| (no subject) |
[Apr. 26th, 2006|04:34 am] |
I'd love to run, but my pocket jingles.
Better to think your thoughts than bother to remember them. (Er -- can anyone explain this to me?)
A eulogy to fogotten memories.
And to Camino, you goddamn fucking lazy asshole: It's free. FREE. Fucking use it, it's fucking FREE. "I'm going to invent my own oxygen supply -- that of the earth is not sufficient. Except mine shall not sustain the life of the majority of those who breathe oxygen, it shall only sustain my own, very narrow, oxygen needs." Grr.
Taste.
"A business opportunity." <-- The idea of such.
ATDT 7633599... ET phone home. Been a long time. A singular thrill.
I know I have not been a big help.
I spent $3.49 on 2 sponges. By comparison I normally spend $1.00 on 8 sponges. I don't even like sponges. How can a place sell a roll of toilet paper for $5.77 and a chocolate bar for 64 cents?
Anyone else out there confused? Unsure of the proper course of action? Uncertain as to how things have unfolded and how things will yet unfold? I'm looking at a 1/4 oz of yeast and a bag of flour, but I've never baked bread.
I want to make things worse, but I'm too lazy, too selfish, too unsure how to make things better. (I'm not sure this fits or even makes sense.)
Raisin bran on the floor ... but what good does that do? Books with bent corners ... better to read them, to burn them, to live them, to sell them, to want them, to own them, to eat them, to avoid them, to read them?
How can I trust in the chimerical chemical fates when the graphite and the lead and the ink and the blood and the camera and the tape and the film and the bit record it as it is, or as it could have been, or as it might yet be, or as it is?
Oi, and with the slap in the face. May not wake me up, but it keeps me alive.
A modern twist.
Each word in parentheses, nested to no end, recursive, remissive, recurrent, regressive.
Google is such a slacker. Such a worthless, motionless, boring piece of shit.
If it's not in your notes ... it didn't happen. Quantify, qualify, exterminate, right? I need it, I want it, I can't stand it. PTY, LTD ... I like your hat, but what have you done for the world today?
I am (literally (yes, parentheses)) intoxicated by the smell of burning human flesh. My own and that of others; mixed, transgressed, imbibed, whole and raw (well... maybed cooked), but swallowed ... and I supine and indifferent.
And no I did not (you cruel bastard), and yes I will chew your babies all the same, and chew and chew and chew.
To twist and to crunch and to divert and to idolatrize, and to know when to stop and how to begin ... tis a skill I'm not eager to learn, a skill and a trade and a blade and (well, in the great scheme you must admit) a fad (you must admit).
"We toast [he] who pens his thoughts within nests of parentheses."
With certain exceptions (the quote) I only really write because I need to read. I'd love to accept, to be passive, to enjoy, to be satisfied. I am that, mostly (in any real sense, and more), but I'd also like to be alive, to be free, to be sane, to be.
Tuckered out and put off I surrender to the (was going to say syncopated rhythm) godawful noise outside and flee and close and shut and hate (the orange light and the feet on the stairs (and it's 4 am and I really don't care))...
And it's passed. Time. Does that. A trick. My hands glisten, my back aches. As much as I am living, I am also dying.
A study must immediately be done: is it the hands or is it the face that the writer imagines as they type or as they write? Or, perhaps, something else? What is it they see as they write? Flesh? Words?
Well, I'm cold and going to bed. (Also, I have bad teeth.) |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 24th, 2006|03:57 pm] |
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"A letter is an unannounced visit, the postman the agent of rude surprises. One ought to reserve an hour a week for receiving letters and afterwards take a bath." |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 24th, 2006|02:58 am] |
I'm having a really time hard believing in any of this shit.
(8 pages later)
To have somewhere to go each day is a great relief of the burden. To not have to see, to feel, to be ...
I can't express myself in French. But I can read it, I can listen to it, and I can respond to it ...
A fibrinous clot formed in a blood vessel or in a chamber of the heart.
I hate taking responsibility for anything. I'd rather be the invisible man.
It makes no difference. Who do you love? (yeah, yeah)
If I don't do it ... somebody else will.
God I'd like to start from scratch.
Do it wrong, till I do it right. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 21st, 2006|01:36 am] |
Fuck y'all, I'm doing that thing with the crazy.
Hey Curteye, do you like Cuff the Duke? If not, why not? |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 18th, 2006|08:05 pm] |
Recipe of the day:
- Throw in to a small frying pan 2 eggs, beaten with a fork like they've been bad. Make omelet.
- Throw on 2 heaping tablespoons of chunky chunky salsa.
- Douse liberally with hot pepper sauce (because your store bought salsa sucks, admit it) and rain down Romano cheese like it's Dec. 24th and the airports are closed. Fold.
- Enjoy! And don't forget to wash the dishes! That's the best part!
If your mouth feels a little frisky after, have a gin and tonic to cool down.
A little black pepper might work too ... not tested though (dang), so try at your own risk. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 18th, 2006|07:15 pm] |
Good thing they don't sell heavy weapons in supermarkets.
I was in Price Chopper and they started playing "Wild World" by Cat Stevens. Except it wasn't Cat Stevens. And there were saxaphones.
Also, they had no spinach, and I was sad.
But on the way out I got smiled at by a pretty girl, so now I'm in a good mood. :)
Saxaphones though ... god ... what has the world come to? As if Price Chopper wasn't depressing enough as it was, with fat single mothers buying pre-cut-up hotdogs in ketchup1 and dozens of 2 litre bottles of generic soda pop.
1. Yes, they sell this in a single serving package. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 17th, 2006|11:37 am] |
Ah, here we go:
pollution all around
sometimes up sometimes down
but always around
pollution are you coming to my town?
Or am i coming to yours?
we're on different buses pollution,
but were both using petrol ...
bombs!
Heh. He said petrol. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 17th, 2006|12:50 am] |
"I can speed up time! I think I hurt my tongue." -- Sounds I made when brushing my teeth
Arg! Who stole my Origin of Species? Hrmph.
Anything that's meant to be studied could profitably be skimmed ...
Anything that's meant to be skimmed could profitably be studied?
I *HATE* google. If I search for "petrol ... bombs" I want fucking "petrol ... bombs" not fucking "petrol bombs". The ellipsis is there for a reason. Goddamnit. You search for poetry and you get molotov cockails. Ridiculous. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 16th, 2006|10:27 pm] |
Some scribbles:
The pleasure is in the doing. Once you're done, you can look back at at any time with equal satisfaction. But only in the doing can you truly experience the thing.
Greenpeace founder advocates for increased nuclear power generation.
This guy thinks students should all just sit around and read old books. Not that I disagree, but is it really so bad that so many are learning practical things in universities? Renaissance Italy was wealthy, as we are today, but also practical and and commercial. There were more merchants than writers, more fisherman than sculpters and more farmers than painters. Literacy today is much more widespread than it was then. I don't have the figures, and I need a drink, but I'm sure university enrollment is at least a few orders of magnitude higher today than it was then. Also, we now have easier access to a larger variety of books than ever before. We're also living longer and enjoy, in general, more leisure hours than ever before. I don't know how many books people read back then (but keep in mind this was before Gutenberg's press) but would it really be impossible for today's average middle-age university-educated adult to be more well read than, say, Plutarch? |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 16th, 2006|09:23 pm] |
I need new clothes: I have nothing to wear
on my date with my computer and chair.
Sure they're insensate and prolly don't care,
but I'd still really like something to wear. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 15th, 2006|11:55 pm] |
So a few changes taking place.
Likely going to have a new phone number, new email address, and maybe even new website soon. Details to follow.
No comment on any other changes that may or may not be happening at this time.
I like the term "ambient internet" better than "ubiquitous computing", "pervasive computing", "calm technology", or "things that think". |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 14th, 2006|02:01 am] |
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I am horrified by myself. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 13th, 2006|01:50 am] |
If you meet the Buddha on the road: kill him.
If it seems familiar: kill it.
Kill kill kill without remorse.
Better to understand your past or to escape it? Transcend or ignore?
I really hope no one else is feeling what I'm feeling.
I think I made a mistake.
But I don't know what it was. I can't be sure of when I went wrong, since I'm not sure I ever was right.
It's been too long since I could fathom the infinite. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 12th, 2006|01:54 am] |
Give my liberty or give my a career.
Actually, currently, I'd prefer death.
I wore a requiem once in 55 words. Most of those words were death. The others didn't matter so much, given the circumstances.
I have double-joined thumbs. It's my claim to fame.
Antsy.
"Multiculturalism has failed, or so everyone says. So now what? Should Germany toss out its 6.7 million foreigners? " is more interesting than "He opened the door to what looked like a darkened room and invited us to step inside. Once our eyes grew accustomed to the shadows, we could see things more clearly than ever before. That's the achievement of author Samuel Beckett, who was born 100 years ago this week."
I am so so so so sick of reading about famous people. I'm so utterly tired of reading about amazing they are.
Ruby on Rails may be the Next Big Thing but show me the fucking code. Pretty graphics and a flashy website will only get you so far. It takes more than that to get in my pants.
The thing in itself is more interesting than any professional hacks opinion of it.
I don't think I could ever stand to be professional. I have such affinity for the hobbyist.
Results 1 - 10 of about 2,160 for "The error message is God". (0.21 seconds) |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 11th, 2006|02:50 am] |
Ah, good old life.
My old standby. Never failed me yet.
Clean clothes and Mardi Gras.
So I'm trying to figure out this weird ass San Disk MP3 player ...
I haven't laughed this hard at myself in a while.
It seems to play music just fine. But I honestly have no idea how to control it. I cannot bend it to my will. That's fine (for weather and cooking and girls) but this is an MP3 player. It should do my bidding. That's its job.
I refuse to read a manual to figure out how to shuffle a playlist. I never read a manual on how to change a light bulb or program in Pascal, I shouldn't have to freaking read one to figure out how to play a song.
Yeah, so I'm dodging the issue(s * 4) ....
I hate making bad calls. But I hate more getting flak for making good calls.
Perfection is very calming.
Best not to think about it.
Goddamn I love being cryptic. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 10th, 2006|02:33 am] |
The things you hear on the way home:
"Is there a difference between being middle class in Canada and being poor in Canada?"
"Is that him? ... Kaos? Is that you?" (This to me mind ... Kaos? Really? Moi? (The way they said it -- yeah, it's a K, not a Ch))
I feel disconnected at home and I feel disconnected away.
I don't want to have to be that guy ... any of those guys. Any guy. Anything. Guh.
Is there not a middle way?
A B C D i decree a thumb WAR.
So I'm back in Ptbo.
No place for poetry without rhythm or rhyme. Without place or purpose. Without $639,458 and a dining room that doesn't connect to the kitchen.
Yup, nope, yup, nope.
I wish I could be less selfish.
The Life Aquatic sucks.
Tea leaf, tree leaf, branch. Fig leaf, big leaf, ranch. Wig release, big relief, dance. Big no-teeth, sing no-theeng, do nothing.
I think I can deal with being alone, but being alone in the world is something else entirely.
The world itself I can deal with it, but being along in I think I will need to revisit.
Tough balance between thinking and being.
I think* more, I am* less.
Ah, screw it.
* Not really either, but the perception of such to myself, and apparently others.
...
words on a screen. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 8th, 2006|04:43 pm] |
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Television is incredible. |
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| Home |
[Apr. 8th, 2006|01:28 am] |
Middle-class life is so very comfortable.
The house I grew up in is very clean. The paint is perfect. The floors are even and they shine. The lines of my bed (made by my mother, it seems, while I was napping on the couch downstairs) are straight.
Any "flaws" stand out, like the spec of paper on the smooth hardwood floor or the crack in the cement patio out back.
There is a new organic bakery on the corner. Their menu is written in coloured chalk on a blackboard and the sandwiches cost $6. The girl behind the counter has cute freckles and nice breasts.
My room is absolutely quiet. The whole street is quiet. The air inside (and out) smells fresh and clean. Every bathroom sparkles. There are crisp photo albums with bright pictures of far off places, with short descriptions carefully printed alongside. I have not seen any piece of garbage on the side of the road.
The fish is fresh and firm and white when cooked. The fridge can keep sliced ham for a week. Everyone seems to know each other. People smile at me and compliment my sweater.
As is tradition, I am invited to play cards. There is wine, scotch, beer, antojitos, shrimp, popcorn, salsa, hummus, chocolate cake. The children are tall and healthy and they smile and play and they all get along. Their parents are relaxed and generous.
I feel safe and certain.
Why did I want to leave? How did I so desperately need to escape? |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 7th, 2006|01:47 am] |
Yup.
So I still don't know what's going on.
And, yup, life still keeps passing me by.
And, nope, this isn't fun, and, nope, this isn't games.
I can't feel, I can't see, I can't be, I can't do.
I do not understand. I can not improve. I do not grasp what should be the simplest concepts.
I feel so absolutely mortal. So very, very frail. |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 6th, 2006|12:45 am] |
My goodness, I ramble.
Robert Blake was fun. He makes me want to learn to sing and go on tour. He makes it look easy. Got to hear some new stuff as well as some old favorites.
Toronto was awe inspiring, overwhelming, and strangely comfortable.
Looking forward to going home on Friday for my mom's birthday.
And the obligatory geek link: http://www.apple.com/macosx/bootcamp/ |
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