So these last two posts weren't exactly... anything. They were just ravings of a mad mind and I apologize for that. Tomorrow we will "get traditional" with the books and films and music and leave out the rest. Unless something important transcribes that needs to be documented. Does that work for you, Andy? Yeah this was getting a little weird and cumbersome after having gone back just now and read the older stuff. Did you like that more?
Monday, February 14, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
The Sequel: Part Three (The Things She Does to Please, She's Just a Little Tease)
Welcome back, folks.
As I promised last night, we are indeed here to stay and intend on making our very own little shit-stain on this wonderful earth. Now, where did we leave off? There was a great deal about delirium and madness and bizarre class schedules and strange poetry and a profound prophecy that encompasses all of humankind and something about music and some stuff about school and then there's this and then...
I hear the entirety of "the Velvet Underground and Nico" LP before changing it to Bob Dylan's "Highway 61 Revisited," another one of my favorites. After that, I shall begin to play Pink Floyd's "The Wall," an epic progressive psych rock opera that breaks minds.
I thumb through the ancient commandment-scale journal that I discovered, discussed, and displayed for you yesterday, and find more of the same and some of the different. For example, contained on the page that I am currently studying, I had at some point written a Haiku poem about the beauty, serenity, and silence of nature. I remember rocks, clear, sweet creek water splashing down a small waterfall, collecting in a glass-like, cool pool under the overhang before being funneled through more rocks into another creek all the way through the woods. I remember going there. But that was some time ago. I've only tasted tainted tap water since then. I've only bathed in hot water since then (or unpleasantly cold, after the others use up all the warmth). Int he same wooded area, I remember collecting tiny frogs and blue-belly sand lizards and a small green snake, housing them in my terrarium for years and years until 10th grade. But I digress. We're not here to talk about nature and shit. Back to business. I flip to the next page and find the first and only draft of a poem I wrote in my senior year of high school. It was highly praised and was unanimously chosen, after nearly a dozen rounds of voting to eliminate the unworthy from the best, to be the champion work for our particular class in a competition with another teacher's class. Head to head against someone I don't remember, I asked upon my Armenian friend a favor: to read the poem in front of both classes, as I suffer from performance anxiety. Apparently, so does he. I won the silver while the other took the cake and ate it too. Even so, I am rather proud of my creation and I know that it was appreciated throughout the population who heard it. It may not be my greatest as of yet, but it's pretty close. Below is a scan of the original document, which I shall translate beneath the image.
Nothing too fancy, but at the time, I, as well as my Armenian friend and all of our comrades, considered it to be a monumental achievement, an epic masterpiece. It may make no sense to those who also judge books by their covers, but anyone with half an intellect should understand what the message is, what it tells us, what we have to realize. Compared to the absolute rubbish that the other students (including the Armenian) had submitted for the same competition, mine was blah blah yada yada. It's all a joke. I don't actually coddle my own balls this much, but I want to bother that staunch critic of mine with my own praise of myself. Others may take it however they will.
The three pages immediately following this poem are in the same vein as the pages I displayed on last night's post, serving only to solidify my madness at the time. I will post scans of these but will not translate them, partially because I cannot read some of it, I might not want to read some of it, but also because the text within might present certain "criminal" activities I may or may not have been privy to, and I know the Federal swine have a file on me for god knows what so I shouldn't exacerbate the situation. Actually, I will. Every time I have been to the airport in this half of my life, I get pulled into a dimly lit room with one wall being almost entirely a two-way mirror, and am interrogated by Federal agents, not the airport or city or even state police. This has happened every time I have flown internationally over the past 10 years and once before and after a domestic flight, at the departure airport and destination airport, respectively. One time, my brother and I were traveling alone from up East and we were returning to LA and they pulled me away in customs and left my brother, a child, standing there on his own. But I was still quite young at this point and got out soon enough. I must have the same name as someone on their wanted list. Or maybe it is indeed me who is on their wanted list. But again, I digress. We are here to explore the depravity and sickness of a twisted noggin deprived of oxygen. Here's the first page, which is more coherent than the two following. This one does not have the date blacked out like the other pages. In fact, the time and date read "4:20AM, Last Saturday." God knows which Saturday this is referring to, but that's the beauty. It was written last Saturday, one year, two years and seven months, some imaginary number of years ago. Anyway, here it is.
This is what happened this day.
I ran out of "food" yesterday. Nothing left to "eat." So what did I do? I did what every person in a similar situation would do. I called and was "Waiting for my man with 26 dollars in my hand," for twenty-four hours, (what a lag, what a drag [pun intended]) except the sum of coinage was about four times that of the advertised cost in the proverb listed above. But my man got a cell phone (he was without one for over a year due to "security concerns," AKA the Feds sniffing around) so instead of me having to call his home and dealing with his mother or sister, he contacted me directly, answering my request in the affirmative. What delight, what pure joy and elation I felt at the moment I heard those words. And what timing as well, on his part. I was left hanging for almost exactly 25 hours after calling him the first time, and at the precise moment when I picked up my phone after having decided to call him and see what the holdup was, the phone started ringing as I pulled up the Call Log. Some unknown 8*8 area code number, but my intuition and gut feeling told me that this was the call from my man that I had desired and waited for oh so patiently. In almost exactly thirty-three minutes, I arrived at a certain part of a certain City of Angels that I really didn't belong in, but was the turf of my man so I was forced to pass through those black gates into (relatively) unknown territory to do what needed doing. This may have been my best experience visiting my man so far. Immediately upon reaching his residence, I rang him up to let him know I was downstairs ready to pick him up, and within seconds his bulky frame thundered through the secondary laundry-room doorway of the building he resided in. I bring this up because on nearly every other occasion I have had to deal with my man, I am required to wait for twenty to thirty minutes, for what reason nobody knows. Anyway, one thing led to another and a very short drive (to another part of town immediately north-northwest of my man's residence) later I pulled into some back alley gangerbanger parking lot sandwiched in between three run down apartment buildings. As my man went into the building to conduct business with his man, I turned the car around and observed my environment. As I said, this was the most fucked up never-go-there back alley shithole that I have ever seen. One window on the third floor of the building directly in front of me was wholly covered by an impenetrable layer of aluminum foil, with a small, haphazardly cut ventilation hole that was belching out chemical smoke. I remembered another occasion in my life where I happened to be inside an apartment with a similar setup, and came to conclude that what I was looking at was the local meth lab. My suspicions were confirmed when somebody stuck their head out of the tiny (less than one square foot total area) bathroom window and projectile vomited about 8 feet out away from the window, and I swear this character was going on for a solid 30 seconds without letting up for a second. No gagging, no afterpuke, just one huge long shot. On the building to my left, there was a clothesline that came out from one window and the other end was tied to a television satellite dish on the building to my right. Hung on said clothesline were, among other things, what appeared to be a pair of soiled pants and a white wife-beater that had some suspicious red stain near the bottom on one of the sides. I assume that it was from the owner of the clothing having butchered his own chicken or dog to boil in vinegar and consume, because of course, in such an uncivilized part of town, pre-packaged groceries and any store to sell them simply didn't exist. This was nearly as bad as the singular "Project" that my Armenian friend, the one who wrote a scathing review of my last commercial success, lives in. Before I could observe and analyze the building to my right where my man had gone to, he spilled out in a full sprint, jumped into my car, and said very calmly "Drive, Drive, Drive!" As I navigated my way out of these shady alleys behind other alleys, he put ten dollars into my pants pocket and dropped something into the cup-holder of my car. Upon making my way to the nearest major road, I promptly proceeded to get all sorts of lost in this unknown area, and had to drive a good ten minutes to return my man from whence he came. Note that it only took two minutes and fifty seven seconds to get from my man's house to the shady apartment area. Upon delivering him safely to his lair, I drove in the general direction of the nearest freeway I could take to get home, all the while scanning the scenery to find some small street I could inconspicuously pull into and park, away from all the blue and red lights and their sirens and swine flu, so I could investigate what my man had left in my cup-holder. Lo and behold, it was there, my baby, that which I desired so greatly, that sweet child of mine. How greatly I had missed it, having seen it last nearly a year ago. One last tango on the dance floor, I promised myself. And I shall hold myself to that promise, until the day I die. And that final wonderful dance with bliss incarnate, I can never forget. Her hair smelled different, her mouth tasted sweeter but harsher, the tone of her voice altering so minutely that it could hardly be noticed. She was a year older, just as I was. It was unexpected, but I know how to keep my head. Of course, I didn't waste all my energy pulling quick moves at the start, but rather took my time, starting slowly, picking up the pace as the music rose into a cacophonous frenzy, where one Lou Reed played his guitar in a most peculiar manner. Most people know what standard guitar playing is. Few people know that a special technique has been used by only the virtue-est of the virtuosos, where they play the electric guitar with a violin bow, producing the most distinct and unexpected of sounds. But this was more. Lou was playing the electric guitar... with a violin. Not a bow, but a whole violin. The sound, the layers upon layers of screeching harmonious wailing, exhausted me quite quickly. My stamina is nothing to boast about. I decided to take a break from the dance to grab some kool-aid and told my sweet lady to meet me at home. After an unnecessarily long drive, I arrived home to find my love waiting for me outside the walls. I instructed her to sneak around the side of the house where I could let her in from my bedroom window. I replaced the screen over the window after letting her in and we prepared to make sweet love. Down went the blinds, Lock went the door, Silent went the phone. Oh what profound joy, the thrill, the rush, nothing could compare. Nothing since I decided to deprive myself of my one and only could ever compare to this. It was pure ecstasy, the two bodies entwined in carnal lust, indistinguishable from one another. It had been too long. Oh how we danced those few last hours, oh how we moved in perfect synchronization, never missing a step, my heart beating harder and harder and faster and faster as the band picked up where they left off. We kept going for hours and hours until this very moment, at precisely twenty-one hundred hours. She had to go home to her mother's house. I had to get to work. We kissed our last, passionate farewell kiss, quite the emotional affair, as she slowly disappeared from within my very hands. That was the end. I had tango'd my last tango with the personification of beauty and joy. It is over now. I sit at my computer, my mind repeating and repeating through the memories and sensations I had experienced today, simultaneously reminiscing about our past affections. She never did me the slightest bit of harm, but my friends didn't take to her, though they were tolerant at first. But my friends are just that, my friends, and I need them. What good is a husk of a soul without friends to converse with, to debate with, to drink a beer with, to drive around and go on global adventures with? As one enterprising African-Armenian once said, "Bros before hos, bro." I do not fully agree with that philosophy, but I recognize the wisdom and value behind such rhetoric. My mind cannot ever forget her, though my body will have to. The end, my beautiful friend, the end.
The end in a second. I'm cutting it off at this point so I don't run out of material for tomorrow night. In roughly 24 hours, I should be creating or publishing another post of extensive length chronicling parts (whatever the hell I managed to write in my journal) of my travels in the far East after I was forcibly removed from Davis. There shall also be a little bit or two of substantial substance-related goodness, which the Armenian should not have no problem with.
Good night, go in peace, don't let the pubic lice bite.
As I promised last night, we are indeed here to stay and intend on making our very own little shit-stain on this wonderful earth. Now, where did we leave off? There was a great deal about delirium and madness and bizarre class schedules and strange poetry and a profound prophecy that encompasses all of humankind and something about music and some stuff about school and then there's this and then...
I hear the entirety of "the Velvet Underground and Nico" LP before changing it to Bob Dylan's "Highway 61 Revisited," another one of my favorites. After that, I shall begin to play Pink Floyd's "The Wall," an epic progressive psych rock opera that breaks minds.
I thumb through the ancient commandment-scale journal that I discovered, discussed, and displayed for you yesterday, and find more of the same and some of the different. For example, contained on the page that I am currently studying, I had at some point written a Haiku poem about the beauty, serenity, and silence of nature. I remember rocks, clear, sweet creek water splashing down a small waterfall, collecting in a glass-like, cool pool under the overhang before being funneled through more rocks into another creek all the way through the woods. I remember going there. But that was some time ago. I've only tasted tainted tap water since then. I've only bathed in hot water since then (or unpleasantly cold, after the others use up all the warmth). Int he same wooded area, I remember collecting tiny frogs and blue-belly sand lizards and a small green snake, housing them in my terrarium for years and years until 10th grade. But I digress. We're not here to talk about nature and shit. Back to business. I flip to the next page and find the first and only draft of a poem I wrote in my senior year of high school. It was highly praised and was unanimously chosen, after nearly a dozen rounds of voting to eliminate the unworthy from the best, to be the champion work for our particular class in a competition with another teacher's class. Head to head against someone I don't remember, I asked upon my Armenian friend a favor: to read the poem in front of both classes, as I suffer from performance anxiety. Apparently, so does he. I won the silver while the other took the cake and ate it too. Even so, I am rather proud of my creation and I know that it was appreciated throughout the population who heard it. It may not be my greatest as of yet, but it's pretty close. Below is a scan of the original document, which I shall translate beneath the image.
[Rough Translation]
"Relax your head and drift downstream,
Make not sound nor speech nor thought of any kind,
Allow yourself to become one within this dream,
Release your body and let it take over your mind.
Close your eyes, what do you see?
A marvelous window coated in grime.
Wipe away, waste away, wondering what lies beyond might be,
And all the truth slowly reveals in time.
You return to life in a flurry of realization,
Discovery of the truth hammering upon your mind,
The Keeper lied to you and your civilization,
He punishes you for free thought of any kind.
You must spread the word; tell the others what you've seen,
But the Keeper finds you first, and takes you down to quench his greed."
Nothing too fancy, but at the time, I, as well as my Armenian friend and all of our comrades, considered it to be a monumental achievement, an epic masterpiece. It may make no sense to those who also judge books by their covers, but anyone with half an intellect should understand what the message is, what it tells us, what we have to realize. Compared to the absolute rubbish that the other students (including the Armenian) had submitted for the same competition, mine was blah blah yada yada. It's all a joke. I don't actually coddle my own balls this much, but I want to bother that staunch critic of mine with my own praise of myself. Others may take it however they will.
The three pages immediately following this poem are in the same vein as the pages I displayed on last night's post, serving only to solidify my madness at the time. I will post scans of these but will not translate them, partially because I cannot read some of it, I might not want to read some of it, but also because the text within might present certain "criminal" activities I may or may not have been privy to, and I know the Federal swine have a file on me for god knows what so I shouldn't exacerbate the situation. Actually, I will. Every time I have been to the airport in this half of my life, I get pulled into a dimly lit room with one wall being almost entirely a two-way mirror, and am interrogated by Federal agents, not the airport or city or even state police. This has happened every time I have flown internationally over the past 10 years and once before and after a domestic flight, at the departure airport and destination airport, respectively. One time, my brother and I were traveling alone from up East and we were returning to LA and they pulled me away in customs and left my brother, a child, standing there on his own. But I was still quite young at this point and got out soon enough. I must have the same name as someone on their wanted list. Or maybe it is indeed me who is on their wanted list. But again, I digress. We are here to explore the depravity and sickness of a twisted noggin deprived of oxygen. Here's the first page, which is more coherent than the two following. This one does not have the date blacked out like the other pages. In fact, the time and date read "4:20AM, Last Saturday." God knows which Saturday this is referring to, but that's the beauty. It was written last Saturday, one year, two years and seven months, some imaginary number of years ago. Anyway, here it is.
[Something about nothing along with some boxed-off references to various influential figures]
That being said, the next two pages are where shit gets real. They're actually written as one page, sideways, so the text starts perpendicular to the lines on the top of the paper on the right-hand page and goes down, across to the next page, and ends at the bottom of the left-hand page. It's easier just to show it.
[What the bollocks, right?]
{I've got thirteen channels of shit on the TV to choose from}
Bizarroland, no? Don't ask and I won't tell :)
This is what happened this day.
I ran out of "food" yesterday. Nothing left to "eat." So what did I do? I did what every person in a similar situation would do. I called and was "Waiting for my man with 26 dollars in my hand," for twenty-four hours, (what a lag, what a drag [pun intended]) except the sum of coinage was about four times that of the advertised cost in the proverb listed above. But my man got a cell phone (he was without one for over a year due to "security concerns," AKA the Feds sniffing around) so instead of me having to call his home and dealing with his mother or sister, he contacted me directly, answering my request in the affirmative. What delight, what pure joy and elation I felt at the moment I heard those words. And what timing as well, on his part. I was left hanging for almost exactly 25 hours after calling him the first time, and at the precise moment when I picked up my phone after having decided to call him and see what the holdup was, the phone started ringing as I pulled up the Call Log. Some unknown 8*8 area code number, but my intuition and gut feeling told me that this was the call from my man that I had desired and waited for oh so patiently. In almost exactly thirty-three minutes, I arrived at a certain part of a certain City of Angels that I really didn't belong in, but was the turf of my man so I was forced to pass through those black gates into (relatively) unknown territory to do what needed doing. This may have been my best experience visiting my man so far. Immediately upon reaching his residence, I rang him up to let him know I was downstairs ready to pick him up, and within seconds his bulky frame thundered through the secondary laundry-room doorway of the building he resided in. I bring this up because on nearly every other occasion I have had to deal with my man, I am required to wait for twenty to thirty minutes, for what reason nobody knows. Anyway, one thing led to another and a very short drive (to another part of town immediately north-northwest of my man's residence) later I pulled into some back alley gangerbanger parking lot sandwiched in between three run down apartment buildings. As my man went into the building to conduct business with his man, I turned the car around and observed my environment. As I said, this was the most fucked up never-go-there back alley shithole that I have ever seen. One window on the third floor of the building directly in front of me was wholly covered by an impenetrable layer of aluminum foil, with a small, haphazardly cut ventilation hole that was belching out chemical smoke. I remembered another occasion in my life where I happened to be inside an apartment with a similar setup, and came to conclude that what I was looking at was the local meth lab. My suspicions were confirmed when somebody stuck their head out of the tiny (less than one square foot total area) bathroom window and projectile vomited about 8 feet out away from the window, and I swear this character was going on for a solid 30 seconds without letting up for a second. No gagging, no afterpuke, just one huge long shot. On the building to my left, there was a clothesline that came out from one window and the other end was tied to a television satellite dish on the building to my right. Hung on said clothesline were, among other things, what appeared to be a pair of soiled pants and a white wife-beater that had some suspicious red stain near the bottom on one of the sides. I assume that it was from the owner of the clothing having butchered his own chicken or dog to boil in vinegar and consume, because of course, in such an uncivilized part of town, pre-packaged groceries and any store to sell them simply didn't exist. This was nearly as bad as the singular "Project" that my Armenian friend, the one who wrote a scathing review of my last commercial success, lives in. Before I could observe and analyze the building to my right where my man had gone to, he spilled out in a full sprint, jumped into my car, and said very calmly "Drive, Drive, Drive!" As I navigated my way out of these shady alleys behind other alleys, he put ten dollars into my pants pocket and dropped something into the cup-holder of my car. Upon making my way to the nearest major road, I promptly proceeded to get all sorts of lost in this unknown area, and had to drive a good ten minutes to return my man from whence he came. Note that it only took two minutes and fifty seven seconds to get from my man's house to the shady apartment area. Upon delivering him safely to his lair, I drove in the general direction of the nearest freeway I could take to get home, all the while scanning the scenery to find some small street I could inconspicuously pull into and park, away from all the blue and red lights and their sirens and swine flu, so I could investigate what my man had left in my cup-holder. Lo and behold, it was there, my baby, that which I desired so greatly, that sweet child of mine. How greatly I had missed it, having seen it last nearly a year ago. One last tango on the dance floor, I promised myself. And I shall hold myself to that promise, until the day I die. And that final wonderful dance with bliss incarnate, I can never forget. Her hair smelled different, her mouth tasted sweeter but harsher, the tone of her voice altering so minutely that it could hardly be noticed. She was a year older, just as I was. It was unexpected, but I know how to keep my head. Of course, I didn't waste all my energy pulling quick moves at the start, but rather took my time, starting slowly, picking up the pace as the music rose into a cacophonous frenzy, where one Lou Reed played his guitar in a most peculiar manner. Most people know what standard guitar playing is. Few people know that a special technique has been used by only the virtue-est of the virtuosos, where they play the electric guitar with a violin bow, producing the most distinct and unexpected of sounds. But this was more. Lou was playing the electric guitar... with a violin. Not a bow, but a whole violin. The sound, the layers upon layers of screeching harmonious wailing, exhausted me quite quickly. My stamina is nothing to boast about. I decided to take a break from the dance to grab some kool-aid and told my sweet lady to meet me at home. After an unnecessarily long drive, I arrived home to find my love waiting for me outside the walls. I instructed her to sneak around the side of the house where I could let her in from my bedroom window. I replaced the screen over the window after letting her in and we prepared to make sweet love. Down went the blinds, Lock went the door, Silent went the phone. Oh what profound joy, the thrill, the rush, nothing could compare. Nothing since I decided to deprive myself of my one and only could ever compare to this. It was pure ecstasy, the two bodies entwined in carnal lust, indistinguishable from one another. It had been too long. Oh how we danced those few last hours, oh how we moved in perfect synchronization, never missing a step, my heart beating harder and harder and faster and faster as the band picked up where they left off. We kept going for hours and hours until this very moment, at precisely twenty-one hundred hours. She had to go home to her mother's house. I had to get to work. We kissed our last, passionate farewell kiss, quite the emotional affair, as she slowly disappeared from within my very hands. That was the end. I had tango'd my last tango with the personification of beauty and joy. It is over now. I sit at my computer, my mind repeating and repeating through the memories and sensations I had experienced today, simultaneously reminiscing about our past affections. She never did me the slightest bit of harm, but my friends didn't take to her, though they were tolerant at first. But my friends are just that, my friends, and I need them. What good is a husk of a soul without friends to converse with, to debate with, to drink a beer with, to drive around and go on global adventures with? As one enterprising African-Armenian once said, "Bros before hos, bro." I do not fully agree with that philosophy, but I recognize the wisdom and value behind such rhetoric. My mind cannot ever forget her, though my body will have to. The end, my beautiful friend, the end.
The end in a second. I'm cutting it off at this point so I don't run out of material for tomorrow night. In roughly 24 hours, I should be creating or publishing another post of extensive length chronicling parts (whatever the hell I managed to write in my journal) of my travels in the far East after I was forcibly removed from Davis. There shall also be a little bit or two of substantial substance-related goodness, which the Armenian should not have no problem with.
Good night, go in peace, don't let the pubic lice bite.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
NO DARK SARCASM IN THE CLASSROOM
This is for you, boy. Profound bass lines you will never know or understand. Mother do you think they'll try to break my balls?
As the haze of a sober day clears up thirty minutes after six doses of cyclobenzaprine, the empty orange bottle among numerous others littering my desk, I realize that it's been quite a bloody long time since I've written anything that wasn't some sort of cowdefecation academic paper that I was required by law to write. I have also been listening to various Pink Floyd albums (the ubiquitous Dark Side of the Moon, Animals, and The Wall, direct digital copies from the reel-to-reel master tapes) on repeat for over 20 hours straight. I was looking through an old box and unearthed my old journal from a few years ago that I officially titled "The Book of Word," which contained the mad ravings of a lunatic, and I suddenly came to realize that my mind was most indeed lost at that space in time. This post will, among other things, contain excerpts from this volume, exposing my deepest, darkest secrets. With sparkling vampires. For example, I wrote the following during my tenure at Davis on some sickly warm night where boys in colorful striped shirts under green double-breasted blazers were running through vacant fields and lying right on the dirt to observe the shooting stars from the impending meteor shower. After having consumed considerable doses of organic hallucinogens for spiritual and educational purposes, naturally. Or it might have been another night; only the wind remembers. Suck on this da Vinci code, betches. You might have to click on the picture if it's cut off. Now suck on... well... you know...
More to come tomorrow
As the haze of a sober day clears up thirty minutes after six doses of cyclobenzaprine, the empty orange bottle among numerous others littering my desk, I realize that it's been quite a bloody long time since I've written anything that wasn't some sort of cowdefecation academic paper that I was required by law to write. I have also been listening to various Pink Floyd albums (the ubiquitous Dark Side of the Moon, Animals, and The Wall, direct digital copies from the reel-to-reel master tapes) on repeat for over 20 hours straight. I was looking through an old box and unearthed my old journal from a few years ago that I officially titled "The Book of Word," which contained the mad ravings of a lunatic, and I suddenly came to realize that my mind was most indeed lost at that space in time. This post will, among other things, contain excerpts from this volume, exposing my deepest, darkest secrets. With sparkling vampires. For example, I wrote the following during my tenure at Davis on some sickly warm night where boys in colorful striped shirts under green double-breasted blazers were running through vacant fields and lying right on the dirt to observe the shooting stars from the impending meteor shower. After having consumed considerable doses of organic hallucinogens for spiritual and educational purposes, naturally. Or it might have been another night; only the wind remembers. Suck on this da Vinci code, betches. You might have to click on the picture if it's cut off. Now suck on... well... you know...
[This, children, is what you can expect out of adulthood] [jk]
{written backwards, upside-down, and with my left hand}
But that's neither here nor there. It's everywhere. It appears to be the one thing people these days don't want to talk about. But it's the one thing that makes each and every one of us similar, that makes us all human. As a student of the human condition (and actually being a human, of all things), one might wonder why people are afraid of the culmination of everything. Everything they have ever done, everything they have ever thought, everything they've eaten and shat, and even those balls of gum that don't get shat out. Or do humans see it as the culmination of nothing, which is why it's so taboo. Nothing in the sense that nothing of substance was ever achieved in the lifetime of a human. Sure, people achieve goals and win challenges and get degrees and well-paying jobs (or not), and feel satisfied, but then what's the fear of it all about? You tell me. Why am I writing this? So one rogue Canadian computer can accidentally scrape this text and have some Canadienne psychology student use this for their dissertation as an example of a mind that has completely snapped beyond recovery? No matter, I've returned to [this] earth since then. (insert creepy winking smiley here)
On another note, check out the rad schedule I had written up for myself in the Book of Word back then. It seems like insanity now (not really) but it was an apt description of the lonely days of my life. This all was before I discovered the beauty in the people and town of Davis, which as it happened, was too late for me to prevent the Authority from declaring my "enforced leave of absence," based purely on academic grounds, of course.
[Do not do as I did, unless you want to, in which case I have volumes of knowledge to drop on you]
As you can see, shit was pretty fucked up. I'm not gonna lie, I loved it while it lasted. That kind of just fit in with who I was at that time. Where did the pseudo-pseudonym Crackbar come from? And as for who I was, I hadn't at the time the slightest idea, as you can see in the following scan containing a poem I wrote but have no recollection of (unsurprisingly) with the date blacked out like some sort of hushed-up government document. Fucking capitalist pigs. But the show must go on.
[How pathetic. I used to be an English major when this was written]
Things are just starting to get interesting as the hypnotics and CNS depressants kick in. Wonder if I should continue writing or call it a night. Nah, screw it, let's make this world a better place. I'll continue to upload the madness that was my mind in the coming days, but I think we've all received a healthy dose of it for now. So, what have I been up to these past days, weeks, months? I would ask you the same thing, sir/madame/robit. Well about a month ago I was still working. 3 weeks ago my semester at Cal Lutheran University started, the one with all the good shit I was gushing about in yesternight's post. Two weeks ago I realized just how fortunate I am for having been given all these opportunities and fucking them up one by one, but now finding something I can stay with. Fantastic, truly phenomenal professors who've persuaded me to jump back into the pool of primordial academic ooze known as "The Shit." I spend my every waking moment with my eyelids glued to a textbook, notebook, whiteboard and projector, or the inside of my eyelids as I listen to music at home, which I listen to every moment I'm doing anything else anyway. ALERT: THINGS ARE NOW STRANGE AS OPPOSED TO INTERESTING,WHICH IS WHAT IT WAS EARLIER. Ah yes, the music. That's how I get my fix every day, how I unwind when I get home from school. I sit in the middle of the new Denon system and bathe in beautiful sounds for about an hour. That's my pack of cigarettes, my bowl of cannabis, my ball of opium, my glass of whiskey (that is not to say I don't occasionally enjoy the latter two on rare occasions). Back on track though, (disclaimer: nobody knows anything about what i'm about to say) I invested, heavily, in a new Denon top-o'-the-line receiver with more than enough speakers and hardware audio upconversion. I reassembled my father's old Pioneer turntable (record player), after he had more or less disposed of it. Works like a charm, I just need to get the tonearm servos replaced but for this old heap, the replacement parts might cost more than two new turntables. I'm sticking with this one though because it is still considered to be an audiophile-grade turntable to go with the rest of my audiophile equipment. A pre-amp goes between the turntable and receiver to amplify and clean up the sound, which is going through its burn-in period right now as it starts equalizing the signals to match up what comes from the input to what goes through the output. Additionally there is a Panasonic SACD/DVD-A player that a dear uncle who I haven't seen in quite some time gave to me a few years ago. Now that I finally have a functioning record player, I needed to pick up some vinyl to play. I picked up the essentials like Abbey Road and Led Zep IV and Tommy, but what really gave me a hard-on were these 200 gram LP's that I had never heard of. Upon further researched, I found out that these are ultra-high-quality LP's that use pure virgin vinyl, not that recycled plastic shit that the cheap vinyls use. The 200's are audiophile grade, completely surface-noiseless, and contain smoother grooves to increase fidelity.
OK I've lost all of you, and for those bold enough to stick around, this is the end of this night. Today's post seemed to be slightly egocentric but that was just because I want to "reintroduce" myself (the new myself) to you and alyssa to our anonymous friends Canada and Alaska. Good lookin' out Bros!
More to come tomorrow
But to finish up this night, I'm taking an Olympic dive into oblivion. Consider this post only half-finished, the rest is on its way right now. I bid you good night.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Am we back?
We sure is. Been pretty busy these past several months and have had zero time to write these last 3 weeks because of colossal courseloads. But its all good. Going back to a university has been my best academic experience so far in my life. I'm finally doing well in all my classes for the first time ever (what a loser I am, right?) And really enjoying being back in the student groove, and I don't plan on fucking up this time. I currently have the best professors that I've ever encountered, who have really inspired and motivated me to get back on track.
Anyway, I have to get some rest before tomorrow's psychology exam, upon the completion if which I will post a full, real entry like they (I) used to back in the day. There are lots of books, films, and music to be reported on since my last post.
I bid all (2, if any) of you goodnight and will communicate again on the morrow.
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