It shouldn't be that hard to find a parking place, but an element of perfectionism has you driving round and round the parking lot. You want to be close to the front, maybe in the shade. You definitely want to park somewhere you remember. You're going shopping, and for God's sakes you shouldn't have to get lost here. Wal-mart superstores have cameras on the front-facing wall of their stores. The cameras see you roll into place and start that walk from the huge lot to the inside of the store. You try to ignore the other people as you enter; once you're inside, a friendly gust of air conditioning passes over you. Imagine, the origins of these products. Taiwan, China, Mexico, America, all the places where people work at factories to oversee the mechanical assembly of pens, spray fans, and leather phone cases. The products, with their labels slapped on at a rate of thirty per second, are a necessary part of your life in America. You choose wisely, based on information put on the back, which items you want to trade currency in order to take home with you. You form a special bond with those most familiar products you always buy, memorizing their location in the store. It's like rainbow dynamite exploded in the middle of the floor, all the labels under the fluorescent lights blinding.. So many colors, things of all shapes, and God, the boxes. Oh, the boxes, how they come flying down, landed, busting open with all these Dixie cups flooding out. The boxes are ripped open by stockers and kept track of by people who deal inventory, shelved, ready-to-buy. The cardboard's packed tightly in a giant pallet for recycling and placed out back. You wonder if they sell their trash. You grab the deodorant. You live another day..
Saturday, August 13, 2016
Wednesday, April 20, 2016
Thursday is tomorrow
Tomorrow, Thursday, I have an appointment. There are two people I will see. The second one is helping me improve social skills. I didn't know where to start at first, but I think its working a little. I might need to tell her I broke my promise, though :-X
Friday, April 15, 2016
Missing in action
I have never done the thing I wanted to most. I have no chance of ever doing it again and it has been my driving force for years. I wanted to meet a fictional character who I knew existed. But now, he's running away from me faster than I can keep up.
When I tried my best to jump up the social ladder, I called it upward mobility. These words have been buzzing in my head since I became unemployed and left the normal world. I planned to rent an apartment, get some furniture, buy speakers. All on a budget of basically zero. The speed I wanted to rise out of the social underworld was the main caveat. I had to get my furnished apartment quick, because there was no way I could work a job in that condition, or save money. I was totally manic and I wanted to save the world. It's not far-fetched, if you consider I was 22. I needed a bit of status, and I knew I deserved it because of my intelligence. I wanted to be able to make decisions that I could follow through with and worked in favor of my interests. It wouldn't have been difficult to rise to a higher strata than the social world I lived in at the time. But I was utterly stuck.
I updated my goals when I ran out of opportunities. I drew out money in personal loans, I racked up student debt: all in my plans to eventually find this person. I broke relationships with friends and family members, being all-too-frustrated I couldn't get free. I adjusted mentally to be more relaxed. It was too much strain on me emotionally to keep searching. I had one last plan, and it has been the one that failed today. I paid a typographer hourly to assist my writing. Well, I was billed by a typographer. I never paid, but it was for good reason. It was an entirely online contact, and I wanted it to be personal. I wanted to pay her when I was in the full-swing of book-writing. But I've waited too long. This pure idea I had for a book is disintegrating. If I had already begun the book, I would have paid her. But I backtracked, and decided to edit these stories I have. Now, I'll pay the debt in time. But it won't be soon enough. It's 2016, 2 years after Blow Up Ship. My course is now a slow one, and like a great steam barge I might one day find myself crashing on Caesar Naples' shore. But my outdated ship technology won't get his attention in my hot-air balloon. My slave-driven boat. My coal-powered steamer.
When I tried my best to jump up the social ladder, I called it upward mobility. These words have been buzzing in my head since I became unemployed and left the normal world. I planned to rent an apartment, get some furniture, buy speakers. All on a budget of basically zero. The speed I wanted to rise out of the social underworld was the main caveat. I had to get my furnished apartment quick, because there was no way I could work a job in that condition, or save money. I was totally manic and I wanted to save the world. It's not far-fetched, if you consider I was 22. I needed a bit of status, and I knew I deserved it because of my intelligence. I wanted to be able to make decisions that I could follow through with and worked in favor of my interests. It wouldn't have been difficult to rise to a higher strata than the social world I lived in at the time. But I was utterly stuck.
I updated my goals when I ran out of opportunities. I drew out money in personal loans, I racked up student debt: all in my plans to eventually find this person. I broke relationships with friends and family members, being all-too-frustrated I couldn't get free. I adjusted mentally to be more relaxed. It was too much strain on me emotionally to keep searching. I had one last plan, and it has been the one that failed today. I paid a typographer hourly to assist my writing. Well, I was billed by a typographer. I never paid, but it was for good reason. It was an entirely online contact, and I wanted it to be personal. I wanted to pay her when I was in the full-swing of book-writing. But I've waited too long. This pure idea I had for a book is disintegrating. If I had already begun the book, I would have paid her. But I backtracked, and decided to edit these stories I have. Now, I'll pay the debt in time. But it won't be soon enough. It's 2016, 2 years after Blow Up Ship. My course is now a slow one, and like a great steam barge I might one day find myself crashing on Caesar Naples' shore. But my outdated ship technology won't get his attention in my hot-air balloon. My slave-driven boat. My coal-powered steamer.
A powerful person leads a hidden life, but doesn't let his internal conflict show outwardly. He lives a deep fantasy world in order to function in modern weather storms, but people see him as a family man. He might have all kinds of hidden knowledge on strange topics, but he shows few remarkable characteristics. At most, he commands an air of strictness, which is mistaken for authority. But the truth is he's hiding a complex inner world.
Some things are so complex they appear simple. The political structure of the United States has layers upon layers of complexity, but in the end it appears to have only two parties, two candidates, two options: left or right, two issues: to vote or not. The system is so simple that your vote does not even have an effect. The cover-man for the political system, a. k. a. the president, is either chosen by authorities or is so predictably a winner that he might as well have been chosen. The second layer is the government bodies like legislature and judicial, and then, even more hidden, is the real internal conflict of the nation: agents, police, FBI, CIA, and all those subterranean influences that have real power.
An adequate politicians hides all this. A great politician hides it without hiding himself.
Some things are so complex they appear simple. The political structure of the United States has layers upon layers of complexity, but in the end it appears to have only two parties, two candidates, two options: left or right, two issues: to vote or not. The system is so simple that your vote does not even have an effect. The cover-man for the political system, a. k. a. the president, is either chosen by authorities or is so predictably a winner that he might as well have been chosen. The second layer is the government bodies like legislature and judicial, and then, even more hidden, is the real internal conflict of the nation: agents, police, FBI, CIA, and all those subterranean influences that have real power.
An adequate politicians hides all this. A great politician hides it without hiding himself.
Thursday, April 14, 2016
The not-drinking post
When you have diarrhea from not eating, it might be the drinking. When you get in fights you can't even explain, it might be the drinking. When you're drinking every day, it might be the drinking.The best way to knock a week out of the calendar is not by drinking. Drinking to "wet your whistle" will only lead to over-drinking. A different-sized bottle does not limit the amount you will drinking. A different brand of liquor will not change your habits. Having a genetic predisposition to addiction will cause your drinking habit to take over your life. There are things you can't do when you're drunk, including driving and making friends. The cost of drinking is minimal, at about $5 for a fix, which will make it very easy to justify drinking every day. Your body will become addicted as quickly as your mind, making you shake in the mornings after. Walking off a hangover is not a source of aerobic exercise, which you'll be needing due to the strain on your heart. But as quickly as you can walk to the liquor store, you'll still have to wait until 10 AM. And by not drinking on Sunday, you're not proving you can make it without a drink. You're only proving the liquor store is closed that day. Taking more than one shot at a time does not validate drinking. Replacing liquor with shots of hot sauce does not work. Hangovers will feel normal when you wake up to one every day for a month. Your medication will mix with the liquor to cause angry outbursts. The taste of liquor will bring back memories of drunken days wasted. Your middle-of-the-day naps will make a waste of your drunken days. Your creativity will not be enhanced. Slowly your memory will suffer. You'll think being drunk is the way you are. You'll use excuses to drink with friends so you can drink. You'll be rude to the store employees who know you have a problem. You'll be maladjusted to a normal day cycle. People will start to notice and take advantage of you.
If I only had known this five years ago when I turned 21.
If I only had known this five years ago when I turned 21.
The grey-end of a nonsense nuisance.
In the week of the conjugated "I", a feeling of hate bubbled from the unused water spout. Bubbling red ink-spots spilled on the ground, a signal the hatred had begun. No thing takes out stains from the ink-spout left behind by the awesome blobs. It was a permanent stain. This area might need to be forgotten, with its permanent stain in the universe breaking the rule of the conservation of energy by matter. In essence, nothing was permanent, except this essence. A red ink-spot on an otherwise spatial plane. An incredibly dirty red stain.
But in the other spot there was an easily washable green. It was a marker with smell. A new gimmick developed by Crayola to add scent to the scene. But the smells were all like candy and ink, themselves, making the smelling markers a bit more useless. They smelled, sure, of nothing. Not many gimmicks have the credo required to add scent to its product. It's a giant cliche that smells add nothing to a products likability. People keep buying scented products, sure, but none of the scents are real. Although there is one I remember, dirt. That's an authentic scent. Leather, dirt, new car smell, all fine scents for any product, including, but not limited to 3D-printed products.
Somehow the extra-spatial void described a delusion un-face-able. A plan of belief so wrong it is impossible to think of without going insane. It's a single thought that lasts a millennium. A fake idea tempered to make the human brain stop working. No one who survives the description of this delusions remains alive with their sanity, although most die. It is not a good thing to think of, let alone write down.
There is nothing on the planet green without a smell about itself. No green thing escapes the sense of scent, be it cut grass or old mold. All of it has at least a tiny scent. The planet is full of smells, all of them natural. But there is one smell which must not be smelled. It is the smell of awakening. It's a stimulant that takes people out of the dream of their lives and forces them to face the meaningfulness of their lives. To many, it's completely unexpected while being fatal to their rational mind. Some die, others live on after the smell. But the stench of it steals your sanity. It is a natural smell. It is found at the center of the earth. It awakens a part of your mind that remembers its tiny place in the sub-galaxy, of the post-galaxy,universe, and subsequently multiverse. Aliens have no problem with this smell, but humans,who are behind in evolution, absolutely hate it.
But in the other spot there was an easily washable green. It was a marker with smell. A new gimmick developed by Crayola to add scent to the scene. But the smells were all like candy and ink, themselves, making the smelling markers a bit more useless. They smelled, sure, of nothing. Not many gimmicks have the credo required to add scent to its product. It's a giant cliche that smells add nothing to a products likability. People keep buying scented products, sure, but none of the scents are real. Although there is one I remember, dirt. That's an authentic scent. Leather, dirt, new car smell, all fine scents for any product, including, but not limited to 3D-printed products.
Somehow the extra-spatial void described a delusion un-face-able. A plan of belief so wrong it is impossible to think of without going insane. It's a single thought that lasts a millennium. A fake idea tempered to make the human brain stop working. No one who survives the description of this delusions remains alive with their sanity, although most die. It is not a good thing to think of, let alone write down.
There is nothing on the planet green without a smell about itself. No green thing escapes the sense of scent, be it cut grass or old mold. All of it has at least a tiny scent. The planet is full of smells, all of them natural. But there is one smell which must not be smelled. It is the smell of awakening. It's a stimulant that takes people out of the dream of their lives and forces them to face the meaningfulness of their lives. To many, it's completely unexpected while being fatal to their rational mind. Some die, others live on after the smell. But the stench of it steals your sanity. It is a natural smell. It is found at the center of the earth. It awakens a part of your mind that remembers its tiny place in the sub-galaxy, of the post-galaxy,universe, and subsequently multiverse. Aliens have no problem with this smell, but humans,who are behind in evolution, absolutely hate it.
Tuesday, April 12, 2016
The way I write a blog post, either in the morning or the middle of a busy day (because I never let things distract me from writing) is by capturing my thoughts themselves. It takes a head full of words and thoughts to capture a blog post. I have to launch my brain in a certain direction, then, when I'm in the middle of some great idea, I begin to write it down. The momentum from when I first started a thought carries through as I'm writing and the topic changes. Then, I'm writing at a faster pace and getting more ideas down in a smaller space. But I sometimes write in a coordinated, careful way. That's when I write from an outline and I have a specific message to get across. Sometimes I mix both forms of writing. I enjoy them both equally, the academic outlining-kind-of-writing and the stream of consciousness discovery-kind-of-writing. Sometimes I even make up words. Like blog. Oh wait--
Blog is a word full of questions. Where does it come from? Whats the root of the word? Why does it sound like burping? Why is it such a common word in our lives, so that we all know what it means, but it is such a new word? Is the internet boom the sole reason we know this word? Or, in fact, have blogs been around for generations, just waiting to be given the name "blog?" In being named blog, the form of a published journal was given a new kind of cathartic silliness, with updates being a sure way to release tension in the mind. So, in the blogs of past, were they not relaxing to the author? Have previous iterations of this idea we now call blogging been actually dangerous? If they were dangerous then, why is it not dangerous now? Or is it? Will I be more stressed out, more strung out, more targeted, more questioned, doubted, hated, and infamous for writing in my blog?
I'm really not sure. I think blogging is safe for the most part. At most I might be viewed as an annoying distraction in the news feed. I don't honestly thing writing a blog puts me on a hate list. I don't think its hugely controversial. I could say just about anything and not make any enemies. I could post every day and not be cast out of society. I can't get put on a government list for blogging, I won't be stalked, I won't be deleted from friends lists and I won't be blocked out of people's lives. Oh wait--
Is Facebook the dangerous form of blogging? Is being in the public arena with our Facebook accounts giving us an excuse to hate each other? When writing your thoughts and journaling your day might have been viewed as more risky, was writing that journal the same danger level as using Facebook? Before Facebook, was blogging a safe new way to journal, paving the way for the more masochistic form of Facebook posting? Blogging was a safe way to get thoughts out of your head and express them, but Facebook is a way to tell the world you who you disagree with. All kinds of Facebook drama is possible through the social network. Facebook is like blogging without smart words like blog to avoid tension between people who do it.
When Facebook doesn't get you put on a list or make you hate your friends, it will be on the level of blogging. But, because the human condition loves risk and drama, that will probably never happen.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)