Sunday, July 24, 2005

Shift to CHANGE

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To pick up where this thread left off, go to:
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Sunday July 24th
The post title is :
"Cross-Referencing the SOcial mores"
This blog will continute from another point in time
to be announced later.

Friday, July 22, 2005

The brevity of purpose presupposes itself.

Helen called while we chatted, and he tried to voice his concerns, his [newly old] life was less tale than mundane. You’re where? She echoed. This response depressed him. When are you coming home? The brakes are smoking. I see a hill looming on our relationship’s curvy road. He embodied the map of many aspirations met, and much suffering avoided. The phone glowed with another world ... I wondered how insane this seemed to her. We walked a paradigm she couldn’t readily enter; as a drop-dead woman, there is no seamless wander through these realms. You are constantly watched and hit on; all the men want to fuck you. The women watch you warily, seeing competition and deceit. Incognito is a self-projected fantasy we hinge our invisibility upon. She probably relishes the gated world of burb-dom, freed of the insistent sexual fantasies of pent-up urbanites. Women get a raw edge in our world; little wonder many want to retreat into relationships, to create a microcosm of what they’d imagine they’d live. He covets something she doesn’t want, and if he was ‘her’, she would waste no breath describing her infidelity to his ideals. You would seek to retreat to the nest as well, bombarded with violence on a subtler level. Look dude, I wanted to tell him, it’s the price of a trophy wife. You have to build a castle to keep her. Don’t blame her for your own desire to gamble, and lose the house on a drunken spree, for it’s most likely, the very trait she liked in you. You admonish the illusion of a an you’ve crated to not take responsibility foe or friend, for who you’re becoming, or who you are.

Mexican music blared from the tired muse of a jukebox, leaned up against a grease stained wall. The ominous crowd outside dispersed as a storm cloud would, without intension to rain. Snails slowed time for being, almost inert on their planter box. How do you think they got in here, he wanted to know. Dunno. Maybe they’re pets, or Buddhas. A street car shook the ground, and one extended its tentacle, to reassure itself. I realized we’d watched them, for the better part of an hour. ‘It’s weird how odd we get, when you focus on the mundane.’ The small pieces of what we ignore, police the secrets we openly claim. Somebody kicked the jukebox; a siren wailed. Gotta go, he said. Later, I meant. The temperature dropped and the door slammed. I frowned to think the days have such brevity, and purpose.

That night, I sped through my golden shoals of twilights’ incremental birth.
Too drunk in dollar beers to drive; I rode the borrowed cycle
though the aimless paths of the park,
seeking the open seas.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

Purpose defies Interventions control-mania.

The sand took
its hard won place again.

Short of disasters, there are mistakes. When a sprouted feed bag spilled on the dunes, the horse refused to eat the gritty saved bits, thus its rider scattered his barley upon the ground. A week later, the park head happened by, and surmised what had happened, as these two events requited themselves in time. Fresh sprouts connected the drifting sand to a single place; experimentation connected what grew fast enough, to what would not be overtaken.

Bicycles were granted begrudging entrance to the park they would later dominate. Special permits to ride were brandished between certain days and hours, and a speed limit was mercilessly enforced. Policemen who had to provide their own horse feed, galloped after the offender, and lassoed them, removing them from their scant vehicle, which continued on, riderless. The metaphor was lost on passerbys.

"The self-disappointment of smoking again, is projected upon others who are only trying to help." he tracked the slow progress of two street people, moving their worldly belongings
Traveling and dragging their cardboard for sleeping, like blocky cutouts of themselves, reminds me we’re living in two dimensions. Time is an increment of what we’re afraid to encompass; the perceptual opening is the perchance portal fearless flyers arrive to depart through." And with that, he lit the sandwich of screens and DMT, and dove headlong into the oily plastic smoke curling from the bowl into his lungs. "Longer." his friend said. "Don’t breathe out yet." The Jesus look-alike nods, and puts his hands in full lotus. "Now!" He adeptly sparks the lighter, and plunges the feeble flame into the blackened bowl. "More." The manic swirls of smoke from the powder thickened until our pupils bulged; the adept coughed slightly, and restrained it. "Excellent." That was a massive hit. "The aliens are nearby." Then he slumped heavily into the couch, eyes dilated and twitches erupting at the corners of his mouth. The long-drawn silence highlights a small artificial creek’s burble, and the afterglow of plastic aroma wafting from the maestro’s pipe, as the maven psychonaut rummaged around ether worlds, peering for tidbits to retrieve. Finally, he whispered, "Interstices of space concurred in colors the human brain suppresses, to make out gray tones." The impact of an extra dimension makes the white balance wacky; functionally, black and white movies become impossible to watch. It seemed like an interesting development in human consciousness "That’s all I can say for now." For speaking is difficult from the beyond; the vocabulary at your brain’s beckoning is slanted horrendously towards the mercantile.

One got the impression her spare change evaporated into chemists; as nefarious candle burning defined his existence, in a sense. We tracked decayed leaves throughout her house, which slowly dried into rock hard paste. I wanted to introduce her into herself, beyond the black and white the psychonaut sought, toned radically with interstellar space. The person inside the person was engaged looking up the world of Dimyati, which was a single word written on a broad swath of paper, by a mystic, she claimed. Her terms scatted like shrubs looked harried and displaced, like an over-planted botanical park gone wild; non-native phylogenists soap-boxed mysteries into sanitary napkins, for serum and tissue disposal; tools littered her gavel table, ready to extricate inert necessities with insensitive procedures deafened to positive cause and effect, beyond our ability to measure. His face loomed in her scribbled wrinkles. Islands mounted the ‘surface’ and technically, were born into our word structure. "I have sconced, that the order of thought, is averaged through hegemony; it ripples cross the margin of time perception is born to. The black and white metaphor is SF." [San Francisco] he wrote afterwards, with purpose and accident, having asked for and received, the living testament his movie is color-wise with. I was slightly dumbfounded. "So, when do you leave?" Her manic hands shuffled reams of disorganized paper splayed with technical jargons spanning eight or nine distinct disciplines. What do you mean me? I asked her. "Sounds like he was speaking to you, she notes, with some amusement. I liter the floor with leaves, to cement the thought into place.

Exceptionably dangerous-looking, thick-necked bulldogs haunt the café entrance, as Carlos Santana plays, the sound a living reminiscence of the art and experiences he took with him, into our version of a world he changed. Latino gang members watch for others watching them; interminable vehicles of thoughts beseech bystanders with slick paint jobs, and sexy lines, and they scan the social horizon for violence, meeting no eyes.

Relax. You need some nice cricket sounds to call you every hour, and automatically play across your phone. ‘Relax’. Nice conditioning when you can find it. The difference between you and me, is this freak show constitutes your real life, where I come in from the burbs, and the hypo-reality of card-swipe doors opening air conditioned corporate offices. Those are maniacal militants with an excess of hormones and firearms, whose formative early training involved life-destroying drugs, and broken homes. They think the same about us; the power we wield is an order braking the aims of their order; for ‘law’ is an arm of you and I, waging it’s a war on a feud which doesn’t involve us. Exactly why we didn’t need to enter this hole. Hey, who marched with the civil rights movement? Whitie has a role to play, showing some solidarity with the brothers. We’re here to show burb-lovers like you not to cringe in a drive-by gangland massacre. Nothing personal, you know? Besides, this place has the apex of tacos for blocks around, it’s dirt cheap, and their salsa totally rocks. You’re making me feel better already. Why is the server wearing a sidearm? Oh, he’s really the security guard at the bank on 18th. What’s he doing here? Serving you feel-good, dummy. You’re up, what are you eating?

Thursday, July 14, 2005

Mastery of nothing to master.

If personal gain drives desire, its resultant is
how history views you. Hence leaders’ desire
to suppress, or write ‘history’

In some places, here is now. There is no clinical bar time, here is a determined fear ‘here’ is about to end, and slide into ‘after’. The pink was so intense, she said she still had enough little girl in her to embrace it. He derived a word for the paranoia of the between, which leads to the end... it was enebritemporalfalsiphobia. We laughed uprowdiously about it—in the straight hetro Mexican joint and the drunken dregs were checking out, staggering to the door, as the giant donut cop wove from the minuscule stall, stunned by the professionalism of the young girl, and the nervous arrivers were cessed by each other’s asses in line. "They give you lots of wine and cheese to lubricate you with and then you do your thing." It was a test; the mahogany of all the heads who have hung there, defeated by life and drink, combined to remain starstruck of too ‘on’ becomes torn forms of art against dirty walls;
and the man’s name was Aakwpewoehj, or some twisted spelling of such, suggesting curves exposing hidden corners of three-walled rooms, our beings constitute the boxes rooms define, like begging sounds of unheard music projections random strangers pronounce jungle whoops upon, the cutting into unseen vines waiting to be grasped (etc.). He was an odd fellow, with a mentality carved into trees twenty- five feet tall, as ‘fresh’ thoughts are the initials of explorers lost to eye-level.

The intensity of fear, is we’ll be duped or judged. He said the American girl saved him from Morocco [where he was?] rather starboard of port, struggling with everything that mattered he was so paranoid of losing his beliefs, in the Atlas Mountains the shamans orchestrated, his comings and goings within went without. I wondered when this happened, and if the American girl was real. I wanted badly to ask, but imagination got the better of me, as others were rapt with his sortie. He has a nasty scar parting his face which seemed to pulse as he spoke; I wanted too validate its story, and speak for it ... for I was certain it told an entirely different version of this tale. I had thousands of Is to concentrate into a vision of self which projected stirring stories into a mythos so elemental, I could use it to fend off my too many truisms to realize or count.

During the Gold rush, our hills were denuded of lumber, and businesses took residence in abandoned ships, mud bound, or slowly decaying into the harbor, where the garbage was dumped. Water arrived by Donkey and flue, and respectable establishments cavorted with gun-fortified mining claims. Growth was unprecedented; gun fortifications were built to fend off the threat England posed, of coveting California for its own, capitalizing on a war-weary America ... but the dunes’ winds filled them, as fast as they were poured. The proposal to reclaim a wasteland, fell from the minds of a few who worldly, knew Europe had succeeded at far vaster plans, wrenching acres from nature’s dry or watery grasp, to luxuriously farm. The area was inaccessible by horse and buggy; the winds were so immense animals would turn from the blasting sand ... there were no passable roads, and no shelters.

A few visionaries realized no grand cities exist without parks, and set themselves to the ominous task of thwarting greed, avarice and other (deadly?) sins lurking by would-be developers. They sought the largest piece of land they could find, for a park of epic proportion. Where some see no value, others seem to pause, and experience wealth. They choose the path of personal, or common gain, when they commit intentions to explore the feeling. Choosing the latter path, the proponents of the former band together, in an unusual show of single purpose, to eradicate you who mirror their own disgust with the path they have chosen. Honesty snares the thieves corrupt in their dens, simply to brandish arms, and massacre those who’d expose them, knives in victories' backs at dark. It is easier not to choose, and state your intention on the soul, you carry around. We follow the intensity of the Einstein until the Hitler kills him, leveling our gun to followers, for the subsequent round. A corrupt inner government, forgave the success of the park they claimed couldn’t be done, by firing its staff and abandoning it for many years. The leaders had run it with such eccentric efficiency, it made the city workings a laughingstock. People up and down the line were profiting from graft; this was their livelihood; something had to be done.

Which side are you on?

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Napkin Fractals

‘AV’ariegated history of political conniving
as if it trickles down to the public at large through impeccable channels
swerving the intersection of all peoples

In 1885, there were elk and buffalo in Golden Gate Park. A visitor could walk at tree level through an aviary in 1892, and traverse a bridge bedecked in bright yellow bolts and checkered carmine, from Chicken Point, to the then New Music Concourse. There was an observatory and an impressive falls, not to mention two windmills and a hallowed lake squirming in 20,000 fingering trout. Life was good, but open space is a natural attractant to the powerful—a tantalizing taste of the unspoilt to peddle and exploit. Developers are monsters in disbursal’s disguise, reining beauty and order. Extracting profit, they eradicate magic, for the most part, the arts are financial death wishes. Fleeting value must be exploited, its source is too evanescent to wrestle with. Apologies are those excepted to the weak.

Max was still drawing fractals on bar napkins when I saw him, a week and a half later. They had changed substantially since, in that his mind now folded the plane of delicate paper, rather than this fingers, which produced and begged an entirely different outcome as the virtual origami transmogrified. This is truism, I decided. The facts make themselves into recognizable form as they borrow lines the folds of time relay. I told him the meta-pattern is being reacted to, and crated into napkins he mass-produces from a higher sense of things; brother, you need a digital camera and a stitch program, to ... and he understands where I’m going, thought for thought, although his computer skills are nil. Fear is the arrival of paralysis. His eyes light up; yea! HOW DO I DO ... that? Number nine played backwards on the rudimentary turntable he plugged on/in for the occasion scratching it forwards to consume us; it was like that. The lifetime bartender was playing helter-skelter, soaked in sweat from an all night binge on high-grade meth. His house mate radiated adrenal angst; I thought about Charles Manson, and Adolphaphine; the hot springs where he reputedly laid low, and the young frond of a girl, who managed to crawl to the river with a slit throat. It all seemed to be coming together. The cap of the pen looked like a cigarette, and the nicotine receptors we supposedly aren’t born with, began to glow. You know, you are channeling Charles Bukowski is that the ‘pronounciation’ why are you writing at a bar? Besides it’s interesting and it’s here? Because ... but the existential side of that, is Pulitzer prize bl/and/or mundane.

in SOME WAYS he was designing a park. Not a ....Olmstead sort, but a far-reaching fabric, a two dimensional topographic map of plastic reality, which self organized into new playful alternatives. Every sentence has thousands of variations you’ll never have time derive; just say something, and it’s antithesis is contained there, waiting to be mined. It slowly dawns on me, this madness constitutes single frames of an entire movie, computers would shuffle and control. The fractal of all the possibilities he wrought upon delicate tissues were designed from the unconscious to connect in ways only distance could provide. Single cells’ destiny to clump into connected, complex structures, which tined inexplicably to others surrounding them, changing constantly all the while, suggested an experience his outer world proves its radical mirror in.
The enormous policeman dreaming of fish by a warm sea escorts the cute little whore to the back of the Taco joint, where it takes years of patronage to gain the respect of those serving you.

The accidental entry of a cartridge-belted hipster underlined the fact he’s probably never seen Alexandria, Osaka, or Dresden burn, and the riffraff filling the place, states it bluntly, by examining shoes. Drunken glutton-eers scarfed ‘cheeze’ saturated deep fry, chasing the caveman’s desire for calories—in whose vein, I threw myself into the pleasures free radicals ordained, and the hipster, so delirious to veer-vessels-grab-eyes, slunk into the corner, while I conditioned myself to the touche, that before the ‘developers’, Golden Gate park (and the whole of the Avenues) was nothing but sand. If personal gain drives desire, it’s resultant

Friday, July 08, 2005


Tell me about Chad.

Chad ...

Sucked. Drove me mad. Hated and loved him. Wronged him, worshiped him, lost myself at his threshold, wanted his babies, feared him. What elements are missing when you’re in love? It demands every emotion in harm’s way, and all your needles and pins. He was dumb and brilliant, a sensitive lover and a self-absorbed lout, who rated me as an object we discussed (as if I wasn’t there) but I forgive him taking everything I had, and leaving me here. Don’t I? Perhaps not. It’s conclusive, and open ended, not ordered, open and closed ... the door is banging, hands get severed in it. I’m attempting to restrain the tears she’s attempting to restrict access to, and we’re both failing. Ah, the morbid bliss of having been smashed to pieces ... like a wine perishing right before you, it’s so vintage, and precious.

Our bodies are reliquaries of all the edifying and ecstatic things we’ve encountered; the sun set over the mountains the moon mirrored in departure, and for one eternal minute, the two resided within my person, perched on alternate ridges of experience. Cells compete to assimilate this; neurons stretch their potent junctions; the desert hums for the eternal scythes reap while dawn emerges, moon hissing into cool evenings elsewhere. Hello? This is our mantra.

She drives a hundred and fifty miles a day, for no particular reason ... she loves to drive, so points’ distance weigh inversely to most people’s reckoning. I find it amusing she’s such a vehement recycler. She’s forty three and wants two more kids, although the four she has are college age, and making her sell her house. Do you know how much out-of-state tuition is?! Forty grand. Jesus Christ. Are you mad? I countered. Hell bent of eating dog food from a cardboard mansion on a violently-busy street? Sent to local college myself, the extravagance of making your single mom sell the inherited family house, seemed incredible. But what the hell. Why not? It’s a minor act of abasement compared quite forlornly to rasing four fanatically-rowdy kids ... or at least, that’s how I perceive it. Some part of me said, what a nightmare, and another was sad for the thought I’d missed such adventure. She, on the other hand, wanted to use what she’d learned, and perfect her process, now the glaring mistakes were behind her. Makes sense I guess... imagine only bettering one novel, until it was throughly dead. No starting afresh, aloof from the miserable drivel that last moped into; you must flog the intractable, abstruse passages to dearness, and innocent doe eyes again. I sadistically mentioned : Perhaps it’s the only thing you know how to do, to elicit a feeling of self worth. It’s a proven pattern the world is removing from your repertoire, just as drinking and driving to get home is crucially hampered by DUIs. The kids slide off the edge of the universe to leave you hand and foot tied to the branch you grabbed, attempting to keep them there, and now what? Another round? A new manic activity? Sell the house you painstakingly renovated over twenty years, just as it reaches completion?

Sunday, July 03, 2005

Reliquary for dreams/dreams


The board's desire to hide, we all move upon it, culminates in an equal desire to expose itself, to increase the complexity, and scope of its game. The slow dispersal of fact, both contrived and verifiable, pollutes falsity with truth, to the point the entire paradigm becomes malleable, and open to reinterpretation. The slipstream of days dissolve into thinking, leaving little appreciable braille to touch, and recant into clarity. The upended mirror of jokes and coincidence earmark us, and violently sometimes, as warriors weighing the deadly prowess of self.

My bard friend describes the metaphors as meta-force, and warns us to attend to our pointers before perpetrating a pointer itself, falsely attempting to ‘solve’ or punish the messenger the direction represents. A symbol has little to do with ‘problems’, and a lot to do with focus, whimsically, as usual, which flourishes and court jesterisms rendering a message sublime for normal ears.

The men and women once boys and girls burbling with irrepressible energy looked tired and weary, dragging growing love handles as heavy suitcases bristling with deadly-dreary manuals nobody can quite muster reading. Their terrific weight of years depressed me; their false girth of confidence and success hid their quirky angularity, once tantamount to who they were, and would eventually become, minus the poisonous unction of fitting in, and acting responsibly. I marveled the over-coiffed doos of rigid dye jobs, and washed out wallet shots tattered, and dog-eared ... are these the same people I went to grade school with? Conservatism leeched from once lightened faces, casting a pall across the already ill-lit bar of a room. A few stars in an inky sky of the homogenous spun recklessly, bathing the wary in searchlights of X-ray, and predictably, dense bodies attracted gravity and chagrin.


The maddening part about anything,

is its all-encompassing hunger for your time. Some people call that money, bit by bit, seconds of perception and energy elapse into that from whence we came. I recall the edgy collapse of my old p ... was I destined to suffer to find the art I loved? In seeing did I ... aradigm, where water poured from the earths’ mantle into finality. The roar shredded the air as the vista broke its laminar flow, and sailed headlong into perpendicularity; the feats of apostled saints dimmed significant otherness, and could-haves did-not, in ominous vertigo. A verification of dunes’ shifting in ancient pyramids covered or leveled, refused a teeter or totter; memories sunk into sonnets never rock-chipped, sprang to life, and demanded ears final moments. The bent mirror separated into droplets spherical, freeform and spattering into ellipsoids as they rushed at the ether rushing up to meet them.

Space if anything is a precious non-item we attempt to preserve.


Pre-empting the Perspectives we fall upon.

IT’s hard to know when to spill more guts, and when to sew the wound putrid with blood, up. Creating beauty is a culpable farce we attach to, as it creates us, and we resist its urges. We inhabit a manic frenzy chains define; there is a supernatural duffle bag of tricks I empty out, and climb within, wondering with innocent eyes why it’s never been so dark. The self-imposed front I present the world is if anything riddled with work I never seem to accomplish, or at least embrace, minus its joy of never arriving. The journey metaphor resounds the emptiness of space water roars over, crushing those beneath it. Some play errantly there; laughing and scrambling the rocks of peril. The mists drift in eventual stillness; plants bead the droplets to stems rivulets beckon.

Friday, July 01, 2005

The board's desire to acknowledge, we each ignorantly move upon it, to increase the scope of its game.

The game morphed to react to the weaknesses of its players; it was nearly impossible to win without consent from the whole, for on a lumbar curve of consciously, and semi-consciously engaged stratagems; the people’s weaknesses were parsed, and analyzed into rules which intertwined with other rules just, or soon to be formalized (to the advantage of the individual and the collective). Timing is precision withe imperative, to exploit the crumbling defenses of a quarry who might soon become a felon in arms, as another player was incrementally studied, and deposed. The focused attention sifted from one topic to another; the ‘random element’ destroys the bastille, in weighted dice roles. We watched them bounce, devoid of curiosity regarding their birth, or who carried them into the game, infusing them with slanted values. The trick of pillaging effectively, is to include the wealth of the relative few in the scant ideology of the many, without bowing to the collective ideas’ demands. A careful line walked is one you can’t corner to become trapped in; radical policy shifts are unable to support ruse; tension insists on linear thought to resist its own integrity.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve completely lost faith in the open conspiracy of those you see as figureheads, assigned to the station of being government leaders. The individual is unable to assimilate the complexities of the million-ruled game, but thinking he or her puny intelligence is up to it, blindly forges ahead, following the pawn’s course laid by collectives, the shadows hide. The saga of Mr. Bush is a sad script of short-sighted idiocy the population is all too calamitously familiar with. Where else to look, than the environment which supports us, to see the short shrift we assign our deepest values to habit? Insurrection becomes a joke of the shirt worn, proclaiming the corporate logo we protest. Tat’s crazee talk! the older woman next to us shouted. My grandson’s in Vietnam right now! Show some respect! which tripped us out. Did she mean to say that, or was Nam a slip? Bashfully, I tried to discern trickster from crazy. She was so forceful, in her own authentic distillation, is there no way to describe her fanaticism faithfully? I thought, this is a supreme moment of something
quite beyond words.