Filed under: Garble
I feel like I’m a soft, glowing light. A night light nestled in a quiet corner or a candle flickering next to window revealing silent rain. An undeniable hum of peace spreads throughout the corridors of my heart. Deep, dark, terrible places touched by the orange edge of the glow. The glow. It’s not so bad being alone with myself anymore. It’s getting easier to tap comfort. It’s getting easier to connect with God. Let Him be praised.
My scales are continually falling away in Him. My bad habits are all but drying up and breathing away. Thunder is rumbling in the distance. A future lies there. Just over the horizon. Just around the bend. Change thickens the air. Fall is coming. My mighty oak will shed its leaves and begin again.
I am remembering slowly that there are delicate things in life. Tiny things, beautiful things. Fragile dioramas. Sssssh. Silent snowflakes are descending all around us. Each one holds a spectrum – a kaliedoscope of wonder for us to know love by. A heart mends itself in a secret place. A place of peace and rest, a garden of soft green things where ivy tendrils dangle still.
Sometimes I remember a house with white lace curtains. The light is fresh yellow gray. The curtains billow in the breeze. The music rustles at the piano. Black and shimmering. I can see the dust floating softly in sudden rays of light. The smell of the season tickles my nostrils. I can see pictures of loved ones I’ve never met. I can hear distant laughter. Peace lives here. I recline in it.
Life is never what you want for yourself. Give it up. It’s always so much better. Praise God.
I’m a moonlit pool now. Come and dip your fingers. I’m waiting.
Filed under: Make Out Party
Stupid distracting loneliness creeps up on me. I hate it. Ironically, I want it to leave me alone.
Moose’s High Ball Me! is CHOICE, SON. So’s Mushroom’s Joint Happening.
I sign my sweet lease tomorrow. My sweet, sweet lease. Quick, someone get me a car so I can get my game back.
BAD HABITS DIE!!! One by one, I will destroy you and become the perfect man. Be afraid.
Filed under: Scrutons
You, quit being so damned over-dramatic.
And you, stop it with the make-up all ready. Every time I see you, you look like a less expensive whore.
Damage control, I say.
Filed under: Scrutons
I absolutely hate wondering about the reality of reality. It’s always colored by our perceptions and experiences. Yeah, we all have benefit from have a unique outlook, but how do you master your personal outlook in relation to the outlooks of others. Sure, there are similarities, but you can’t tell what others are thinking. It’s not always written all over their faces. The dilemma is how to become more perceptive and less overt yourself. I’ve always wanted that sort of thing. An air of the mysterious. Or at least, a stance in the not-so-obvious. Am I predictable? Maybe, sometimes. Maybe I’m not at all, and my problem is opposite. Intimidation stems from lack of routine.
Does making others “comfortable” around yourself stem from allowing yourself to be dominated by the prevailing culture? If you’re synonymous with the framework, you’re more accessible and appealing. Develop movement prediction skills and you’ve got it made.
Make yourself predictable, but only in the sense that you adopt the traits of those who are “pushing the envelope of culture” in mass-favorable way. Does the ability to truly push the envelope of culture still exist or has culture itself been worn so thin that it is crumbling down upon us? A cyclone, a black hole, collapsing in on itself, repeating itself more and more often, uselessly reinventing/vomiting itself back into faux-existence.
New modes of communication double as new modes of manipulation and alienation. Manipulation by alienation and so on. I called a friend back tonight. He was obviously distraught over the lack of communication from others he’d lately received. His comfortable dosage of daily/weekly interpersonal influx had not been met. He was on edge. Confused. Suspicious of those whom he so recently had trusted implicitly as his friends. He asked me: “Did I do something wrong, you think?”How do I answer something like that? “I don’t think so.” What I really wanted to say was, “Why do you feel you deserve to ask that question?” What is it about society that fools us into the process of validating our existence through others. Everyone has a different, colored interpretation of us. Sure, occasional, constructive input is valid. But we are the only instrument of change in our own lives. Others provide certain input, we decide whether or not it is valid to our own reality, and we change accordingly.
I’ll be back tomorrow.
Filed under: Poem Goo
Hey, I can’t hear you this connection’s all fucked up. Click.
Filed under: Make Out Party
Very strange times are these yes they are. The woodwork is bleeding golden nuggets all over my best rugs. Shame on you. Let’s say my best rugs were really a track for matchbox cars. My little step-sister used to play with matchbox cars on a rug like this. Your nuggets are causing citywide panic and just making the whole idea of mini-motoring a high risk endeavor all round. Do you have any idea what that will do to this quarter’s inflation?
I’m in this room. And I’m backed against the wall. Because all these unseen hands are pounding on the door. And I know who they are. But they pound, bang!, pound. There’s nowhere to go. I could open the door, but it’s so much work. And I’m frightened sort of. It’s a call to judgment; is it all worth expelling the effort? There’s always the risk of the unsatisfied customer. I don’t have enough time to waste. And I’m not sure I have any more of those sort of lessons left to learn.
Granted you’ll probably never be able to save me from myself but you could at least get excited about the idea of trying.
Old face is young face. Rolling down the street, my stomach all a-flutter. I remember the taste of the air in my mouth, the click-clack of the wheels in the pavement slats bounding off the retaining wall like bullets. Chalk the whole experience up as ill-fated and crumple it up. Put it in the gutter. Kick it in the teeth first for good measure. Younger is better, now I’m old. What kind of nugget are you? You should be dull from wear and tear but you’re still all sharp like you used to do. Quality craftsmanship, I suppose. I don’t buy it. You did though, you always bought the farm. Not in the death sense, in the life sense. Always on some different trip. It really hit me about a day later. The unexpected 2×4 of realization. I remembered you then. Which then lead me to the query that should have been immediately obvious, why in God’s name do you remember me? It hasn’t just been a long time, it’s been a decade.
Pardon me for breathing, but nothing is just fucking arbitrary, ok?
I saw a dear sweet lassy get her block knocked off last night and bleed all over the floor. Then we put it back on. It wasn’t pretty but thank God she’s ok. Talk about brotherly love.
Sometimes God will break your head open to get your attention. Or play with your brains.
