and then they move into your head. and you bounce off the walls

thinking:

becoming a violent wave of passions, slamming against the ocean floor, and spitting up whitewater so it squirms up and drools down like sleepers with their pillows and dreams.

The events of days and the yells of new things, whispering into monday. Ice, in cold water and melting days. torch dreams and the transition of elements as representations of mental states.

At the moment - Thom Yorke's "iluvya" bursting and blabbering in my skull (I'm using good headphones).
sHani asleep in the corner of the room, ben reading about the tijuana border. (and currently my blog underlines names which start with lowercase letters, telling me it's the wrong way to write.
uncalled for backbone from blogger.)


i sit in san diego - a classy place with numb brains skipping around in the sun; a vapid architectural scene with the occasional gem; a flawed entitlement in communities with cardboard cutout avenues and anti-corporate stands which stem from both a sort of nobility and a confusion over what else there is to do (being trapped, being ignorant); and many other things, but really, in the end, The Border.

here, something which explodes from old dirt - a wall - for the first time in history, here, now. A panoptic structure, solid and strong, built from desert storm military materials, dividing one of the richest communities in the world from some of the poorest. A granola skater with dreadlocks and hemp shirts and the farmer's market. and the other side of it. a side which i don't feel i can speak about - distance holding me back.

Once there was just land and open space with natural barriers. then the construction of something. a wall.

militarization projects are under way. the specificity, the new targets, the element of control at the tip of the finger which tips the scale, hits the red button, and smokes cigars over cognac before bed, and then the morning newspaper with silk or velvet pajamas.
Robots with rifles, slaves in the crosshairs. Less thinking leads to more efficiency (surveillance, punishment as well); the simplification of ideas and methods of communication; feeding seeds of desires to human beings; playing their xylophone souls to the tune of fear and patriotism.. So, the necessity of introducing Complexity as a bomb. to blow a hole in the brain of A Consumer.

The image of bricks in a wall and the process. one. brick. at a. time.
no bricks though.

but the explosion and the scattering of pieces. Pieces of brains. From complexity. and then they will want to put it back together. they will or somebody else will. and then you need to keep exposing it to things which defend against the rebuilding of a play-dough brain and encourage or challenge one to mold a mind of their own. you need to expose power.
because power is efficient when silent and hidden. like a black widow. a web.

no tug-of-war actually ever ends. Power travels odd roads and twists like a mobius strip. it doesn't stop. it feeds itself, eats itself. the Ouroboros. it also grows like an oak up into the future, sinking its roots deeper into the past.
acorns are your moments of liberation.
but they become oak trees again. and you struggle again.

today i'm an acorn, tomorrow i'm a bat under the sun.
it's good to be in a body and to trudge through the swamps of san diego and the thoughts which sink in.

and also to float through those other thoughts - a bamboo canoe, a pirogue, lightly piercing the surface.


-----=======++++++++++++++++================1
the realization that you shouldn't ask a friend to build your home.


sound, like other things, is an environment to be traversed in different bodies, mental states, clothes. the contours must be caressed or punched through. and the openings must be torn open and ripped to shreds sometimes.
then there is new territory. a topography for some journeyers and a good trip.
and when you walk around you leave a trail of acorns. and other beautiful, venusflytrapesquethings. like all beauty, it can eat you up on the right day, with a rain drop or a sandstorm.

for somebody who wants to explore there are chemicals and strange forms to watch for. a lifestyle you build which involves consumption of products, entertainment, ideas, loves, et ceteras and et ceteras. a consuming mind which can eat itself in the madness of solitude.
There are sony commercials with colorful, dazzling bouncy balls and rainbow songs which spill out and disperse down hills like children trying to find imaginary playmates.

and then they move into your head. and you bounce off the walls.

Drag on and keep eating

The word Sundae:
"Perhaps an alteration of Sunday, either because the dish was made with ice cream left over from Sunday and sold cheaply on Monday, or because it was sold only on Sundays, a practice devised (according to some accounts) to circumvent Sunday legislation."

I'm sitting at Peet's Coffee and Tea in La Jolla, which is a part of San Diego, which is a place with a breeze and sunny people and surfers and lots of money being spit around, dangling from people's mouths, more like drool after a deep slumber or the last drops of syrup crawling along the edge of the glass trying to get somewhere. To my left sits an old woman with a broken arm and 5 or 6 teeth. She begins talking with the gentleman behind me, after his wife goes into the store, and asks where he's from.
Iceland.
She gasps - "I don't think I've ever met anybody from Iceland."
She continues speaking but her words drown in her loneliness and everybody turns their heads towards other more and less, more or less, important things.

the attempt to confront and justify the Ouroboros:
In all its sad, infinite dribble there's the monster in time, in memory, in your days, swallowing itself, knowing the insignificance of its own ferocious march away from itself and into itself, for itself and against itself. The pursuit of anything, swallowing up eventually by the pursuit itself. The chase and the kill. The contradiction, the resistance - namely, the power struggle, omnipresent and persistent to the point of destruction. We all go around with interests, desires, whatevers - selfish in some way, a tree bending sideways towards the sun. The friends we keep or don't, the people we spit on - we do things for ourselves, for our happiness or sadness. And we slowly eat away at that ability we possess to live fully - to overflow. Instead we dam up our souls and die of thirst. Either we ignore things when we should act on them or we act on them when they should be ignored. Rather than let things flow, not getting caught on a stone resting at the bottom...
Running the gauntlet and trudging through. i fucking hate getting caught up on small things. The dramatic. And i know i can easily make things insane. Have you heard of the man who had great thoughts and couldn't move?
Some patience and your heart begins to beat slow and then blood flows to your fingertips and you swallow the pit in your throat and take two steps towards the river.
Everybody's different though. I just speak from a little chair in the corner, sometimes lounging behind the gates of hell.

A call to action. That everything one does now will happen ad infinitum; that your laugh and smile right now will never stop; that your cigarette yesterday will be smoked in the same way for all of time (time being that trick that makes us see in straight lines). Now, the call to action, choosing those things which you want to be imprinted on boundlessness.
A brushing aside of the past and the future, understanding that both fall into place when you plunge in to the immediate. They're just jewelery. Carve something into my skin and i slice into time, peeling away the layers. The past and future come together and form a moment. Forces of resistance, pushing against each other, your Self blooming at the meeting point. Explosions from the collision. Now - brings you into the world - with desire, passion, hunger, curiosity, pain, tragedy, love hate, whatever whatever whatevvvver. Enjoying touch, a glass of wine and a good meal, a statue in a garden in Budapest or a quartet playing Vivaldi in the hills of Prague. Not going beyond this. Sucking the marrow outta these things. On bone at a time.
Maybe you should take some buttons of Peyote. the necessity of spiritual experiences in order to get beyond the petty...something which takes you out of your self in order to swim back inside. A transcending which is always a movement into something.

people getting caught up everywhere, trying to help other people in the wrong ways, as they fail to put one hand on their own lives. Most muddling in the affairs of another leads to disaster. None of us understand what we're doing. People just trying to lose their self in some activity which seems Good. An escape, a distraction. ..
Throwing a million dollars at a charity to escape the burden of being an asshole.
the issue, the power and powerlessness of committing to something..
I don't care about being a flake. My privilege is stamped on my hand, but i also play guitar and make my fingers bleed.
Everything will be done under Toad Murphy. I can go into the forest.
my friend just told me he fucked a stripper last night.
I met a guy named Nicholas who told me about his life, taught me how to play guitar and gave me enough bong rips to blow a hole in my brain.
I also spent the night in a new place last night. On a futon.
My roommate has a large dildo in the bathroom which i expect her to move today.

Dragon
Blood.

this damned food

from some "fast food" place.
Someone brought it over here.
A kind gesture...Like people do sometimes. thinking they're helping you. And they're killing you. The fucking blame. From someone lovely and deadly. I'd almost punch her in the face right now, if i saw her. Because it was me who ate one of these sandwiches. Fast Food.
Nearly not......

I hate fast food. I hate the people who eat it and i hate the people who make it.
I hate a lot of things.
A lot of people.
and sometimes i hear bullshit from some savage freedom/love lover about loving people and whatever else they want to shove in my face...And i want to vomit their remains back onto their own souls.


I'm sick of the Disgusting.
and i need to get away, even tho things hold me back.
And i know virtually nothing when i get down to it (again).....
Hendrix doesn't exist.
Thom Yorke doesn't exist.
But i'll see him today.
Fuck you and it all. I can't wait.

A cigar in purgatory

Roll with the punches, occasionally throwing one back

Morning,
Hello. I missed you.
And I dreamt last night of sky voyagers.
Who tear upwards in flashes and spirals, carving holes in the black
and peeling the darkness back for light to burst through.
An explosion in the sky.

Morning,
I think, you are good. For the citrus dance in dew drops, dripping into the earth and shooting upwards
over days, months, years.
You are patient. I can learn from you.

I find myself cooped up inside, with this little machine in my lap, playing me dark songs and lovely melodies to accompany the slow pour of my thoughts out onto the screen. Portishead - Deep Water.

"I'm drifting in deep waters
Alone with my self doubting again
I try not to struggle this time
For I will weather the storm
I gotta remember
Don't fight it
Even if I
don't like it
Somehow turn me around
No matter how far I drift
Deep waters won't scare me tonight"


This was a week of intensity. With people. Again, people. All sorts of people I met, caught up with, or hung around with, in silences and laughs, drugs and smiles, boredom and many cigarettes. The car ride up and down California with Robbie in the front seat, reggae blasting, sporadic conversations with depth and some with relative unimportance. The joints rolled up and down, the cigarettes sparked afterwards, sometimes with no music, just the sound of a drag every once and a while. Me, looking straight ahead, but seeing the smoke spiral and dance upwards to different tunes and different moods.
Pool in the city with Nick - his words - "yea, just do that man." With a real look, having been there, struggled through it.
Silence at nights, deep thought often.
E at Thievery Corporation. The drug hit powerfully and came off slow. Too much to say here. This is for my head only. Basically - I remember beautiful smiles, a "foot massage," and standing up at a certain point right as the music dropped in. And inordinate amounts of water, cigarettes, sprawled on the staircase.

Seeing Spencer. Laughing - the smiling life. Where everything becomes a lovely joke. And it is beautiful. And things were natural and good. People people people.
Riding back fast through dry, dying Salinas. THoughts of "East of Eden."

Beach at night in Santa Barbara after arrival. Finding satellites in the sky, building things, stealing a cart. Hesitant. Robbie and termites. Spliff. Jumping in the water. Very fucking cold.

Too much to say after this. Strange how exhausting it can be to access memories and steal them from your mind to put down in WoRds.

I didn't speak much this past week. I played guitar often. I lost myself and grabbed myself over and over again. Whatever this self is anyways - there is some core to it. I know how "i" "think"...And I can recognize the same patterns - ah yes, I remember that thoughtJourney. I've been there before.
I went up and down in violence and tore open new depths within me.
And felt a fool the whole time. For thinking too much. And for whatever else.
And the Portishead lyrics from thread play: "i'm tired of my head. i'm worn out. I'm always soooooooo unsure."
I need to find this Portishead singer and marry her.

Now I move to San Diego. I don't know how long I will be there. I will work, sweating to make money. I will probably smoke copious amounts of marijuana and write pathetic and fantastic songs daily. I will be at the ocean all the time - the Deep Waters. These waters where, this past week, I found refuge on, under and with the waves. Whatever energy the ocean carries, it would crash into me and through me and wake me up from whatever distant place I had been traversing in my strange mind.

When I was in the airport in Sweden a girl came up to me from the study abroad program , we talked for a bit and she asked if I'd ever read "House of Leaves." I said no. She told me I would like it because "You're pretty weird."

It is strange to think that this is me. And that the opposite is true. And really I just do things and analyze them. Some weird kind of animal.
I think I am happy about this. But sometimes I don't know.
Things can change so quickly. And sometimes they never change.
Same old, same old.
We're always returning to things we love and things we hate. For the comfort, for the pain, for the passion, whatever. I'm always stuck in these same spirals - not circles, I am moving somewhere. I don't know where.
But it's okay.
Two steps in the wrong direction takes me right where I need to be.


Life, I love you, but you're bringing me down.

People

When I spoke this afternoon, in the morning first, with new people, tired and sweating, smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup of coffee. Being jolly and laughing. Making people laugh. And then later in the day, more talking more people more more more.

Things were very good. Many good things came from these new people. New dialogues, new topics, new laughs and looks. New books and films. Older people, different jobs. The stories. New stories.

And I also feel like I might always be on the verge of a mental breakdown. Like the walls can just crumble at any point. And I don't know what would happen. If some white cloud would just melt over my brain and soak me in some mist, some confusion, some trip, beyond 'me'.
Or would it be a great lightness, a splendid feathery touch.
What would become of me.
Where would I go, see, try?

I'm thinking of my brain as this sort of complex structure, with walls and pathways and whatever. And then all the barriers break down. And you're left with the infinite.
To maneuver within this space of emptiness, but in complete chaos. Of desire, loneliness, temptation, passion, total and burning fear. Most of life is a barrage of emotions, symptoms, thoughts, whatever - but they work within these walls. The chaos when there are no barriers...How we create them, reinforce them. It's a process. And being on the Verge - this is where you begin to understand. When you stand at the edge and look over. And then you know. Where you are. And what you can destroy, where you can walk. This is where thinking happens. Where you actually get somewhere. On the edge.

witches

That witch. And her dirty hands. Stole my bread and scurried away like a mouse. But that is the last time. Mark my words. There is no tomorrow, no tonight, no now.
And if for some reason she spills her face into my world, again, then I will give up.

Perhaps it's time to be done with trying.