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Monthly Archives: May 2012

the truth comes like a matrix of math problems where you can not deny one and one. Where the individual is divided , this one suffering and responding without knowing response, like again Palov. remarks , like the sexual abused child and the meaning of sex there after, the power and disregard a denial of any love for the connections already adhered to . human loving relations are just possessions and retardants to human will and freedom of spirit. Responsibility a foul banner of tranquility. the child doesn’t think and it all become consequence and unspoken or representative, with other names who ,with philosophy, prove the fact with schools of thought, to blame is another response, so foul a thing as love, Camus didn’t believe we could have just one. I think he was abused but that is only a part of the never ending story never remarked upon but shared by so many we forget as a hidden. like we are trying to do about so much . so much is become full faced lifes instead of bold change and human reaction. backed up by whatever reasoning gives to prove it. this one saying that that one said this , and opposites are left with specialist. argued instead of felt. such is the respect we have for feelings, and so i sit. Still.
It is Sunday and often in the past i would write as much as i could on Sunday. A day of rejoicing, a day of reminder, not because i am religious , wanting a sabbath need a holiday , for i do not work, but to remember life in its pure form is for every day , there just is less noise on Sunday , and people are amassed somewhere adding to the general flow of the day , i suck up the simple sharing. so i like to write on Sundays. Unfortunately this Sunday is a sunny day , waking with the heat in the car, not being able to sleep enough , running to be with hope for i stayed awake to long reading last night, finished yet another tale that has nothing to do with my life and proposes ideas of good and evil never lived on streets made of the under employed, and under utilized. Streets feeling third worldliness for capitalism has to have someone to continue the game with , even when we can not longer expose and save. We will still have the american poverty stricken, the under educated here, the under feed , even as they buy food we have found a way to have cheaper meals meaning quasi, plastic ingredients, and you have to be rich to eat well enough not to suffer . try and live off chemicals live raw for a while and you will see what i mean, after you go back to “regular American food. or what is called Gmo-ed products. Food stuff. like what is called cheese, which is a name brand , and not a cultural product. like jello. like Soilent Green.
I stop again and pack up the computer, the shade is getting cold even while the air in the sun is sixty or seventy , in the shade there is a chill.
I wonder when i will be sane, and what will make me saner, will it just be, forgetting all the arguments to systematic rewards. like linear is , like mazes are, predetermined.

I wonder if all writers feel unable to express themselves to people without writing, like to sit and just talk has been strip from us. maybe it is all the times we have talked, and the people who were to listen didn’t. we were left being misunderstood so often that only words written down seemed to have merit as in you could read them later, when you had more time , or when you could actually care.
Most who were to understand me, those that i loved, left me cold for my love wasn’t enough , or the way i loved wasn’t cohesive to the ways they were, like i didn’t move like them , didn’t respond to what should be , and always went my own path, a path i could never tell. for even early i had secrets. before i was fourteen my secret was my ghost father coming into my room, my secret was art. my models , which were displayed on the shelf but i took the love inside the creation , the action which couldn’t be taken away by understanding or not. , like the love could , for whcih i still keep secret. but secret has also become secluded. isolated, alone.
I wish i could understand others like i understood once upon a time,Self. Knowing has left me. It is age. We get dumber as we grow. Seeing all we don’t know piling up, or watch what we thought we knew never leading to much. i wrote. Playing music really was outside of me, such that i sit on a nice sunny day , and think enough money is seven dollars. , enough to last until it runs out. three more days of coffee. the tank hasn’t run out of gas yet. the low level light just started to threatening to come on. the cigarettes have just come from L– and i am fighting any addiction . or at least marking how much it effects me inside. watching my breath change as i smoke less. feeling the need to eat more, feeling the accumulations of slowing down and speeding up of time when i don’t have Cigarettes Time moving slower while i suffer but even the suffering is to be appreciated as an alive nature, as a sobering feeling.
and I know i don’t respect myself. I know becuase i thought about creating a story , and then thought i am in a story ,, the character so laid out , so naturally with some allusion to sanity , some tool outside of me, to know anything any more. each perspective registered leads to no perspective known. and i see to much, the uselessness of life. Bred, School Die. watch as the rich move life into their own controls. watch as friends invent what matters. and people with families do whatever is needed. feeling like righteous murderers explaining fact to themselves but staying away from anything that could disturb individual rule.
it is funny but it seems the modern man , modern intellectual is a homeless man walking the streets trying to feel his hunger as something he can touch ,all else seems untouchable, defined, and opinionated. What is good food, good atmosphere, good oceans, good people. as a specialists field and what is commonly held is quiet, silent, and obnoxiously mistreated for its simplicity .
the modern intellectual remembers sex is a bestial reaction and yet, wants to forget to feel whole. whole with over population , whole with transmitted disease, whole with his depression times two. .. it is sight that kills , and the population rate increases, and the food, gets watered down, symbolism pile up from Orwell, to many movies. equaling a predetermined vision one doesn’t want to see, so blinding is the only answer , so maybe the modern intellectual studies blindness.
I once fathomed it was change that the intellectual reached for . personal evolution . abandoning all prearranged conclusions. god. reproduction. eduction.
sex become weighed against the nonphysical , such that male and female floated off to light energies, and the bodies controlled by them, such that you could love any one,at any time without body and truth, and should remember that in order to find peace with love and loving. but i couldn’t love, because i was never loved. To be loved one has to accept themselves and i was , and am still , merely trying.
Press save , and feel secure for a second.
pounding keys on a key bored.
and maybe that is all this is for ,
sitting wandering inside of reasoning
to be alive in what change means,
when you realize so much of self is reaction.

if you were loved as a child you might be able to recognize your own wants and desires easier, i can not even choose a sandwich , so important what you are, to what you will be come, and yet, there are paths tryough all lessons and lesson from all paths. we walk them to know and tell of the walk , the peeples in our shoes, the blisters, and the soft grass, even as we step in squishy stuff, and have to clean it off .
it is a process.
i am driven to know. and taken there in my thoughts daily , to know more. but a spiral it becomes. to know anything, to separate , what i do to what i am seen doing, the performance in the art of writing. you don’t have to do anything or write anything meaningful, to look like you are writing, and the sight of the focus might helps someone some where. passing.
I have not been smoking now for a while though i can not remember how long, i could wiegh it by the days i sit and do nothing, playing video games on my computer, a computer, How many times have i seen that in television, , not much right , cause no one wants to admit how long we are on them, looking for things we don’t have, having entertainments instead of interactions. but i don’t want to talk any more to anyone. it is a waste of time, i hove told all the lies i could. but only found out they were lies years after i told them, and only made so because i couldn’t feel enough to be them, the singer needed to be commercially responsive, i didn’t care and the songs sit in my heart, safe, control , mine. the writing doesn’t take on story for which i was talking about earlier, stories seem so contrived around what you symbolically know, they are lies. .. but the crime is clever, the murder inventive, but truly what we read is making us all psychotic and alone.
clinging on to those who agree with us, and disregarding those who don’t, like we are not allowed to discus, and still hold connections. do , now you need me to repeat you , so that you feel safe, yo values must be mine, cause we are separated by how much we have, and the hatred and prejudices we pursue. genuflecting to our ideas, while all of it is only opinion, and leader ship is submission to the facts of submission. no one has a point so as not to offend.
i am insane, i guess, and have that writing disease, accept i am still trying to give words and emotions some thought and adaptation to intellectualism.

It is another day , as the year passes, i watch my life go further and further into some subconscious realization. I am depressed, or at least i am not awake, i sleep while walking , numb, yes numb i feel against all the effects of lie. the love i could pursue the hope , i abandon, I can see no way out now. i don’t even try the drugs i used all my life are not round any ore. i have stopped using , i have started other drugs. but they don’t work, i would have wanted this to be different , telling of the stroies of the sure, the realization of the better life, from the absence of the marijuana, but i can not , i have less energy , i have less hope,. I have not played my guitar in a couple of months. and with no hope insight i wake tired,

the sun wakes me mostly other wise i dont get up. the sun creates a hot box effect waking me that i am in an oven , and i rise some times to a slightly chilled day , but the sun pounds on my wiwndows, I wake knowing it is another day to survive until the check comes. the first, the first the firstl. while the tank goes to empty , and i wait with no food accept the hep i get form L– sometimes i am thinking i should throw myself to the wind again. counting how many people i love here on one hand , on one finger. and when she has other people to be with i feel lost , like this is the end , and i have not been taking care of myself goodenogh , livingon the edge of life. wondering why all the time. why do they over therre work , smile , live, with some sorted apprazal of the world that lets themsurvive. like they can not feel the nuclear disaster in japan, the economic controls of thesystem, while i invent things i guess, global warming my invention. cancerious food , but that is not me right , i dont go to the hospital so they can not tell me i am dieing, not tell me i have been waiting for some proof. of life beyond my hopes , for there has been not hope for so long, it is subopst to come with life , joy, happy ness, like i could live looking into dogs eyes, but to be honest it was only love and money wheich moved me, and yet love turned sour when i looked at how we share it. how we prevert it to form fit what we need or our fantasy , and if it doesnt fit we disgard it , and most dont learn sticking to the dream unrealized, or the subconsious undefined, and money , of last become doing without , while wowrking many many hours for it. the cab was a lover sore and lonely. determined to brake me from any hope i once had of being more thatn the living i was, more than myself. my construction hands notw useless, haveing been told i am to old , those years away into an unused box. the years, with drinking and playing some part i didnt want, such that every day i felt i was disusing myself, a traitor to being , so here we are, I reach every day to feel more and more my true self, but yet here i now see the truth is a pained place i tried not to see. I avoided, but cause of its hidden martyrdom.
the professionals all say it is chemical , i come to think of it as philosophic. the turning of the screws of thought , and we are both right for one turns the other , and yet, noting can turn the immediate. and i need action to feel good, maybe all action is harder now. as i think individual is a farce. the mechanics of being the same in all of us, we get to exploit what we can of ourselves. a slow process of accumulated sins, called work. , to further our sufferance and control of time. we plan our slavery, without the mention of good or bad, but the more honest and alive are unmentioned , for they do not steal the golden ring. which you must, by your denial of another chance for it. we all live on the shoulder we deny; glorified in excess.

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I have been thinking of prisons, and the lack of communication we can be turned into. I say this as i look again at my life, and yours. I look at the stimulants that got us here, the preoccupied innocence of the parents , the distraught dealing when we are reinventing the wheel to talk to our subconsciousness. there in my every day is the reminders of nothing having sights, or caring , you talk while i am writing , you care not for em , i am an excess a time filler, we do not look to see,, so much of the time, regretting sight like it is an imposition, a prison. such that we limit our vies in order to understand anything. talk our silliness to the approval of sex organs, sighting the differences alone the lines of awareness staring abstractly at the dirt on the floor as it could help understanding, but yet, you just want to clean what is constantly getting dirty.
I know that i want to write this, no caring what i write as long as my fingers keep moving. staring at the people around the coffee shops, there are painters repainting with watery paint that doesn’t seem to change anything. C- sits besides me, keeping quiet, celebrating a moment of continued pain in his pain, in his longing to forget, what lostness we feel. Cast among the joyous music coming from the speakers so hidden you can barely find them, among the plastics of the computer, the cup , the chair, , each excesses to a life stationary , uncontrollablly constant, while the spoken becomes a fight to speak, so denied for so long, so restrained for who listens and what good does it do. that we learn early , where voices smile at what voices cast, understanding being a foreign language, can stay that way , I only hope this helps.
but it can not equal the thirty years of forgetting , the thirty years, of casting my thoughts to a safe place to talk to you. Safe from response, even while i repeat over and over to listen. That intuition speaks , and yet, i could only leave, failing each time to tell you i love you and wanted only to make everything alright, again and again, sitting like a response would get a violent response further and further until the years have passed and wrinkles come to my hands, and i still do the same talking to flowers. the pedals leaving imaginary pedal burns of love left again and again, a prison of soul. marked only by the bars, i fail to tip at, the queeze mirrors with the whiskey i can not drink , and the hope i confuse with the next attraction.
yet there is hope inside somewhere,as everyday is one with the sun and warm sky, with the heart and a dialogue inspired to control the meaninglessness of sight without power. for a power with sight, the one individual conscious power of change with awareness. even while it feels like global events, the changing of a whole system to understand the need for solar energy , for the need of a future to be extolled for the present, to create a common peace where we can see. And not left frustrated by the sights meaninglessness, where corporate entities are not capillaries which refuse the system they are in like cancers. No we are thoughts recognizing, and really in death we can imagine the same controls of a thoughts, though you might not believe in that. i feel spirit must me true. water in electric water. hope in basic design. and health from understanding. that simplicity.
and it is another day of change. locked up sexual beast ill fed with plastic food to easy to understand, and remorse continues, like it can never be cleaned.