June 3, 2003

Meditating, washing dishes late at night in the dim overhead fluorescent light. Normally, washing the dishes would be a chore, but I'm relishing my work, taking my time with scalding hot water and the business end of a scrub sponge. Tonight, after spending all day on the couch playing hockey and feeling sorry for myself, I am finally doing something productive.

My wife is in the living room, laying in the warm glow of crappy television and drifting off to sleep. Between the bank fucking us out of $300 and partying Saturday away, we've had a long weekend. Tomorrow we'll be back off to work and school, valiantly fighting through another week to get to the good bits at the end.

For some unexplainable reason, there's a Neil Young song stuck in my head. I haven't heard it in many years, and I'm reduced to humming because the actual words disappeared into the dark tunnel of the past. I guess that, in my quest to eliminate all the bad memories, I've also lost some things that weren't so bad. I wonder what else is in the bottom of my soul that is too water-logged to float back up to the surface. So much difference between the naive high school me of yesteryear and place I find myself so many years later. I wouldn't want to go though it again, but it's good to be here.

I get my wife off the couch, and we go to bed drowsy and happy. I still have prune skin on my hands from an hour spent in soapy water. I've never felt so clean.

I hate to talk about my problems, especially to people. However, I cannot ask for the slack I desire without explaining what has occurred. I have tried saying, "Please cut me some slack, and just don't ask," yet people still question, gaining themselves the pleasure of my vehement accusations and belligerent knee-jerk hostile reactions. What the FUCK do people not understand about "Don't ask.”? Do I have to fucking yell it at the top of my fucking lungs having already been fucked up by yelling, "Fuck!" out of my fucking anger at the forty and a half other million fucks who dared to fucking have asked after I fucking told them specifically to not fucking ask? What the fuck more could be more fucking specific and direct than, "Don't you fucking ask, you fucked up insignificant whore-fuck,"?

And oh, another thing. If I blow you off at a time like this, do not even begin to think that a fucking note handed to me during a lunch shift by some random fatass which uses big ass fucking words clearly far beyond your extremely limited fucked up mental capacity as fucking denoted by their incredulously fucked and far too blatant mis-fucking-uses and spellings will do anything other than make me fucking scream in the middle of the lunchroom, "You fucking miserable whore-fuck! What the FUCK makes you fucking think that I could give a fucking shred of a flying rats analy fucked ass about what your fucked up mind thinks? Just fucking fuck off, you pussy-fucked cheerleader wannabe."

Now that I am done with my string of 'fuck,' I merely implore you, if you desire to 'help' me, you corpulent ignoramus, to cease your with the actions taken upon your maligned view of comfort and do as I wish. You just want to help? Well if I asked you to do something, wouldn’t that maybe half imply that what I had asked of you would help? Here, I'll help YOU in this case - YES! It does well more than half imply that what I asked of you would help.

"Rinse and repeat."

I hate to talk about my problems, yet I do require some slack due to what has happened. Please, give me some slack now, and I will thank you and inform you later. To help, do as stated above unless otherwise directed. (Mind you, in wanting to help, you put yourself in a position to be directed by me.)

Also, now typing this has stopped my hyperventilation, but I am still short of breath. And FUCK NO! That does not fucking mean you fucks can ask now.

It is definetly not the year of the alpaca.

Many people in the Alpaca community, not only myself, have been losing animals this year seems at an unusually high rate.

I have spent the past two weeks bottle feeding a cria who's mom had died in child birth it was a huge learning experience that involved bottle feedings every two hours night and day.

The doctors have been keeping a close eye on her since her breathing was not as regular as a normal cria.

Today was a sad day - we buried both the cria and the mother side by side.

/me misses Peanut Brittle & Heather

This death is a slow one, this death is friction.

Listen:

There is a wall, made of language and logic and reasoning that I cannot penetrate. I cannot tell what the rules are beyond this wall, I cannot tell how it is that what I do is always so improper, so problematic.

I stumble and fall time and time again, thinking that what I am doing is correct. Appropriate. Just. In this, I cannot help thinking that I live alone.

I bloody myself via action and inaction, trying to make it to the other side through sheer will -- but stone is stronger than flesh, and every scar is forever.

I hear them, speaking to me through the skin. They whisper secrets and truth in another tongue, and I cannot make myself understand.

..

All things are a process; on a long enough timescale, the probability of any action will approach certainty.

The process of life will always resolve itself; the process of learning has no guaranteed resolution.

There is no comfort here.

...

The only things that seem real are half a lifetime away.

I just got back from my second trip to Italy in a month.
It seems more and more likely that I will try to return to torino to live at the end of this year. I have embarked on a new relationship with the most complex, loving, enchanting woman I have ever known.
Here in Germany there is nothing for me but a job and loathing, angst and isolation, the shattered remains of a relationship and a general sense of discontentment.

I recieved a letter from the monther of my ex-girlfriend upon my return from italy. In it she lays down her observations of me as a poor example of a human being. She accuses me of:

1. using people 2. not caring for anyone but myself
3. exploiting people to my own advantage
4. not being able to give without the expectation of recieving something in return

Heavy charges... She leveled them at me because of my refusal to pay my ex money for some bills that have arrived since she evicted me from out house and her life last december. I feel that I don't owe her anything, after all my ex eviced me without notice 2 weeks before christmas with the announcement that:

1. she didn't want to live with me any longer
2. she was in love with another man
3. i was to be gone from "her" house and her life by the end of december 2002

I say 'fuck her' and the money that she wants from me. After all she has no responsibility for the money I was forced to spend to move on or find a new place to live.

I may be guilty. I may be an asshole.

Anna says my ego is too big, that I am too certain of myself. In response to these issues I have begun to meditate daily on an image of the buddah and I have decided to seek out some information on how to put my ego on a diet.

As a start I am going to begin fasting once a week.

So... where is this all leading? Who knows. Not me. I'm not that sure of myself. I am thinking of becoming a more active buddhist. Maybe in some form of yoga and breath work, chanting and ceeding control to a higher power I can reduce my ego, reduce this sensation that I sometimes leave with others that I only care for myself. That maybe I can grow my compassion.

So as I move forward in this world I promise myself to try and address these issues with myself, within myself and outside of myself. I will not turn a blind eye to criticism. My life is in flux per usual. I find myself between countries, between dreams. I will follow my heart and my intuitaion and I will grow my higher self. This is something I wrote after the first trip to Italy which reflects (imho) what I am going for:
A trip to Italy surprises:

Revelations and inspirations.
Changes instigated demand a return to the original fantasy.
That night in 97 on the beach in Bari, those whispering voices, the kindly ones, the muses of my fate
- The moment has passed the dream is over.
Ripples resonate in still water.
I am both the driver and the driven.
I will not be damned to be forgiven.
Even the purist of romantics sometimes must compromise.
The hope of salvation, the necessity of love, the demands of an unfulfilled dream
Cary on, love is coming, the wheel is spinning, I can’t slow it down; love is coming to us all.
The lessons are learned.
The zeitgeist demands that life be lived and not simply observed.
I am not satisfied “getting by”
Take this, take me, return me to purity.
Half-step, half-man, learning to fly
Take that, take her, take the example set.
Give of yourself, give up on yourself.
Return to the source, return to your roots.
Fly, Blackbird fly…

There was a time and a place to tell me.

Why you chose the moment you did, I can't quite work out. Maybe you needed the time before to steel yourself, and thought the time afterwards would be good for us.

After all, we were halfway down a motorway - I wasn't going anywhere. You had me to yourself.

You touched my hand while you talked. It felt like I was being unknit. I don't feel much in that spot anymore.

Then there was silence. Perhaps you were talking and touching my hand - I couldn't say. My mind was elsewhere. Somewhere sterile. You did well to trap me there, in your car, but all your words had switched to hissing static.

That chart music was no good either.

I suppose the only preferable time was never, and the only preferable place was nowhere. So you did the right thing.

Note to self: Be less of a fragile wretch.

I want to be who I am now but have been someone else before.

Have you ever suffered this one?

I suppose most of us have at some point. It's the feeling that you quite enjoy being the ME you see in the mirror, which is good. But (I know But at the beginning of a sentence, naughty naughty!)... Anyway... But you really wish that you were the sort of person that went to X kind of social gathering Y years ago.

For me it's the feeling that I should have been much more into the Techno/Rave dance scene. This will never happen now. "Why not?" you say, well it may have something to do with the fact that I'm rapidly approaching 30 and I already get funny looks when I go to vanilla clubs.

Now there's nothing wrong with wanting to have been someone else as you grew up, this is healthy and normal I presume. You've got to remember thought, that if you were a different person then, you'd probably be a different person now. Obviously if I took lots of drugs as a teenager then I probably wouldn't want/be able to do my current job (which requires a VERY clean record to say the least).

So, I still sit here, at 4:00am in the morning struggling with the dilemma: Is it worth being someone else now so that I can be someone else in the past? Does that make any sense? Probably not. My grammar and vocab get worse and worse the sadder I get. (I wont say more depressed 'cause I've been depressed before and this aint it ;)

So I still sit here wanting the impossible. It really doesn't matter whether or not I think it's worth it to be some one else now, it isn't gonna happen. And realising that this is more a daylog than a write-up, oh well... Life continues.

Addendum: sorry about the whinging, it's a bit self absorbed, I know ;)

I went to bed last night and cried. While making love with my husband, I cried. Huge, gut-wrenching sobs. He held me close and loved me hard, and I cried.

I keep thinking about that today. Why did I do that? The sex was good, and I was most certainly in the mood. I really didn't get much satisfaction, though. I guess it wasn't what I needed.

I'm frightened. I've been toying with an idea for a while now. I'm afraid it might be true. After 20 years, I am falling out of love with this man. But he loves me more than ever. How can this be? How can I have let this happen? And how can I do this to my family?

Now what?

(part of my ongoing experiments into sleep deprivation, which I find unlocks the regulator on my mind and causes it to race)

... that kind of liberal self-hate seems to stem from a subconscious belief in one's own superiority and invincibility. It's the same as those conspiracy theorists in the 1990s, in that their belief required that the Establishment was in total control of everything, which it was and is not. No-one is in control. No-anyone or everyone in a pretty how town is in control. In fact, there is no control. There is no controller, and nothing to control, and no process of controlling, the three elements of a system, the object, the subject, the process. Always there are three. Hypothesis, antithesis, apprentice. That is my other driving force for today, this moment and the moments to come, the infinity of moments. The world is just irregular motion over land, there is nothing else. Living creatures are objects the move randomly. There is no global system of controlling this. I can move my arms independently of the Carlyle Group.

My three mottoes for The Today, therefore, are 'rape the roach' and 'there is no control', and also 'plug the pig'. I will continue to uphold these points of view until midnight, when they come to turn me back to the blue remembered horizon, and then I will be risen, my mind to take up all available space, flowing with the others, the concrete tubes all filled. We will all rise, each of us, like yeast, rising in the oven, in the light of the SunisGod. It would take a twitch, a sneeze, and the city would be torn from the subterranean organ and the pillars would be splintered, free then to move across the earth, leaving behind a pit of roaches. Blessed are the sneezemakers. Our salute to the power of human potential should be the sneeze. Do not put your hand in front of your mouth. Bless your fellow men with the gift of sputum. It is yours to give.

For this reason the establishment fears dust and pollen, which is why it is driven to destroy nature and replace the atomic with the substantial. Smooth surfaces are the enemy of the meatway. The crossways grid traps the dirt and sand and channels it away from the action, the cuts in the receiver added to the British SLR for the desert did not, nonetheless, make the weapon suitable for the promised land.

buzzing. It's not the tiredness, as such; I'm still young and I can keep it up with small naps, and soldiers punctuate their lack of sleep with actions of experiences that are much more traumatic than mine. The limiting factor is my skin, which becomes itchy, and it feels wrong, and greasy when I do not sleep. When I see a photograph of an F-14 Tomcat with half its wing broken off I feel for the aircraft, because I anthropomorphise technology, I relate more to it than I do to people. I feel sorry for the bird, the aeroplane. World war three would have been a tragedy to see those aircraft being shot down from the sky, just so callous thank God.

Our enemy is the mirror, the anti-nature. It gives us self, and isolates us from the organelectrogravitic sea of Is. In the human future of my ideal mindworld, light will not reflect. It will be absorbed and we will again be part of the whole, and we will be. Do not spurn the ray. It is the shaft of God. It is the hand of God. God's hands do not grasp, because nothing grasps; you cannot hold onto something without expressing the tragedy of losing contact, for there was an infinity before you held, and there will be an infinity after you hold. Your love will be over, but the ray of God will beam through the universe forever, and you will not be part of it.

What if it turns out that skin is a parasitic animal feeding on people, and our natural state is to be without skin, to be red muscle and blood vessels and tissue and bone, open to the elements? (the first break occurs here)

...the Goodyear blimp, which is in itself mankind's mockery of a cockroach, for it does not spread its wings, it does not split itself open, ripped open like a banana, yet it flies! It flies without resorting to self-mutilation, and nature has not yet produced a lighter-than-air creature that flies without effort, to live in the sky and feed on the clouds. Fart to Fly. Peeing poo plop-plop.

How much does a butterfly weigh, anyway? I can't find that kind of information on the internet because I can't think straight to find it, I'm just speeding against Google, typing in random stuff, can't get a grip on the useless information because my imagination is fired by Mellow Birds.

Ah, a butterfly weighs the same as two rose petals. That is the most beautiful analogy I have ever experienced, indeed the most beautiful thought I have ever had moving through my mind in my adult life. When I'm gasping my last few breaths out as the cancer ravages my body I will think about the fact that a butterfly weighs the same as two rose petals, but by then both butterflies and roses will be extinct, and the reminder of their loss will make me miserable. As time goes on the amount of butterflies and roses in the world must surely decrease, and that is wrong; it should increase. It is madness of us to create a circumstance in which this is not the case, in which the field mouse lives in fear and the trees are dying. When I go to battle my emblem will be a butterfly, its wings made of two rose petals, and guts will wave in the breeze having been unfurled from the stomachs of those who oppose.

100 butterflies weigh just over 1.22 pounds. You can buy them in bulk, in boxes, fragmentation and white phosphorous butterflies, ready to have the primers stuffed up their bottoms, ready to go BOOOM! and explode just like a woman. (earlier)

...yesterday I shot Terry Wogan, on the cover of his autobiography, 'Is it Me?'. He must have thought he was safe, hiding there, but he was not. Of the four shots I fired, the first three penetrated his nose, chin, and right eye, and the fourth shot penetrated the wall behind him in the photograph, because I closed my eyes for that shot, because the pellets were starting to rebound at me. Wogan lost and I won. He does not know it yet, but he is a dead man.

His head was roughly the same size as the aforementioned roaches, and thus I suggest that the most satisfying way of dealing with them would be via air pistol. Man and his technology vs nature and its technology - who will win? Provided the roaches are stationary, you will. They will die like Vietnamese; you will win the body count war, although in the long run they will eat your corpse and fuck your sunshine. You should rage, rage against the dying of the light! Rape against the dying of the light. Rape the Roach, that's my motto for today.

Chemicals and/or radiation are more economical methods of mass culling, and hold out more hope of a final solution of the cockroach problem, but they do not have the connection between killer and victim that an arises from the use of an airgun pellet. It is an extension of your hand that reaches out to perform the act, and the human hand is God's ultimate creation. No natural object surpasses it; God retired after he designed the human hand, and by using your hand against the roaches you are praising God in the highest. Chemicals, on the other hand - the left hand, the sinister hand - are an expression of another person's brain and a research laboratory and money. They are dishonest. Ultimately chemicals and radiation will win, but they do not exult the human spirit and the human will and the power of God to the same personal degree.

The cockroaches need to know what force is killing them, and you want to feel and see them dying by your hand, the hand of God. Revenge is nothing to be ashamed of. It is natural and wholesome. Our cold war nuclear strategy was based upon it. If one has the means and opportunity of revenge, it would be an insult to oneself not to act. To be. That is my message. To be. Vengeance against the flying menace. God did not trouble Himself overmuch when designing the cockroach; he does not care if you remove them from the universe. They mean nothing to Him.

And the cockroach would do the same to you. How many people before you have been terrorised by these airborne capsules of evil? Like children, they have no capacity for learning from experience, so the only way to deal with them is to kill them. Hang up your heart and obey your guts and your groin. If you are resigned to killing the cockroaches, you might as well take pleasure from it. Shoot them naked. Mock their armoured carapaces, which will not save them. The human animal has no natural armour, it is a fragile creature, a frangible creature, easily pierced and torn, but you are the daddy, the master of the world. Your weapon is your brain. The mission is a man. Your eyes are pies, and theirs are lies.