Go to an Extreme, Move Back to a More Comfortable Place / 9.24.16 / 6:25-6:55

So, you’ve decided to kill yourself.

Fair enough.

We all die sometime, so why not get the jump on the motherfucker and make your death your own?

And before we go any further, please know that I am not here to stop you. I don’t know you from Adam and really haven’t given a shit that you’ve made it this far so why should I care if you go any further?

I don’t say that to be demeaning, mind you. You’re a person, after all, and all people – no matter what they may tell themselves after dark – have some reason for being, some impactful qualities no matter how incidental or inane. Everyone’s touched someone, for better or for worse. Everyone’s impacted each day in some way unless they’ve gone full shut-in and even a shut-in’s gotta eat, pay the rent, the utilities, etc. etc. So it really doesn’t matter how far removed you think you are from the species by allowing yourself to be alive at any given point in your life, you’ve made a difference to someone.

You’ve certainly changed the course of my day.

I guess it’s like that butterfly tsunami thing. In fact, it’s exactly like that only, usually, our impacts on the day are far less invested in mass casualties. Still, the impacts are there and they fan out exponentially. Some would say they go so far out into the world that they come back in one way or another. It’s certainly possible. Maybe that’s karma. I don’t know.

What I do know is that you’ve lived to this day and, in so doing, you’ve made a difference any time you did…well, anything really. It might not have been a big “D” difference like planting a tree or killing a man but difference is difference and your simple existence has done it day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year and it will even after you leave here in a bag or a box or whatever means of disposal you prefer because someone’s going to have to deal with the dispersal, internment, etc. etc. and that person exists and so they take the actions of your end onto their proverbial wings and fan out into…

Well, I’ve never much cared for metaphors but I trust you catch my drift.

HA!

See what I did there?

Puns aside, my point is I don’t know you and I never have and so who you are doesn’t register at all with me but what you’ve done probably has.

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Kelly Clarkson / 6.9.16 / 7:34-8:04

To say I miss you would be an insult so I won’t say I miss you, though I’ve already said it twice. Since you left me, there’s been a hole.

There’s really no other way to put it.

There’s a hole in the bed we shared for forty-six years. In the house we roamed for the seventeen since we retired. In the Buick that’s still running due to some inexplicable miracle, the same Buick you tried to insist I get rid of.

Who knew the Buick would outlast you? Outlast us?

The goddamn hunk will probably survive me, considering the mass eating away at my brain.

It’s funny, that mass.

It’s taken away my hands and feet. My taste buds and some of my hearing. But it hasn’t taken away thoughts of you.

I still feel you, still smell you in my bed clothes. I swear I hear your footsteps on the staircase in the middle of the night, right around two when you needed that glass of water that would nearly make you pee yourself first thing in the morning.

But that just may be the tumor.

For all the holes in my life now, thanks to you, the biggest one is the pit of anger I find myself falling down every time I think of you.

Two years. For two years, you’ve abandoned me, left me here, rotting.

I’m so angry with you, I shake when my nurse touches me.

You would hate her. Call her a hussy. And nosy.

She tried to report my shaking as seizures but I pulled her in close one day and just said your name. She got it then, though she didn’t share my rage. Instead, she looks at me with pity now.

You make people pity me.

And I want to say that I hate you for it but that wouldn’t be right.

If anything, I feel alive again because of it, but it doesn’t fill the holes.

Only you could do that.

But you’re not here, are you?

I should just let go, right? Let go of my anger, let go of the empty feeling associated with you, let go of you.

But I can’t. I can’t let go of you and of my pseudo anger and hatred towards you because I’ll die. I’ll finally let go and I will die and I don’t fear death. No, it’s not death I fear.

It’s the thought there’s nothing after. It’s the possibility that there will be no you, no us.

So I lay here, day after agonizing day, holding onto memories of you, of us, while my brain fails me, my body rots, and that goddamn Buick laughs at it all.

Each day that hole widens, traces of you slipping through. Forever.

I miss you. Goddamn it, I miss you. And I don’t want to.

Do Something Boring / 5.24.16 / 10:26-10:56

I am sitting in a room.

I am sitting in my room.

I am sitting in my room considering my sheets.

I am sitting in my room considering my sheets and wondering just how long it’s been since I last cleaned them.

I am sitting in my room considering my sheets and wondering just how long it’s been since I last cleaned them and I don’t care.

I am sitting in my room considering my sheets and wondering just how long it’s been since I last cleaned them and I don’t care and that makes me worry about what kind of person I’ve become.

I am sitting in my room considering my sheets and wondering just how long it’s been since I last cleaned them and I don’t care and that makes me worry about what kind of person I’ve become or if I’ve become any person at all.

I am sitting in my room considering my sheets and wondering just how long it’s been since I last cleaned them and I don’t care and that makes me worry about what kind of person I’ve become or if I’ve become any person at all or maybe I’ve always been the kind of person who didn’t give a shit about sleeping on clean sheets.

I am sitting in my room considering my sheets and wondering just how long it’s been since I last cleaned them and I don’t care and that makes me worry about what kind of person I’ve become or if I’ve become any person at all or maybe I’ve always been the kind of person who didn’t give a shit about sleeping on clean sheets and that seems exceedingly likely to me considering what a “man” I’ve always been despite my best of intentions.

I am sitting in my room considering my sheets and wondering just how long it’s been since I last cleaned them and I don’t care and that makes me worry about what kind of person I’ve become or if I’ve become any person at all or maybe I’ve always been the kind of person who didn’t give a shit about sleeping on clean sheets and that seems exceedingly likely to me considering what a “man” I’ve always been despite my best of intentions which are or were…what exactly?

I don’t know.

I can’t remember.

It’s just a silly thing to say, I think.

A silly thing to say, I know.

A silly thing I say because I don’t know and I don’t think about who I am or was with any clarity anymore.

A silly thing to say because I know now that I didn’t think with any clarity before.

A silly thing to say and yet I say it all the time even though I know it’s silly or perhaps because I know it’s silly and so what if it is a silly thing? I can say something sometimes. I can say something silly all the time.

I can say silly things if they please me and could say them with even more regularity if their silliness pleases the peanuts.

But am I really saying something silly or am I trying to say something silly or am I lying about saying something silly and if I am then why am I bothering other than to set my brain of course from the very real and round and off-puttingly brown stain I keep trying to cover with pillows rather than just get off my ass, strip my bed and go to the Laundromat.

Haunted / 5.23.16 / 2:30-3:00

My body betrays me constantly.

I feel things that aren’t there, hear sounds that never existed, taste foods that want to kill me.

It’s more than the feather-light touches that dance across my back or caress my cheek. It’s the tickle of multitudes of legs along the shell of my ear. It’s the sharp poke of a fang stabbing my hip. It’s the pinch to my areola, hardening my nipple, wetting my apex.

It whispers to me when I’m not paying attention. I must always pay attention. If I don’t, the low resonance fucks with my eardrum, the treble cracks the tiny bones, and I have to hold my hands to my ears and my head between my knees for it to stop. No matter where I am.

Otherwise, I’ll bleed.

And the blood is loud enough as it is.

Every beat of my heart is an intimate earthquake. Most times I wish for it to stop. I wish for it to cease its pedantic tuning and let me go.

Or give me control.

It thinks it knows best, my heart. Along with my warring brain, I have no autonomy. I am a slave to this living shell that just keeps going.

Betraying me. Overtaking my lack of will to live and making me stay, keeping me existing.

I don’t see the point of it. Digging deep, I find nothing but gore. Nothing roots me here. Nothing wants me here.

Yet my body pushes on.

It’s been a long time since these sensations, these spirits of sight and sound and taste, haven’t been my own to keep. The source has been memories, thoughts, or wishes.

I fuck and suck and listen to ghosts. Phantoms. The company that insists on reminding me of my loneliness. The loneliness that sees no end.

I don’t blame them, the others. I understand the recoil during my moments. The moments that stretch and repeat enough to be a constant. I want to recoil from myself. I want to pull away from this sack of flesh and bone and transcend into what I hope to fuck is better than this.

But my body. It’s not my own. And it betrays my needs. It betrays my desires for the world to see. To laugh at. To compare.

To never alleviate. Or fulfill.

I live in a house that is a gilded cage with no lock or key.

It is not of my making. I do not own it and neither does anyone else.

I wish to sell to the highest bidder.

But I cannot afford my own misery.

Accretion / 5.22.16 / 8:58-9:28

So there was nothing, right?

And then everything.

Or, at least, the formulation of everything. Fragments, movements, impetus, etc. whatever.

It doesn’t matter.

I mean, it matters, sure as my skin bubbles in the sun and skies grey and dawns fade and love is perfect oblivion but tonight – as most nights – I’m not concerned with the temple of progression no matter how minute her infractions.

I want to know what was or, really rather, what wasn’t.

The void.

The nothing.

The cock that called the flash.

The hand that held the gun.

No no no.

This isn’t about God.

Or is it?

Let’s say it is. Let’s say God made all that is and was and will be forever until…is there even an until? It seems like the Catholics wanted there to be a final scene considering how judiciously they sold me on the rapture but I don’t think their end times are really playing on a universal level. They just want people to be like them so that heaven is a place as palatable as the ground we trod before we decided there was a god, not just a god, but THE GOD whose temper was mighty and unjust considering the thrills HE designed with the instrumentation of loins and will and…honestly, I don’t want to get into debating the merits of Christianity here because there’s only so much time in this session and we all know there are some discrepancies in the scripture so, yeah. YEAH!

Let us suppose that there is a god or GOD or G-D and let us suppose that his image is a simulacrum for cosmic agency (why not?) or the powers that be and will and accrete and concede and everything, everything, everything.

Let’s just say the universe is the workings of a relatable being because nature is a distance and science is a fog and let’s just say he’s a man for the time being because my projection of omnipresence needs a gender and my relation to form is limited to what lives between my legs.

Okay?

Okay.

It doesn’t matter.

The argument is wasted.

But the considerations I’m trying to assess is what was before and HOW was there a before. ALWAYS is not an answer. I don’t believe it. And the big bang is great and all and CERN is doing their thing and I will always be fascinated when they come out with another Biggs and shit but that still doesn’t answer a goddamn thing about the time before everything.

The emptiness before the millennia.

What was before there was a was?

What preceded the zero hour?

Ask Your Body / 5.21.16 / 8:23-8:53

I am fat but one day I will be thin and you will always have been.

From the first light until the abyss.

That constancy must be challenging.

That omniscience? Shit. It’s a wonder you aren’t a fucking lunatic feeding off the flesh of your children like Saturn or New England. It’d drive me crazy after the first month, let alone millennia.

I mean, infinity’s a motherfucker if ever there was one and here you are once and ever. To be and have been and always as always is until everything and everyone learns to cease which I’ve heard, recently, is a very real and future tense possibility and that terrifies me though I know I should be long shuffled into the ether before all that is was and – at that point – I’ll just be (if I can still retain a sense of singularly in the monolithic singularity) electric dust on the clouds in the vacuum ebbing and returning shifts and shadows like nothing, nothing, nothing before or since because each every – though united – is unique, so…

Is that what happens, then?

Is nothing the pitch?

Who knows?

If you don’t, then what good is omniscience?

I can understand if you’d rather not say because oblivion worship is rather passé and your dime and dozens are very much invested in the clouded cornerstones but FUCK I need to know tonight.

I need to understand that living is right.

Because sometimes it feels like a sham and I’d gladly take my exit if there wasn’t some notion of now and forever consequence.

So what is it, then?

Where does it end?

Where did it begin?

Burroughs intimated that you pulled the trigger but before that, there had to have been something. All the everythings can’t simply happen with a reasonless blink into being.

So what?

Why?

Are you the egg or the chicken or the farmer or the dell or what the hell?

When I was a boy, I believed earnestly and effortlessly and then my mother told me she was going to die but she didn’t and then she told me everything was going to be fine but it wasn’t and so I learned about fear and I learned about death and I learned about lies well before my time and all that knowledge has made me a mess of a man who might as well have been excused already but since I am tied to bodies and breaths and life I won’t so immediately because I’ve always held fast to the idea that the great grace would survive but if it doesn’t, then what?

Was it never meant to?

Is this whole matter happenstance and if it is what came before and what is bound to come after?

Where does the infinite begin and when can it end?

I’d say this is the real question and it is but the fear that keeps me up late and foolish is the wondering of where it began.

There was the big bang, right?

But what WAS before that?

And if there wasn’t, what was?

 

 

Convert a Melodic Element into a Rhythmic Element / 5.12.16 / 9:03-9:33

I think I saw. I said I saw. I should have a saw. I do have a saw. Two saws. Three, actually. Three saws or four if you count the jab which you outta. Four saws, then. One pull, one jab, two hand. Wait! No. I have far more than four saws. Five. Six. Eight?

One pull saw. One jab saw. Two hand saws. One hack saw. One jig saw. Two circulars. One reciprocating saw. And the last four are electric which counts, right? Of course, so then I should probably state that the jig saw’s something of a fucked saw since I lost the screw that kept the guide straight and without a guide you’re goddamn saws gonna go all over the place so that’s moot, then. Yes? No? Whose to say?

No one listening.

Reading, I should say.

So let’s settle on eight, then. Eight saws that can function for a dollar and a dime but only three of which I’ve used in the temporal line of work that found me with this unexpected collection of teeth and the jig saw is probably fine, really, if I only use it for projects that beget a certain wabi sabi something but even then…no, not really because that phase of employment (which lord help me is ended with the resurgence of my payday as sociopath) has left me wanting something more than jagged edges and splinters and the doe-eyed acceptance of a lady whose just happy I remembered her birthday let alone spent days and days and days taking shape.

But it’s just a box, eh?

Just nothing?

Boxes are the basis.

The shape is the base.

The block on which we build our case for Western (or any, really…modern, primitive, arcane) civilization up and up and out, often, to the heavens and ocean and in which we keep our precious if not unmentionable everyday things.

Just a box?

Go fuck yourself.

This isn’t simply some square nee rectangle frame. This is an object of three-dimensional heft. A capacity. A place and every woman needs a place like every name needs a face and so the I couldn’t just use any old instrument in the creation.

No. No.

I required accuracy. I required tact. I required the lines that I measured and marked be divided evenly and cleanly and – yes – of course I took sand paper to the edges because only a heathen son of a bitch would hand a box over that hadn’t been smoothed over before finishing but there’s only so much forgiveness you can afford in your plane before the piece reads more like a slop-sink buffet at the mongoloid school for perpetual inchoate rage than an object presented to be dutifully received.

And yeah, yeah, yeah it wasn’t perfect but imperfections beget charm and hearts and arrows slung over the rainbow and into the proverbial Rubicon where so many idyllic designs have found their untidy angles laid waste and maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t have been such an idiosyncratic projection had I just stuck with the circular (electric) but something about the buzz just seemed disingenuous that day or days and the funny thing is is that it wasn’t until I incorporated battery power into my endeavor that damn thing went askew but that’s nothing worth splitting the beans of the bed over because with a little stain and a lot less poly the damn thing just screams ‘FROM ME TO YOU!’