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Spills and Spews
O-O-O-O-O 
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and they were YOUR words that came sloshing out of me years and ages after we'd stopped thinking about it entrely.
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I just slapped the shit out of myself and my inner thought-voice got lower, flat and stopped whimpering.
Hand print pressure seems to be the key.


I am going to figure out how to do this again.

I will let go of what happened and gradually face it in the only way that can ever matter to me.

Starting soon.

Other people are inspiring and I'm wasting away. I can't have it anymore. I can't have any of it anymore. When I step back and look at everything now - my god, I don't know where to begin. Explaining my reasoning and motivation will be the most difficult.

I think I will open up a couple that were never finished. Maybe. I don't know.

Another time. Right now I have much too much to stop ignoring, as usual.



11/27:

No, I'm not. I still get sick just thinking about it. Oh well.

Random declarative stances are still endearding, few and far between as they are.

I never went home. It’s more than safe to say.

Out there in the weightlessness of naivety, I tumbled through time and scraped up the jagged edges of desperation on my hands and knees. Desperate for life, desperate for freedom and truth. No conventional method could be used in the same way that no bright pages from home furnishing catalogues could be worlds to live in. Right there, where the most insane is the most desired and danger, with its thrilling ice cube hands, slips down the senses and chokes you until just before you pass out - where any trace of sense and logic is extinguished and the tint of your natural, sober sight shifts to a kind of blurred gray that creates figures and patternes where they do not exist. You fall asleep in mud and wake up in solid cement. Because I was so blind, so foolish, dumb and prideful, I would resort to anything to keep something toxic and illusionary breathing steadily under my vigilant watch and extremely capable keep. And like a parasite or fungal weed, the black seed grew in sweet energy and tangled itself twelve times through each open circle of light in my heart and grew around it making a splintered cage that thickens as the light is wholly concentrated onto its thirsty leather back. Scarred and starved, my soul wakes one day under undefined circumstances and stares around the tattered walls in a tight chested panic. Have I been sleeping? Have I been absent? What have I done? How could it progress to chaos so severely in this small amount of space and time? My soul didn’t move for many months. It watched shadows and sapped whispers from the angry nerves that were snapping and suffocating from exhaustion in small packs every day. I have never dealt with shock well, and so my soul wasn’t expected to take news of its imprisonment any better than a bent straw. It lies on its side and watches the fortress embedded around my passion and curiosity shudder and rust while my heart goes about pumping slowly and sighing heavily under its chains.
I can’t write anything anymore because I’m only honest about myself when I’m having an emotional breakdown. And after that tidal wave guts me like a sterile isolation cell, I find I have no energy to interpret the convulsing madness beyond the dried goo that trickles out from fresh, steaming cracks in the surface of my face and plasters me to the floor.
Writing.
I’m afraid of

Things are always supposed to go another way and because particular things in fact went in an unanticipated direction, I have been observing faster than I can report. Maybe. I’ll go with that to start. I like the idea that things can possibly be approached from the musty side entrance. I’m still toying with the most fitting formula for dropping off the ledge and into the deepness and the ill-illuminated. Nothing is clear.

For now, I’ll wait to find out which combination of shock and exasperation will cause me to trip over the sleeping beasts that explode like rockets in my head. It shouldn’t be long - what with all my clumsy sidestepping through bomb blistered jungles, wearing blinders that brace my face away from ground hazards toward the strands of stangled light chopped apart by clawed braches and falling like snakes to the Earth.


"
I'm not one to pop off. If I'm feeling aggravated, I like to choke it back until I can properly sort out my outrage on my own time. I've never had a face-to-face reason oppressive, inspiring or radically offensive enough to boil my blood into unrestrained rage, yet. Everything in my life is emotionally related to this source of animosity. I can't avoid this unnamable, inexplicable fire in my throat and reliable sting in my stomach that forces my jaw to buckle and my grip to tighten. It's clockwork. It's constant. And It's got me fired up aloud.

I can't even complete an observation or a thought or a book anymore. I can't just be left to myself. There's no "out" time, there is no peace and it separates me from living and growing. Isn't it enough that this seething hell hole has kept me from doing anything with my life so far? Can't my potential and lost optimism be enough of a casualty? No, we have to push it a step further and drive me out of my weathered mind. I'm not going to be fine in Colorado. I'm not going to be fine until I sever all ties from this horrendous house. My nerves are shot. The mere thought of being here makes me ill. I'm running out of excuses, comfort, assurance, anything stable. I need to get out. For my health.

It's like watching paint dry. My life is like staring at a detailed mural of chances and idealized outcomes and simply waiting while they harden into a layer of less vibrant and exciting patterns all depicting passed opportunities and impenetrable memories. All that I am and all that I do is afraid and immobile. I have nothing to show for the work I've neglected in the thousands of dollars and grants thrown away to educate me on being a complete failure.

At whose hand?

*Exhale Dramatically*
"

Some stuff changed...

-


It feels weird. How did I get here?
There's too much and certainly not enough of all the wrong goddamn things.

It looks a little like I've recoiled in bitterness or defeat. To be point blank, it's become uncomfortably hard to convince myself otherwise. I'm paranoid and self-depreciating, holed up my tower every night alone. Where is everyone? Where am I? Seriously, what's going on ... I don't know how to do any of this shit anymore. Once I came to lack a basic curiosity and daring confidence, well, what the fuck am I but a bundle of nervous personality disorders and self-loathing inclinations to NEVER be sober and alone with myself for more than several hours at once. I don't even really consider changing that. I enjoy being a delusional hypocrite far too much, here on the end of the rope.

Maybe this is for the best. I was becoming more arrogant and self-indulgent every miserable, insufficient day. Perhaps now I can burn down to basics and reevaluate my image and priorities. I could mold them from reflection and discipline if I could force myself from my hate into necessary structures of active revision. I don't actually know what else is left. It appears that any alternate route has been swallowed in mistake and change. Theoretical remedies of adult social situations give me anxiety.

My name, my record, my resources, my abilities, my will. It feels like the harder I fought against being chained to something, the more buried and locked I became in the disguised realities of price and freedom. In gradually sensing the particularities of my limitations and weaknesses, my constant ability to remain steady and clear is clouded and displaced in this common frustration - this avoidable indulgence of despotism that I find so fated. I refuse to forge a path in fear or doubt or practical inability. Running around in the same circles makes me sick and dizzy but I can't stop staring at the ground while it spins downward like I'm falling through unseen levels of atmosphere, away from every single thing.

Wish I could live there, suspended between the layers of space like that. The closest communication is communal - and so the fists are outstretched and upside down, one waiting to be slapped and the other, withdrawn as the forgone option. For me, this isn't enough as a situation. I literally need to have a gun held to my head in order to spark some kind of interest in progression and development.

- [it]


It's not what I do or what I say. It's not the routine or the plan or how I write it down. This isn't an excuse or an explaination either; it's a free fall. I'm just dropping straight now - opening everything and letting in run crazily through the streets on impulse and imagination. A thirst that I drew in the corner of the page has smeared itself over the content in the most urgent and intentional way. This is specifically about the patterns that surface and dance for obsessive periods of outward disconnect and vacancy. What do I look like? What is a good comparison from some other time? I dream about parallel worlds that could have been and places that were before I hacked them apart like tree stumps or stubborn clams. I talk to Alyssa like a friend, like we used to and then I lay motionless in bed for slippery skips of time and try to understand what part of me is still so concerned with that bitch. Why am I still so angry? Do I need to control someone? What is this attention that I need so badly? What is this crazy level that I have reached? What have I vowed to create and release in order to fill the emptiness and isolation that being a goddamn freak in a pool of immense responsibility and distraction amid nerve wrecking howls for radicalism and continually mind murdering concessions to medicrity has burned out of my innocence.

I sand the little hairs out of my throat and nasal passages but it never feels good for long enough. I lived here for about two weeks on my own. It's just different. I love being alone and practically self-sufficent but the timing seems to have been a little stressful.

Where are we? Kyle lives at his house and comes over still. I don't know. He's the only person I know with the same open schedule. I'm moving on though. It's fucked up, but I don't know what to do anymore. I can't change and neither can he. I can move out and get my own place an hour away and - hey, that's awfully familiar!
This process is slower because I don't have Alyssa or anyone to fall back on. I don't have a place to get trashed and hook up with some reminder of living for a confidence booster and a circumstantial ax droppper. I have to do this with issues this time. I have so many issues with and during this break-up that my concentration and state of reality keep changing along with my will. Fuck this. All I need to is to get out more.

-



It may be early, but I believe the spike ascended.


Busy, distracted, strapped, stressed and stuck. I'm doing what's right for myself, I'm pretty sure. My regimen in this festering holding period is a tense and slippery directive to just keep moving forward while forcing myself to look outside at everything and be involved in it somehow. I strictly flood the quiet hours in my room with intense music to keep my concentration strapped and my thoughts turned off. It's taking forever. Though I don't necessarily have a plan for the zero hour, I intend to roll over it and get up on the other side. I fill my head with places and agendas and each one starts to slide into unlikelihood with every dead hour. I'm intolerably impatient. How long am I supposed to be on the bottom; in the dark, powerless and limited. Why don't I just try to live in both worlds with the same conviction? I wonder if I have a mental incapacitation that makes me freakishly naive and self-conscious. I hope I don't get myself killed in some idiotic way.

-


DECOMPOSE!
Here, in this age of reflex.tion.

Oh, maaaaaaannnn. Dust gets on. Onward.

-


My god! What killed the majesty?

-


Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.


All things about blizzards for the sweet picket fences and warm hot cocoa of upper-class suburbia, are adorable.

Despite the fact that I have been stranded to work in nanny land for almost six days now, things are not all bad. For one, I am totally in love with the neighbor, Mrs. Doe's husband.


Jesus bloody Christ, Earth! I get it, you're beautiful. Will you just change already?

-


In light of the "Pardon my Idiocy" bill that our infamous, ass clown president is forcing through legislation, I wonder, how can anyone still possibly make excuses for him. Didn't you learn anything from Nixon?

Also, the Associated Press mutilated the English language. I suspect them of a great many things concerning the corruption of media and possibly domination of the world.

Oh, I forgot! If I commit a felony, do I have to go back to Germany? As of now, in each standard, both are highly likely.


As the summer drags onward through a blur of coordinated obligations, displaced necessities, prolific desensitizing and undulating romps with the mind, I find myself less alive. I miss freedom. Every minute feels like I'm waiting for the day to end so I can continue not sleeping and advance (or not) to a repetition of the same minutes in another day of boredom and predictability. It's like I'm trapped inside a dream I can't recognize. Nothing has a solution, it's just a circle of helpless wondering and disinterested confusion. I've been losing focus while speaking. I zone out to some thought triggered by some image that I'm reluctantly desperate to latch onto - just to be somewhere else. Outside, this trance has me using self-depreciating entertainment to occupy the reality I'm trying to escape. Too much food, too much shitty TV, far too many hours, days, and weeks burned, feeling nothing. I need to wake up in strawberry fields again.

Life took the realities of all people; their framework and circumstances, cut open each metaphysical throat and bled them into each other. Words didn’t exist, but now they stand as various forms of influence and firepower - leaking from person to person. Suffering and sacrifice, what was sacred and intuitively powerful, can now be seen and analyzed like a project or a species. My interests were just things, but now they make up my physical reality. A simple haircut or sentence can mutilate what I am and piece select fragments into what my visible things have come to represent. I am a color. I am mileage. I am myself not preferring to smile in pictures. I am a sense of humor. I am that bag and its contents. In order to decipher what is real, you have to know the parts of you that are not. I am made real by my mind, my experiences and a collection of senses and manners that make up my form, my life and my existence.

A lit cigarette tore through the surface of my thigh and caused seared skin to curl away and sever from the melted area of contact. Ashes smudged my dress and the pain distracted my composure. I instantly started into it with a purpose, a creation of a symbol. Goddamn watchers - I hate the concept! Fucking, just realize that it isn't a cosmic symbol, that is was an accident, that I could control it.

Sweat is real. It's something that cannot be concealed. The internal strains of physical and mental reality, leaking. That is truth. Heightened emotions are literally written on my forehead with streams of perspiration. Exertion and weakness are often left to be wiped off my skin. I wake up in cold sweat after my brain has been screaming inside itself all night.

You were gold and I was steel. I was steal. I was still. I remained, still.

"There are images I need to complete my own reality."

Art, in the form of public persuasion, or vice versa, is intensely powerful, particularly movies. In a world of two-dimensional interaction, the artist can create a way for their opinion and their vital revelations of knowledge and common sense to be emphasized and mass communicated. If everything is calculated according to interest levels and comprehensive panic factors, movies can sway the process of thought; they can implant ideas with rawness and personal association. This is a form of messaging, or attempting to wake. These things strike possibility and then force reflection. The problem with the artist's work is that their purpose to arouse suspicion about reality can go terribly wrong when put in the hands of over-eager subjects. What if the characters, the story and/or the ideas are torn apart, misconstrued or horrifically idolized? What should happen if the message to liberate from the constrictions of commonality is lost and ultimately sucked into the process of physical reality and turned into a fashion, a brief discussion of "edgy" intellectuals or a misused quote of opportunity? The artist would sulk over the hopelessness of changing society and the futility of life and innovation.

A book is put out. Popular life put it there. The creator of the words hates what it will become because it is destined to be misunderstood. The author's existence has no choice but to be a social science project. Nonetheless, this book is out for people to discuss and translate and imitate. Now they know. The people with the book are the book. It's what they think is real and brilliant. And because they think highly of this man's twisted thoughts, because they are so inspired by his disconnected analogies and piercing imagery, they are the followers of incoherency, senseless logic and a scene beyond their recognition. They mimic something put out to distract them from truth. Like entertainment.

The book told me there are four ways for the mind to see through physical reality: sleep, travel, drugs and sex. The watchers exception told me these are true unless you allow them to have their own life force. They must be carried out with distance and individuality. In each, you are alone with your mind and must watch it closely as it expands through subconscious, perspective, altered focus and emotion. The mind is reality. It is the only sanction from the bleeding of physical reality. They, the artists, have the images. They have the extenuating situations of insanity, concepts, oppression, revolutions and incarceration. These are their truths, but those pages are not their reality.

I have to transcend their words, my words, my sweat, their art, my images and my time. All these things being on another side where bleeding entertainment has no power, a side past old habits and flat lines both in my brain and on asphalt that I have to break through.
I sat on splinters and listened to the conversation between the heat, the lake and the music. They were explaining living to me, but I had started to dream and had forgotten what they said.


Pre-liberation flee to do's

-Finish high school
-Orientation/ honors enrollment (Irony)
-Change court date
-Consider legal consultation
-Kill Ticketmaster
-Finish Denver apartment logistics
-Secure other job
-Complete self-management
-Find another mother for sister
-Get Indonesian/S. African coffee packs
-Rent vehicular transportation
-Assemble wardrobe for constant human oven (Take into account Colorado's lack of humidity and altitude adjustments)
-Gather medications
-Actual medications
-Carriage for "Charlie"
-Jedi strong arm black cloud to submission
-Etc.
-Catch Sean before his departure
-Attend a grand ball
-Etc.


I am going to build a boat and raft it.

My robe was too far away after taking a shower, so I put my boots on instead.

Words are complicated. Stringing them together for a profession is insane.

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