Everyone’s a Critic…

December 5, 2011 in Uncategorized with 2 Comments

Gonna get back into this again. I’ve got it all set up. The intuitive writing programs, the incipient organization of everything in my apartment, the “whole foods” (you know, real food), and the gym schedule that I’m properly not following. I’m a bit of a nut.

My desires are taking me elsewhere. I want to frequent hotel bars, art galleries, and small seminars. It’s like I’m craving social interaction with people from elsewhere. Not that my current loved ones don’t suffice; it’s that my background noise needs a change in pace.

The mental toll that having a messy room has is infuriating. I need to write for class, too, which of course I put off until the absolute last minute. It’s interfering with my sleep cycle, which was recently fixed. My exhaustion and anticipation is preventing me from writing much more.

The de-archiving that I’ve done so far in my room is bringing out stacks of old papers and poems. I think I may cheat on this whole hourly writing process and start typing them out and spending the rest of my posts commenting on them. At least ’til I get that stream of consciousness flow back.

This is so far off track, I’m boring myself.

How about this: I am through with the process of art and its rights of passage. I won’t refer to writing, because I don’t intend on being postmodern right now. But let’s take painting as an example because I’ve started on a piece.

Too much classical training and you’re unoriginal. Too much up-to-date training and you’re unoriginal. Too little of any kind of training and you’re so unworthy of praise. Why can’t you be more like so-and-so, who is both well-trained and original? Although upon further scrutiny, so-and-so is only so-so with originality and their statements won’t last. Then there’s being disliked. How many painting critics gave a snobbish finger to initial Warhol? I’d know if I bothered doing any research. And I know for a fact that Palahniuk had a hard time building his rep, although not surprising when considering that he was going with the short story, “Guts.” He’s still one of my favorite writers, and I love the future-predicting messages Andy had too.

So my goal is to be irritating. Combining the most irritating concepts I could find onto a massive canvas. I also intend on slapping a ridiculous price on it. This way I can keep it, and if I let it go, it’s for the amount it’s worth to me.

Bah. So tired. Good night.

=3^3^3

Schrodinger’s Cats

December 1, 2011 in Uncategorized with 0 Comments

We’re a bunch of hepcats, nonexistent until observed. The increasing population means more work for the same percentage of recognition; our existence is diminishing thereof.

I’ve freaked out on Darwin’s shizzle. Birds; these magnificent creatures with grandiose plumage and vocal talent. Birds; the awe-inspiring songs of paradise and then… underwhelming female counterparts. The brown ones that evolved to meet the male’s discriminating tastes. Ah, I mean indiscriminate taste, that’s the one. The idea of womb-ishness or egg-carrying  plays the men to evolve extravagantly. Is my seed worthy of you now, milady? If my feathers do not sway you, perchance my song will…

Female homo-sapiens are like male birds, and not due to surplus of literal women. For the human species, mere images will suffice (and with our plentiful tools for visual manipulation we can hardly call them “mere”). Exhibit A, we have a photo of the girl you loved in high school. Exhibit B is a collection of golden ratios, color swatches, and a mapped profile of your brain including the girl of your dreams and your deepest insecurities. Superimpose B onto A and now we can sell you our beer. Knee to the groin? More like knee to the limbic system.

Billboard, billboard, magazine, videogame, porn porn porn. There are women everywhere, although many of them duplicate images. I’m not commenting on the lack of originality in western fashion, but the literal ability for Lara Stone to be in two magazines at once. Huzzah, the printing press. Though outnumbered by eligible men, the females have to compete with photocopies. Because at the end of the day, there’s still porn to look forward to. A participant can be comfortably resistant to average looking “brown-bird” examples, just waiting for a slightly more choice specimen. For just 10 minutes a day you can be 30 percent more desirable. For just 1 hour a day you can be 55 percent more desirable.

The more we want these non-real images, the more real they become.

Back to Schrodinger’s cats. And memories of high school, etc. I’ve recently taken to considering the company I kept. One, we’ll call her Anna (appropriate considering her severe anorexia) and another that I call Jess. Anna was overwhelmed with her own plumage. Perfecting your physical appearance, because there is no perfect ideal, can be a lifelong obsession. Then Jess, subject to Anna, was always overwhelmed with brown-bird complex. It was Yin and Yang.

The desire to go out and be seen was always there, after letting Anna put makeup on for an hour of course. Train of thought is in the horizon, I find the emotional analyses of these old friends to be draining. And as a point of closure, I have not seen either of them in years. Of what I hear, they’re not doing well.

My head is throbbing. I’m not feeling up to this right now.

=3^3^3

Good Morning

December 1, 2011 in Uncategorized with 0 Comments

This shitty post was written on November 18th, 2011. Saved as draft. I’m never going to finish it.

I woke up this morning at ten to seven. Here is the nostalgia of high school, waking up when it’s dark and making coffee. Breakfast too, and a damn good one. I need this every day, or at least every other. My exhaustion reveals itself later as a result of the previous day’s “all nighter,” or whatever you call it when a hardcore nocturnal is up all day. Trying for the millionth time to reset the sleep cycle.

It’s like a chronological tongue twister. Take my hour-long writing sessions (like now) and keep in mind that I write them in the morning, perhaps five or six AM, sometimes ten or eleven. Now imagine that these are posted just before bedtime. Solstice would have that I sleep through any sliver of sunshine granted in this brisk November. Oh yeah, I live in Canada. Sometimes I forget. Awareness and eating breakfast (not dinner) is bringing my head to another phenomenon of constant cleanliness. I wash dishes immediately after doing them. I cleaned the windowsill this morning. I’ve taken a long, luxurious shower and am actually wearing perfume. I’m going to reorganize the kitchen when I finish my hour here.

This is starting to remind me of the psychological study about anorexia. Instead of using anorexic subjects, the researchers used non-anorexic adult male participants and put them on a restricted calorie diet. Approximately 25% body weight was lost, and then the symptoms of anorexia began. The men were more depressed, obsessive, and some started to collect food and develop strange eating rituals. Sex drive decreased and some wanted to commit suicide, and though none actually did, one cut off a few fingers. The interview transcript sounded nonchalant, and he said the decision was intentional. He “let go” of the fingers.

There was a point to all this; maybe people don’t wake up early because they’re self-disciplined. Perhaps people are self-disciplined because they wake up early!

I pondered religion in the shower. I’m not irritated by belief inherently. I love logic, and I cannot logically bring myself to care for a logic-lack, as long as it is unimportant yet not ignorance based. Perhaps this is my rationalizing my own faith. I believe that the dawn of life on earth is the product of an alien pit-stop. That’s right; time traveler extra-terrestrials came to earth, took a dump, and left. Eons later and voila! Humanity. I take the “I have my reasons…” approach to explaining this belief, which I hold unwaveringly. But I don’t have any desire to share those reasons (being scattered and malformed), hence “faith.” I’m too involved with the question of why it matters. I am not a cosmologist, nor am I interested in dedicating my life to evolutionary science. I am busy, simply put. As such it doesn’t matter if I believed in god or aliens or the rhetorical flying-spaghetti monster. I am (in a word) atheist, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t hold any beliefs. I just don’t try to convince anyone else that it’s true. When I bring it up, it’s usually to make others laugh. Are you laughing at my beliefs?! Good.

Showers tease out my obsessive-compulsive. So does sleep deprivation.

I just got distracted by a short conversation with Roommate. I am not doing so well with the writing-an-hour-straight thing. First post was stream of consciousness and it got continually more prosey. Now I’m concerned about being interesting more than just constantly writing. My words per minute has dropped. I didn’t write about my obsessive-compulsions in the shower because I was worried it was boring, yet I write interesting short stories (that I don’t post) when I want the audience-aware stuff. So back to being uninteresting, why are you reading this? Creep. You want my fiction you gotta pay for it bitches.

Obsessive-compulsive showering! Context first: I brush my teeth in the shower, I occasionally use this electric face scrubbie, and I am neurotic about what touches my hair. Another thing to keep in mind is that most of this is unconscious until now, where I’m picking apart my rationale. So the shower puzzle involves differently shaped pieces, and the goal is to get them to fit together as nicely as possible. Conditioner for hair is the longest chore, for example. If you leave it in longer, it’s better (it’s silicone-free vegan stuff too). Conditioner can also leave a slimey residue on nearby skin. Teeth-brushing cannot be done after face-washing, because the more raw skin is susceptible to mint-sensation around the mouth. Feet need to be pumice scrubbed before soap, otherwise you are risking efficiency of both. These bits combined result in my finely-tuned routine.

=3^3^3

Foul and Sickly

November 16, 2011 in Uncategorized with 1 Comment

It gets more difficult. There’s sleepiness and needing to shower, sometimes it feels like preparation for death. I shouldn’t be writing when I’m in a bad mood. This is not audience aware.

I should write when I’m in a bad mood, but it’s like taking macro-shots of your weakness and posting them on the internet. Good morning world, the things I possess include angst, lethargy, and irritation. I can’t be self-conscious about this kind of stuff, though. I need to be an example, right? The robotic brain with human feelings for the Beta and Alpha squad, or maybe just showing Girl that to evolve writing you must be unafraid to let others in deep (okay it was Roommate who mentioned that). Part of the fear is that these trivialities seem deep from an outsider’s perspective, when only the surface has been scratched.

“Fuck off,” I say. I’m nauseous from TV and junk food. “Don’t touch my bellybutton.” I’m angry because I’m physically uncomfortable from a feverish sweat, I feel like vomiting, I need to get away. I need to swim in a pool or something. In my mind I’m pushing away any human that invades my personal space, get off. I’ll have nightmares of being tackled by football teams of average men. Claustrophobic sapiosexual needs her space. “Fuck off” I think to myself.

I have never had a man in my life understand the concept of “backing down” without getting personally offended or behaving hyper-sensitively. That means I either have to baby-talk them back to health, or they baby-talk me to help me feel better from what is going on. Sometimes people just need to go for a long bike ride and puke off a pier. Jump into the lake, perhaps.

We don’t expect sound-mindedness. We don’t expect thorough processes and internal consistency and frankness. We expect there to be hidden meaning, passive aggression, and maybe they don’t even know what’s wrong themselves… hold the phone. When I say “we,” I don’t mean myself and other people.

This is increasingly difficult to dig into, knowing that I’ve given my URL to user42 on the dating website I frequent, my roommate, and Girl. There are relationships and impressions I want to maintain but sweet jesus I’m irritated. Good morning, friends.

I need a new chain for my bike. I have an essay to write on prefrontal lobotomies. My stomach hurts. I don’t have the current brain power to explain why touching someone’s bellybutton would make them queasy. My foul-mood response is, “Why do you care?!” and my logical response is, “I really don’t know, and due to the commonness of this phenomenon, as well as the closeness to the stomach region to the bellybutton, I admit that I don’t give a damn. Now pardon me while I go wash the taste of bile from my mouth.”

I feel like I’m digging myself into a nonsensical hole. This fear is counter-productive and self-perpetuating. It needs to be let go of.

Alright. Honesty. Honesty. Honesty. Honestly I’m bloated and uncomfortable, my will-power has been shot by procrastination and anxiety, and I feel guilty that I’m not being a nice person to the people I love the most. Is that honest?

But I read it and it sounds like a lie, relative to other contextual honesties. I have a close group of friends, a low-stress workload, a great apartment, a rediscovered faith in my abilities to write…

And I end up pouting over stream-of-consciousness not being representational of my sensational fiction I write off-line. Oh god, and what if I kept this all in my head? It’s worse than the journals I maintained when I was in grade school. I’ll give it to you, dear reader, this is audience aware. And very much so. If it weren’t I would have gotten over the nonsense-cycle. At least it won’t leak into my real writing now, right?

Hmm… Observation time. Firstly, emotions seem to float to the surface like a thin layer of filmy grime. I don’t experience them this often anymore, so maybe I’ve forgotten. So consistency, they must be alleviated somehow. Another is that they are unoriginal and a terrible representation of any individual. It will also assist me to point out that as I continue adding entries, the statistical occurrence of these outbursts will eventually paint a more accurate picture of myself. Hi mom!

There is no reason to keep this true to myself either. But I’m back into “writing about writing” and I feel like I’m caught in a wormhole circle-jerk. Next time I’ll do another not-audience-aware piece with more freedom to scratch my own ass. Vulgar vulgar vulgar, will you date me now?

I jest. This dating website thing is a hilarious time-suck. It’s one of the contributing factors to my mood. There’s something about looking for specific kinds of people and being “forced to be a bitch” in order to get to the people you really like. Just like real life, but happening really quickly. It’s cynicism concentrate! The unoriginality and the assumptions are so exasperating. That’s how I feel: exasperated.

A recent message conversation:

user416:   hey beautiful how are you doing? = )

my response: Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit.

This is the shortened version. I copied and pasted three paragraphs of filler “ipsum” into the conversation. Are we not bothered by ourselves? And then when we get little bursts of unique-feelings, are our heads so far up our asses that we cannot see that everyone else is doing the same thing?

Pardon me, I got caught in a bit of an emotional burst there. Maybe my fault is that I make an effort to reply to everyone. This won’t be the last “Lorem ipsum,” I can say for sure. There are my instincts, exhibit A. My actions, exhibit B. My actions are softened to the point of being tolerably crass. But remember, I am a maniac, right? Do we trust that when I say this, we refer to exhibit A?

Dammit audience, you did it again. I thought about perception and judgement. Good riddance. My head is throbbing. It’s one of those days. I’d love to clean my room instead of writing this essay, that might put me in a good mood. In fact, I think I will. Perhaps drink three gallons of water and roll south to the harbor, become one with the lake.

Why do I live here? And since when does idealism grant me anything, let alone perky little, “You should change Earth to be a better place.” The point is to find out if the Earth is worth saving. This is similar to the discussion I had with Fireboy.

He asks me the most obvious questions. The “How do you know…”s and the “Why don’t you try…”s and the “What if you’re not…”s and I let it go. If Fireboy was a less pleasant role in my life, I could’ve just gone lorem-ipsum. No, I didn’t meet him on the dating site. Going lorem-ipsum means giving up with a feeble flicker of nonsense that he might pull himself back in toward. I sigh, answer his questions with as much patience as I can muster.

There’s a thought experiment, involving trust and super-computers. Okay I don’t know but there is now. Let’s say we have the supercomputer that is connected to a human sentience. The computer can dedicate the human’s sentient energy to calculating the answers to the world’s problems. Or, the computer can detach itself, do nothing, and let the human live a normal life. Here’s another detail: the human has lived an incredible life so far and fully consents to committing him/herself to solving life’s mysteries. Another detail! Let’s say you have great friends and lots of … more-than friends and you meditate daily and you love your life. Would you let this person do what they want? Or would you tell them that these questions can’t be answered? Would you say, “There’s no way this computer will fully solve the mysteries of humanity and therefore should not even try.” Or perhaps, “Do whatever you want, I don’t care.”

I don’t have a supercomputer. I’m building one, okay? And Fireboy got all up in my grillz about the use of my time. Here’s my pity-party… about six months ago (or so) I decided to give up on furthering communication abilities. This was a great idea, because I’m instinctual anyway, and if you can’t understand my nonsense I don’t give a quarter-damn. So having to “explain myself” when I really wanted to say “let me coast on the refreshing originality of a specific methodology and go fuck yourself” was a bit overwhelming.

Funny, that’s how I feel mostly on the dating website. I cannot afford to underestimate anyone for any reason, and my lord it has led to my unraveling. Look at me, I’m a hot mess. Although my stomach isn’t hurting so much anymore. Just don’t poke my bellybutton after I’ve had a full meal unless you want a slap. Grumble…

=3^3^3

Sour Cream Donuts

November 15, 2011 in Uncategorized with 0 Comments

What kind of unsound mind produces such a revolting product?

The most delicious facade. Looks just like those things from Starb’s but available at Tim’s. We bought a bundle of six assorted pastries, with the idea of being gluttonous college-students and eating them all in one sitting. After dinner. We opened the box, and they gleamed at us. Cheerleader-effect in all its glory, the perfect analogy. How delicious it would be. The sour-cream in the middle.

It was the third or fourth that we split. I could smell it from the table. Something like bile or spoiled milk (surprise). This can’t taste as bad as it smells, can it? I waited for my roommate to take a bite before me. Our eyes met, and he says, “You must have had one of these before.” In essence? No. And now we’re in the present. He takes the first bite. I take the second. Can’t focus. Won’t eat this crap. I proceed to eat the other crappy donuts with delight.

I’m now getting really caffeinated. The box is in front of me, and the last half-a-sour-cream-crap-donut is in it. Neither of us wants to eat it. I pick it up and (without missing a beat in the conversation) start to tear it into little pieces. The focus of the conversation shifts to the nebula of donut-crumbs building up in this box. The smell of bile starts to woft, I lean back. Still crumbling, now it’s an obsession. I need to get rid of the larger pieces. A smile emerges from both of us. “What are you…?”

We laugh, but I don’t look away. Eyes widening, comically. I’m 12 years old, concocting a devious plan. When the crumb-pile is crumbly enough, I will have him smell the box. His face will say, “oh gross” and it will be glorious! Smile is now devious.

“I dare you,” I sputter through maniacal tears of laughter, “to stick your face in the box and just smell it.” What does my face say now? It doesn’t matter, this is going to be so awesome. Of course he said no. I’d say no. But this is worth convincing! I’m 14 years old, making vulgar shapes out of my food at the Korean barbeque. I’m 16 years old, pissing myself laughing from having fallen through a door into the service-side of a fast food restaurant in the movie theater. I’m 18 years old, spewing berry smoothie from hearing the nonsensical ramblings of my art-school friends. Laughing my fucking ass off, really.

“I’ll do it if you do it,” my desperate plea.

“Okay fine-uh, but you don’t have to do it.” There’s no containing my delight. He does one better, and holds the box up to his face. Takes a whiff. Instantly grimaces. “Oh, ew,” followed by laughter at my unbridled reaction to the hilarity. But it’s not over. We’re now making smell-my-fingers jokes loving the rushing high of maturity. The old construction workers glance disapprovingly over at us. “You should ask those guys to smell it!” And then there’s sweet revenge (ha) for people we dislike; a dozen sour cream donuts for our favorite relatives! Better than the time I tried to poison my brother with hot-sauce and onion brownies. In retrospect, can we all take a moment to appreciate this? My brownies: home-made, one corner containing dried onion bits, chili peppers, and other spice-rack level olfactory sensations. My brother’s despair, oh the sacrilege of tainting the innocent archetypal brownie—I hear you! But after the rouse was revealed, his conclusion was poetry: Wow… you managed to make a healthy brownie.

I will take piles of cream cheese and icing sugar, blend it with butter, smear it on a carrot cake, and presto. Health-food! Like taking a donut and making it taste like bile and cow-poop… and it all starts to make sense. Later I may question the motive of Mr. Horton. In the meantime, coffee!

What happens when the over-caffeination kicks in and I sit down to write? I grow weary of my anecdotes, but I like to make a point. Mind goes all vortex again, here we go.

I’ll switch gears into the coffee on my desk. Four coffee cups, each double-stacked, and only half a container’s worth left of tepid java. Sweet nectar of students, peacekeeper of sobriety, the cheapest crack. Perfect for last-minute essaying too, if you really don’t want to get any work done.

And why is it so difficult for me to write my assignments? As if the simple act of doing what I’m told puts me into a foul enough mood that I must pout? I know this isn’t a symptom of poor conditioning, and my grades are top-notch (if I complete the assignment). And it kicks the ass of working full-time, although I’m not educated enough to be qualified for a job I enjoy.

Do I go for it? Become a shrinky-dink? Or the fabled “engineering psychologist,” master of product development? Or perhaps I close my eyes tight, cross my fingers, hold my breath, and shit out a golden egg… so vulgar. There’s not a proper word for the process of pushing something out of the female genitalia. Men say, “pump out babies,” and women imitate this diction. But I wouldn’t pump out a golden egg. I’d eject it, laboriously.

I hope it’s my anti-art piece that does it. The canvas with the hot pink and the sparkles and the face of terror. The one I haven’t yet ejected, though I’ve acquired some of the materials. This egg is crowning, so to say. Am I being too vulgar? Excellent, it fits the concept behind the canvas. If I can find a canvas big enough, I will fill it with the teeth-bared face of terror as depicted in my psychology textbooks. It’s a specific blend, made to surpass cognition, and hit you smack-dab in the limbic system. If I feel extra saucy, I’ll name it “Upon Receiving My First Sour Cream Donut.” Classy conditioning, right there.

=3^3^3

The Streamlining Process

November 14, 2011 in Uncategorized with 1 Comment

I’m a gamma. This is part- waiting game, part- strive for perfection. I don’t want to hear any of the “perfection is unattainable” shit, it’s irrelevant. The point is that I want to freeze organic strawberries and wash my hair with sulfate-free shampoo, okay? But the problems arise everywhere. It’s the “what to do” without the allure of the “with only an extra 5 minutes a day you could be 30 percent more beautiful.”

Although, I do like those numbers. See what I mean? Finely tuned discretion, that’s what I need. Self-discipline too, but not too much. Where to begin?

I could start way back when, at the whole identity whatnot, beauty, being a female, etc, but I’ve boiled that down so many times that there is no gurgle of interest anymore. I’m rock candy. The basics are simple: do I consider myself attractive? Yes. Do I maintain this? To an extent. Is it part of my identity? Not anymore. So then, why bother? Instrumental. I rarely want to get into this, because it involves pointing out the inconsistencies in the kind of people I count on. Finding people begins with engaging people. When I look a certain way, they engage themselves. This is combined with friendliness, extroversion, etc, and results in a selection that I can narrow down.

Are we done here?

Here’s the juice: I don’t know how to streamline this process more. Conflicting research and “common sense” and ice showers and don’t forget to floss; I hear you. So work out every day. I got that. Where’s my calendar? But make it sustainable. Scratch that, I’m on impulse here. And that’s when I ran 17k and had to stop running. Then I got breasts again, which I became attached to. I’m willing to let them go again.

It’s nice when you can find everything you need. And it’s nice to sleep 7.5 hours a night regularly, wake up with the sunrise, run 5k, have a protein shake, write for an hour, and then study. But when you still have 40 boxes in your living room from moving in, 20 emails to respond to, a budget that needs re-calculating, and master plans to assemble, finding the toenail clippers can be a feat (ha).

This irritates me.

How can you have a fast metabolism and still fast 2 days a month? Would you not be starving by 10AM? I need to work this out. And work out. And sleep. And replace the cracked screen on my cellphone. And clean the apartment. And do lots of laundry. Scan some things. Mail some things.

Time to make some lists.

=3^3^3

Introduction to Depths

November 14, 2011 in Uncategorized with 0 Comments

There’s the initial apprehension. Do I dialogue? Monologue? Chrono-logue?

“You need to find more people like yourself,” is what he said (essentially). A truffle pig, to be precise, but context-lacking terms won’t help the stranger. This is not audience aware, this is not audience aware, this is not audience aware. This is not audience aware.

“You need to find another truffle pig,” he said (actually). I blinked. This I know. If a truffle pig is one of us, and I’m looking for people like us without the luxury of discriminating past the initial criterion, then naturally any truffle pig that comes our way is here to stay.

I grow weary of the game of persuasion. This is where the pyramid scheme comes in handy. Wherever you are, there’s always looking forward and smiling backward. The weariness comes at the top of the pyramid. Mind you, this is no scheme. This is not audience aware. Mind, this is no scheme. Yet there is no “I can leave anytime.” It’s not a cult, it’s not a religion, it’s not a lifestyle choice.

It’s a group of people. Intelligent, open-minded problem-solvers clambering their way to nirvana. Feeding off the successes of each other, feeding off the concepts of logic and linear and up. Funny, this opposes the downward “due south” of the ocean metaphor. Perhaps the ocean metaphor was just the most appropriate way to overlap my fears. I am afraid of the ocean. Rather, I am afraid of depths.

The deep: the moment of outer-space with no Earth. The fear of the tiny chemist who is so close to the atom-size he so carefully measures. I have these fears upon closeness. The depths of my mind are tangled and unused, like most. The fear is of the pressure of consciousness, weighing on top of the pressure of experience, weighing on top of the pressures of rationale, the well-trained amygdala being shoved into it’s rightful hole. I need more. The emptiness, although the water is not cold. Even if they say the pool is chlorinated, I get scared in the deep-end until my goggles are on and I’m sure there is no great white shark following me. The silent water, the shadows, the silence, the depths, the silence.

The loneliness is not mandatory at the destination. I am considering if it is necessary for the journey. Insufficient evidence.

I have many insufficiently supported teacups. I buy them in bulk at the cheapest store. I don’t let them grow sentiment, I rather they grow mold. Then my desire to smash them increases. I place the teacup between two tomes and I step down hard. It may have had the properties of an accurate foundation but I rather bricks to be brick-shaped than teacup-shaped.

My varying faith in humanity is a crushable teacup. Bacteria-ridden thing, it grows mold so quickly. I’m always replacing it.

I’m about to begin my full inventory. Things I have, things I need. I don’t look forward to the pre-full-inventory task of figuring out exactly how many days I will have to waste to solve a problem that shouldn’t exist. Dammit. This will get increasingly complicated if I do not take meticulous steps, but it will never end if I do not sprint. There’s the need for a well-thought-out approach that will leave my identity intact, then there’s the need to do something.

I get caught up in lists. Every list needs to be listed and then steps back need to be taken. Then I list how many listed lists and how many unlisted lists need to be listed, and how many get “unlisted” or blacklisted or This is not audience aware. I want everything listed. I want to find a home-base. I want it to be this computer, for example. That black notebook lying around somewhere. The pink one. The red one. The laptop, or the older one. Maybe my wall can be home base. The desk, once re-constructed, upstairs in a laboratory. The imagination; covered with neatly stacked electronics and feelings of “I can really get shit done.” I’ve got a camera to document everything. I’ve got a film camera to document it better. I’ve got a notebook to keep track of the progress and a bigger notebook to keep track of the notebooks. Then I’ve got archival shit. Baby photos of me. Old film. I’ve got a film scanner to keep track of that. I wish my life were a file cabinet, organized by my mother nonetheless.

I obviously have a lot of work to do.

I got a message on the dating website that really hit home to me. Without needing to explain himself, the guy told me he was almost perfect. “I freeze my own meals and everything,” he said. Immediately I knew that he was kindred to the chick I saw at the coffee shop, yoga-pants, clean-screened computer with organized file systems. She was content eating a banana, oatmeal, and perhaps a skim-chai-latte. Manicured. Nice hair. She was so cultivated. I don’t know how culture-oriented this “Guy” is, but he’s closer to her than he is to me. My energy is stomping on the keyboard. I’m an emotionless baby.

Overwhelmed by everything. Physical sensation is way too much to bear. Sights are too bright, I need sunglasses and blinders. I really identify with muppets and rabbies. I’m a caricature of the mental patient with the straight-jacket. Holding in the fact that if I’m not taken aback by how interesting things are, I’m infuriatingly bored. This is not audience aware. I have my own mind to keep myself entertained, and I highly doubt this is attention deficit disorder. It’s more like a charlie-horse. I got carried away by flexion, and I ignored tension. Then a whir, out of control, but curiosity overwhelms the “Undo! Undo!” panic. I still remember the first time I got a charlie-horse. I was in bed, 8 years old, enjoying the kind of stretch I’d been doing for years. All of the sudden fuck clichés. This is not audience aware. Increasingly flexing and then I couldn’t undo it. Like my leg had a mind of its own. I let it continue, thinking “…the hell?” and the pain became too much. “Undo! Undo!” panic now, but I didn’t know that I had to plantar-flex my feet to make it stop. A bit of a gradual “aaaa…” escaped me and then the thrashing commenced. That’s how I fixed the problem.

Curiosity would have me do it again.

But back to the whir, or the mental charlie-horse. It’s not over-thinking, it’s super-thinking. But there’s no coherence to show for it, nor are there solutions. NAY, there is no coherent solution! I solve problems one by one, quickly by solving the “is the problem worth solving” problem first. Many things aren’t. This is where being pyramid-ed is useful–when there is less need for trivialities like explaining why most needs no explaining, you have a team of loved ones who act as a web of translation between each other, playing broken-telephone on the point. There’s no need to interrupt. It never breaks far enough from the truth, and accuracy is only needed when accuracy is available. Significant digits, to an extent. It’s super-duper-thinking with a hardcore twist of insanity, leading to prefrontal-cortex-minded always-on control. The kind that can produce a headache for five weeks if you cross your morality, or try to undo it. You cannot extinct the extincting function. This is not audience aware. The extincting function is not extinctable. This only develops walls, or false patches, little lapses.

They need to begone.

So one by one. Inch by inch perhaps of squares on the floor of the apartment sanitized slowly enough to be thorough, but quickly enough to cover ground. This balance is what I can yearn for now. Now that I have earned the right of balance. This right is internal consistency. This right is not the pseud0-Buddhist streamlining that occurs before any of the real progress is made. If you want to build a car by race-time, you start with the engine (although this metaphor is shit because I know jack about cars). I also don’t like how preachy this sounds. So let me start again.

Don’t interior-design before the renovations are complete. I guess it can be done, but it slows down the once-satisfying process of tearing down walls. The mind is a palace before you know it. This is not audience aware. There is deep fulfillment in ripping things out of the ground. Deep fulfillment in matching the color scheme too (these streamlining techniques) that make the whole place look more manageable, but I like the challenge. I walk into the castle of my mind, breathe in the non-stale air of high-ceiling-ed cubic feet and am not intimidated. I say, “I will paint you later. For now? I want an open-concept kitchen.”

The analogy was better but it got too roamy near the end. I’ll smash that teacup before the day is done. Sleep-cycle: this needs to be fixed too. I’d say it’s like having varnished hardwood floors. Half-design, half-reno.

I would like to purchase people in bulk. Sort through them quickly, via surveys, and let them be on their way. Or witness identification line while music is playing. I don’t know. This writing thing is getting old. But I’m sure meditation would irritate me much sooner. A dosage of which I have recommended to a friend of mine before he left my apartment today. Why? This is not audience aware. Why recommend meditation? I don’t do it myself.

Would I? If the perceptual churning reached a danger level, would I have to prescribe it to myself? No. Will I engage in such activities ever? Maybe. The difference in my perceptual churn is that it takes place on a robotic plane. As soon as emotional involvement kicks in, the gears switch or else grind to a halt. This is how I survive. I’ve got sucker-fish-functions that absorb the grime of the gunk. This is not audience aware.

Resisting things like urges to play video games. This is another scenario of improvement speed balance. I’ll take it on soon enough. Maybe after a list or two.

=3^3^3