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So I've been permanently placed on the US No Fly List, and must undergo "private room screening & Q/A session" now to check in on flights. At first it pissed me off big-time but now I'm high in the sky (around 35k feet or so) somewhere over the uterus of the USA (Utah) with a failing iPod battery and my beloved, battleworn iBook to keep me company ... and a couple bottles of Chardonnay ... and a some choice DJ mixes from the Granddaddy ... And when Mars attacks it'll be just amazing ... the cutting, biting, laser-like sounds invade my consciousness like industrial lasers, slicing deep and hard, just the way I like it ... searing ultra-bright laser energy, leaving their indelible marks on the retinas, and the only light that remains are those arcing after-images, turning darker and darker shades of infra-magenta, until all around is darkness, until the very essence of fear that the Current Administration feels every day towards people who use their brains and have independent thoughts is distilled and solidified into its detestable and purest essences, that which we know would improve all of civilization, but that which They think will end their reigns of terror. But it's amazing, just amazing ... During these day-long sessions after sessions with cancer researchers and astrophysicists and gurus and boddhisatvas and skater chicks and cabin boys and Kelly Girls and technologies and discoveries and we're finding earliest biomarkers and eradicating these diseases, these most potent killers of mankind and I feel the loss, the utter emptiness ... I've developed an addiction. It's like samhutta. Or however the fuck it's spelled. Frank Herbert postulated in his Dune books a drug addiction that combined chemicals with music, samhutta: addicts uses the brainwaves instilled by hearing samhutta music with the enhanced neurotransmitters and achieved new highs, new levels of enlightenment, of all-emcompassing triptitude, navigating into newer and better mental dimensions. And that's what the psy is doing for me ... after the meetings I'd go for long walks around Seattle with my iPod listening to the other side (mind toasted) and other mixes and feel an enormous depth of ... relief ... to go without the music for so so so so long is just so so so wrong. So Wrong. And there were times and there were times When the Superiors, so understanding they are sometimes of my many mental deficiencies, my insanity, my mental disorders, would see me seething in the back of the room, perhaps even twitching wildly though i'd have no idea what dance my eyebrows would be executing of their own accord ... and all it would take to re-achieve that contentment would be the music. Music. Music. The psychedelic quest. The psychedelic sound. A mediation on what is the finest in sound potential. Like an aromatic organic chemical with powerful ionic keys, able to bind right into the deepest pleasure centers of my deepest brain, able kick out any other weaker stimulants that might occupy those receptors, able to penetrate far more deeply, far better than any lover, and scratch at that deepest itch, to finally give consolation, finally alleviate that discomfiture resulting from the lack of the psy sound. And that discomfiture would only be worsened by the music they played while the airplane was on the ground; I mean, it was this awful awful disgusting sound of this male vocalist "I'm so lonely" against an Alvin & The Chipmunks high-speed backing vocal and it made me want to skewer out my eardrums with one of those insipid plastic knives that They think will make us all safer. Turn it up and keep it up! PSY LIFE! And then maybe we'll all be free. (Best wishes!) |
 | Lack of affect? Feel no effect. Time passes by with barely any impact at all. I'm sitting outdoors at a café watching a throng of humanity pass by like so many bits of organic matter in a giant amoeba. So many people, so many dreams. Hopes, aspirations, goals, short-term sacrifices towards long-term happiness, all eventually leading nowhere, leading to anihiliation, to purest nothingness, to meaninglessness. The end is nigh the panicked nay-sayers neigh and their bleating is lost in a sea of ennui. Such cries mean little, for the end is nigh to all, to all on high and all below. Let that sweet, sweet embrace that is death encompass me and hold me close. Let this futile arrangement of molecules finally cease to create some purposeless spark of awareness. I sip at the liquor and let its brain-killing mind-numbing sweetness be the only comfort I can find anymore. Turn it off, turn it all off. |
 | Dark glowing the sounds that twist Beneath the psycho cloud The moonlight cuts through the mist Pounding beats draw a crowd. Through rapt gazing with eyes of light Looked past the dreaming years The darkly wound dream of night Rolled on above our tears. |
 | Sonic booms sounding and resounding, pounding your chest, intense bouncy wavefronts that pummel and buffet, you feel it deep in your spirit, surging, re-surging, lyserging the acid until the paper's damp with it, crack the bottle and grab the neck, open the throttle and set the volume to XI or just twist the it off, Gary Kasparov, there's a fire storm on the board and the queen's pawn hallucinating the promotion, ignoring the commotion over on A-6, it's 4.20, and it's strictly BYOB, and if your words aren't enough to describe all the pretty colors then just grin stupidly, smile and laugh, turn on the gas, suck up the balloon, have a cube, diethylamide dreams, dreaming dazily the days away, so so far away, tiny little drops of dreams, crystal tears, lost in the rain. |
 | My daughter came home from school and caught me playing with her Barbies again. I couldn't help it, they're so pretty. She said I really needed to find a proper outlet for the various tensions I carry around with me. She's probably right, but before I left the toys alone I arranged them into a humorous diorama. It took several minutes of arranging the dolls before she yelled out "DAD" and I realized I had fallen right back into the zone. I call it the Barbie Zone. It's a state of mind where all you can hear are the piping voices of Barbies you make in your head, and the various relationships between Barbie, Nolee, Ken, the little girl Kelly, and all the rest all play out against a larger drama that serves as an allegory to the so-called reality that everyone else accepts. Also, I'm pretty sure Ken is gay. I heard "DAD" again and was broken out of my reverie in the zone. "Sorry, honey, I'll leave your toys alone," I said as I left the room. "Dad, I have something for you," she said and stopped me before I could leave. In her hand was a solid gold Barbie with diamonds for eyes. "For ... me?" I stammered and she nodded and gave the precious thing to me. I realized I'd have to watch out for my daughter, to figure out whether she stole the money for this expensive doll or is a genius at investment strategies, but for now, I had a gold Barbie to play with. |
 | After the
sixth night, all of the fasting, all of the staring into
the flames, all of the drugs finally paid off; my
vision-guide had appeared at last, my kindred spirit
animal who would at last lead me into that
psycho-religious quest to answer all of the burning and
unknown questions of life. It was a spirit ape. Yeah,
I was kind of hoping for something cool like a hawk or a
wolf, but after six days, hey, enough waiting. The
spirit ape knuckle-walked off into the underbrush and so
I followed, eager to get this awakening underway, the
questions answered. First stop: a banana tree. OK, so
I wasn't too happy about where this was going, but after
all that fasting, a banana sounded like a good idea.
After we ate a few the spirit ape asked me (yes, it
could talk) if I ever tried smoking banana peels. After
an impatient sigh I said no; what kind of guide was
this? Smoking banana peels? Yuck. Next, he climbed a
tree that overlooked a pathway where a river of people
moved in blissful ignorance. I crawled up to get a
better vantage point and carefully observed the spirit
ape. He started flinging his own shit at the people,
who started to scream and scatter. I wanted to do the
same, to take part in whatever lesson there was in this
action, but I didn't have to go at that time. Suddenly
the spirit ape clutched his side and started to fall out
of the tree; there was a tranquilizer dart stuck in him.
The branch supporting us broke and we both went
tumbling. Everything went dark. When I came to, I was
in jail, apparently arrested for causing public mayhem
and releasing an animal at the zoo. I asked the police
what happened to the spirit ape, but they didn't answer
my questions. Later that night, I had a visitor. It
was the spirit ape. Through the bars, he told me I had
done well and shook my hand. He also said I should wash
my hands, because he used his "throwing hand" to shake.
Good bye, spirit ape. |
 | He jumped in the jeep and took off like a rocket into the barren landscape of time, the worn out shocks relaying every bump, every jerk, making him grit his teeth and grip the steering wheel as if for dear life, struggling and tensing every muscle just to stay in the seat, the seatbelts long since worn through and useless straps now, feeling the rush of the heated nighttime air warm his cheeks, knowing that it had nothing to do with this new future realm, that any signal might be betrayed and affected by future signals, time lines still be woven on a cosmic loom, and despite the addictions and afflictions there'd be the intense following of those time lines towards their ultimate termination or on the off chance, on the rare possibility if things be played just right and those karmic debts repaid that he'd find the one that would lead to infinity, and from then, what? What would follow that? Would infinity itself be a termination? Pushing away such thoughts for they snapped at the hackles of consciousness he shifted gears with the new increase in speed and continued his bumpy trek across the new time, the future that is the now, kicking up a wake of dust, breaking ever ownard and onward and ownard towards destiny, infinity, or just the end. Happy new year! |
 | 23 degrees. Doesn't sound like much but it's enough to screw up the entire planetary system and leave us with that dreaded of ecological effects, seasons. Don't talk to me about "Oh, the Pretty Colors!" I've seen colors; after the leaves fall off all you've got is a dead tree. Don't talk to me about, "Oh, it's just dormant!" It looks the same, and if you want to be surrounded by symbols of death all the time help yourself. Besides, it's soon enough that the snows come too and you've doubled your insurance payments because someone else rear-ended you. Is this any way to live? Not really. But then again, there are parties and presents and that does help. You get together with friends you'd thought were so long gone, who'd taken some of bad advice and went into hermitude or offed themselves with a 45, and suddenly there is this warmth. You embrace, you kiss, and you pass around some holiday punch or a bong and that bitter cold outside is almost nothing more than a memory. We are social creatures and we can dispel the sorrow of the season through our societal interactions. Embrace, encircle in your arms, roll, tumble, have sex, whatever, we can get through it all, together. |
 | There was once a man from Nantucket. But I wasted his ass with just one shot and that's all it took, his innards plastered against any nearby surfaces that were willing to accomdate them; they dripped slowly thanks to the inexorable gravity that pulls everything regardless of race, creed, color, or substance down towards the center of the damned earth. And what of it? What of anything for that matter? There's nothing for anyone in the end; you could live a life of civilized virtue, the paragon of your peers, and suffer a freakish premature death, ending your awareness instantly. Or you could be the most despised person on the planet, killer of children, raper of anything that moves, and suffer the equivalent terminal effect, and in the end, effecting nothing, becoming nothing, transforming during that ultimate experience into nothing. Nothing. That's what awaits those moments we call consciousness. Yes, they're filled with brief periods of delight, of sadness, of joy, of melancholy, of equanimity, of ecstasy, of woe, of huge burdens and hardship, of airy flights of fanciful happiness; but regardless, they lead, in the final summation, nowhere. To annihiliation. To nihil. Nil, null, and nothingness. Go on! I dare you. See you on the other side? I don't think so. Tell you what, you go to the other side, and I'll stay here, and listen to The Other Side, and grab from the maw of eternity what experiences I can. The more, regardless of their quality, the merrier. You die. I'll be right here. |
 | A past life worked
on a plantation in Jamaica, working fields with hands,
feeling the moist soil reach deep under the fingernails,
cool under the bright yellow Jamaican sun, connecting earth
and sky, becoming one with the connection, becoming the
conduit between which the connections that are so essential
to the proper functioning of the universe go missing, the
reason why so many things have gone so wrong in the present
day. The soil's moisture I can still feel under my nails,
now pristine clean as they tap over the pearly white keys;
this thing is no earth device, no way by which we can regain
that earth/sky connection, a robotic extension through which
thoughts may fly but artifical, cold, metallic, and sterile.
Not soft and moist like that rich soil, like a lover.
Carressing the earth with those old hands, cultivating plot
after plot of the gifts of the earth; it was what an older
generation would call good, honest work. Is this a lament?
Yeah, but probably only because I miss all that weed. |
 | DJ'ing, mixing, spinning, controlling the minds of many through musical ministrations; you navigate through mental dimensions. Intensity of thought recombines and recapitulates ontogeny. Philosophize this, bucko, for the brain pulsates with neurotransmitters that send searing sensations streaming sideways into sentience. Awareness? Pfft. Toke up another one and send that pathetic side effect away, far far away. Far and away. This and that. That and this. This. That. Thtptptptt. I.M. not the supervisor. I.M. the dishwasher. Crayon nebulizers right through the ear and the DJ spins on and on. So happy birthday, Granddaddy DJ! I raise this glass of ayuhuasca to you! |
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There's something wonderful about insanity; you can never be sure what your own brain is telling you about the universe. There's a tree outside my window, bursting with life, bursting with color; is it really there? Is it really such a lovely thing? Have my own delusions spread a veneer of the fantastic on everything around me? Or is reality as mundane and pedestrian as I suspect it really is? My insanity won't let me answer the question; and that's OK. With my insanity here with me, I'm never alone. If it amplifies the quality of every sensation, then so be it. And if it doesn't, so be it. |
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But the best part is I can laugh maniacally. I can cackle and guffaw and jump around and have so much more fun with my broken brain then all the rest who let the rules of society compartmentalize every action into a set of rigid constraints: you can smile, but not open-mouthed; you can be melancholy, but not sad; you can even dance, just don't move around too much and if at all possible avoid any physical contact. But when you're insane, when your brain's broken, the extremes are your home. I can grin and beam; I can cry until my cheeks are raw; and I can jump 10 meters high when I dance. |
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I am nutjob. |