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Jun. 14th, 2016

(no subject)

America is splicing off into sects. Cliquing up. Getting ready for the storms to come.

What is a free man? Nothing is guaranteed except for my own decisions. The freedom to make those decisions. Self-reliance. Nobody taking things. No pound of flesh given. There's no other way, no restrictions.

We are not free men, and they're all coming. For everything that makes us free men. Any option caused by emotion and illogic is the wrong choice.  I don't want to be a slave. Hide in plain sight, on the foundations dug deep into the hills, mountains and valleys. Stay free. That's all we have.

Mar. 5th, 2016

(no subject)

How fun would it have been to have been a writer over the past 15 years. Failed, successful, in-between, it wouldn't have mattered. A mess of words, bytes and paper miles long slinging from somewhere in the back of my head.
I don't even know who I am now, sitting in this empty office on the weekends. I'm just some guy, like an avatar of myself. Scared of my own words.

Nov. 27th, 2015

(no subject)

Apr. 23rd, 2015

(no subject)

The Subtle Downshift

From that first twitch in your pants to somewhere around your first B.A/B.S. you had the speedometer pegged, the RPM redlining as you speed into the night. You had a couple relationships, a couple totalled cars, a few pets, a couple bands, a couple sneakers, some transient hobbies. Who'd have thought? Here you are, in the dark, spreading the wispy, foggy phantoms off the highway. Nothing becomes more apparent to you that, at that exact moment, you're an old fucker. Not cool, can never be cool, even if you were before, which you weren't. No one cares what your favorite bands are, where you go, where you are, what you drive. There's not a single cool thing about you.
 And at that moment, you let up a little bit on the pedal, maybe a little ass adjustment, and the redline backs off a tad. It's starting to hurt a little, anyway -- just a little.  The warm glow of the radio, because you still sometimes listen to the FUCKING RADIO, shows some old station playing some old shit, some old shit. You listened to it when you could have been cool. Now you're still listening to it. I don't care, this is what I like, you say.
 Sure. Downshift a little more, do your dad shit, line up with the joes and keep on truckin. Get high - higher than high - and then higher than that, times 3. There's no one watching, anyway.

Apr. 8th, 2014

(no subject)

If I write one sentence I might become happy. I might to become death, destroyer of worlds. I might become a 70s karaoke champion. I may become the last man on Earth, eating charred rats. Who knows what I may become. If I don't write any sentences at all, I will be miserable forever until I start my work again. There really isn't any other option.

Mar. 11th, 2014

(no subject)

May I present Exhibit A:


This is just sick. Nothing funny about it at all.

Feb. 28th, 2014

Shimmering Green

A recent news story led me to remember another news story that I heard several years ago about some guy in his twenties that drove his car up Larch Mountain in the snow, walked into the woods and died of exposure. I thought it so strange, but romanticized it, of course. To be one with the Gods, simply remove your clothing in a dark Oregon forest and let mother nature or God take you.

There’s a lot of death in that area. I remember another news story about a girl’s body being dumped up Larch Mountain road’s dark, windy uphill path, left to lay in the complete stillborn silence, nothing but an occasional breeze in the overhead canopy. I remember the 101st Spectacular Suicide, a chapter by Jim Goad in his book Shit Magnet, where a fan blew a bullet through her skull sitting in her car in the green silence up that road. I remember my dad telling me about one of his co-workers finding a car with a hose in the exhaust and the driver windshield, the driver’s soul sucked into that dark green abyss.

The Gateway to the Gorge, a scene of serene, lush, unchanged beauty. I remember riding my motorcycle up that road in the middle of the night, braving the green abyss, speeding way faster than anyone should under any circumstances, even in broad daylight. I guess it was my way of removing my clothes and being one with the Gods.  I don’t know if they’ll find the guy in that news story, but I know what those dark woods want.

Jan. 8th, 2014

Die Papiere

In my house/time capsule on Maple St earlier today I looked through an old photo album of my grandparents before they were my grandparents, my uncles and dad before some absolved by time and decay sequence of events occurred in such a pattern for them to produce these electronic symbols on a blanket of code to present to jesus knows who, likely no one, like they've been laying in wait before the calculus of life produces them in formula 103,450,453,563,672,456,245,214,675,346,754. Anyway, I was looking through this album of these old ugly dingy photos of my old (young) mousy grandmother posing with all kings of German soldiers, one adorned with a nice Swastika adorning his arm on a motorrad among other photos and I realized well I have this going for me. If there is a race war or I ever get sent to the ol' stony lonesome I suppose I should keep these playing cards close in my wallet as a passport to safekeeping at least for a little while, as being a card-carrying member is particularly helpful under such stressful conditions. I guess it would be hard to prove though and I could be just some asshole with fake Der Bonafides trying to seek shelter from the storm, and I apologize in advance for that as I just realized that Bob Dylan's real name isn't Bob Dylan but like Robert Heimsteinowitzgreenbaumstein or something like that and to use that song title to express my Aryan ties in case there is some kind of American lebensraum cleaning or something wouldn't be helpful but it doesn't matter.

And that's about all I did today. I also think a coworker that wears black all the time with dyed red hair is sympathetic to the Nazi cause but I can't prove it even though she has a collection of movies starring Der Fuhrer himself! So I guess I got that going for me too.

Oh and my grandmother I think started me on smoking because I smoked one of those fucking nancy boy fucking menthols that were like 3 feet long in the bathroom of the time capsule when I was like fucking five. 

Nov. 7th, 2013

(no subject)

Things just keep spiraling. I have a heavy anchor, things don't come unhinged that easily. The bottom gets dragged and tugged and pulled and it only budges slightly. All I want is a couple things. Sometimes that anchor that keeps things stable starts to pull in a whirlpool. A spiderweb of a painting and everything ready to explode. A beautiful little web and I don't care. Each day I open my eyes and the pull gets tighter. I just shoulder it, slip the punches. It's an ugly, ugly, vicious modern life. Stare at pixels. There's just no point to any of it. Kids, this is how it is when you're older. Wake up and you're bi-polar.

Oct. 15th, 2013

Cats Gone Bad

This subject is very distressing to me, in part because I feel entirely alone in all this. Cats. Being assholes. I mean, assaulting with nothing but cold, murderous rage their gentle owners who feed and provide it shelter.  Straight razor claws unzipping flesh at the slightest annoyance. Hissing and rage for no reason other than a petting hand it has decided wasn't in the right place.
  One of my "friends" on facebook posted something about his cat scratching him and I posted a long treatise on the pure injustice and madness of the situation, bu he didn't even respond to it. Nobody even "liked" it. I'd never felt more alone.
  Right now I'm currently being shocked, appalled, and disgusted at this show on Netflix "My Cat From Hell". Some tattooed stoner failed musician asshole(who's probably gay, why not) drives around like a poor man's Guy Fieri going to people's houses, undoubtedly stealing precious heirlooms in the process of providing some sort of bizarre, useless "cat therapy" sessions. This would all be perfectly fine if he would unbuckle his guitar case and instead of puling out some catnip stuffed inside a polyester mouse tied to a makeshift fishing rod, he would unpack a 12.7x99mm NATO machine gun, position in the yard, and remove the dwelling from its foundation as he rids the world of another monstrous, untenable abomination.
  Is there a cat jail? I guess the pound. And that's where they belong. In a small cage to think about their bizarre and brutal assaults on unsuspecting parents who want nothing but the best for it. The poor women on this show, in tears of despair describe what amounts to a run of the mill domestic violence situation, while the cat in the corner sits, waiting for its next move.
  I have no problems with rational cats. Only the cats that become unhinged with little to no provocation. What if these things were the size of mountain lions? All of you'd be dead. DEAD. In a closed casket at your funeral because you'd be sliced up like a puffer fish in a filthy Tokyo black market sushi shop with an eel up its urethra by a drunken, horny Japanese man. Dead. And you'd have nobody to blame but yourself.
  But because the cat is small, everything's all right. Well, it's NOT all right. Nothing is all right.
  I can never unsee this show. Damn you Netflix. Now I'm going to stay up for the next few days in an incredulous rage.

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