limaçon in a coffee cup

fourth

2010-12-16T22:34:00.004-07:00

its never going to snow around here. december 16th and no sign yet. its been almost exactly two years, shows what can happen in two years. so i'm wondering how a feeling can stay but all actions around it can stop. how emotions can run in such strong threads that without touching them they can float to the surface and lead the way, especially if that way has no set course. i'm wondering how, without looking at these strings, you can still know that they are true even when whole lives have been built without consideration of them, opposite them. when all the bull shit is torn down, what is left are a few hurt feelings, perhaps something irreparable, and those beginning, deconstructible stings. so he sits across from me and hes crying. he can't stop crying he so exhausted - because i'm sad and hes done it. and yes he has, but its hopeless. who can be that empathetic anyway? who can embody such grey that, even though what should be is continually evidenced and continually undetermined, he holds those strings in his hands, pays homage to them with both hands over his eyes, while he lives other ideals so crossed and tangled that all we can do is look at the past but not be it. so i don't know, it hasn't snowed yet this year and there is no potential for it building. the air isn't electric, nothing is on the cusp. we know it will come but it doesn't matter when. its just one incomprehensible upon another, and sometimes there isn't a motif to be learned of it all, sometimes there isn't a reason. sometimes there's just shit to sort through. and so i wonder if betrayal has to come with this sort of thing. whether is it an inevitable. because it seems like, even though everything was so well calculated, so empathetically worked, that i would be lucky, if not presumptuous, to assume such an easy heart break again.

global warming

2008-11-16T17:39:00.003-07:00

its never going to be winter around here. its unbearable. the potential piles up stacking blocks a nervous game of jenga and i wear t-shirts outside at night. it snowed once two days ago. the first snow. it melted by noon. the great Release taunts but does not come. i keep taking off clothes, one at a time as much as i can, and the threshold looms opaque. air flows through me into my lungs through filters, through organs, cell walls, in and out. out as carbon flavored. i'm at a pinnacle. no one knows it. i'm reaching, everything building. time flows through me into my lungs, no filters, through my spine and into something other than ground. this makes me extremely cold. not cold but the panic of cold. global warming must be a myth. warming is something caused by information overload. too many carbon molecules beating their magnetic fists against the light.

pattern of primes

2008-09-07T00:30:00.005-06:00

an endless history of somethings within arms holding baskets brimming with wind. a something that appears forceful, filled with a power, often invisible, recognizable with its predictable and improbable containment. i want to be buried in snow. the purpose of this writing has shifted. i would like to be frank, to anyone that still reads. it is no longer an experiment. i've already concluded its result. the buzzing world of connection is, under some circumstances, disjoint. my funding has run dry and not only am i comfortable with the notion that hundreds of stomach aches can go by unnoticed, but that i wish them to go by unnoticed. that i require them to be. that this writing is for myself and my comfort, because comfort with the invisible force, so theoretically uncontainable, can be made into a discrete mass whose shape i internalize. the civil battle has been waging slowly and over months, built with a strength i could have never predicted -- and i have moved places, stood in poses and undergone maneuvers so complex that i find it difficult to see exactly where it was i once stood on this massive board of chess. the factoring of a large numbers, the pattern of primes. i have become the shape of my own one way function, and in the struggle of myself, i see that i am both winning and extinguished. i do not know how to deconstruct a bucket of wind, but i am better able to carry it in arms, confident and young, across time. in a representation of psychoanalytic world lines i see a deep portion that has caved in under equal parts pressure and the inexplicable. human interactions carry such collinearity that there is no hope to detangle the abstracted knot. the only hope is a perturbation theory, some approximation to a known problem. and, statistically, this is not only the best anyone can hope for, but in its refusal to fit into the confines of symbols, reality itself becomes no more complicated than the approximation to it. so the simplification is the thing on which i have been meditating. no longer an experiment, statistics and differential equations without solution, more and more so, are becoming my philosophy.

i find myself in cars, on busses, in transit, repeating the word 'love' for no reason at all. just the word, without any meaning and without any connection to a being or a place. love as an isolated sequence of letters exploding spontaneously like bubbles rising from the depths of a can of coke. i have never been more certain of nothing at all. i have never been more comfortable with its certainty.

cardboard

2008-07-12T00:13:00.025-06:00

hands red with the sweet stick
of experience, flowery like pollen
touching bed sheets and buttons
as if to fertilize.

i've started to form an idea of memory
as it influences reality
and the time i spend in showers looking at walls
abstracts of reds, olive green
transparent. transparent. heavy.
unanswerable and completely forgettable.

there are periods when all i can see
is him or her there back then
that once place, remember it was dark?
nameless and cutout of cardboard
smelling of shapes i am wholly incapable of manifesting.

you handed them to me in abundance
incredible forms at which to marvel
and then let die.
i find myself disillusioned
by this unprovoked willingness to taste and let stale.

my father once in line for a bagel
flicks his finger into the soft of a
sticky bun

places the frosting on his tongue
then moves on as if
nothing ever happened.

now i would color my abstracts with browns, purples
your strawberry lips decomposed with
the smack of pavement.
quite literally bleeding into deeper
unexplainable rust.

now i would look with a half eye
at those poses you make
there in the periphery of this
ridiculous tether
and remember what you tasted like

salt and secrecy
midnight moss
like everything was going to be ok
even though nothing was
even though everything eventually will be.

now i pick cherries and
suck on their pits
up in trees
dogs running underneath.

i've more roots than a willow
one hundred years old,
i've leaves brown and turned under from the spring frost
or a deficiency of nitric oxide.

opinion among judges

2008-04-25T21:34:00.019-06:00

seth the bookseller sits on the ledge of his downtown window smoking a cigarette. his shop is gutted. torn apart by boulder's general disinterest in the (somewhere thriving) subculture buzzing about antique collectable children's books. cardboard boxes disrupt the once certain walkways while he sits outside there, watching the other side of the street as he has for three years. his record is playing inside and he thinks about fantasy football. the league with the other pearl street booksellers on the block between 17th and 19th. how it made everything more bearable and how he will be empty without everything that he could not bear. he thinks about the era of mariocart and video baseball, about patti smith and the $130 book, and he tries not to think about what he will do next.

I have a photograph that hangs at the head of my bed. it is of a field. sandy grey soil cut with rows of crops. unidentifiable plant shoots resembling grass or miniature yuccas sit inches above the ground. their length spreads out towards the end of my bed as if perspective lines were objects that could be plucked from the photo and draped as a sheet. i imagine, sometimes, that i am lying down in that field. that i am born of that dirt. laid carefully in lines just inches above the ground. it calms me. i imagine this now. my window is open. and though this means spiders will crawl over my unaware sleeping body, perhaps biting at any resistance i might give, their eight foreign eyes and tiny thighs acting under instinct and nothing else -- an artifact of this consensus world -- at least right now, i can hear the rain.

library of babylon

2008-03-28T19:36:00.017-06:00

i have acquired a collection of things i keep folded up, hidden in cases and envelopes. jiplock baggies. a vast network of precise distances. a labyrinth of neural pathways. i have categories, types, hues, spins, overlap. an organizational system of things i know and things i don't. i am creating an army. a Foundation. angstroms and angstroms of current amounting to the weight of about one paper clip. the weight of the internet. an endless expanse. my system is combinatorial, like the Library of Babylon. and as any geometric entity, its growth starts from naught but lays its leave across the floor in a progression of staggering quantity until its layering saturates the earth. he left me here. pushed my face into it until i collapsed, like cards, into yet another layer of moss. and now i have categories. filing shelves, labeled boxes ("progression", "emptiness", "things to look at"). the steps are clearer along these innumerable corridors. this is that which i need and that for which i have been thirsting. this battle. my army anticipates. battalions named "forgotten places". "ordered sets". "buried objects". "music in a warm darkness". ready for this civil war. i am terrified.

delicate situations

2007-12-26T23:57:00.000-07:00

there is a wound in me which only fragile sequences can heal. a paper crane left in the windowsill of a condemned building, a carefully piled mound of dirt. these cannot be given explanation and cannot be touched with inquiry. there are no answers to be had of them. if let to be analyzed their delicacy would demolish with the weight of intent. such actions live only and exclusively for anonymous creation on the one end, and beautiful uncertainty on the other. this is a need. like air. the only cure for the unnamed melancholy that reaches its heavy vapor in and around my lungs. i have hours and days of contaminated alveoli. tired and heavy, their purification only achieved through the most delicate of things. we, like books, are strung of motifs. what, i ask from anyone who understands, is the significance? how can I name that which looms?

seth

2007-10-16T20:52:00.001-06:00

last thursday i killed a spider in my bathroom. i crushed its legs in a loosely collapsed toothpaste box. what an unfortunate home whose volume can change so abruptly. i moved to take out my piece of recycling when the spider came tumbling out the end onto the floor. my surprised feet scooted away and the spider, still alive, pulled its abdomen across the bathroom tiles with its five intact legs. its path was arced, curved towards the resistance of its crushed yellow limbs. i watched its struggle. when the world of any creature conspires tragedy against her, she aims all her desperation on instinct to leave the place of her undoing. but her undoing has already been done. i killed the spider with the outside face of the toothpaste box. i placed it over her moving body and pressed until i felt her explode. i called it compassion. that night a salt shaker and our compulsive destruction acted out a play of reactions and nonactions: the moving walls of my toothpaste box home. he called it compassion.

flop house

2007-05-19T00:06:00.000-06:00

sometimes when i feel thin my ring allows itself to swing freely around the whole of my finger. it lies there lively with its own weight engaged in conversation with whatever gravitational pull seems most interesting, and my hand tries unsuccessfully to ignore its awkward and loose ornament. like the half conscious reaction to a fly insistent on landing on one's nose, i can never fully grant my attention to anything but that ring. my house has adopted new characters that hang like molasses to the furniture. the transition was slow. almost undetectable. but now we have become a flop house of sorts. they smoke their cigarettes and curl their fingers around the hair follicles of carpets and beds. those of them not fortunate to share our sleeping spaces crash on couches playing humming video games and swearing that the future is not a thing to be planned. it is barely a thing at all. tattoos and twelve empty packs of djarum blacks adorn the space. they are my ring, twirling like stochastic tops within the boundary conditions and gravitational field of my living room. they need to leave. but more so i need to leave.

there are moments when i love him. like this morning waking up. how he brushed his hair. but he is too selfish for love. or is it i who am too selfish? i stay because anywhere else would be more difficult. i don't know what else i would do. why do they always think we are perfect? isn't it obvious? the phenomenon happens often, so maybe i am a master of disguise. or maybe the human race sees only that narrow band which appeals to it and i operate outside the visible spectrum. i can't decide whether it is me or them that feels thin, convulsing in the ultraviolet of precious private moments. this situation is a compromise between The Right and The Real. I feel as a dandelion seed caught in wind.

books start to grow green

2007-03-16T15:39:00.000-06:00

sun shines through library windows and books start to grow green. leaves sprout out like moths from breaks in sentences. a new presence of twigs crack already worn spines. i am taking an art class this summer. going to try and move some knotted muscles. going to see if they are able enough or have enough substance to cover the cracks in my skin as well as a life outside of that covering. maybe it doesn't matter. maybe all i need is a patch and then i can be something other than one definition. but it is not just an aid that i wish for, it is a contribution. one can live a life exhausting the possibilities of desire but one cannot contribute to the world, that great windy darkness, without a need. we do not do math because we are good at it. no one is good at math. we do math because we need to do math. nothing else satisfies some untouchable in us. tormented without, this is why we seek torment within. scratches are appearing on the page amidst the budding vines. a labyrinth of symbols and psychology. symbols of psychology. i might be coming out of all of this muck, scratching limp wings against the rough of cocoon, in order (as if it were the purpose and direction all along) to realize that the muck and the scratching were the places i find myself most conformable. if anything, i can say with absolute certainty that i despise lightness. lightness carries you away, floating with the air and the dancing smoke of the Now world. and even that smoke that you cling to when lightness is all that you have, even that is an act to try and become heavy again. i can never be satisfied without the amazing weight of necessity. how ever much my back might seize and twist around this density, wings scratched by the scratching of the page, moments where all you can do is hold your head in your hands pressing against the cage of your scull for comfort telling yourself it never ends it just never ends. how ever much, it is how i am made. and the sun shines on my making and i feel warm.

justin

2007-01-15T19:34:00.001-07:00

i don't know why i feel i need to justify this. i think i fear the pointless and infantile or a strengthening mental aesthetic masturbation. sometimes i seem like an expression that quickly becomes out of date. i need to interject reality because the experiment is evolving. which is good and bad and living. this writing was and still is simply a meditation on the painful construction of words. it is an act that becomes meaningful not in the writing but in the meditation. so i have explained myself then, i write when my insides wrestle like worms and my organs become claustrophobic to their own crowding. it is only this crowding that lays its presence here. you do not know me who sings and dances possessed to silver cold nights and the noise of a million humming street lamps. talks screams makes love laughs sleeps on carpeted floors in strange cities. and this is the way it should be. this is my new emptiness governed by the laws of cyberpsychology. a transition from Lack to the exploration of personal unconnection. none the less, i am still made of mass and am not of the virtual. here then, in the cyberpsychological realm, my non-virtual organs have been writhing again. this writhing, a stinging incongruence that refuses to let my eyes leave the mistake before me, is called justin.

when i was 18 i knew a man. dark dark eyebrows record players denver winters belle and sebastian. i had him for a small amount of time but nine years difference was too much and i lost him. i was so young, it shouldn't still matter. a child to the momentum of this blanketing city, i am (caught by its gravity and hot flashes, part of its grimy loving embrace, a hole that is missed when i'm from it and its from me). he doesn't make sense to me. a Real collection of Virtual pixels i accidently found tore through me today. recalled me of the everything that was my exhilaration and is my discontinuity. this fake him, love to some other fake her. absurdity grows with time and lifetimes have been granted me sense. now thousands of arms embrace me at night. they are faceless. impossible stupid arms that have no right save my reciprocal embrace. but Past is a disease within me that i either need to ignore or explain. both actions pull ('ignore', 'explain', the 'repulsion of arms and heart') to predictable poles. i tire with fighting these invisible fields. i tumble with their lines. i cover myself up there to rest. then, after the immediate, with new faceless people and places i try once more and rediscover my periodicity. i can't move from it or here or him. i sometimes believe i am the most ill-defined of all sets. Gödel's living and breathing prized proof of incompleteness. then other times my motion is damped and i cannot wrestle with discontinuity any more. my shining broken differential equation tires of approximating itself. ( ) is what is done within minds, all the rest is symbols on paper. so i, a variable, a mere scratch on the page.

crossword

2006-12-29T18:18:00.000-07:00

real crosswords are not done online. they are not aided with google's army of spiders marching delicately across the entire invisible world. real crosswords are done with memory and pen. ink is unerasable. this, all of this, is just an experiment. the things we say, critical moments where we choose to or choose not to act, tiredness, drunk words talked to yourself in the mirror of a bathroom, wrong picture painted, paper covered floors, misplaced t or r. these are not revokable. they might, as the patterning of motifs on canvas be resurrected in a new light and time, but words are never revokable. maybe forgettable. but no one wants that. functionality is a feather precariously placed on the tip of a ball point. ink that sticks thick to the white delicacy of its virgin prongs. i'm not sure about its origin. where the thickness first came from. but i am as words tested permanently into the porous fabric of space. a crossword. cannot hide from the lasting of words. everything is digital nowadays.

ergo ibid

2006-12-24T00:43:00.000-07:00

we are all stuck in the twirling of the world, motionless to our loss of everyone and everything that was before. it is not just me. so many people here are stalling. putting and lurching like an angry engine to a standstill. some lacking violence are as quiet and frustrated as a sail boat with no wind. they stand there beating fists at air and cause only the slightest fanning breeze. mercury must be in retrograde. we all want what used to be, in one way or another. before The Great Forgetting things used to be intuitive and accomplishable. actions and words made more sense, or perhaps it was the motive of sense-making which was at one time a worthy cause. therefore as before. and so the emphasis tends towards the previous syllable. our gaze passes backwards even though forwards is the cause of this deprecation we cannot comprehend. we cannot place blame and we cannot find momentum. snow has fallen on our smoldering. a great snow. white and new we are covered.

the procession of that which is known

2006-12-11T11:55:00.000-07:00

it has been a long time now since i have been taken with the beauty of science. swept up in it like a wind or scurry of soft descending paper thin summer seeds. the youthful and naïve days of pre-physics excitement faded more than a bit over the years since i have immersed myself in its splendor. though perhaps what makes Beauty so striking is its absence for long periods. it is true, a Beauty given by invisibility can be so thickly and undetectably consistent. and so this perceived absence threatened fatality, doubted my ability to see or love or feel faceless things. application is the detail in which devils live and theory is merely a crystal of application. i have learned this. my world was a series of loose strings. a piano left untuned to the weathering of time. or perhaps one of those webs spiders on acid or in space weave. a threat is the prediction of some perhaps never realized catalyst: this semester as the almost rejection of my Axiom of Faith. all i ever asked for was to want to keep working at the end of the day. all i ever wanted was happiness. was Beauty. but today, for no particular reason other than people and math, i feel it again. not a rejection nor an acceptance, vibration, or apathetic defeat. today what i feel is a satisfaction that perhaps, one day, life itself might descend like snow or fog, reach a state of equilibrium among the evening rocks and trees and have self perpetuated quietude. that is all i ever wanted.

thanksgiving

2006-11-24T09:06:00.000-07:00

a grandiose subtlety carves its way through human connection. it slithers or caresses around mexican kitchen tiles or old allergenic air, prompting the loveliest of meanings and ugliest of venoms. and so i wonder if any of our lives are really so different. whether lives, as particular as they are to each of us, are really so unique. and of course they are not. it is called the anonymity of large N. we read stories or see movies and they are human and we Understand. the subtlety is a membership card to whatever house of mirror club we have going here. and our club is just that, a fantastic collection of reflective bumps and concavities. light runs like rays of string bouncing against the insane motion of mirrors. it is beautiful that light, beating as congealed molasses in glass. we swim in it. a duality as only humanity can concoct. venomous snakes, loving mothers. i am part of a tradition which is called thanksgiving and though their tongues are spiteful and fast their words are inescapable collectives. like hands they pull. how i wish my mother lacked The Hurt or my grandmother The Regret. or at least how i wished they didn't wear it on their forheads. there is nothing to be done about these things. like hurricanes they will take hold of the aether and tear because we all wish upon ourselves that which we do not wish upon ourselves. i do not know what my ailment is. perhaps i bear upon myself The Difficult. but as such, what else am i do to but lift my neck high against the led of my spine and i pull with equal ferocity? it is on that subtlety which i pull, like water or time.

quals

2006-11-02T15:46:00.000-07:00

great men lie sprawing on walls about me. collectively we admire them. individually, i a piece of paper quivering. feeble ill-formed lines of code partially cover my bare necessities. emulating sprawling great men whose Meaning is so strong it requires no continuity. but i do. continuity is my Meaning. lets strip her. give her the gift of nudity. hang it up, call it art. test them on it, mold them into it, train them to recognize what we deem researched practical ability abilitus habilitus dot dot dot. that class shook me up. it was an echo. keep practicing. you have quals soon.

well-ordering property

2006-10-29T21:14:00.000-07:00

i have a bookshelf. i think it used to represent what i wished i was a few years ago (echoed in a hall hurried though). copies of proust and derrida. it is still sectioned off into partitions, trends that blend into eachother. the spectrum of the things that used to keep me up at night. but the bottom of this bookshelf is growing without bound. calculus, differential equations, abstract math, topology, classical mechanics, electrodynamics, quantum mechanics, gravitation... the weight of these texts start from the base, like a tree. stretch higher and higher. the leaves of my fingers can still all but touch the search of Humanity, but these leaves are one by one falling. they are so light compared to the heaviness of their roots. i was in class last week, the only non-physics class i am taking. we were reading keller. a love story of two youths ending in death. my professor, the dean of graduate studies in the greman department, translator of the new cambridge press of thus spoke zarathustra, was brought to tears by the end of the story. he had to leave the room in order to regain composition so we could discuss the midterm. the great sweeping act of Humanity has lost me in its motion. and so i fake it. or avoid it. build text upon text. but this is where i live. here in admiration of things, uninvolved but trying. expecting.

quiet and bright

2006-10-25T17:03:00.000-06:00

i have been displaced.

a wave was once dense but by a sheering, changed its direction, projected itself onto a new observable, and became thin but spacious. can you feel numbers? let me explain. the sun is in my eyes. its like that, the sun. like something soft without any arms one can shake, but still wraps around you like a blanket. eddying about a finger or a neck, spilling over a back. something that is felt without form but with intuition. a small white space, quiet and bright. the center of the universe. but i have been displaced. the only thing that travels faster than light is shadow. and so thinness is what we call dancing on tiptoes. I wrote that in a math book once, dance without hesitation or pause. then you will know Mathematics. it is an uncertain thing to orbit around your center. particularly when your center is so small and soft. such an odd thing. so can you feel it? a number or a certainty? faith hole. you must. the presence of that center or purpose is not unique, Truth is there. Truth is not unique. but so often our orbit is a swelling failed to climax. i am wrapped up in it all. and the act of constructing an assessment is assessment itself. i feel like sand under feet.

The Book of Bridges

2006-08-15T20:03:00.000-06:00

I love those moments before sleep where your thoughts are velvet and carry no concreteness. someone must have designed pillows after these thoughts. their coherence is astounding given that they are either unpersued waking thoughts, or apparitions of another realm entirely. born from a more basic consciousness. i have been reading the unbearable lightness of being every night now as i fall into sleep. though i've already read this book it is one of my favorites to read while my consciousness disappears from the world. the Human Truth there echos currents in the realm of abstract connection and carries them into sleep in such a path that matches breath's swinging door. (for echo is the sound of the soul exciting itself in hollow places.) If i'm lucky sometimes i dream in such books, waking up in the early morning hours repeating passages that no longer have meaning but still retain their beauty. i intend to make a record of these passages at some point. i would call it The Book of Lost Books or The Book of Bridges and it would as the last arial binding of light be the connection of our full consciousness. it would be a book to read while exiting the world so that more books would be dreamt and more passages remembered then added in turn to The Book of Bridges. it would be a work of formlessness you could hold in your hand. like cats westling on sunny wood floors.

i went to a wedding yesterday

2006-08-07T01:22:00.000-06:00

i have been meaning to talk of love for some time now. religious or personal or ceremonial or The Loss. my mother has The Loss. she has The Loneliness as well. i can see it hiding just visible behind her gestures and the things she chooses not to say. she doesn't like to talk about it, speaking never fixes. words as leaves flow with the wind of voice but carry no current of their own. after a while they seem useless. after a while growing realizes us of the incompatibility of resolution. she told me once in a dark hallway on the floor draped in black silk (one of our shaping moments) that she cannot count on anyone but herself, not for the important things. i do not find this depressing. not all true things are depressing even though they might sound like it at first. the only control or reliance that is lives in your actions, outside objects are tied to so many other forces that faith in them is precarious. this faith, though infinitely valuable, is wise to be held with the knowledge of its time dependent balance. and so she has The Loneliness. she is so mad at it, she is so in love with it. when she was a shadow it was her bed. but i was intending to write of love. yes, that is what i was writing about. i do not mean to capture some state of sadness that crawls up in my belly upon the mention of the word. not at all. i am surrounded by it. love pulls me like a net through hands and time. love is constant as loneliness, they are two perspectives. both are needed. but writing of such a thing is distant in memory and much easier to express via some other outlet. my Love is an oddity that skips from person to person with large gaps between so that forgetfulness can heal and allow old things to feel new again. i am still waiting for the point where my Love can allow reflection. but then, intensity of such magnitude requests complete attention. a sacrifice must be made between identity and intensity. have i named another uncertainty principle? momentum and position, energy and time, identity and intensity. or are these just groups of words that fall to the floor without wind.

three steps in an open field

2006-08-01T23:23:00.000-06:00

potential is a cloud of smoke that dissipates with time. human potential, individual potential, three steps in an open field. it is so easy be lost to dispersion. so easy to shift paths or keep paths for too long. let give too much hight for locality. i am not yet sure of the Truth in my words (what Truth are in words?), but i think we might only be allowed three definitions for the self. we choose and compile them in childhood when we are searching for identity and we modify them when maturity makes itself important. but at any age we can carry no more than three active descripts. three is a very practical number. father son holy ghost. i meet with a friend every wednesday for coffee. we talk of religion and voice those places composed of only soft unspoken thoughts. he is a christian. i am not. science fills my faith hole, physics and math are my religion. chaos, consciousness, and connection always seemed more real than a god; or should i say, more like a god. i possess an intuitive understanding of function, people, and form. observation has given me the ability to see people and interaction with a large degree of clarity. my clarity is not unique, but still i find it incredible and fantastic that my christian friend has the same intuitively clear understanding of things. i know many people with this ability, but i have never talked at such length with one who is christian. i am becoming very attached to our coffees, they are pushing me to loose balance and it is always good to have a change of perspective. but balance is such a desirable state. my three definitions are becoming crowded. i cannot yet tell if it is because my gyroscope is slipping and has been slipping for some time on this unstable foundation i have built, or if something more fitting is encroaching and breaking that foundation. the pillar i have chosen is one marked by its potential. the smoke holds long enough to build rather than clear on these years of dedication, of concentration. but we are our character and our ability to make something of it. the smoke must be fed by and feed you, otherwise it has no potential other than pollution. my second foot is not yet poised to disrupt the dew blanketing a field.

power

2006-07-31T00:23:00.000-06:00

control. that power that pulls itself over people and renders safety in situation. a security by way of hierarchal position. why is such a silly thing so appealing? the every day is like a chess game to some. There are certain strategic moves that must be made, opportunities that if given must be snatched and utilized. every new occurrence holds an opportunity to secure your power rank among the participants. today i feel like a pawn. by their definition i suppose i am a pawn. i don't care for their competition, it is foreign to me. thus i am a piece that will allow itself to be placed. my ease of motion is not due to lack of knowledge about my position, rather my ambivalence to their world of power placements. why do many social constructs function under this system of politics? what lies. security is earned by reciprocity. power continuums are ephemeral at best. such structures will fall if one or few connections are broken. i was discussing animalistic nature last night. (fictitious) transcendence and the alienation of the intellectual. what lies. meaningless words. she is so spread out and moving in all different directions, her organ particles colliding with each other outside the screen of observation spinning around each small moving point of gravity. there is no pull but the local. no transcendence no Truth in words. fuck gravity.

splitz

2006-07-29T01:42:00.000-06:00

i have wonderful people. i do, i always have. having wonderful people is one of the most amazing comforts in the world. they are the family you build rather than the family you are given. they are permanent in a different way. i hardly ever know how i gained such amazing people to be in my family. i sometimes attribute it to my town; its oddities and ability to hold groups and cement them. these mountains are magnetic. but even though the power of this place seems so potent and viscous at times, i know it is not unique. it is simply one of many vortexes in the world, one of many collective states of mind. there are people here with some common spirt inside of them, but it is not the reason for how i find and keep them. nor is it the reason for them. catalyst aside, i find it indescribable how fortunate i am. last night i had one of the most touching moments. the three of us were driving home from drunken (at least on my part) bowling. 2am with our windows down on the highway listening to explosions in the sky so loud i could feel the sound in my throat. i felt as if i were in love. but not the kind of love you have for a person, though it had the same pointed intensity. i was in love with a moment and its beat pulsed through me with all the possible desperation of joy it could take on. there are people who never know such intensity, never have the people to create it with. i wish i could give them this gift.

age

2006-07-27T23:16:00.000-06:00

i have been trying to understand age for my entire life. i cannot yet. and what i do see of it leaves me unsettled and terrified. i am not talking about old age, connotations should not be so readily assigned to words. i am terrified of the continuum, not of an end. a number is meaningless, but the forward current of points that drape the spaces between numbers... well, that is where the secret malignancy of growing older lies. age is not asymptotic, zeno's paradox falls to pieces with the motion of a continuum. i went to a soccer game tonight with a friend i used to work with a couple of years ago. it was her husband's soccer game, an office team. everyone was married, everyone had small children. little boys running around on the sidelines kicking size 3 soccer balls at their mothers while kimberly and i drake obligatory wine coolers and i grew to realize i cannot tell her true things. why does age rot? at small numbers the passing of time drives involuntary change, tricking us into believing growth is a given, almost like breath. but at large numbers the passing of time drives nothing. people say "i missed my boat". the graph levels out and slows until it's motion eventually just stops. somewhere between breath and dying we have to teach ourselves momentum. this is the terror. how can we teach ourselves the power of our own mass when we do not know how to determine our velocity?

first

2006-07-26T00:09:00.000-06:00

..
i used to write much more than i do now. i used to draw. today a state farm commercial i saw in passing triggered a memory of what it used to feel like to sculpt. it remembered me of the nothingness of firm grey clay and how such a nothingness found out the small places between fingerprints and held there until completion or frustration set it aside. it is a disappearing muscle. a week or so ago, while drunk at a party at my house, i found myself pulling out an old sketch book. In it's thick watercolor pages resides a portrait, not yet finished, of the most beautiful picture of my mother. the photo from which it was drawn lay face up on this painting, and sitting there drunk with this unfinished expression, i tore from my wall a polaroid of myself that looks so much like her. i thought it ridiculously absurd regarding these two photos and an unfinished painting. there under my impaired inspection were three pieces of evidence of three lost eras, with nothing in common but the tie of an echo of form, a series of overtones my untimely observation did nothing but damp. i don't draw any more, nor write nor sculpt. though i can form the equation of such an overtone, i cannot express it. the frustration of form was/is always the battle.