Dilemna...

Fucking dilemma

Difficult to go straight

when you've no fucking idea what direction you gwan'.

God Damnit.

So lost. So-laced.

There are so many wrinkles in my knuckles nowadays. So many lifelines that speak on so much self-induced stress. I've worked manual jobs, I've worked office, I'm working a physical one now...and I see my hands, and the roughness that has come to them, and the wear that each day adds and I've thought all it takes is a little more lotion, a little more care, a massage here and there, and the age will wear away. But I don't get that it's just as prevalent in my visage. It becomes just as obvious in my face, in my eyes, in my demeanor, and not out of anything flagrant...but I worry so much about my hands that I'm damn sure gonna show worry on my face. Not that it wasn't there to begin with, but it all adds up. I hate ending sentences with prepositions.

So one more thing for me to worry about; one more thing for me to stress about and deliberate on and consider. And get mad at. Sloppiness. Lack of consideration and awareness. Lack of awareness really fucks with me. It's so easy to pay attention. But we don't. But I don't, rather.

I have woven a mighty fabric throughout my life, intertwined with the people that I've come to love, and I think have come to love me too. This fabric is stronger than anything I have ever felt. This fabric, at times, is the only thing real to me and by far the only thing I can cling to. I rely on each of these threads as one relies on an IV. And I recognize that there is a back and forth, that as much as they give me life, they also feel and perhaps feed on that life force, but at the very least they recognize that it is there and will absolutely feel the pull when that IV is detached. So now I have all these plugs in me. And over the years I've been slowly pulling these plugs out. Slowly unraveling my blanket, string by string, in the most initially innocuous but unavoidably thorough manner. We can build castles in the sky...

I'm just waiting until I can yank that last string. But I can't stop thinking about what will remain, and then my fingers become too weak for that last pull. And my spirit is too weak to consider anything else. But that's okay. Because no one will ever know about this.

-Andus Toohey

Diss-connect

I was just staring at her picture (do you realize how revelatory the face is?--rather, do you allow yourself to recognize it?) and where once there was jealousy and hurt-pride (in this instance, merely for that picture, in others, ubiquitously) somehow a storm a-brewed in me brain, but twas only a flash. And that meager bolt broke the chains of propriety with regard to any "us" there was/is/may be. En-lightening.

Somehow I saw passed the happiness I presume stems from the cropped other in the picture, and I just saw happiness. If not, at least, momentary joy. And that is beautiful. It need not come from me, though my ego wills that it all must, as long as it is felt. And you can see, in this picture, that it is felt. In this face.

It is a magnificent visage, and they all are to me, all but the one in the mirror, of course. While I know my facade replays the muscular recordings of happiness, joy, glee, excitement, even sadness, skepticism, etc. I've always relied on the fact that it plays those tapes back well. Thoroughly. I see that my reaction is appropriate (i.e. encouraging in whatever sense necessary) by the reaction to my reaction by those with whom I communicate. Rapport is easy, you really just have to be a reflection; though that reflection must be genuine. Over the years that I've been establishing my ability to regulate the comfort level via a visually expressed, shared empathy, I have always always felt there was some small thing amiss. I never considered it was my subject's scruples, I'd always considered it my own misgivings about perpetrating such a flagrant affront (albeit my genuine desire to be as genuine as possible), but two instances over the last few days have illuminated the inner darkness residing.

"I don't know why, but I always feel like I can answer you honestly when you ask how I'm doing...I don't know what it is, but I can sense the angst in you." From one I would call a friend more readily than a stranger but if described to others w/r/t our intermittent meetings would be seen as the latter, unquestionably. And then from a body whose seen my full spectrum, but particularly what I'd thought was truly joy or positivity cutting right through that and pointing out (not for the first time but for the first time I'd actually heard it) "I want you to calm down and enjoy yourself...lost and angry are two different things."

That is the flash I see in everyone, despite how comfortable I am able to make our meetings and conversations. That flash of recognition that while I am pleasant fellow, there is an undeniable flame seething deep within my eyes. As readily as I can recognize what you truly feel versus what you say, the world can see that in me. And I thought I was the master of obfuscation. Twas only I, though, as I thought I was content.

But she is happy, at least in that moment captured by that photo booth. And that moment is not I, or rather, there is no I in that moment. And she is happy. and I am removed enough, at least for the moment, to feel happy too. Not Happy, but it's a start. A momentary existential bliss in an otherwise angry reality-tunnel.

Grrrrrrr, world. see me growl.

-Andus Turnin' red

Been flowing like rivers lately. Everytime a pinpoint is revealed another hole is found, and down and down in an endless tumble. Ledges are hit and cliffs are shattered, the gravity seems exponential, but so is the occasional cache of clouds that cradle the lost and scared soul. I can recognize the walls, mostly, though it seems whereas before I'd pummel until they crumble--bloody fists less than an afterthought--now I merely place one hand on the wall and one on my heart and stand there, in wonderment.

"I got, ice in my veins, blood in my eyes,
hate in my heart, love in my mind
I've seen, nights full of pain, days are the same,
You keep the sunshine, save me the rain.
I search but never find, hurt but never cry
I work and forever try, but I'm cursed, so never mind
And it's worse, but better times seem further and beyond.
The top gets higher, the more that I climb,
The spot gets smaller, and I get bigger
Tryna get in where I fit in, no room for a nigga
but soon for a nigga it be on mu'fucka
'Cause all the bullshit, it made me strong, mu'fucka...

So I pick the world up and I'ma drop it on ya fuckin' head,
Bitch, I'ma pick the world up and I'ma drop it on your fuckin' head.
And I could die now, re-birth mothafucka
Hop up in myspaceship and leave Earth, mothafucka I'm gone.
Mothafucka, I'm gone. I'm gone." - Weezy F. Baby, 'Drop the World'

NLP, it's like baseball, I swear

First of all, never believe anything I ever say, tubes (really this format approaches a state of megalomaniacal psychopathy that my internal ramblings could never achieve, despite great effort [probably the only aspect in which I've put forth great effort {One fuckin' day I'm gonna start the "No I" experiment, eschewing all first-person pronouns; this ego is damnable}]). Negative feedback loops are the Devil (no Jesus). When you awaken with the immediate thought of "What the fuck am I doing? I hate myself," which eventually (appropriately) leads to "why even get up?" (which conveniently leads to leaving the bed at a time that renders the day effectively nullified) you are bound to have a shitty day/night/period of consciousness. Which makes sense to me. I don't feel that there is a wrong side of the bed if you awaken and allow your mind to shout "I am beautiful, the day is possibility and off I go!" Yet I can't help thinking that without "realizing" that it's merely the dreadfully persistent (many would say naive) optimist within me. A wise man once said: "Pessimists don't start computer companies."

That wise man is Robert Anton Wilson and I'll freely admit that I believe him to have been the single most influential individual on my life; an individual with whom I've never even been in the same room with, if you'll discount my mind, and whose ideas I've allowed to fuck me up probably as much as any of the drugs and toxic relationships combined. /disclaimer

This post (really my reaction to awakening and the consequent thoughts) was derived from my rerere...reading Cosmic Trigger 2 and I can't help but feel it's truth resonate. It seems so obvious. And it's an idea I've not been unfamiliar with, actually. I think Rza introduced it to me first:

Have you not heard, that words kill us faster than bullets
When you load negative thoughts, into the chamber of your brain
And your mouth pulls the trigger that propels
Wickedness straight from hell
From the pits of of your stomach where negativity dwell - Rza, Twelve Jewels

then 'twas reiterated by R.A.W. and finally slammed into my reality-tunnel via a community college English teacher with the simple notion: "Our words make up our world." Which then got me to thinking about thinking in images...but that's another mindfuck for another fucked day. My Octopus has branched too far and its origin is lost at this point. And this reinforced what it was supposed to negate. Oh, bother. I'll try to load these thoughts into my brain for the rest of the day (no ego), again courtesy of the man:

I am at cause over my mind
I am at cause over my body
My mind abounds with beauty and power

A friend was born twenty-six years ago today and he is wonderful. Happy Born to any and all who celebrate with him.

-Andus Tremblin'

Resale value at a minimum

Too small for my britches and too big for my brain, hence the intrigue drawn from a younger audience. It used to be the opposite: my silent demeanor and scrupulous facade tended to be interpreted as aloof wisdom at best, and a traveler's curiosity at worst; which left plenty of room for a happy medium of interpretation from all walks of life, from all levels of wrinkled faces... but now it's all smiles and laughs. All comfort and tactful engagement. All bullshit, essentially, but wasn't it always?

I spoke less when I knew more and speak more now knowing less. And write even less. Lesson in loss of face...or is it of heart?

No matter. I'm the invisible immortal; biding time to pluck, scrutinize and re-appropriate your cause with a Machiavellian tendency toward exploitation of vicarious values. I'll make you love me by becoming you, though I'll only fool the remnant vestiges of myself. Haute-coultoure.

-Andus T. the bastardizer of beliefs

This is my 9/11

Almost two years... huh.



Anyway, they "uglified" aka painted-over the infamous Sabre MSK piece in the L.A. Canal; this amidst all their budget woes and shit.

Fuck the World friends.

http://revok1.com/blog/2009/09/saber/

Fuck Writing.