spacial attitudes

the following is an illustration of what i see as the 'seattle attitude' mixed with the 'chicago attitude'. this is a true story.

I WENT to my most local bar, that is, the closest bar to my front door, down to the foot, for one beer. i was tired and there was a pretty annoying open mic, which didn't help much. i brought a book, as this particular bar is an easy place to read in, and the general noise level usually drowns out the marginally talented performer anyways. i took the last seat at the bar, which is only significant because a couple kept reaching past me to get drinks, often hitting my arm, which i didn't care much about. i eventually scooted over, gave them more room, and the folks next to me eventually left and gave up their seats to the couple.

I PAID, finished my beer, and upon getting up from my bar stool the drunk yet well dressed man (of the couple) asked me "what you reading?" i politely showed him the book, which he replied "can i see it?" i let him see it, which he immediately asked about the author, sam mcpheeters, who i gave a brief introduction to. i was obviously on my way out. he then opened the book, but in the way that bends the front page back and opens the spine, you know? THAT way. i only asked asked him to not do that because it was a book that my friend had loaned me (it was new to her), and i knew she wanted me to keep it in good condition.

I ASKED him politely, yet loudly due to the bar noise, to please not open the pages that far, because it ruins the book. i explained that it was a book that i had borrowed, so i was taking very good care of it ("i haven't even opened it that far myself yet, to be honest," i stated to him). he continued to open it, saying "you care more about the book, or the content," accusingly. i said, "i actually don't usually care either way, but i care about my friend and wish to respect the way she cares for books, because it's her book." he asked if he could read the first page, i consented. i think he read the first sentence and gave it back to me: "so that's how it is?" i said "yup," and walked out the door after taking the book from his hand.

I KNOW i was slightly rude, but it was for good reason. i honestly felt like i could have easily punched him in his fucking face. perhaps if the seattle/chicago spectrum was more to the east, i would have done so. perhaps this was because the book is about an angry man who is neurologically incapable of any emotion but rage. anyways, that guy was a fucking drunk idiot, and i have no sympathies for him and feel sorry for his poor girlfriend. now my friend's book cover bends slightly up when placed on it's back. i'm only one man.

(a slight dramatization of the seattle/chicago split, but i feel it draws a nice, real-life picture.)

struck by

"struck by deadly rhythm! of the production line!" maching g g g g g g g g b u z z z z z z z z z z z z t t h h - http://youtu.be/8clGuSJLP5w - w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w

copy paste enter repeat, between the dashes. upon personal retrospective of my time loving the refused, a sweedish hardcore outfit that changed my ears and my heart, no doubt. they're playing a couple reunion coachella shows, and goddamnit i want to go. as their songs used to fan my flames of discontent, i've stopped listening as of the years and have become enslaved in routine, likely story. upon re-listen for the first time in at least a couple years:

we are, i am, struck by deadly rhythm, of the production line. the refused sing post-punk ballads of alienation, a marxist critique of our daily lives run by machines, technology, the rote repetition of tasks that feed our capitalist ideal, that which is fucked and unsustainable and "organized crime, and we are all the victims." i've always been conscious of working machines, or my lack thereof, and how my hands connect to things, and i've stayed away. though machines are not machines, our selective and seductive services are our sector, our rote words, our repeated thoughts, our over and over actions, are what we sell in our lives for money, our minds labor rather than our bodies, and our existence as a whole is lagging behind our manipulative technology, as it skyrockets to a point beyond our imaginable sight. that said: WE ARE NOT MEANT TO DO THE SAME TASKS OVER AND OVER. WE ARE NOT TICKING CLOCKS, WE ARE FUCKING FLESH, WE ARE WONDERING AND CURIOUS AND LOVERS. AS WE FORCE OUR MINDS TO THINK THE SAME THOUGHT OVER AND OVER, TO PUSH THE SAME REGISTER BUTTON OVER AND OVER, TO TYPE THE SAME REPORT OVER AND OVER FOR NEW CLIENTS, TO MEASURE GROWTH BY YEARS IN A COMPANY, TO FIGHT FOR SIMPLE WORDS TO COME OUT THAT MAKE US HAPPY, WE CANNOT SAY THINGS WE MEAN WHEN WE WANT TO SAY THEM, WE FIGHT FOR WORDS AT PLACE AND TIME? (we creatively collapse). WE ARE MEANT TO CREATE AND BE CREATIVE, TO FLOURISH AS THE MIND DESIRES. TRAPPED IN CLOSETS OF TIME AND OCCUPATION JUST DOES NOT FUCKING CUT IT. the refused are fucking dead, as to mean, we are alive. (i'd rather be alive).

"We are meant to be here // without an answer // with love and with fear", under ourselves, we are meant to awaken and change this.

i remember and consider having a refused shirt, which i wore when i got arrested in 2001, the only time i've been arrested, for shoplifting. i remember some hispanic dude in there, who i didn't know, who talked to his lawyer for a while, and came back, and then i talked to that same lawyer and saw the hispanic guy's case papers, which had "refused" written all over it, with a star, the same star that was on my refused shirt. i think it was a direct reference. i scraped my name, and the word "refused", with my nail, into the paint on the door in the holding cell. i also played tic/tac/toe with a guy who i knew who'd also been arrested that day, who i played poker with a year before that. i had paint in my nail and it kind of hurt, but it felt really good to do, and i knew i had to do it.

[This is laden with many refused quotes and references, but that quote in the second to last paragraph was from Brian Gianelli - RIP.]

we can be open, we can be sober

a friend asked, amidst twelve gin and tonics, platonic, "do you like to dance?" i explained my situation, my body, with coded eye blinks, i think she understood.

we went up to the room i rented previously, we kissed. it went pretty quickly. clothes didn't matter all of a sudden, dicks were limp before i knew they were there. she was everywhere. i asked questions, eased hands along curves of her body, kissed the parts that weren't private but that no one usually looks at. i found a dimple in her hip. she asked me for something that turned me on a lot, but something that also couldn't be done. i came on the floor i think, rested, apologized, kissed her more, sighed, rubbed her body, kissed her more, took a deep breath, fucked her for reals a bit, stopped, kissed, door knocked, she left. slept.

a foe asked of future, "how do you think that show'll be?" i thought of previous bands that she'd been in, the venue, ticket price, time and date, various other shit, like what i had to do the next day.

i texted that i couldn't sleep, and she should come over. she did, after the show, i gave her minimal directions and buzzed her in. we k***ed, i t**ched her arms, then k***ed her arms lightly with the end of my limp lips. she went d*** on *e, i w**t do** on *er. then * p***t**ted her, many d*ffer*** way*, s*e *am* a co**** tim*s, t*e* **e w*n* *ow* o* ** *gai*, * *ame *n he*, on **r. it **s mos*l* ve*y ***fi***g. s***t.

*******************

boy seeking girl who is bored and constantly dry-hungover. must have a wrecked conscience and mind, though not through experience. must like fugazi, at least a little bit. a dismal plot on life with a good base of friends, family, and comfortable money (but not excessive). politics and body type are minimal, yet must meet slightly leftest qualifications, though not too radical. girl must also know what these words mean. i know, it's asking for a lot, but hey: you deserve it.

restaurant reviews

men eat whatever is placed in front of their faces; i swim for thoughts that can be kept in my head for any conceivable amount of time. if nothing is enabled, all will retain to complete horizon and resting. the best reflection is no reflection.

the family squeezed into the small booth. the side with 2 children had plenty of room, the side with 2 adults was comically uncomfortable. they all ordered soft drinks. 2 seats down, a man asked for a drink with bitters, which fell on foreign ears. he then just asked for honey and hot water. he asked what the soups were, in response to 'tortilla' and 'chicken', he said "my stomach is kinda acting up, i'm not very hungry." he continued to talk a lot as i choked on fried ice cream.

.worst part of knowledge is fact of it .try think to create but try think to sleep it's it's it's .numbers and statistics .try hard and fail .random occurrence breeds interest .everyone pays for most things with cost benefit time relation to thoughts worthlessness .wood glue .professionalism in an empty restaurant is wasting valuable interaction space .every house walked by witnessed the loss of energy .spaced out to sound of spinning .energy to machine .energy and consciousness given to all repetitive motion that involves .fan and air conditioning unit lulls to sleep .fan and snore given credence and precedence in dream and meaning .only due to state, non-energy, non-occurrence .on off on off completely takes all function time to in in in breathe



[don't support anything]

metal seeks safety

the sharp and complete shapes of metal grow towards the softness of clouds. they amass at human junctions and intersections of commerce. species interstate with port and transport, prestige and numbers; the results scrape sky. large buildings with windows like diamonds put arms around each other as if to rejoice at victory. naturally, every human takes pleasure in and subsequently owns this victory and feels the need to name these buildings, to revel in their strange alien glory, to feel like their sight of such buildings embodies scene, spectacle, emotion, happening. as homage, every human carries a small box and contraption, one which contains a perfect and manipulable eye, perfect due to it's construction, it's mechanistic structure, it's malleable and change-based function. every human (well, most humans) tend to flock their sight and light capturing machines towards these large buildings, almost in a way that makes flesh and chemical reaction a conduit for metal communique. the living and respirating just can't get enough of fucking downtown.

my mouth yearns for the touch against skin, the simple pressing of lip's satin surface against a cheek, an earlobe, an unsuspecting neck well received. it's the dull outer surface comprised of such an amount of dead skin, with some nerve connections but muted close to pause. but it's still able to feel. when these lips connect with others, the conduit they travel to reach each other encompasses words, traditions, scents, gestures, currencies, feelings, awkwardness, shaking, time, frustration, sobriety. the leading up to this dam deconstruction and obliteration seems so endless that it's spray painted on every wall i walk by. once this happens, it seems like it's been happening for so long, that i'd only just realized that i haven't connected for like 8 months. 8 years of sundries. i close my eyes as i lie in buildings comprised mostly of plastic, metal, wood, brick; i slowly lose the desire as i forget about touch, only as i pull away from another's skin once again. i like and lie in buildings.

my sick history

i was seventeen and cookie monster eyes were looking at a creek. i puked in the creek. i tried really hard to send the signal jumping around my brain to my feet, the signal saying, "step over the creek, step over the fucking creek, it's so thin, you can just step right over it, it's no big deal," completing bodily function. i stepped directly into the creek with the right foot of a thick skate shoe, following my fucked-up friends back home with a wet, soaked shoe.

i was twenty-two and halloween; i was blacked out at an apartment that punk band 'strung out' was playing at. don't remember a thing. got driven home by my straight-edge girlfriend just before the cops came, dressed as a fairy (wand and all) for the festivities. went home to bed, puked on the bedroom door. laid in bed, puked in bed, everywhere. got cleaned up by said girlfriend, clean clothes, clean sheets, put back in bed. puked all over bed again. girlfriend slept on couch and was very pissed. woke up and did laundry while listening to hip-hop group 'atmosphere'.

i was twenty-seven and with my brother, rolling to stimulants and rick ross to the casino for the night. i was up, then way down, lost about a hundred, went to bed with intentions to work with my brother in the morning. couldn't wake up. couldn't get up. got up at noon, puked in the sink, laid back down. got up an hour later, puked bile in the sink, mostly dry-heaved and tasting of aspirin, shitty dry white chemical. laid back down. got up an hour later, puked bile in the sink, mostly dry-heaved and tasting of aspirin. laid back down. felt ok by 5pm, went to a lobster buffet that i'd earned the night before by staying at the casino for over an hour.

i was twenty-eight and i went fishing on the pacific ocean with my father and my brother. i took dramamine to stave off sea-sickness, though perhaps i didn't take it early enough. quickly i was puking up my morning muffin, banana, coffee. then came water, then came air, bile, neurotransmitters. i puked 8 times, like, 8 rounds of heaves, that is. i did catch 4 fish, though, which was more than my brother or father caught. i felt great upon docking. we shared a lovely meal that night.

i was twenty-four and i was walking home from the bars, i separated my foot into 5 parts long-ways, and stepped on parallel cracks on each part of the foot separation. i swayed as i hiccuped, i looked up to find a restaurant reflection of a friend and a hunger of death, a racing heart that couldn't be felt. i puked in a bush, once, quick, maybe to say 'fuck you' to that drunk self, to deprive him of better sleep. the only swimming position is face down, still, pronated, at rest.

i was eighteen and it was christmas night, i did shots of vodka repeatedly at my brothers place in phoenix, to the point of blackout and boxing gloves. puked in a small trash can, puked under the pillow i was using. replaced those items one year afterward as a christmas present to my brother.

"as complicated as relationships with people are, relationships with chemicals are so much more complicated and tricky."

you must show fatigue

You must join all on their own level. Everyone fatigues in due time. You must set the bar at a lower level than you can jump, to decrease expectation and increase the perception of performance. The feeling of weakness, tired, bloating, degradation, erosion, shamefulness, uneasy, distance from locus of control of body, these are all things that are bound to happen to some extent to all forms of life. One must feign these often in order to connect with those around them, but over exaggerate, exonerate, bluff a shitty hand and then show your cards as better than those around you. To show fatigue is such a necessary moment, our common thread of weakness, but always reveal it while holding the rope that is pulling upward, to then elevate from your fatigue, your weakness, your perception that you are the same as others (which you just felt!) and into your reality that you are the only one around you, therefore, you are much better than anything else. You are the pedestal, you created the rope, you are the everything that everyone talks about (of course). But you MUST be able to tactfully show your insides and insights, your ball of destruction and fright, just before you can come up for air.

i can't

I can’t conceive of life as a competition, though I learnedly know it is. Every principle of growth and development, from words to wealth, from plants to personality, from attention to knowledge, they all function on principles of evolutionary economy where competitive entities battle it out for the reproduction of themselves, living or otherwise. Yet I hear of such a thing and I back off. The most beautiful girl in recent memory alludes to others and I run away in my mind. I find something doing well and I stop my hand from reinforcement and move on, turn to something else. I can’t compete, as it only seems to be “trying too hard”, to be “all talk” when really it’s only action that I’m afraid of. My perception of evolution and growth through engaging subjects, opportunities, seems to only come from other sources, as I’m a conduit of forces that I can’t control. To reach out towards what I want has only been fucked in the past, has been a product of misperceptions and miscalculations. To sit and soak forces that come at me is to acquiesce to competition while not engaging it. The bottom line is who fucks who, I guess, who produces the word at the end of the paragraph. Ultimately, I write these words, but I don’t pretend to know where they came from or claim that I created them. For I can’t.