short thoughts.

Ed. Note: Just a smattering of random shit that's come out of my brain at some point, splattered on notes and scribbled outside of the lines. Enjoy the insanity :)

Frequency-

  I don't think of them as emotions so much as rogue frequencies I've picked up, either from someone else or some thing, some place; I am but a terminal for their velocity.

On Creativity-

to walk the path between chaos and cohesion is not an easy feat. of course, it's wonderful to be original and bursting with raw talent, yet you want people to be able to read and connect to it, otherwise the whole thing was in vain and you're left stroking the flaccid ego in your hand; not an enjoyable or fruitful experience. 

it is my belief that art and creativity are best when they're at their rawest and most emotionally pure form, though that's not always such a marketable trait. when it is, you put yourself at risk of falling into a pretentious pit of despair.

I cannot speak for anyone but myself when I say that this is not really where you want to be. ideas are great, and i love brilliance, especially when it teeters on the verge of lunacy but one has to be ready to accept their own martyrdom when embarking on this path. I respect it but the more practical, logical and reasonable side of me rejects it as immature horse shit; having to prove something to someone, anyone but mostly yourself. I still struggle with it, that's probably why I've not completed anything yet.

/

there's a television on that no one is watching. a light on that illuminates no sentient life forms..

/

car sex is a way of life. 

come, be a sex nomad..

/

WWIII should be the least of anyone's concerns, especially considering we've been in the trenches for years already; it's just that the battlefield looks a little different this time. Its internalized, fought in the hearts and minds of the millions of dead and dying souls in this once great nation, world even. 

You can dress it up any way you like, put any positive spin to it that will help you sleep at night but the fact remains that we're fucked. Those in power and those with money have had us by the balls and throats as long as anyone can probably remember, and we've given in. Revolutions are too time-consuming and tiresome, dangerous even, so let's continue to over-indulge in slow poisons to numb the pain we all see too clearly but refuse to accept. It's painted on everyone's face like a mask of death. 

Be careful with dreams and fantasies and do not for one second underestimate the inherent evil in man. True, for all those born with evil in their hearts are just as many as their opposition but these numbers do not have the same totalitarian control over the masses. Most of these numbers have given themselves up to fairy tale and prophecies, waiting for someone else to come and save us all from the wretchedness. I'm here to tell you that you're wrong. No one is coming, it's just us. 

/

far, far away I would love to live outside the boundaries of this infernal death machine, this rat race march of lemmings off unspeakable fucking cliffs to impale ourselves on the spires of greed.

/

if only there was a way to genetically pre-determine whether or not someone was bound to become an asshole we could promote sterilization at an early age, before they're any the wiser. 

/

It’s an unfortunate circumstance as the result of a bad temper but I’m a firm believer that sometimes you just need to break shit. Material items are just that, and can be replaced. In fact, it’s probably good to destroy something that’s only meaningful because you attached meaning to it to relieve yourself of one less crutch. Dependence is not sexy in regards to anything, but especially to inanimate objects.
Was it always like this? Or is it just more apparent now? Imagine the Earth being stricken with a massive solar flare, knocking out the power grid across the nation, or even world, then imagine the reaction. Needless to say, people would freak; myself included, but how would that be any different from day to day life? It’s no mystery that we, as human beings, can be the most unruly creatures on the planet, but only blind optimism would try and tell you otherwise; another matter entirely.
Regardless of how bad it could ever get, what would be worse is if we still felt this aversion to being comfortable within ourselves as if it’s a sin; it is to some, I suppose, but it’s best not to take anyone’s word to be the absolute unless it’s your own, and not just the result of some kind of influence or promise you’ll only cash in on after you’re dead.


/

"You're still alive, huh?"

She wasn't thrilled. I was, but thought I caught the faint glimmer of a smirk in her eyes.

"At least you still have a sense of humor"

"Yeah", she said. 

The conversation was red hot. 

I hadn't seen her in about two years, the last time being in a picture she sent me of her sugar daddy and her; cuddling in bed, taken by the reflection of the mirrors on his ceiling. That was an interesting day. I thought of our bodily fluids combining; we might as well have had sex together, him and I; we have been the whole time anyway. 

When i think of cheating, I think first of the deception and second of the bodily horror; just which one is worse I'm not exactly sure, as both are equally appalling. I thought of David Cronenberg.  Blood, semen, fecal matter from shopping cart handles.. I thought about the bacteria that collects on your dick if you don't wash your hands BEFORE taking a piss: all these things just hanging out in a warm little incubator that we both penetrated, probably within hours of each other.  He knew about this the whole time.

I wanted to tell her she was a bitch, that I hated her more than the smell of vomit but I didn't. I wanted to drive two hours to stalk her house, looking for two shadows eating each other so I could get really inflamed and the bile would creep up and I'd use the combination she gave me to the front door lock box and creep up the stairs and burst in the door saying, "A-HA!", and proceed to kicking the dick off the guy and the shit right out of him, then I'd drag her by her hair and throw her out the window or down a flight of stairs and I'd sit there and smoke a cigarette because I quit so I can have one and I think I fucking deserved it.  

I didn't do any of that. I think of Hollywood's influence on my mental state.

Hold on, back up here a minute: she started it. Real mature, I know, but the truth is often stranger than fiction anyway so let's build a bridge here quickly and I'll get on with it. Better? Good. 

It was the worst thing to happen to me since the last worst thing that happened to me, which was actually a girl, too…

I think it was Facebook but I don't remember; all that matters is that she found my best friend whose name isn't important because you don't know him anyway.  Well, it was the day he and I were leaving for Tennessee for a music festival. She shows up, lookin' all good with her nice hair and her nice nails and tan legs and short shorts and large fake breasts and, wait a minute... She has breasts? When did that happen? It's not important because I figured she was there for for him, but she wasn't. Gulp. It usually doesn't take long to get awkward between three high school friends when the girl your best friend had a crush on all through high school but never did anything about takes a shining to you right in front of said friend. Not that it was that obvious, but it was that obvious. She hid it well though, considering we had actually been corresponding for about a week before that via email; at the time, I just felt sorry for her. Towards the end, I just wanted to help her put herself out of my misery. 

Weeks go by with daily text messages and e-mails that were getting increasingly more intimate and personal, and it was unknown to all but us. The thing about a dirty little secret is it's incredibly sexy. It's also very dangerous. Maybe that's why people cheat but hell if I know; I was always the sap on the receiving end of that particular misfortune.

 

She was a Gemini sun/Scorpio moon and her eyes were abysses I just couldn't help but dive headfirst into. Miles Davis had the same configuration; the two became one in my mind, it was my personal soundtrack for emotional demise. I thought of Bird. 

It's always been the weird little things that caught my greatest attention. 

Don't sweat the small stuff. 

Right.

…and it's all small stuff.

Exactly.