We came across a conclusion of bifurcation in his cranial aporia. Scattered cognitive dissonance, unlike contrasting audible syntax, can lead to no beauty.
The collusion of the two works something like bent nails and unplugged television sets. "Two heads are better than one, though." I am sorry, but this binary efficiency motto was not created with situations such as dissociative identity disorder in mind.
And so we stumble upon this desert, this jungle again. Why must we always land here? I step onto a train of thought and I never arrive where I expect. I should start looking at the destinations, or mapping them myself.
and claim the deserved respect. - - - - -. - - - - [it's allegiance, or it's vengeance,
in a honorably sclerotic society - - - - - - .. ---. - with the vengeful somehow justified
where does one turn? - - -- - - - -- - - - - -- - - - .- by the allegiance they forced upon us]
for truth in roots ripped from tooths by soothsayers. deracinate the evidence from gums and fill each cavity with cement. (aw fuck, just flood that entire gaping hole.)
these lies will not be spread;
like butter with tongues as knives.
like the legs of whores for a price.
The distinct edges and hard lines are blurring. They pulsate and quiver with an unquenchable need to escape their dimensional restraints. To shift, to fluctuate in size and shape. To annoy and drive the eyes insane*.
They are tired of defining only the objects they envelop, and wish to be seen as entities themselves. They are sick of being the outlining structure that holds everything together and inside.
To inundate, and to invade
Messages on optic nerves
To flood them and to persuade
Chemicals to make it worse
Every rod and cone there is
Each retinal layer and lens
Will rot and finally perish
As my acuity descends
Everything is connected. Our actions have effects that we cannot conceive. We are gears in a machine, but we do not know how this machine is put together. If we did, or if we could look at the schematics, we could see every possible course that our energy output could take. We would see the end result, and we would know before we acted what the exact consequences would be. However, we don't have that capability. We may be able see this on a smaller scale, but we can never have the whole picture. Too many other gears are constantly interfering, ones of which we are completely unaware. Communication is key. If we could all work together coherently and efficiently, the possibilities would be endless. We are all parts in this machine and our actions decide the outcome and the product it generates. Synchronization. Collaboration.
The gear would be a symbol of the realization that my actions have effects on everything around me. It would serve as a reminder to question more thoroughly the things I do before I do them. It would keep me aware of a larger universe than just the one I inhabit in my mind.
My ideas are a result of the culture in which I was brought up. They are a product of all the information I've ever taken in. The gear is a symbol for the continuity of time. This is the reason for the twelve cogs, representing a clock. The past controls the present controls the future controls the limitless possibilities of time.
The endless circular motion represents the cycle that every atom on the planet is a part of. It is a realization of death as not the end, but as just another turn of the gear. Renewal.
The inner gear with ridges pointing inward symbolizes the fact that though I realize I am part of a larger entity, I cannot forget about my self. I cannot forgo completely my own goals, feelings, needs. I must weigh the two against each other and make my decisions.
They call me a mason, because I make you shit bricks
I'm known as an illness, cuz my rhymes are fucking sick
I am a magician, the way I make you turn tricks
I'm like a narcotic and you gotta get your fix
A collage of cartilaginous contusions
and what everyone usually just assumes is
painted, peeling black lacquered
barrels connecting bullets to the haggard
::
2009 13 February :: 5.35pm
:: Mood: bored
:: Music: Kings of Leon - Closer
...what now?
The maturity of the password I have for this journal. That's what I get for getting a friend to reset it for me when my internet was down and someone had discovered my password.
Will I tell you what it is? Nope~
Will I change it? Heck no!
Last night I got to hang out with this man at a bar, and then he came to my apartment and ate one of my cupcakes. YAY.
A Primer
by Bob Hicok
I remember Michigan fondly as the place I go
to be in Michigan. The right hand of America
waving from maps or the left
pressing into clay a mold to take home
from kindergarten to Mother. I lived in Michigan
forty-three years. The state bird
is a chained factory gate. The state flower
is Lake Superior, which sounds egotistical
though it is merely cold and deep as truth.
A Midwesterner can use the word "truth,"
can sincerely use the word "sincere."
In truth the Midwest is not mid or west.
When I go back to Michigan I drive through Ohio.
There is off I-75 in Ohio a mosque, so life
goes corn corn corn mosque, I wave at Islam,
which we're not getting along with
on account of the Towers as I pass.
Then Ohio goes corn corn corn
billboard, goodbye, Islam. You never forget
how to be from Michigan when you're from Michigan.
It's like riding a bike of ice and fly fishing.
The Upper Peninsula is a spare state
in case Michigan goes flat. I live now
in Virginia, which has no backup plan
but is named the same as my mother,
I live in my mother again, which is creepy
but so is what the skin under my chin is doing,
suddenly there's a pouch like marsupials
are needed. The state joy is spring.
"Osiris, we beseech thee, rise and give us baseball"
is how we might sound were we Egyptian in April,
when February hasn't ended. February
is thirteen months long in Michigan.
We are a people who by February
want to kill the sky for being so gray
and angry at us. "What did we do?"
is the state motto. There's a day in May
when we're all tumblers, gymnastics
is everywhere, and daffodils are asked
by young men to be their wives. When a man elopes
with a daffodil, you know where he's from.
In this way I have given you a primer.
Let us all be from somewhere.
Let us tell each other everything we can.
I've not visited woohu for a looooong time. Nor Bzoink for that matter. Only I just got a friend removal prompt from bzoink from someone that came after I left and so ended up there and then ended up here.
[swats at cobwebs]
I might kinda be thinking about revamping this thing again. After all, I did pay $2 for it. XD
Andy. I think you're about the only person on my friends lists that's still around. o__o; Erm... hi!
::
2008 30 December :: 4.32am
:: Music: Isaac Marion's Moon Colony
I spit sacrilege through gritted teeth.
I am disconnecting from... reality. From consciousness. From tangibility. From dimensional restraints.
Thread by thread, I am tearing each stitch. Finding solvent for the glue, I pry each nail from its hole. I exhume screws from their cylindrical tombs. I am plucking staples and cutting ropes. I will deracinate the roots that attach me to the ground and degauss the magnets that are holding me down.
I am burning to be released in smoke. My name is Phlogiston.
I am the view from within a raindrop. I am the collision it has with your skin.
tori amos
"fat slut" you said
what luck i said
to be stuck in your happy family
don't you dare, i said
judge me
you go and
stick it in somewhere
i'm sick of hearing it
go stick it in somewhere
i'm sick of hearing it
