Friday, December 30, 2022

Pushing past the droll..

 ..Tobe true

Seems like I write all of my posts at around this exact time... I am going to sleep with pecan pie in my teeth, and also with jeans on. Just opened up a worrisome email, text, etc. in different but highly proximate tabs and then felt a brief experience of stress that seemed inescapable and as if trapped in a loop from tab to tab. Tab, fear, tab, fear, tab, fear, Back the other way, loop. Wanted to give this a droll or ironic-ish title, like, "Pretty depressed", and also planned on making my next post a discussion on the self-feeding narrative of anorexia, can't remember much about what I wanted to type for that now except a vague and basic image of some silvery mist, sheen, scarf-like and floating above the head of a clutching woman

A clutch of a woman, a clutch of woman, interesting alternatives. I am always looking for alternatives. I finished Swann's Way yesterday morning. The whole day after that seems moot, or else I forget it. For the minute I was looking up the recorded date of completion I was convinced that it was this morning, that I finished the book this morning before moving forward to Watchmen and then getting on the Metro-North. So a whole day could have stayed lost in that easy, momentary little cranial blip, before informational access...

Feel a slightly removed bleakness. Like not one that is native to me but which sits in the room in a heavy layer under the atmosphere, should I wish to reach out and kind of touch it a little. Feel like "Swann in Love". Have been and am that lover. Feel a hair of anesthetization, from others and from "myself". Body is uncontrollable. Seems hopeless. Wish to gain total control over it, myself, my thoughts, my urges, usage-impulses, fears, reactions, will power. Worried I convince myself the happy narrative which is just complacency and dissociation and that the real pattern is dark, venomous, and somewhat vicious, and long.

Monday, December 26, 2022

Brief, interesting christmas memory or dream

  • Former Jof(ph?)er Joseph forest on right now some flat culled stream and flat eggy pebbles
  •  potted plant, deep luminous but flat green like a sheet of resin w/ core light emanating but rough surface dullness, walls gray or also greenish - seemed suddenly like a core memory or deeply needed and affective memory carried for a long time
  • fax machine, white paper piping out of one, accountancy? li Tong and Zhang Jing in a room - Whiff of child scandal, Gentle mental presence of what was mostly unknown and unseen imagined impropriety
  • Whole space feeling imagined - could be a dream, rows of machines, unsure set on what, when imagined the fluorescent light dulls flattens and becomes a photon-less matter of cranium
  • The entire space held in the head in the soft shaded grayscale of mind
  • in some office which also feels imagined now - strange foreshortened landmarks of water cooler, same kind of plant, or maybe exact same plant, plant which is the hinge of these two memories, some building that driven past i would see the room stand out and isolate itself it felt like a scale model and when i think now it s yellowy 
  • Business A sensed strain of needling insurance, loan or car, some canned or pleasurably new air, it was all new, being corralled into the room, so totally limited and immature and toddling... With death not even a thought not even on GP...

Saturday, December 24, 2022

Babylon 2022

At the moment of death the entire juicy miasma --- of a hundred filmic narratives worn and taken on ----drops/snaps back inwards/dissipates/vanishes and you double back down on your own old ethnic narrative of american self-actualization... I am mexican I am immigrant i dont want to die i am clark gable dying shortly after several pained smiles i am montgomery clift getting back on the horse i am chinese black circus freak rateater i am loogie made human and physical I am gay Column of phlegm gal pal anna may wong i am gary cooper gene kelly don lockwood i am lina lamont i am Pre- and post- buccal fat removal margot robbie i am an occasional vomiter i am getting off the horse. I am leaving the great protoplasmic Angeleno carapace. I am a movie that is the length of time and pure clumsy narrative running liquid backwards in jerked skein forwards looping - movie which is literally shit out of itself which is birthed in great balls of animal waste and then proceeds to interpolate its own score, I go lay flat on my bare gessoed canvas life the canvas is naked at birth then gessoed with afterbirth (the first narrative, formed of genotype phenotype and context and occurrence, is being a baby) i texture it over with translucent globs of movie paint i walk and carry it with me like Music which is emotional sensory decoration of time. Even the sort of trumpet blasts of near-stupidity this movie sometimes blows out in forceful and effortful puffs are tucked in and ugly and texture and part of it and moving and necessary probably. Man having a breakdown scene bent down over a table with face hidden from viewer. Taking a beat before leaving the scene. Three or four scenes ago an actual scene being made inside of an already-made scene. damien chazelle who is present in nepotted wooden son max minghella format proceeds to take critical Cultural Conversations around la la land and take them and actually think about them and work them around in ways elegant and morally neutral into a tender response... Some actually tasteful racial stuffs here, which are somehow accessions and reproductions of a million extant sensory narrative triggers but also which are genuinely touching.. It occurs to me that this is modern scarface the only way scarface could be made 'Today' with all applicant textures and sheens of the Time. None of us last and none of our lives have anything happen have any spikes or any individual sparkle they are empty canvas gessoed then textured by narrative overlays and the miasma shooting up the collective iCloud and uCloud and allCloud up overhead arching the silvery sheen which we all take on and are allowed to take on and cannot stop from taking on, consumerism is taker-on-erism, drone or crane overhead shot of th ewhole complex and people become sheets of linked speckles with repetitive same patches of -core, aesthetics, visual indicators of imagined lives made visible, I texture my canvas over again with this pure optimistic morally neutral but un-empty apocalypse w/ all logistical and slapstick and semiotic symbolic scenic "cinematic" trappings. Phoebe tonkin peepee-ing on an uncurbed man. And concurrent then subsequent recognition, excitement, invocation of myth. The Devil Tobey Maguire. The crass and genuinely silent film sensibility of margot robbie Silly and always somehow true performing like a dense pygmalioned layer of fat skimmed from starlet broth surface. Like the nodal opposition to julia roberts's horrible sharky lacuna performance of a person in pretty woman. An empire transmuted which begins w/ a writhing sheet of people that are nakedly gay and colored and godless but jubilant and free from either the hallowing or smiting power of 'Morals' and then who are sublimated into a shifting Linq casino system of hidden and repressed and revealed and rotting moral transgressions. Many children of incest and capital here . Slapstick which ends in death before fade out to next scene but no one really dies, there will be another scene just like it, conversations will be had again 

The ending being the four primary people-nodes of the movie finally being reduced to unfiltered Selves, free of all flapping trappings of SYMBOL, as the entire film -- film which is just monied and complex color and light -- drops and snaps back inwards and does something so random and then in the center of that sly loud mix dissipates and condenses to their bare pixels of unmixed hue. Like a live-action end of evangelion AMV hinged on the moment the guy throws deuces up at the camera. Audience w/ audience, audience lit red, green, blue, yellow, movie broken down to its lowest particle format then stretched out to screen-width. Narrowing and widening and re-narrowing and widening and winnowing and flooding over and over and over again. I will make my own movie. I will keep interpolating my own score. i will walk myself in a rich private silence to someone else’s apartment then come back to my own then go to sleep then wake up again. i will get groceries with my mother. i will go to the multiplex at the mall with my father and brother. i will have a conversation with a friend. there were and are and will be hundreds of conversations just like it. all of this has happened before and will happen again in hundreds and thousands of iterations ad infinitum i will die and really be dead i will not be dead for real though i will be sitting in the theater in the dark, with a always-carried and rising and blooming and growing silvery bubble above me, i will be accessing it at my leisure, i will be powerless to untether it, i would be naked or fucked or dying or nothing without it, i will be at the movies I am at the movies I am "making a movie" i will make a movie i will not make a movie i will never make a movie it is enough to walk around and carry "i am making a movie" with me i am i am i am one of 100s 1000s millions all movies are the same this is better and denser than most we dip our hands into the Lethe en masse then step back outside into the multiplex then into the body of the mall then into the vaguely digestive and nearly material scent still-standing in the food court then onto the sky bridge then we are falling over the railing-less side of it through the cold empty space between anus and toilet water then we make impact and open our collective ocular network to see we are on the back of some lush flying creature with our arms wrapped around the Na'vi waist of Jake Sully who is so smooth and beautiful it hurts to love him

 

 

 

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Friday, December 23, 2022

I maintained yesterday

 that it was scentless like a recent purchase but now after having had a hot shower in the pale green luminous cocoon of 'home' it seems completely he-ed, B-ed, spiced, wooded, like the white pine car freshener looped and swinging from one corner of the overhead light (i assume it's fluorescent bc its never been on) as

 

if now that all extant and previous smell in its sort of constant format that is: own personal wreath has been removed and there is a... Deodorish, soapy, but complex like under-ness of something incense-like

Not my own incense

The scent exists in patches and even where it does exist it's uneven in generated blurry overlay

Patches now become slivers fading from access as i put my face into the fabric repeatedly in service of Description always in service of DESCRIPTION! kind of like but not at all because i don't recognize that or her as the self or now in comparison of the current "self" with that one i just felt curiously suspended myself from the corner of some permanently un-lighted light OK kind of like, and this is analogue only in physical action and "memory" and him as unwieldy and lasting linch-pin... Me pinned to my bed, only able to kind of wriggle back and forth, catching patches of scent in pre-stained desaturated pink/coral ikea bedsheets which now i know was some heady mix of personal glands (glanded personal is a funny verbal re-sequencing, note) and old spice timber, i remember thinking     I’ll move thorugh the coastsliding Felt nearly nothing being held by B, multiple chemical hazes about the extent of what veils and wreathes thinly (?) finely (?) not wreathes, how to say when a fine transparent net(ting) lays movably over my warm terrific body…    What do I recognize as my self now?I had until i think "now" "presently" seen this entire stretch of 15 months as a level board balanced with no real upward growth or even forward movement just a recursive pattern of same and sad but now it teeters

Weeell i am different but i also dont understand how or who i am right now alone in my oldest room with 4+ walls paling green at me within them I am here and without a workable definition contoured by and in relation to other people

I am wearing it, the gift. last night dreamt in a series of slapstick situations that i would wake up from or less wake up from than dart out from under for what seemed to be lightless and faraway glimpses of my window, each time noting that the sky was still dark so i probably hadnt missed the bus home yet. then falling back in. B beside me totally asleep and shuddering. B on the other side of the ridge, across the slightly raised cleave in borough, probably also totally asleep, mouth turning outwards slightly, contained in body, in his own private and silent inner self, own dim  uneasy dreamworld, no red line under dreamworld but yes red line under dreamt, body not connected from anything or spreading out over anything as when i imagine or access the thought of it as if he was some kind of long, ambitious shellac of thought and texture more than person, well.... Personed..... All writing about him feels the same... Body hitching in its/his own personal sleep, the hot funk of that small column of scent coming out in puffs... Like some kind of piston extending itself up then down and back into again in oppositional action potential and kinetic energy both dangling from the same end of the previously level board now teetering towards not even one end but one corner in 3 dimensional sinkage


Waiting on upload which is happening in a flat sheet of retina display in midtown like a dimensionless puppet which i am tugging at from over here where i am

Will think more about the texture etc. of this long fatty body of "Year" tomorrow when i have had some sleep



I hear chatter in my head  and its in my mothers voice with full timbre but no sound Then one bar of electro swing

Thursday, December 22, 2022

The left

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https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PL_4APVzjrS3hajPoyf_HzZ7JTzIdj3OHZ

Now that i have sent the link of this blog to several people I feel the slight hinder of a sensed and invisible blockage of audience. Above is a shaft of light that seemed thick, very bright, coming into the station in a slant but not in a way that suggested falling or any directional vectored movement "towards" or "in" but slanting which implied source, joy, full physical impulsion, even while matter-less    I was listening to the music in the link while the shaft thickened and narrowed again and the sequencing felt perfect, felt really good and w/ underbed of locational anticipation as well as sense of time as segmented by transit but (not really 'but' more of 'and', but am... Feeling stilted need for mechanics as i am typing) simultaneous and un-dreadful below or running concurrently in place beneath/w/ the clean (or not clean but free from fear of slight and permanent pollution) airy normal immediate mist of total presentness

It is always very easy with her, we spent a lot of time (while typing the word 'time' felt a strange synaptic access back and to the cranial left(?) of "time" not as the stringing invisible forward force it usually is and more as conditional to my room as a dim/warm/comfortable space, with things and furniture placed and rigged around me in a way i like, ceiling colored w/ a repeating period of the colored dots and circles which shoot up at it from my lamp in a massage of light [urge for context noted at its exact point in the sentence] massage of context, conversation as a fleshy spatter of matter between nodes (people), "time" demarcated by the door opening, "moving" around as also a sort of bounce-less hop from node to node (furniture). Time being this cubed series of actions and people and sensations within space, removed from sequence

So I guess more physical than temporal is what im saying. just remembered i have 1.5 edibles in my bag for tomorrow and felt the same agnostic comfort as felt when, no--did an almost instant test in my head equating the feeling of possessing substance on retainer vs possessing food and didnt feel they were same, seems untrue, not : / ::, 'grocery store' seems to conjure the grocery store from white noise instead of like....An average or median and smeared "grocery store" symbol formed from all the sensored products, layouts, format, colors, lights, smells, sounds, temporal and geographical contexts, of grocery stores i've been to before. when visualizing a grocery store it seems to be more of a 3rd person wide shot of the shelves slanting in in forced? perspective towards some hazy middle distance, unpeopled. feeling more grooved and unembarrassed in my private stream of mind now. Feels good typing. I feel good. Good seems to be, derived directly from the word, a soft, non-moralized, neutral pebble in the hand.  i do know what love feels like.

ate/drank/digested monster white, breakfast wrap (2 slant-opened halves to the left of the M), 1 and 3 on rice from Punjabi deli, plus part of samosa, on long-suffering steps to left of said deli, 1 angry orchard tall can, slice of papa johns cheese pizza w/ generous pour of garlic oil, 1 pilsner small slim can, 4-5 wings --barbecue, essentia, part of i believe 3-4 separate 40s today

B and B's Gaba to the left in my bed breathing! Good night!

Wednesday, December 21, 2022

A Memory....




iIf you look at this image from a distance (have it a little smaller) and as if the angle was upwards at it with a horizon and no depth past that it is kind of the edge... That edge lip feeling is similar to the feeling of or is the feeling of dream... Like a depthless but movable and geographical space or how spaces are shrunken and textured like indoor childrens play areas or are airless you are moving at a standstill leaping around in airless and gravityless depthless timeless "space" which is a dimness lightless and you project in the idea of light but tahts just difference in contour

 Driving on West Ox Road with navy on the left in parallax and left behind you sitting at the beveled meet of 2 roads one coming out from back-wards-space from some kind of older further and darker forested mass. Foreign, away, tucked,

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Brian Leavitt Agent and Joseph Peth enlist
Joseph actually goes somewhere else he lives beyond the borders of the war (Like leaving the towns and quests in Zelda)
Brian Leavitt Agent truly does go to the war, he is an analogue of friend and lover
The war is the bright dream away from the black blight of society

Two or three dream iterations of a photograph being taken and hiding my face, bodies being sewn together but only seeing the aftermath, three people together and sensing that to external viewers it looks like one equivalency unit w/ full tri-symmetry of feeling but knowing that it is stronger for two and the third is outside of it, asking to be put together, being unable and becoming separated, act not seen only the post-post-result after separation then cutting (now on TV) to three arms, laid on each other’s shoulders (?), bodies, scar the length of the ulnae
 
Real physical ac tions and etcetera broken down into the matterless actless thought-actions of “reblogging”, clicking, “searching”, looking up, kind of batting impotently at streams and lines of information with finger twitches, movements watered down to smallest possible physical movement of flexors, little tipping digital
 
The interest to the left and urge to (window-located) open a new tab, go some other site, replaced the exact same located and anticipatory intention to masturbate
 
music stripped of context like taking a texture away from a space or experience or memory or game or movie or life… Whole bulbous globule of life… And overlaying music (recorded in limited space) over what appears to be a immersive space you are inside (miniaturized but dynamic and thus life-like world-like and w/ dimension)… Odd little schism… Playing this video game music out loud in my room and feeling cold, choice overlay, sensation of ending—ongoing—collapsed and fallen but still breathing
 
Hooooooooooooorns!
 
NOTE: What arisk it is to play tag on wooden stairs in new socks


Insight Sandbox Test 240613/Null/Recap/Retrospector post 240923 4:39PM

Bc of something at odds in the mechanical backrooms of this blog, something below or behind screen in dim thin wafer or in the matter-less s...