Check out my latest music offering here. Derived as a more popular drive, I’ve decided the album “P— C—” is generous compared to the next few compositions I intend to release. The initials of each song reveal the missing letters and the target audiences.
An Ideal Of Perfection
This time I started with a title because I knew exactly what I wanted to write. In the 20 minutes I was awake this morning, I felt guilt for exactly 3 actions. Three entirely different circumstances made me feel remorse, regret or anxiety about how they’d affect something separate from me.
The first was guilt about having to defecate. Each morning after I awake I urinate and sometimes defecate. My partner is getting ready for work, spending a little time in the bathroom before I’m there, tending to her face and hair. She leaves to get dressed and it’s my opportunity to get in and relieve a long night’s dream of activity, violence and excitement with visceral expulsion. I’m happily sitting on the toilet, debating whether I should remain in a headstrong state because the dreams of last night involved violence toward some bad people, or read about paleo-fitness and inspire a run and maybe more. Then I hear a gentle knock and a not-so-subtle, “Are you pooping?” The question doesn’t bother me, but I’ve heard it before. The tone is what gets to me, as do the two or three times last week the question was asked, leading all the way to the argument about pre-partner-preparation aromatization of the bathroom. I feel guilt about shitting.
The next bout of guilt was a few minutes later. On most, cold mornings I head outside 5 minutes before leaving to drop my partner at work and warm the car. I made it downstairs and opened the curtains, adding some light to a rather dark room and rousing a listless house. I was five minutes early so I sat looking out the window at my trash and recyclable bins waiting to be dumped, the vast array of speeding cars getting to and from school or work, and the few distant runners still encouraging me to shower, put running shoes on and head out for a jog. Yes, I’d wear shorts, a shirt or maybe two, socks, and maybe a hat and gloves. But no, I decided to have eggs and sausage for breakfast which cancels out early morning activity. Tangent. Anyway, I’m sitting and waiting for 8:15 to flash when my partner comes downstairs. She’s getting her lunch ready, checking her belongings – phone, wallet, ID tag – and I head to the kitchen to get a little closer to her before she’s gone for 8 hours. Oh, by the way, she asked if the bathroom stunk when I exited it, but at this point I didn’t hold it against her. As we’re standing at the table, she gives me a straight look, a look that makes me feel I have to do something for her to make amends, and says the “dog poop bags broke while I picked up gooey, slimy, soft shit.” Her hand went through the bag. How was I to take that? You have to understand something about my partner. Her nonverbal gestures, most expressively her facial gestures, reveal everything about her state. For years she’s denied I can’t gain anything about her emotions from them, but they’re just so damn revealing. Being early, and after the whole defecation thing, I snapped a bit. Not mean, but said ‘what am I supposed to do about it?’ She then continued on, maybe realizing it wasn’t my fault and I played along, testing a bag by sticking my hand in and opening it up to create a double-ended, opened sleeve. Just knot one side, right? Well, I felt some guilt there.
At this point in the 15 minutes of being awake, life is fairly good. Nothing too extreme has happened, and by that I mean no major arguments or voice-raising antics. But I’m starting to let it build without even knowing. It’s time to leave, we’ve made it into the car and brought along our female dog for the ride. She never goes alone, if ever getting out of bed in the morning to see us off. With the male, it’s much different. As I begin to back out of the driveway, just passing a young, urban-dressed pedestrian and pull onto the road heading to the hospital, I look into the rearview mirror and make a comment about him checking out the house. I also say I didn’t lock the door. Immediate panic is created. I shouldn’t have said anything because now we’re in a Q&A about security and how I should lock the door, but I never do because it’s inconvenient when I’ll only be gone a few minutes, but it’s insisted upon, or rather commanded that I lock the door from now on. And this is when I give a quick burst. I say ‘I don’t need to be lectured to.’ And my partner keeps going, and I say ‘That’s it, I’m done.’ It’s a habit I’ve begun to to indulge in, trying to stop conversations which will turn into arguments by saying ‘I’m done’. My partner is good at silent treatment but I can’t be silent. I have to declare the conversation won’t progress anymore. We get to the hospital, I drop her off, she said “bye” and I said ‘I’ll see you later,’ all with the intentional air of anger. We’ll have the whole day to get over it, but it should’ve never happened and I feel guilty. I’m writing this.
Three incidents in 20 minutes. Part me, part her. But honestly, many days it’s like a vortex of guilt, like I’m being jacked in the face each time I circle toward a new moment, the whizzing and twirling of my brain and accompanying sidekick of a mind continually being pummeled by an arch-nemesis. Over the last few days I began making strides to change myself for the better and the always. One of my tasks is to be more honest about how I feel. I’ve tried it in the past but didn’t have the temperament or patience to pull it off demurely. I think I can now, but I want to rush to the heavy stuff right away. For instance, my guilt about sexuality or the addictive trait. I want to deal with addiction myself but opened a fortune cookie yesterday saying, “A beautiful person is with you, confide your problems.” The first statement is decidedly correct, but I hesitate to confide my problems. I have many, one of which is having guilt for behaviors I do, which are being, and don’t enact, which should be becoming. Another is about sex. I have to fix it myself, I want to be completely honest, yet I understand how well my partner and I express insufficiencies to each other. Not well. I can’t lay blame, but she lives with an ideal of perfection I’ve never been a part of and my issues run violently deep.
I feel much better about my predicament. I feel ok concealing particular aspects of self-change and having to make up excuses later. I’m ok dealing with a problem when it arises rather than stemming the tide of perpetual happiness tainted with brief cresting. These are never longterm issues if faced now, and I’m facing them now, or at least adjusting traits most healthy and unhealthy to cater to a presumptive, ideal perfection. I can work toward that as long as I can be sure not to dismiss the nitty gritty. I was born into nitty gritty and want to die in the dirtiest, filthiest examples of human life. From a distance, of course, and with nothing but guilt for thinking about doing it.
Chopped, but wrought with a smile…
Generosity and the Celebration of Psychic Relief
There’s a level of personal, selfish relief that goes along with finally reaching this weapon of Bey’s anarchic magic. The fulcrum of sexual identity either enables easy passage to happiness and pleasure, or it restrains the traveler on an unquantifiable incline of day-tripping. With the immediate release of relational and sexual attraction to any and all plausible attractors, we don’t have to hesitate to fulfill layers of meta-rationalization with conciliatory drivel. Nope, we just head on through the thinly-veiled bubble of candid superficiality without a hint of leftover or residue. Unfortunately, there was quite a dramatic shift of paradigmatic action to get here. So let’s tell.
Generosity is psychic relief. Divulging shared, mental experience – dimensional action traversing landscapes of objective and essence-less depth – can acutely influence a panacea of heartbroken wanderers. Giving another individual insight into what ails us is like a hug, kiss, monetary donation or warm bed and meal. It’s simply a matter of perceiving it as such, with our long-strewn lines of flight from pointlessness to a zero-point metaphor for momentous malfeasance. The standard for celebratory, psychic relief condones counteraction to acceptable autosuggestion. In fact, the basis for each and every weapon of anarchic magic is the cosmically-playful retort and triviality of the ideology and epistemology so many people compound on. A reiteration of the koan ‘Look from one side to the other but never submit yourself to slur’ remains appropriately unsolved on the matter.
The expectation of real examples being undeclared frustrates the common activist desiring completion to attain celebration in infinite presence with finite essence. The movement is the celebration. The incomplete explanation is the generosity. If the attitude of a solution is intended to relieve psychic debt, where’s the remnant to prosper towards? What becomes obvious is the adage of the search as a precursor for more serious wonder/wander.
While attempting to retain a certain academic objectivity and lexicon along the same dialogical mindframe as previous weapons, a resultant, irresolvable potential fills the body. The congratulatory interactions necessitating psychic relief were present all along. The deep breath it takes to get from generously omitting one’s excuses from another person’s life, to reiterating every and all words taken to get to the purely intertwined causality of human and on to silence, arrives secondly. It was here, is here and is gone…but wait – another arrives! How aspiring the inspiration is!
Of the many anarchists and liberated thinkers who compose as a means toward anarchy’s majesty, the continued inscription is latent action and immediate gloom. On and on we drive forced, semantic energy into a structural formula for others in the same negative strata to understand and appreciate. The misstep lacks humor, lacks the slur and isn’t drunk enough to condone insult. We lack the self-awareness to commit flagellating aggrandizement of reverse schadenfreude, a spiraling slip into a decay of self-deprecating farts. Hold your breath now and the weapon of silence is even more powerful to meta-rationality, liberated consciousness, knowledgeable meaning and sex.
In conclusion, as I sit and use the first, recognized term of ego in American English, I look forward to silence. I see “The Language of Communicative Cognition” and want to skip right passed it, moving on to compose the word ‘silence’ over and over again. I then remember that my anarchic model of anarchaos relies on three words: less, simple, silence – roted throughout each and every weapon, subliminally or flagrantly. I want to get there so bad, so often, in the presence of others with brains gryried and sulcied as mine, or when faced with the instruments of death targeting the decimation of my anarchic allegiance. I will make a list, formality pending, but it won’t keep me from ending this, from my teleological de-notion of intentionality, Bey’s noema to my noesis. Your rhizome to my sprouting line of flight. The it to the me. The to…
Next and now: The Language of Communicative Cognition
Read above and look for words you don’t understand. Then sit and shut.
But honestly, the terms “communicative” and “cognition” reek of dynamism and ever-perpetuation. I can’t seriously describe a language of talk and think on the level an Umberto Eco would conceive of for a structural hierarchy of semiotics, or devise a Chomsky-Pinkerian tree branch of modulation for anarchist rhetoric. NP→V tangentiality is sterilized notation far beyond natural use, with the resultant process of realization from word after word composed tediously depicting feelings never arrived it again. I know Bey didn’t posit the arrival of a characteristic process, judging the process as uncharacteristic in-itself. There are faults in every statement and every cognitive strategy to remain logical in the realm of self-ridiculum scholasticism. And there’s no space in this root for anything more than what is there. So, again, read back through, understand you can’t understand and move on to the next weapon, the most powerful weapon an anarchist with clear conscience has against every organic deterrent not coalescing within a similar psyche. Be active in quiet. Less, simple, silence.
Now: Silence.
Many are loud and proud. How am I held back?
sExpositional Theories Of Healthy Mind
I may be reiterating some thoughts and words in this explanation of my mind. No one wants to hear it or see it. Truly, no one. Not because I’m alone or lonely or in solitude or singularity, but because it’s not a fragmented figment anyone need experience. There’s sex, violence, hate, insecurity and condemnation inside. I’m a scorned person who holds everyone else in contempt if they don’t get to know me. I can’t leave life to its own resolve, tainting the noosphere with negation as a balance for all those seeking the opposite. I can’t help how I think most days. I don’t resort to explaining it to myself using theory anymore. In fact, I don’t much care for conjecture to explain anything anymore. I criticize and move on, hardly acting on my opinions and resorting to what makes me mildly comfortable.
I was found out by my partner today. She realized I was purchasing lust, of which I had denied a few days prior. I don’t lie to her, but in this case I wanted to keep her out of one of my most troubling behaviors. I’ve mentioned to several people who are well aware of the fact, I’m an addict. I’m not addicted to one thing, goodness I wish I was, but tend to balance out my addiction to many things. Whether it’s alcohol or drugs, food, sex or anger, there’s a focal point for my ethos, or more like my thanatos. I get the two mixed up all the time.
A little more than a year ago I wrote a piece about depression and how I considered being a depressive for at least 10 years. I’m basing this thought on the fact that I hardly leave my home. I don’t go anywhere, question myself hourly, and finding myself repeating neurotic behaviors, of which I mentioned above. I’m social when I have an opportunity, but I hardly create the chances and would rather lock myself in my study all day until my partner needs to be picked up from work. It’s difficult motivating myself to do anything and I’m falling further into inaction, justifying the many causes I can support as unsupportable. I’ve even gone the extent of being intrigued by bicamerality, synesthesia and a slew of self-created mental illnesses as descriptions for what I have.
There’s infotania and chaosa, influencea and anarchaos. I have all these names for what other psychologists have described using neurosis, incongruence, schema of apperception, depression, schizophrenia, anxiety, bipolar, learned helplessness, Jonah complex, dissociation and on and on and on. I could grab a list from an abnormal psychology text, the DSM or even an intro text. But the truth is the rationalization of my mental deficiencies are my own and have my own flair. I won’t use another’s words to describe what they think my thoughtful, singular inadequacies are. I won’t resort to their paged methodologies for insight into my developmental history and subjective qualifications of it. I have to be creative for my own inspired health.
Some people see numbers as particular colors. Others hear musical notes and see particular colors. Synesthesia usually deals with vision, but are there more complex forms? I’ve thought about this issue a few times over the years, but have never taken time to investigate because I don’t delve deeper. I want to assert the ideas, destroy the theories of others I no longer respect. If my brain combines the ability to hear audible voices via bicamerality, and synesthesia allows me to integrate sounds with deeper psychological sensations according to Rudolf Steiner’s and Guy Murchie’s sensory descriptions, whose to say the relationship isn’t a new form of consciousness, one able to relate said sources into a process some call ‘ill’ but which I call alienated normality? Whose to say my senses of language, ego and balance aren’t modified or adjusted when I hear my subconscious whisper every last word into my ears so that I can’t tell if it’s me thinking what I’m writing or the little insect Silverfish Firebrat I’ve devised as my modern anthropod Jiminy Cricket?
Now that I’ve come this far with what I consider a wild assertion about myself, I’ve reached a wall. I’ve already moved my thoughts to something primal, something I know is me, something onanistic. If I find some beautiful, female stimuli to excite me, I can relieve my mind from the questions with self-pleasure. It’s an automatic response and therapeutic action to remove me from self-doubt and endless inquiry into mind. There’s no sophisticated, covert method to get around my dilemmas, no institutionally-regulated study to keep me busy in stress chambers before I’m placed back into a plastic tub with a plastic water bottle and food pellets as fine dining while lounging on high-priced cedar bedding. I’m stretching now, and not on an exercise wheel. That’s for hamsters and I’m nobody’s pet!
There isn’t a conclusion to this immediate impulse of explanation. I don’t have an ending or an epiphanic discovery to let you in on. Living humans, in this age, don’t have those anymore. If they do, they tend to be sold for dollars, not distributed for mass human consumption or become innovation and not fits of pure genius. I only retain my dignity and my desire to remedy what I tend to think is debilitating according to what you find out about me. I could care less if this is how anyone else lives, or if the mental phenomenon has been explained in correlates to someone else’s psychological evaluation. This is my brain and my expression of it. I’m not wrong and resent having to feel this way through words. Never should I be ashamed of what I have to do to remain a good person to others as long as I only hurt myself in the process.
This ending is weak and I think I should stop now.
The Shorn Mountain Woman With Face Metal
I desire like no other right now.
The short term memory of Jess invades me. Pushes me to a brink of wanting to head back out again. I can’t stop thinking about how beautiful she was, and I do it while my true love is in the next room. She was tall and blond, with shorn, boy-cut hair and a lip stud. She wore a shirt not unlike the flannel I was wearing, yet her personality was far from the mountainous warmth such a shirt would provide. That’s all my imagination allows to entail, yet I still feel the quick attraction and need for more. I’m driven toward her image, the physical nature which would not nearly match her mental gorgeousness - an untouchable fluidity of personal acceptance and a selfless sense of humor.
There have been other moments when such a sense of infatuation sedated me, with the first encounter ending in laughter at me. When a college freshman, I wrote a simple message about my attraction to a girl named Michelé. She was a thick and muscular Hawaiian volleyball player with cocoa skin and larger facial features, such as a little bigger nose. I was very fond of her appearance and observed her carefree personality on occasion. It drew me in because I was over-prepared for all matters, especially those of heart. When I handed the note to her in the computer lab, she read it, passed it to the few others she was with, and they all got a laugh. I was hurt, but at least she knew.
I also composed a message to Leann, a student in my German literature seminar but never followed through. Then there was this girl I saw in Williamsburg at Greenpoint Tavern, where a two-buck-fifty styrofoam 32 oz. Bud would give anyone the liquid balls to ask her out with a number and flattery taped to a rose in front of her boyfriend. She called back and said “Taken, but thanks for the compliment.”
But who cares about potential lust and desire when I hate.
I hate what I’m not doing and the need for balance. We’ve been subsumed by the eastern falsity of life balance. Even within individuality, such a search and activity doesn’t exist, and this isn’t coming from the skeptic. It’s who we are, who I am, throughout spectral mindspace and too appeasing to the faux-multitude of personalities. The truth is then left to the contrite procrastinator who instead waits for it to come to them. I’m not them though I’ve been placed in the role by love.
I want to kill and hurt, embrace and heal, but the severest of actions is limited to words tonight. I won’t jeopardize the movements of others I care so deeply for, yet I want to cry for my reality. I yearn for a tear of feeling, from anyone or any person, though I have a role to fill and am calm in such a state.
It is at this point in words I go to sounds in an attempt to conjure up true loss and nostalgia. The truth be told, I’m pleased with a generalized null of hatred. I can move it around from person to person, never allowing it to affect that which can’t hate me back at the same level. Only humans deserve to be afflicted with pain and anguish, torn into because of the true hypocrisy and cynicism toiled in, day in and night out. We’re the only beasts that transpire to hate mentally and physically, patterned to act upon the deepest recesses of dissatisfaction and primal, rational brutality.
The emotional movement allows me to keep it locked away for use when it’s needed, not luxurious. I take no privilege in the supreme confidence of transforming hate to violence without remorse. I cater to its inert suffocation, never allowing another to even briefly glimpse the capability. In the meantime, I act and appear as one of the horde, consuming within the loop, exteriorizing interiorly. It’s a simple pleasure to feel and imagine the dark’s best, and a complex struggle to retain a mutually-respected adherence to the cultural morality surrounding me.
It really isn’t a safe place to desire hate or truth, which is why being obnoxious in lust can sometimes be the only replacement for a purpose lacking in fervor. It could be anyone, so it didn’t have to be the shorn mountain women with the face metal.
They liberate in the streets and the parks, on the walls after barks…
Teaching Sex Awareness and Using Pleasure Liberation
Not the easiest of topics to refresh when there is still taste and respect involved in such acts. What comes to mind is a Liz Phair song, “Flower”, in which she chants, “Every time I see your face I get all wet between my legs. Every time you pass me by I heave a sigh of pain. Every time I see your face I think of things not pure and chaste.” And it goes on to include fucking like dogs, fucking girlfriends, blow job queens and fresh young jelly.
What is it about sex and pleasure that are in need of awareness and liberation? They can be taken as relevant to private or public settings, and because of the fluidity of sex and pleasure, there’s no easy way to exude inner liberation from either. Of all the previous issues Bey includes in anarchic magic weaponry, sex and pleasure – albeit, physical and intimate pleasure – are the least vital to reforming anarchic consciousness, for the beauty of its mystery lies in the multitudinous variations. Teaching sexual awareness is bypassing the natural and punitive experience accompanying physical intimacy, including rape, ecstasy, chastity, deviance, kink or curiosity, all of which can’t be described or they loose the true anarchic spirit they enable.
Personally, sex is a hang-up. There are so many individual expressions in mind and body, the need to free sexual pleasure sounds inane, like there’s some form of social repression not easily hidden within the home or in a secret space for lovers. There is. The need to exhibit one’s liberation takes on a hierarchical stature not coalescent with anarchy, as the thought of teaching pleasure devalues a person’s own learning experience and assumes a superior as one who “knows” such awareness. Based on shared and foreign experience, there’s not a path for orgasmic and hedonistic seekers to go to be liberated. We all find gratification in different locales and depth levels within our places – a lover’s wet vagina, a psilo-psychic parallelism, a windblown jetty, a thick greenbelt of evergreens, the soft fur of a four-legged friend, a dive-bomb off an attaching bridge, or a deconstructed flight of civilized destruction. Pleasure and sex to all!
Maybe the liberated point is a need to refocus on sex and pleasure as vital life-forming forces. With each day that passes we tend to centralize attention of where and when. We must be in a forced location at a suggestive time half living years, during which we’re stressed, anxious, hurried, sad, angry, apathetic, nervous, suspect, concerned, resistant or agitated. We look to our daily events as endgames leading us to a quiet home, or at least the less-painfully-emotional-home-than-work or errand. We don’t cognize the pleasure in the minute, finding the quotidian as part of the fabric of what we wait for as we’re passing by. We lust after that curvy hottie or entice the eyes of this handsome man, but can’t sexualize consciously for fear of retaliation by a lover of the person. It’s as if we’re all doing it so we can deny we ever do. Maybe the focus is on what has become too complicated yet has always been pleasurable and sexual to humans. Maybe we’ve thought about it far too long and our liberated awareness is simply thoughtlessness and action.
Sex can’t be analyzed. It can’t be revolutionized. It can’t be liberated beyond the fricative-styled cunnilingus every woman needs daily, yet fears if she asks he might want more every time. The aware and liberated of feeling asks you either say yes or no – no or yes, that’s all it takes. Say it with your tongue, teeth and palate, or use your eyes and hands. Go straight for the penetration or wait for infatuation. Deep or shallow, the movements all lead to the same end. It can’t even be described with words, but to call yourself both aware and liberated when it happens is the safest truth in a fictional execution of a symbolic world. Don’t let the layers of convoluted discourse before prevent the easiness and effortlessness of a melting world after.
Pleasure and sex to all!
