Shifting gears

Back home, back home. Am I a changed man? This is a difficult question to answer. I am sobered. Life sobers you. You have shining unrealistic shards of light mirrored back at you from the sky, but these aren't goals. They are lessons. So what have I learned? Firstly, I confuse metaphor and reality. This might relate to a growing spirituality; a deepening relationship with some sort of God figure. He talks to me through light signals and warmth. I don't know what the grand plan is, but it seems correct; just a gut reaction.
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I have also learned that no reads what I write; oh and writing is a sad, sorry fate. The best writers are death personified. Hemmingway, Kafka, Kobo. I love them, but I don't think I have the same values. They were sent on a different mission. I'm not sure if this Law School thing is going to work out; but it seems to be my mission. I know I can write the socks off anything I put my mind to.
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Oh--I learned that I'm not God's gift to the world. I often benefit from brainstorming, from other people. Objectivism, and exclusionary individualism seem now like a strange faze in my life. I could write a thesis on this point, but let it be enough that I've moved beyond Ayn Rand's philosophy.

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Family life is awesome. I love my family. I don't know what I would be if I weren't a family man, but I would not be nearly as satisfied with my life. I will leave it at that.

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I have yet to figure out my political philosophy.

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I have virtually stopped reading fiction. Every now and then I will pick up some Dostoevsky, but otherwise I'm too busy/bored with the ivory tower to dwell within it for now.

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I am really excited about law school. Maybe oregon. Adventure!

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My dreams have disappeared. I think I had a dream about King Soopers last night. Boredom. I have not been concentrating on lucid dreaming.............Where did the dreamer go?

A Devil Dream

I was tied with my arms behind my back and my face and body tied to a steel loop on the bottom of a bath tub that was filling up. The devil was watching me as the water rose to the level of my nose--and then I was submerged. The hotel was upside down in a sky scraper flying downwards towards hell. The sky was a crimson red, and the clouds were bright orange. As my body died, my mind's eye was transported and it saw the palacial great room of the hotel and cheribum unfurling long red tapestries from the walls. The floor of the hotel, which according to its topsey-turvey orientation, was now the ceiling, transformed from a checkered marble to the rough pixils of a brighter blue-grey cloud-scape at sunrise, which was interesting to see in contrast to the dusk-hued light bathing me from the sides. I swam upward; slowly corquescrewing through the cherubs' gossamer satin tapestries, that flowed, as if in the water drowing me. As rose petals fell upwards an intense feeling of peace and warmth took hold, and the light from the ceiling shattered the pixilated facade and then I was alone in white clouds, the bass of unseen trumpets buzzing in my head.

2 dreams

I stared down at her. She was prettier than when she played in the movies, and she had makeup on that was like a spectacle; white face, hair white on one side and blue on the other side of where the hair parted in the middle. She was reading a worn copy of Rolling Stone as she sat on the basketball court floor. She told the balding, pug-like Chinese man behind me that she wanted to have the magazine. After indicating she’d have to pay for it, I pulled out my wallet and gave the man five dollars, folded, waiving off the change.
When the business there concluded, we walked towards my house together. After confessing I knew her from the movies, I looked at her lips. One of the groupie hipsters that constituted her entourage walked slightly behind us as we walked down the sidewalks and greenbelts. What was he here for? Was he her boyfriend? I chose to ignore him, up until the point he directed us to his van where the starlet and I consumed one other, sweetly. The orange color hue made everything a perfect yellow and warm-like a life inside egg-yolk or sunlight suspended in honey.
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Gunshots in the desolate city’s train depot near the seaside. The area had been rusting for quite some time. Abandoned cars provided excellent targets for my new handgun. The gun itself is intricately designed, with many parts that locked onto it and make it longer. Before handing it to my friend I turned on the safety, which made the gun limp; it drooped until it was like pasta in his hands--Turning off the safety, it became erect again. The thuds of bullets hit like clods of dirt against rusted doors and side-view mirrors.

Savage Wedding

So I sat in honored place beside my family at round table during a certain wedding ceremony. A native american man approached our table and greeted my mother with kindness, as she was across the table from him and the two could not reach out to one another without a break in form. As thoughts of artifice and propriety brought a smile to my face, I reached out and shook the blocky, be-charmed hand at the end of the indian's half extended arm. He wasn't looking at me, and I hate being the attendant and not the rightful subject of introduction. "After all, I'm not a pet anymore", was the mantra which won out these days, despite the awkward counter-expectations built up in my mother mind's; to be carried on sweetly unto her end.
A side glance from the man revealed he had not expected my hand. As if pantomiming, he recoiled animatedly, then added insults in his native tongue. I stood up and punched the man square in the face.

Golden Roof

I watched a time-elapse video of a family remaking a roof from its original wooden state into a golden one. They took each wood-shingle and replaced it with a gold one. Finally they created a shining cross to place at the top of an improvised golden steeple. On the ground around the new church I was charged with pouring fresh water to boil out toad-eyes which peered out through cracks on the ground and shot out poison gas at passersby.

In my backyard I remembered that I often dreamed of spiders as, this time, I dreamed of killing spiders with bug spray--shooting it into their web cushions in brush and tree-poles, as big tarantula monsters hopped between pine-tops

morning glory

donepiece

Dreams last night

--Apartment complex. I'm in my room when my dog is stolen by police-nurses. It is brought back without eyes. Same with my cat, they are whaling when a nextdoor neighbor informs me the building is changing. Bars start raising over my windows; the faux wood paneling is replaced by raised columns of red brick. I run out just before the transformation is complete and the buildings doors are shut a constricting wall of these bricks. From the outside it looks like a monstrous flower closing its petals.

--Machine gangster wife with husband in rectangular spa pool. Woman is a famous actress from Shikoku. Parts of her body are completely absent--legs, one arm, side of face--and are replaced with cybernetic auxiliaries. He sits tatted up on the other side of the pool. She sits up, flashing back to her beauty without these strange accouterments. Walking up to him she glares down he glares back, and his face silently plunges into the azure clear spa water as her machine arm drowns him.

--My son and I are at a hong-kong estuary park, where a column of water, 5 foot deep and light clear blue provides fun like a gigantic wave-pool. No visible sea life, but one wonders if there is some in there, hidden. Suddenly a tidal wave smashes through with a rumbling noise. We hide behind a coral mound as the wave crashes around us and brings with it a heavy tourist bar-boat, which tumbles over with all its panicked charge.

-- A shikoku estuary populated on each side by two rival gangs--one ethnically Japanese, the other Korean. The leader of the Japanese gang is animated and angrily demands satisfaction. The Korean succinctly apologizes and hands over a novelty set of Catholic prayer beads from off his own neck with a large ivory crucifix hanging from the bottom. The Japanese leader puts them around his neck--a Korean gang-member on the concrete staircase leading down to the estuary waters triggers the crucifix and it explodes blowing out the back of the Japanese gang-leader with a terrific thud.

--flying car, helped by blue jet engine engineer. (dream fragment)

--Japan-town somewhere in Oregon with city lights and market and real-estate and casinos (dream fragment, possibly a setting)

Ping Pong Fuck

We stood in the auditorium, my having just received oral sex from a black college student, and my wife just now standing up staggering like through darkness with a stout young slick-haired punk guy who zipped up an over-sized zipper on the front of a pair of black and neon green overalls. They had fucked behind a ping-pong table which was used in the past to entertain her children or alternately serve the needs of drunken men in her father-in-law's charge. Her hair was now a gaudy orange, the effect of attempting to dye black hair blonde in a slipshod manner. Had they enjoyed rebellious sweetness of their youthful, programmed movements? For me it's like wrenching an object, which I know is vapid and empty. The thought disgusted and enthralled me, like a massive curling wave of human waste crashing through my chest.

Kipple

Four panel sash window. Look out of it diagonally upwards, a dog is barking one level up out of a dark open window. I wake up speaking gibberish, drooling a cool electric madness of tiny beetle crawlies scattered on my pillow and forearm. Retreating back to the warm home. I read something about this recently. A soldier will always upon near-death, draw on the kipple of home life--empty snack bags, summer haircuts, ice-tea, barbecue, mother. There is a home for us there when death is near or when freight drives us mad--a warm blowing of sweet grass scented wind through cracked sash windows, flavored by radiance. The needle-points of manifold anxieties point us home, usually late afternoon on into evening--the day's work settled and forgotten the comfort of empty schedule leaves us simply alive and with dropsical bellies to ponder.

The dog is black and hanging over the ledge, my animal instincts pang me with fear of imminent attack, but crossbeams of these windows--metal wood and elevation make that fear short lived. In the mirror I wonder if this mechanism is of any great importance. This sophisticated analogue computer contained in my skull. Is my writing of any greater import than a dolphin slipping its body through water or a cricket unwinding a subtle byplay?

Driving though the darkness I observed the coiffure in my hair, pasted with indignity above my head like uncut fetlock. Will this do? Will someone laugh and ask me to perform some bawdy impression, or worse, to sing? Humor is a subjugating force in this manner. The courtesans of ancient Japan had so asked one another to 'be witty' on-command; accordingly it has always made me feel servile; one who lives in the service of others.

I must go now...with any luck, more later.

strange one.

squeezing foam through my hair I took time to make sure my sideburns were covered. My hair needed to be blond, my wife thought.

My father had just constructed a new bathroom within our old one, which was ornate and secure. The place was safer now, I suppose. Water ran from a collection of small drums out of a silver u shaped faucet. The table was made to look like an old paper-desk; such was the vogue.

Rubbing the smelly dye foam through my hair, towel wrapped around my shoulders like some bomb-survivor, I stepped down to my father who was watching a new action movie piped in over broadband onto our fixed computer.

The movie depicted blondie fighters sitting down to a meeting when suddenly a Mac truck smashed through the facade of their meet-place building and crushed their bodies under its wheels. The truck then backed up to smash the head of one quite surprised looking decapitated tyro.
One older blondie fighter who saw this horror from safe-distance shot a tackler rope into the back of the Mac truck, attached the line to a yacht toting trailer, hopped on the yacht and readied himself for battle.

"These new action movies are great", my dad said.

Brown Toad Incident

How much did this apartment cost, you think?
Probably around 1.5 mil.
Behind my drunk friends and their associates I could see the lights of Los Angeles twinkling through the smart apartment's windowpanes.Earlier today we had an unfortunate accident involving a roller coaster at one of the nearby amusement parks. Our black friend had tried to sabotage the trip by killing himself, somehow jettisoning is body from the coaster at a moment of high negative g. Thankfully he had landed more-or-less safely in a gigantic tar-pit, and had regretted his earlier decision--deciding not to finish the job yet in some lunatic manner.

These lights are quite beautiful. My friend was playing an arcade game the owner of the apartment had resting near the exit to the scenic deck and patio. In the game he was flying some kind of harrier jet, shooting and circle-strafing a stationary target.

Suddenly metal grating and steel doors shut all the windows and porticoes. We were stuck here. The apartment owner returned with a large aquamarine cage. The water inside the cage was dark and clouded ruddy brown. He crashed the cage on the floor and 6 or seven brown toads jumped on one of my friends and promptly tore his face off and started opening his thorax and underbelly to chew on the meat there. I ran into the kitchen to grab a knife, couldn't find one--but found a bag of bread which had a skull and cross-bones sticker attached to it. I threw a slice of this bread at one of the approaching toads and it ate it. The toad suddenly crouched, the way toads usually do, its cheeks cascading up and down; then it just froze, its breathing stopped and it was like a little toad statue. I threw slices of the bread just outside the kitchen door into the great room where I could hear hops coming after me. I told my friend and girlfriend to escape out the laundry hatch behind me. As they did so my friend let out a yelp. I looked back and his arm was deep into the gaping mouth of a large brown toad. Could this be the mother? Trying to move away my friend escaped minus his forearm, which the mother toad kept. I threw this mother toad the rest of the bread, as I undid my belt and tied off my friend's arm to prevent huge blood-loss. Behind the new brown toad mother statue, was a strange cave tunnel; not a laundry chute. The tunnel appeared to have multiple veins as we all crawled through, parallel-laterally we heard ruckus in the kitchen behind us. Was it the toads or the owner? As we approached the caves exit I saw a row of toads to my left. The sides of their body made for the texture of the cave-wall. Were the petrified or simply hibernating?

As I got up from my forced crouching position and ran out the exit of the tunnel, the owner stabbed me in the chest with a knife. Wrenching the knife from my bleeding chest I threw it directly into his eye.

As I lay dying, I dreamed of an airport with a nice Mexican bar. The drinks are half off today. What a nice place to get drunk and forget your flight!

Headless old man

There's nothing I can say. A headless body lay down on the roof of another building, a trip-wire sends its head rolling down a pair of copper beams; leads it down spinning rapidly. Its hair is long and white. The skin is white and dry-looking.




Blue water in the white ice as Peter and Satomi and I sail though south american beach areas.

What is it with Parking Garages?

So much of the modern world consists of driving cars and running across their related paraphernalia. I ran to the top of the parking garage. The fog was thick below the apex, but the top level of the garage peaked out above it. It was as if the top of this garage was adrift in a grayish white sea of cloud. I jumped down using a grappling hook, went into the arcade and found the door. The woman on the other side said "try your best to avoid this!" and jabbed at me with a syringe. She was beautiful. I was deft but stuck with the needle nevertheless.

Blue

Leaning against a dome carved rock a French veteran stared ahead with one eye at a bright red pole that shined back at him between the throngs of people walking through the memorial's pathways. His upper lip was a mound that curled over the usual dip, like an orange rind, exposing a nicely arranged row of white teeth. The nose was absent, the crater suspending the rind, and a custom eye-patch supported itself upon the lip's ridge with a small girder, a bird's foot perched on a ball. His navy cap read "Bordien", and although an incision's rivet bit into his eye's puncta he stared with wise intensity through the commotion; simply waiting for the initiation of some act which would be the consillatory or provocative end to his ownership of the scene before him. He stood grotesque and magnificent in a shabby oil-stained tweed jacket, the gravitational effect of wearing the Médaille militaire and Croix de guerre straightening out the patch over his left breast. If one stood directly before him he appeared like the keystone in a relief, a liminal welcomer to to the somber tended parade grounds and the dark unparallel strokes of the forest beyond. Seemingly preoccupied with his role as gatekeeper, the soldier cocked his head slightly when from behind the red pole he spotted the darkly tanned and mud spattered face of a vagrant. Immediately the two were entirely engaged with one another. The soldier looked over the vagrants face for signs of horror or disgust, either of which would satisfy his strange hunger. The vagrant upon studying the veteran's face stared back blankly with an expectant aire which circumscribed his métier. As the vagrant approached the veteran was struck by the wild stormy-wave pattern of hair, and an impasto of filth which striped the forehead's brow-lines and nose; this face was a rough churning sea. Pidgeon cooing relieved the two of their silent duel, and the connection was broke.
Below the pidgeons the vagrant settled amidst a pile of trash opposite a relief station. These streets, the avenues bustling with a happy city's retinue once lay shattered. Planks of wood, doorframes, tapering piles of mortor littered with clock springs and brick rubble; these erstwhile estaminets, cathedrals and brownstones were the clarion call of the trash in a veteran's mind. In a vagrants mind they were a boon, a source to sustain lifes condition, such as it was.

"To feel embittered by it would be like blowing on cigarette ash", someone said from the shadow of a pin-stand a little down the avenue. All ages were here, and life was seen from many angles as the defunct and young held and assayed one another in capricious spells of regard. The carnivalesque impression was made a project by young boys standing grey and infantesimal beside gleaming convoys of cavarly come home from the Verdun. To a child's untrained eye, this terror combined with the streaming tears of wives and fathers equated roughly to a vision of manhood. But there were things missing as well. Where were the clean argent bayonets, the bicorns, and triumphant faces? After all, hadn't the War been won?
Had the children asked him, had they enough courage to ask him the only question of great import, the one both his presence and his chasseur comrades' collective absence incited in young minds, he would have replied simply: "No. War is cold", and let that fester. The veteran had heard from someone that the reason why murder was immoral was because it robbed a person of his or her future. Watching these young children, he was pained by the innefectual nature of his observation-- his field of vision such that focus was easier, the periphory less significant, but this clarity of tunnel vision only increased a sense of an overarching lameness and a surging calamity. Here in the spotlight was the reverent glaring of a girl of six regarding the roundly handsome mustachioed, face of a radiating young Dragoon patrol officer, having never seen combat himself in Armiens-- a fate to which he saw assigned the men who marched in his wake: pasty white, both eyes forward, dead, capped in fetching bearskin. Later, a young boy and his obvious demimonde mother's turn at concocting demigods to the tune of forty young cavalrymen gliding atop black bicycles--toys on review! In sometimes dizzying pangs, the eyes of others and the one he had left to witness them confirmed that his physical appearance couldn't show the depth of his wounds, it needed extracting from him. But why be serious? The War was over and the solution to the riddle presented by the veteran's appearance was thus paradoxically barred to children, the only recipient for whom his scars were designed.
The forest sighed through the crowd and the veteran flipped his collar, burying his head into his chest, while keeping his eye on the red of the pole. The world expanded, like drapery then cascaded back down as the gale passed.

A wooden framework surrounded an outlet from the cave and as we opened it we were treated to a great expanse of the Afghan mountain-scape, from a high vantage. The ten-or-so marines with which we were embedded, kept talking of a large movement of personnel that scouts and UAV's had observed and radio'ed into them. Our guide, a white haired, Indian looking and sounding wise-man sat quietly between their nervous ranks intermittently conversing with his assistant, our translator, as well as a plucky, bright-faced young television journalist. A rocky, natural out ridge served as the apparent path up to this wooden facade; a deck and several log beams and broken planks that nested between them, clods of rock and wild-flowers creeping up out of their gaps gave the location a decidedly ancient-Buddhist flavor; it evoked a time before Islam. Some of the soldiers perched from the edge of the deck began firing down into the valley at several clearly deleneated figures running back and fourth. I covered my mouth as the group voted to pursue these sporadic figures down below. It was decided that we would stay behind, the translator was given an M-16 and the journalist a handgun. As they snaked their way down the path we saw flashes of light from their guns like little lightning-bugs, and their poses and shadows were etched nightmarishly on the walls around them like huge caricatures of fright. Finally we glimpsed their small battle with a tribe of Taliban at the base of the mountain. Some had already fallen, and some were falling in the skirmish now. A cloud of dust soon enveloped their fast, bug-like movements and they had disappeared. The T.V. journalist was busy behind me, and as I looked back he was bare-chested, ripping the sleeve off his white undershirt and tying it to a long strip of a wooden plank which he had broken off. Our wise-man sherpa began adjusting the red-lit dials on a short wave radio, his hands slow and patient. Suddenly we heard cries of agony, a moment later arabic dancing music, and then silence again. His face was leather, frozen in a sort of amused countenance; he was not afraid of death. The dark haired, serious looking translator snatched up the machine gun as we heard the sound of falling rocks not too far down the trail.

A long night

When the pregnant woman stood up from the milk-bath she told me that it would be easier when she went into labor to be lubricated in such a way as to ease the passing of the infant at the canal. She had been a black woman that had sat next to me as professor Richard explained 'le raison d'etre' regarding the logic behind giving Finance students several levels of calculus during their matriculation. A fart had brought my attention to her--I did not notice it being emitted, but as soon as I had smelt it we were playing footsie at each other's loins. I was then lost in the engineering building trying to find classrooms off concrete dust spilling cliffs and empty warrens.

Once I was infected with the virus the other contagious persons who, for whatever reason, had joined each other in wearing all-black, informed me that it was my duty to execute the remaining members of my squad, in a ploy designed to prove loyalty to their cause. I looked at my teeth in the mirror and at will I could change their shape to my liking. Two of them were on the second floor spa-room which overlooked my doomed ex-partners in the courtyard. A small afro sporting black child was sitting terrified as we watched the water in his large placid jacuzzi rush from clear to black--a frightful thrashing ensued, akin to observing a dying snail.

I was sent running at the invitation of (professor) Richard and his wife--I ran so fast, and at such an angle that my speed was the result of a churning motion with the toes of my feet, like climbing a ladder. I was apparently unexpected--the furrowed brow of Richard's wife being my tip-off. I tend to land in this situation often--the reticent host, and me the clueless guest. Was it my physical appearance that lent itself to this constant ridicule?

Day 1 of abe kobo Ex.

freewrite:

The long and winding road. The beginning of the end. There is something there which is no longer me when I end up talking about it in the dark; the secrets which go beyond the dark. The end of darkeness and the beginning of the light. There is a mathematical tipping point I’m sure. There is nothing wrong with the feeling that the words that I write are altogether ineffectual. They have no meaning. They have style. That’s for sure. They sure do have style. The type of style they have is not of any interest to people of this world. Perhaps that’s because I’m not writing this for people. I’m writing this for the future tthere’s al lot of people that are involved very heavily in the interstice of justie between the right and the wrong. The intertice, the mathematical judgement call where rounding errors and shaving data are forgiven because there’s a point to be driven in by the data. Data is ever so slowly marginalized in favor of a desirous conclusion.

I begin by telling of a fire which consumed the pornographic theatre in 2008. Hanging on a thread of brain matter flesh which was assaulted by hormonal imbalance, drug and alcohol abuse daily a man with a a cat fetish murdered 13 fellow depraved inmates of the human race. Earlier that night his wife had joked about the Parmesean cheese she saw on his shirt shoulders, in reference to his chronic dandruff problem. That was it. He went into the kitchen, found a silver crystal bowl holder, approached her from behind and slammed the pointy end through her head’s temple and into her brain cavity--exposing a pink viscous muck…undisturbed in laces at first--then interrupted in spurting black convulsive attacks of blood-shots.

Kobo Again

How to live a Post-political life.
Politics cannotes divisiveness and division of groups into polar spheres or polemics. In this way politics is a large scale representation of the rights of the individual up and over that of the whole of humanity. How is this defeated? Does morality provide us with a shematic for overcoming the bastion of individuality? No. Morality is fallible, and subjective. A correct morality has never and will never exist. In this sense, I agree in spirit with my predessesors including Nitzche, and wholly disagree with the philosophy espoused by Emanuel Kant and his modern counterparts. I have several proofs of this hypothesis, and though I feel it's a wasted effort I shall provide some of these proofs in the passages to follow:--

Why is this important

The Red Head

The bombadier seat of a trainer aircraft presents itself to me on a rainy day. Given tours of these wonderful machines I suppose. A man in a business suit goes up a couple of extra steps to the pilot's seat. In the bombadier cockpit there's a mini T.V. screen and two poles to direct the bombs with gentile taps to go off in different directions. Semi-smart bombs. Another little screen can be made to look out the front, through the use of tiny cameras--however, it is lit up only with a rudimentary blue and white doplar radar screen. A storm is coming.

A column of rainclouds travels up to me from the south, and I hear rumors of my friend's presence, on the automobile highway, amid the blowing grass and occasional blip of rain. His house in the mountains is beautiful and I don't want to get too attached. A redhead asks me about fliers that I'd been passing out for the military in hopes of getting drafted into the elite air-force. The China conflict is coming and there is less than a wing of F-22's. What a beautiful girl, what a beautiful storm--she asks me like the wind, "do you think it will work this time?" as she sits above me. No words.

Clarinet

I fit the two cylinders together. Beautiful music.

There is something deadly about my dreams. The suffocation of reality. Boats watching aircraft. Azure blue water. I sit and watch the water carve out the beach. The water takes the beach and scoops it up, settling it elsewhere. It would almost be a tidepool here, if it weren't for the waves. They're huge, disruptive and scary. It must be the result of some storm beyond the horizon. Liquid harbingers. Sand is completely white. The entire earth will one day be covered by sand. The biosphere will fossilize; limestone to be pulverized into this beautiful powdercake dust.
I see no meaning in objects. In objects I see no symbols. An apple is not sin, it is not even a conveyance for tree seeds (subjective). An apple is not a concept. It can be cut and eaten, though it cannot be understood. Some would say that Apple means: "It is better to be alive". I find this to be troubling. Objects are inpenetrable by the human mind. They frustrate a desire to inject humanity. They destroy teleological fantasy. In that sense, objects exist outside of good and evil. A skull is a good example.

Steel and glass cage. Halogen lights. The wire curled around itself after many twists.

I am on this side of town. The Atom Bomb went off underground (crater and dusty miniskis earthquake) and Rick Moranis is running at me. A waterfall, figure 8 tunnel and columns made of lava-rock. If I hold in my breath I can crawl ontop of the inflatable buildings. The rails ride is up there. The front cover is pressing in on my crotch uncomfotably--whelp I've got to go in any event. The buildings depress and shoot out cobwebs if I don't puff myself up with air.