteful. they smile when things are nice. they laugh when the humor is right. i have come to respect their styles. they talk to me as a friend. i have thought about them sexually from time to time. but i try not to drag them into masturbation. i am actually fond of these young women. maybe this will be the first time that i don't step over the bounds.

i am left to wonder if it is fear or class that keeps me standing firm.

my favorite part was working with dissonance

first of all fuck rhyming... cause its for cornballs that try to get children to touch their privates.

clear-headed.

what the fuck was that?

something like a past-time.

something like a trap.

the only way to be clear... to be here.

in sight and mind defined.

is through the memory of time spent...

unique but not designed.


that's where it stops. the pressure is still here. nothing has changed. it is like an idiot child flailing... off their meds. mommy smoked some pot with you all in her belly when she went to see the dead.

in other words i know nothing. but i think i understand one or two things. i think that i understand enough to ride the momentum properly. faulty notions all around. lash back with sarcasm... make sure that all your bases are covered.

just how i work it. i have some nice body curves.

lust wins.

eat my fucking minutes

can you plunge in from the thousands of angles that would be necessary for an acceptable representation of a non-biased agent? could you possibly identify enough of the underlying structure to accurately depict the nature of the agents subjective thoughts. you must always remember that we do not have access. we may design experiments and we may listen to introspective accounts... but the process... as it happens... is still illusive.

how can we get far away enough to say the correct things? it must start with simplicity. no jargon. no causality assumed.

and why does it matter when i only want love and respect?

yeah right you fucking gays. ( <------- that is exactly how i would answer the rhetorical question directly above)

the blank between labels

this is going to set me back quite a bit.

i have chosen to try something.

i will call it (this try) "An Account of Existence: From the Perspective of a Self-proclaimed Minimalist"

it will be as much of a bare-bones account of experience as i can give. it will start with simple elements, basic internal questions, things that seem to be facts (in some sense of the word fact)...

it will all be very far removed from science at the onset... and science will only start to come in as a retroactively applied tool.

the subjective world of the observer will meet the gauntlet of scientific analysis as the story develops and we will see what the process of soul-stripping really looks like.

the scientific method makes everything so fucking hard. please just let us skate like confused pussies.


yo yo murph, make it float.

really real son

thick fear.

stomach pain.

i might be dead before the week is out.

i hate this bullshit.

anxiety?

current pain hedonism may be the perfect model to describe my current life choices... but as far as being a viable alternative to a more stream-lined altruism, in the evolutionary context... i am not buying.

fucking pedantic elephant dong.