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.
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.
A Fleshy, Adipose-Induced Revolution
There used to be distinct, rabid media to get the word out. The media are still here but less of us know how to use them. Even less of those who know haven’t a word to get out. What’s the new word?
After thinking about the self-declared “media of social revolution” – or interweb – the planned boundary devised by the USAn government and those allegiant to it becomes apparent. The internet was developed accidentally, although there were other non-governmental technicians near the same technological discovery at the same time. But it was developed to limit free speech, or limit the creative infinity of revolutionary exposure. We were informed of its anarchic and autonomous possibilities, a cyberscape of endless vocalization and stance. We all have a voice and now it can be heard, right?
But no one is heard because we’re all talking. Voices aren’t heard through written word or image. What of video? Millions of videos exposing every candid act from death to sex to adventure to lame rhetoric. Everyone has the opportunity to show another person who they are, but what are we saying? Aren’t we doing what the web was intended for? Reveal the plan before the first step can be taken.
There has to be more passion and sober insight along the way. We have to be aware beyond what they are. I yearn to say what makes me clear enough to ignore what’s around me, what’s trying to steal my attention from me. Other media, other voices and images vying for my neuronal communication, neuro-regenerating areas I’d rather not be using to process their information.
Turn it off. Not to use the maxim suggested by Tim Leary, but rather than tuning in, turning on or dropping out, why not turn off. Turn off the media surround. Embrace the media we don’t know how to use. Go back, step headfirst into the direction we came from.
Without reverting too far into historical frameworks and primitivistic behaviors, the ideal of forward progress is the problem. Problem, what an understated word! More than a problem, a disease. A decrepit, degrading projection of destructive agendas from those willing to murder anyone who chooses to stay neutral and unimposing. Not the scared but the silently defiant. The clear-minded, open-hearted, slow-walking mass of marauders patiently awaiting their opportunity to slay the beast of burden, the clout of clear-sightedness.
I listen to voices on the radio, but no one is pirating anymore. Websites can’t be pirated because someone is in control of the servers. No one is controlling the airwaves. But you’d have to buy a shortwave, long-band, ham of an audio contraption to invade the waves. You need the bandwidth of a bus and an antenna reaching the sky to tap into a listenership not waiting to listen.
So my voice is behind the times, they say. The entranced are the people who suggest a state for my perspective. They’re the ones devising combinatorial semantics and lexicon to describe the original emotion of rebellion inertly grown in the heart and minds of the first civilized dissenters. I sit in front of a screen, which is sitting in front of another screen that’s projecting the dissent of one who was filmed and paid to dissent creatively. And then I see something all great screens possess, straight to the heart of the matter, or should I say tissue.
What do I see? What is the word?
Breasts.
Mar couldn’t speak, he could only stare at her breasts. His whole existence revolved around those two, hanging bundles of adipose tissue. They represented his search for life, his search for a personal reproduction of himself. He imagined the pair in early development, barely projecting from a young chest. He imagined the tight, soft, buxom breast of the 20-something, her nipples erect at the first sign of tactile sensation. He longed for the round, full, large, opus-like, colostrum-dripping-from-enormous-nippled-breasts of mommy. Even the gravity-defiant breasts of an elderly materialist whose remaining anatomy dripped from bone was a sight for sore eyes. The revolution of sex from intimacy to objectivity in Mar’s life wasn’t easy for him to handle. It consumed his life, his vision and was entering his mind and heart. It would never get far enough down his throat to reach his heart, but once it entered Mar’s brain, his mind was in control of his being. He was obsessed with these parts of woman, anatomy he’d never have and would never touch again. Breasts symbolized volumes on power, control, life and individuality. The ones with them needed to stand up topless and scream about injustice and re-volition. The ones without them, like Mar, would be speechless, slobbering scumbags drawn to the will of the newly-minted Beauties Of Ordinary BreastS, crusaders for the fertile-world order. Mar could only fantasize about their rude, nude rebellion, their breasts of flesh defeating the beast of burden.
Breasts. It was all Mar saw when he looked at his screen but he always wondered: what do they sound like? Valuable and priceless, he thought.
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.
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!
