busted lip, aching hip
a thigh run across with a shallow frankenstein cut and a fading bruise
anne and tina say
"bruises should not result from this work."
a tenet i have clearly discarded

the thing is
they've promised to tie me up
in front of several audiences this summer
ankles lashed to wrists
with ribbon and lace
and I am excited.

the clown who puts the kick me sign on her own back

insights from the world of cultural studies

weed + acid =
postmodernism

Exhortation now that we're older

Goal One: Learn to love structure or perhaps the destruction of it or perhaps knowledge of it to reconstruct it and make it new again. Resist the common urges of your synapses to wander and wiggle through the world of your brain stew. STRUCTURE STRUCTURE STRUCTURE IT. Not in a necessarily WMP-y kind of way or a bell curve or a Aristotelian tangle but enough to say exactly what you mean. Spill no more milk, tumble no more tunes from lips, button up. Will you be able to say in a year "Limitation inspires creativity" when you do not believe it now? Probably not (secretly you will still believe that you yourself already contain so many limitations that further limitations would only offer less and not more). Think about how rules that you could make up could be AWESOME. Is this subversion or is this acceptance of a rule-based, competition-driven, have/have-not societal mode? In a year, will the opposite be true and will you cycle back to where you are now?

Learn to interact with, face up to, acknowledge, and form opinions on

• borders
• edges of bodies
• skin and cell membranes
• tripartite religions and storylines and how every bullet pointed list must contain more than three bullet points
  
• spacing in text
• silence and noise (John Cage and his listless mumble)
• line breaks
• the place where exhaling ends and inhaling begins or the other way around
• lines, queues, waiting
• age

Goal Two: Ask yourself - "When the words come out and on to the page, why do they come out in a block?" or "Why do you like things that are parallel as opposed to perpendicular?" Really answer these questions.

Goal Three: Stop ignoring these questions. Stop ignoring structure. You must decide whether or not it is your friend. Prose is not the only model of living. But also, don't jolt awake when your dreams follow some semblance of reality, when there is story-line. Regard every impulse with suspicion. See if you can reformat not only your words but your very neurons.

basically
unlearn your functions

hop over here
and here

and over there
because
well
the thing is

there isn't enough time to stay the same.

accidentally stoned on an incidental rock

hullo world, i'm ready.
well, never-ready-but-ready-enough-anytime.

my days have been slipping by in smoke, rhythm, and gusts of cold wind. i confess: i have been in the reg. no, no, i take it back, wait: i was only there to print enough pages to make people wait awkwardly while i answer my cell phone unavoidably, talking in short bursts of reception in the quiet 1st floor. so where does the time go? how to patch together a rhythm of holes and gaps?

crisis averted then,
leli might add peanut butter. (or cheese? and.) i say chili powder, always.
i'm living on apples and bread and free cookies and when there's a meal it's an excellent meal.

maybe tomorrow i will theorize something. i would like to theorize a very nice rock.

for now, we play and we dream and we play

Situation Normal All Fucked Up

Today is dreaming in my stockings, too hungover to do much more brain work than absorbing so fuck thinking and producing, cold cold cold, quiet up in the bell tower, clanging ringing of my shoes on the floor, feeling like the Hologram Museum lady opening doors with my oversized key, and food tasting like it's maybe a joke that's being played on me by the world.

It's been a weird fucking week. Two weeks ago, I thought I had scrabbled together the foundations of some personal aphorisms, but the past five days or so have proved me wrong. I can feel how unsettled everyone and everything feels. Like right now, my nerves are dampened by the dull sheen of an affected brain but still I can feel the the blood drawing away from my fingertips and my toes, receding ever backwards to my heart. It makes me want to set up a nest of blankets and tossed aside scarves wherever I go, so I can keep warm and retreat whenever I need to. Almost as if, I have in some instinctive way decided to be a nomad now that the times have sprung upon me.

That sounds maudlin. I don't mean it to be. Things are changing, which is fine, just a little sooner than I had hoped or expected. Maybe I have to work on not worrying about permanence. For so many years of my life, everything was always the same. I think sometimes I want to hang on to that, as repulsive as it often was to me. It might be time to let go of that need. I wonder what that would do.

Do you have a sense of permanence in your life? Or an attitude towards transience and temporariness?

P.S. The Renaissance Society kitchen is a wonder to behold. There are so many bottles of Pellegrino water.

more robot theorizing

what is robot?
robot is
anti-individual
un-aesthetic
spiteful
(how do robots feel spite, you may ask. I save this as an exercise to the reader)
predictable
boring
and, most of all
robots follow the code.
which code? any code they're given. but they must follow it.

When you need to cross a busy street, do you wait for the walk sign or for the lull in traffic? why?

I don't hate all robots. there is value in code and protocol. however, I find myself aligned against them in the interest of freaks and shamans and mutants everywhere, because the robot code is capitalism's code and I stand for a DIY ethic that is quickly losing its place in our society. Thus, I must take a stand for individual weirdness, against the robots. Let it be known that I do this mainly for my own (metaphysical) amusement. My anger may have arisen out of sexual frustration, but by now it's become something much more valid and serious.