fly your soul like a kite

EPILEPSY ("FALLING SICKNESS" OR "FITS")
(A chronic brain and nerve disease, characterized in its most violent form by paroxysms recurrent at uncertain intervals, attended by difficult, stertorous breathing, convulsions of the limbs, foaming at the mouth facial distortion, and loss of consciousness and sensation. In the milder form there may be loss of consciousness without the spasm, or vice versa.)

sometimes i wonder whether or not our selective barbarism is acquired or congenital--a product of differential acculturation or a wily preconscious instinct that endures irrespective of imposed moral conditioning, and really, so long as convicted murderers suffer the death penality we can never conclude whether spree killers are born or made.

ps. feeling like a phonecall, if anyone's up and around.

hey, cops were called. living-room. narrowly talked myself out of a narcotics charge + murder-threat = week in a detention-centre, plus court. feeling a little suicidal. yikes.

feeling very much alberto caeiro these days, and that's all i have to say about that.

Thorazine sounds like a tired old dinosaur.

2 and a half grams.

i dreamt i wrung my head out and pressed against my knees with an awful look, biting my lips i slit my wrists and still nothing could get out, still i could not find flow.

interest is confusion, hoping to last.

how many days have there been,
how many breaths do i need,
today is a question i never want to leave.

what can i say, logical fatalism puts out.

auto-response from make snake sighs: ANDREW COME BACK I'M GETTING MY POWER-CORD FOR MY LAPTOP DON'T YOU DARE DISAPPEAR! I AM GETTING WORRIED DID YOU FALL DOWN THE STAIRS? DO I NEED TO CALL THE CANADIAN MOUNTIES? DUDLEY DO RIGHT BY NOT LEAVING THE INTERNETZZZZZ. (and for anyone else who might IM me, "hi! brb!")

subject: We need to talk...
Of course you know I am back....and you can't avoid me forever. I want to talk to you about what went on here (no B.S.) while I was away...and yes, you know what I mean.
Thanks
Dad

epileptiform is shit.

take heart: every breath is another chance to fail better.

my brain is like a concealed weapon.
let's hope i never have to use it.

Like a quadruple amputee with a 24-hour itch.

smashing pumpkins - spaceboy [live in paris, '93]


...see, it wouldn't be a Pumpkins' show without technical problems, um. mental stress... um, loss of--self. does anyone understand what i'm saying, or... [little cheer] no one understands me in america, so; i'm used to it...

...and um, this is.. called Spaceboy, which is also off the new album. we hope she likes you. [non-sequitur laughter]

everyone, i swear to god if you try to cipher the veiled insult in my compliment one more fucking time i will just thoughtlessly cut you out of my life, and maybe i'll do it vindictively, and i will turn everything in myself against you as much out of anomie as of surrogate guilt & umbrage wicked.


fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you
for the pale silhouette of the mirage, me believing i actually have a chance.

ignore me from the first and i promise not to get any ideas? ok, ok.

no need to throw yourself into the fires of abandonment!


elvis costello - pay it back

they told me everything was guaranteed / somebody somewhere must've lied to me.

hahahahahahahahahahahahaha she can't come, she's "running a fever of 102" hahahahahahahahahaha
hahahahahahahahahahahaha this always fucking happens, with everything; with everyone,
fate has it out for me, but fate is desperately lazy. i can't ever be sanguine, and i can't feel the vicious security of eternal disappointment, because WHAT IF! WHO KNOWS! maybe someone will love me for me! maybe life will look up! it's not always going to be like this, right? right? right? right? right?

love is in the envelope.

profundity is a kind of folie a deux.

somedays.





somedays i long for the revelation in time when i was the simple, wilting consciousness of a branch. obtuse in wholesome inertia; beyond myself, out of control, just vegetative: not breathing--not wondering. upheld and cherished in a vague sense of sway.


dante speculated that suicides transmorgrified into trees. makes sense.

wish me luck tomorrow. could be the best day i've had in years.

i'm so depressing, i even fuck sarcastically.

first dates are confidence games,
the unspoken rule is: don't break the fourth wall.
pretend the entire ascendent social order is sharing the intimacy with you, conform responsibly;
be respectable, canny and droll.

make sure she feels validated by emphasizing your interest ad. nauseum.

remain topical and attentive to positive reinforcement. don't admit to having a personality.
let her show you where to go, take her there; that's your duty as a perfect gentleman.

be safe and predictable without acting safe and predictable.

get divorced and wonder what the hell you saw in each other.


addendum: i once put the la rochefoucauld quote, "all of the passions make us commit faults; love makes us commit the most ridiculous ones." at the header of a love-letter i wrote when i was 14.

http://www.electricguild.com/Pessoa/Campos/T222letters.html

art in the bathroom -- and no one looks twice.

"like i said"

it's hard to hear.

blowing $60 crack out my lungs in a back-alley, a former hairstylist takes it upon himself to give something back; smiles, kneels, pulls out my cock and...


REALITY-CHECK #0: um, my penis isn't interested! (AWKWARD MOMENT lol.)
REALITY-CHECK #1: my life will never be as interesting as poemtree's. sigh.
REALITY-CHECK #2: hey this guy is pretty good


Are you sure you would like to close 'brain' ?
OKAY [click]

trust me, my soul is in there.

when i allow myself to feel even a little love, to be precariously sensitive and gentle, i tend to walk slowly and elegantly, with the careful gait of a ballerina and a little semiconscious smile.

and in turn, everything else i encounter in life becomes unbearably grating and loud, harsh and profane. my feeble optimism is tested, and against the wind of ill-change, i lose my concentration, i hurt, i fume. i try so hard.


& then i get rebuffed, she loves me not.
the little seed of hope i earnestly nourished gets trampled.

i catch myself: it's happening again, i want to give, i want to be quiet, i want to be nice, i want things to be ok.

date with deanna saturday evening; overnight picnic in the cemetery with liquor and drugs and maybe kisses and maybe more. i've never done this before, not really. so strange and so natural.

i found true love on show as a prized relic at the 'late antiquity' exhibit of a local museum.

it looks real pretty, but don't dare touch.
what's it good for? that's the question.

rimbaud wrote that art of universal value could only be produced by what he called "a long, immense and rational derangement of all the senses" facilitated, mainly, in his case, by smoking hashish.

in a similar spirit, with a divergent method, i cultivate the absentminded art of self-abandonment; a transpersonal headspace from where i can write indifferently: without ego, persona, self-censure, or concern for the outcome.

my nervous system is the limit of my experiencing-structure, therefore, presumably, by disengaging from reality, by reducing thought to an absolute minimum, i can study myself (and by extension, the known universe) directly and objectively.

since we live life through our bodies, it follows that if there is a nonintuitive 'meaning of life' the truth would, literally, be found within us.

the truth has always been the same: ever unfashionable, ever scorned, unimaginably simple and sensately ascertainable: whatever is outside of your skin is not you.

the 'world' as you know it, civilization, is a fraud. a conspirational morass of noise and touch with the express intention of making you hurt yourself; stub your emotions, castrate your intellect, smash your moral compass, all for the sake of maintaining a nebulous idea of reputation, uphold some vestigial notion of status. as what--as what? to find out what you are, ask yourself who you matter to.


there is one way to be yourself, to transcend all this mimicry and posturing.


the first step is realizing there is no world.
the second step is realizing there is no you.


i'm not your missionary.
little is more absurd than the conviction that words have the power to mean.

i exorcised my house.
now i can't go back.






everynight i dream of walking out on myself, and out of everything i have come to know.




i'd take you with me

i've got the senior-citizen malaise.

solo bed, cuddling in bad form
the world is out-of-touch,
and i keep my respectful distance, i mask feelings
like bagging groceries; gibbering little notes i write myself off with, those telegrams from the other side of sanity: this journal is full of them. they're insignia particular to a host of unfamiliars. when you give the mind nothing to do, it runs up the wall. (there's no special meaning to prophetic dreams.)

my given mood of the night can be divined in the sum of enigmatic impertinences i utter whilist drunk; i'm always a little far off, a little spacey, half-asleep. i forsook my psychospiritual moorings long ago, now i'm floating somewhere else, don't dare bring me down. the falling sickness, they call it; i'm prone to fits of cataplexy, extreme emotional stimulus shuts me down cold. if you caress me, i shudder; if you kiss me, i blanch. if you love me, i panic.

love me.

negotiating elliptical turns of phrase in a drowsy stupor, as if looking
for a place to park my Being,

calling complete strangers, "do you consider me an unstable person?" and then i interject, "well, that's too bad for you" and abruptly hang-up before they have a chance to regain their shattered composure.

4/18/06 10:10 pm - [private post]
trigger-happy gagreflex; we want a partner in bed, but we're the price we're meant to be.

shiva don't malinger!

her absent eyes worn down.