Blue Ink # 2 – a dissociative soundtrack

Conversations on the bus are limited by a quiet decency to get along – to make no one any less comfortable than already and the tactic includes going deeply internal, into the glowing screen and headphones – put off an I get along alright vibe, thank you & thankfully not cold enough to blast the defrosters and make us sweaty, make us more uncomfortable than already.

This feels familiar and uncomfortable – anonymous, surrounded by people who care for each other, love like a credit card kept open, “enjoy your promotion.” What is doing the feeling is a sense of suspenseful unwelcome. I know I can expand within Seattle and become an interactive body among the other connected bodies…. (?) …. clearly not enough. Do you know who is hiring around here?

For this to work best it requires cleaner edges, and consistency in font size. Style must be constant enough – it is the same night confined and tessellated here after-all. Consider this a timely prototype and later patterning colors and statements and font size variable based on the importance of what is said.

We are deep within the season of edges, a thin channel walled in by socked-in coasts, like I’m in a rowboat with you and you are unaware of the dangers. Fins multiply, wind picks up – so drink up, have fresh hop while it lasts, love your freedom, assert your empathy, we will be alright, this boat is endless. I did not mean to frighten you with what you avoid.

The choice between noise-punk and indie goddess is decided with a vegan blt. It is ten past 8. Both shows start at 8. The noise punk National play last, giving me time, plenty, while they chop and slice and pile fries, toss dirty knives into a bowl of soapy water, change the radio station, shoot the shit for a minute… it will be a longer show in this manner. It will take me deeper.

(something weird happens here supposedly)

Jesus, I’m not going back there. Instead heading up to see noise at Chop Suey while this prose snowflake unfolds. If you are reading this, understand it as meta, and know this electric navy blue as the beginning of an idea. To fill little spaces, folded, of a full piece of paper, lined, torn out of a notebook, once straightened out and framed, what a nightly kaleidoscope it will make.

Disconnected to the mechanical metaphor of interlocking parts of the city with fiery clarity, this is something I know too well, this disconnection. It will take great effort to enact redemption – moxie, art. The visuals are all there, the substance is out or not quite in – the beauty of a dissociative soundtrack – a glitchy silent film – an anxious pull toward meaning, toward fulfilling work (no one is hiring, the (…?…) is violently competitive.) “Keep up your spirit,” says a whiskey label.

making arrangements

When I materialized back into my body, I realized the coma had broken. There he was, the body I thought I had, but aged slightly, a year, or more, maybe 5 years there resting under the eyes, wrinkles from frowning covered by  beard, it is a seasonal, he told himself, this only happens during the fall transitions, he thought. I am not going insane I am just losing my chlorophyll, bleeding green as it were, and heading into hibernation after hibernating all summer and barely eating enough roots to keep the cave warm. Strangely, and with great hope, I feel I am in the process of resurfacing. Making plans, looking forward to things, all some weeks after becoming shockingly 25 years old and feeling the same sense of estrangement as the 16 year old cigar smoker buried somewhere in the lungs 9 years aged, the wooden heart metaphor, yeah, sure. Nesting dolls. Fabric covering the body no longer fit in. Larger sizes. Mental pingpong. Gasping for air, breathing for the first time in months air unfiltered through a straw or a pond reed or here it is the moment of transition, again, and again, the bursting forward. Is it ever going to stop? Will I ever want it to? This hope for the future always happens in the resolute fall. The endless winter looming. Matt says, “Fall’s always been our season. There’s something in the transitions.” and I can’t argue. I’m no summer lizard (at least whoever I was summer ’16 was not a lizard, more a different species of something hibernating… the unseasonal human boy until fall when everything becomes practical and shares mortality and breathes with cold truths and shoves trees through houses and powerlines and all that.)

I am awake and alive and feel okay.

Say often.

I am alive and okay. Awake.

Repeat.

I am alive to my feelings. Something internal gave the okay to wake up.

Okay, now. Wake up.

Here I am. What good will come of this day now I committed to it.

Indentions

I filled up the gas tank of the old focus at the dusky Valero en route to the house I grew up in after a 10-8 shift at the flavored vodka factory (where factory means marketing engine, settled nerves, crazed expressions of self-worth, and eventual quiet where everyone in the board room meeting looks down at their hands or flickers their pencils until start blurring and looking rubbery). Lines in my head from Edward Abbey, although I must question some of his tasteless terminology, his ideas about the reason for wilderness, the immersion into the raw experience of life that every other (unpampered) creature must entertain for themselves to remain alive is an exhilarating reminder of why one has whims to remove oneself from the bubbling potions and screeching garbage trucks to move away and into the otherwise unknown beyond. Beyond.

The desire to be elsewhere found itself settled onto my heart at the gas station. The probably gas station where Mike bought me my first cigar, when I was sixteen and not supposed to do such things, but such cool older friends and kept it to myself later how young I will die because of the decisions I made in high school ( who said that, a camp counselor? ) no one said anything about that other than statistical data base computers, and the people who run them for the morgue, the health service, the hereditary alcoholic research group, the liver control board, the mash tank stopwatch kept under close watch, because profits, always because profits and never for consequences, because profits can be spent before consequences catch up.

I imagined the car and the gas pump in a different locality, a desert offshoot somewhere it was crucial and not just a dumb little chore. Somewhere the next gas had to be factored in for the drive, a kind of odometer of the sense, the feeling of lurching toward a new freedom from want, but always finding more want when getting there.

Drive the car its 275 miles before it is dead and leave it there for the vultures. What then? Well, pick up some quality boots before this time of crisis and slowly drain that stupid savings account, the one meant to be spent on music equipment and later travels. Drain now, what are you waiting for, winter is encroaching and removing the summer of its plans, it becomes a cold blur and something without sunrises or sunsets just a factory with indentions of being between the beams of conscious nightlessness and letting go of other inhibitions, in the sultry consumerism of a growing little city, the kind of love affair that lasts until He is done and let the capitalization mean everything possible to you, to you with your ego driven pesticide spraying on the beaches and shorelines of a beautiful estuary we all share, the sea stars, the humans, the sand fleas, and the herons, the great blue herons forced to search for a new rookery and the conservative anti-nature lobotomists who actively (frighteningly actively) believe in the removal of such “pests” for the benefit of condo views, uninterrupted housing developments, and flavored vodkas in the more to top on their bacon raffle tickets.

The title of this post refers to a Manchester Orchestra song of the same name. One that I heard on my way home and listened to three times in a row and this whole thing spun out of that experience and others. The base experience at $99 plus tax and the advanced experience, the one you get to take home, is an additional $49 plus tax. You need to fight the battles that matter to you personally and not get caught fighting against swine who will fight among themselves anyway.

February 19

Please excuse me for my nonchalant passive absent minded talk. There were words that needed to be said and a format to say them in and a way to convey thoughts as they occur in nature, as they fire across my internal retinas, as the motorcycles burst out the window, a calendar event reverberates at me, in small wave pools, tidal creatures swaying swaying. I’m sick of being such a jellyfish and I want become an orca whale, sonar crackling, singing under water like a god damn ambulance siren. Coax me to your island. No time for passivity, for not knowing yourself, for keeping distance from your desires and letting the wills of others weigh on you. Said better, I’m letting the will of others guide me too much. My decisions sometimes do not feel like my own. If any of these decisions were criminal (such as stealing a roll of toiletpaper and a scone) then who could be blamed but me? I could, if caught for something, plead insanity in a blame that god uses me as a puppet. Something like the zodiac who murdered people because he believed they would all be his slaves in the afterlife.

but not that, too drastic. Social upheavals within myself aside, I want to break out of present sloth and carve into passion with a hurricane force. The force of a burning cruise ship smashing into sleepy docks. The noise a cat makes when it sees birds flying out the window. The smell of marijuana mixed with black and mild. I will die if I do not create art of some kind. I would melt into a skeleton or sprout into a vegetable on the couch or become ice cube in a freezing river, nothing short of impossible to stop a motivated mind. Now motivate>

June 3rd – Day & Nite

9:57 am

Slumber stays in the corners of my eyes like an anchor weight, a ship pulled down into depths, the chain tangled up in tentacles, and my mind is drowning in a daze unlike one I have felt in awhile. To wake up utterly asleep and to expect to function and to succeed on an exam and to begin writing two essays and to feel okay through the whole thing like I don’t need caffeine as a crutch this depraved morning. Insomnia has haunted me as a physical presence for a number of nights. I should exorcize and survive.

This quarter = a time warp. I burrowed through a tunnel into the future with my gnashing teeth and torn up fingernails. Somehow, oh god, I’m about done with a second quarter among a few dollars worth. Am I any more educated? Or does this all amount to a deeper debt and a more profound confusion because my stripes are revealed… I cannot stay hidden and write in the shadows of other pretense, oh music sure, but what are motivations? What is the driving force behind them, fear? Now when I must succeed with the brightest flying colors imaginable I wake up sleepily, fail to dream happily during the night or day, crumble into myself like a canvas painting suddenly removed of its frame perhaps by a hurricane wind, or a monsoon, or a dust storm, or a typhoon, or lightning, or thunder in the rumbling distance, but then it shakes the house and is it a sonic boom from a jet or an earthquake or an epiphany?

Under the microscope. My own heart pulsing and pumping fluids out into the sea. Somehow I must reconcile. I must move forward with a skeleton smile. If my skin dissolved. I would be smiling without choice.

I wonder my passions and if my distractions are always so big and prosaic and transient that I will forever be forbidden from a raw creation of any of my ideal visions. What I need are artistic friends who push boundaries and talk about interesting things. I have them in the periphery. Inspire me, oh great philosophers, oh mountain climbers, bury those ashes at low tide so they wash in and scatter over the shores to be discovered biologically involved with the tide pools, the urchins and their secret mouths and the poison stings of miscellaneous ocean born blobs that no one pokes with a stick anymore because it was thought of as a bit of unrecycled plastic and the chemistry of the ocean changes which then will change the chemistry of our skin if we swim in it too much.

Self motivation. The commitment to writing. Reading. Music. Something. Something voracious. It is all so half assed and the growth so slow. Not even in college upon my return do I feel as productive as I can be. Blame alcohol. Blame isolation. Blame poor routines for even the simplest and healthiest activities that feel honestly good and provide a natural high, a natural energy. Running, for example. Desire to find myself a bike and sell the old bass cab. Use the money for Europe, that odd thread dangling out in front of me like an oasis or a mirage and I can’t tell what the hell it is yet though it is a disconcerting break in the landscape like a roaring waterfall suddenly appearing in a slight creek you were rowing in with your angry when drunk girlfriend and two bottles of wine and she stares at you instead of at the open and gently passing scenery, the every and each moment that holds more beauty than capable to describe but this is not an admission of failure. Perhaps the “…word-paintings…” and then some truth.

9:18 pm

I have sorely neglected accurately explaining my existence in this apartment. In Seattle as a ghost in a small community of ghost cottages. My windows have dried up rose brushes pressing against some of them. None have screens and when I leave them open flies and spiders practically flock in as if they thought it was a good thing to be so domesticated. The neighbors all close up their blinds in fear. Many I’ve never seen open. I’m sure people live there, somnolent and sleeping with eyes open, in the fabricated light of lamps and television screens. Life is too short and ugly to miss every sunset. All are unique. Maybe it is because your favorite show is on at that time. You realize the time of the sunset changes every night slightly. Your consistency has turned you into a piece of machinery. A blind chopping motion at a meat processing plant. No blood on your hands because you wear gloves.

When I ran earlier I saw feet kicked up on ottomans in at least 6 windows. A numbing light coming from a wall I am parallel to. May as well be a mirror to their dead or dying, dehydrated and malnourished dreams. I ran and when I lost myself the music and the flowers and the breathing in earthy scents all combined into a single sensation of selflessness. Not the mission trip kind. That is not selflessness. That is acting like a sieve for an organization that does not appreciate you unless you are money and the heaven’s gates are slammed shut if the donation hat does not make it back to altar. I sought out selflessness to appease a mounting anxiety about a huge amount of tasks surrounding the end of this spring term. Oh how neglected my writing and my study. I must keep my mind constantly in pitch with my environment. That is how I succeeded so readily in Arizona. I was a fine tuned machine. Now I need oil. Maybe I found my groove. There is no consistency for me. I should run to find a sunset viewpoint every evening and return to my writing and my studies. I should join the circus. The impressions acquired through the day last and expand and must be exorcised or else I expand and bloat and explode like a great flaming blimp in that fatal sky that mortal day when the car flew off the bridge or the cliff and the meadows all sang sad mourning songs of a tribal tongue when all knew from somewhere. Where?

Where does it all go?

Firetruck

“Firefuck! Firefuck!” I yelled as it floated by with floral wreaths, slowly, somewhere in Tacoma, as a young boy. This outcry did not trouble me but my mother flushed red like the side panels of the machine I had pointed out. Ladder hung on the sides, men in small cabs and yellow uniforms, hats like conquistadors, enormous powerful hoses to dowse the greatest of fires and keep us safe from burning while we sleep. I thought of heroes though never got into comics or television at the depth of many children of my generation. It’s new! It’s great! Everyone is talking of it! No. I was a boy and I loved building empires with lego’s and cheering trains on as they passed. I sat on green lawns and squinted to the skies to form animals out of clouds. Half built a tree fort. The tree has since grown and the platform is no longer flat due to disproportionate growth between branches. 

Machines amazed me. They were isolated incidents. Networks of gears and steam that communicated through cogs and spinning wheels to accomplish a task. Demolish a building. Carry boxcars and hitch hikers across nations. Send people into space. Dowse fires and all. There were parade floats that filled my imagination with wild crime fighting tasks or the impossible scenarios in which I dreamed physically into my empires. The architecture of a child who made his fake lawn blue. It never was about emulating the machines or the nature I saw. I wanted to create my own machine for a heroic task, some closed, self-contained system that would extract kittens safely from branches, or trace around clouds and name scientific terms for their make and model, or the ability for a child to get a cloud down on tracing paper to create monsters or animals out of them, cloud tracing paradigms, musical delirium, it was always about experimentation, and then the physicality within my self that suddenly became sterile and nervous as I grew older. I wish to return to the first time I said “fuck!” without knowing what I was saying whatsoever! On my mother’s shoulders at the april parade. The flowers and streamers. a whole roadside crowd turned and laughed and I smiled, mother blushed. these are golden moments, all of them. the simple creation to develop the child mind into that of an adult should never stop. hence this. this simultaneous idea and creation forum of stream of conscious writing. 

it is a machine and an invention and inevitably unique and you should do it too because it makes you heroic to your future self