ennui

charles, in his late 30s, asked what he's been doing:
"i don't know. i haven't taken inventory yet."
he doesn't mean business, he's homeless.
"my life dictates it."

charles and other social deviants found at the leper colony node of milwaukee, wisconsin.



q. how do you fuck?
a. i try to feel innocent.
q. do you fail?
a. my expectations are fairly simple.
q. a fuck?
a. i am told it can go in either direction.
q. another train?
a. gravy.

q. man is a chain smoking embarrassment.
a. i don't smoke.
q. nevermind. it was an obligatory statement.
a. tell me i'm different. tell me i'm not another cog in the wheel.
q. you're life is meaningful.
a. thank you.

memories. unintentional tape manipulations.

"i expected mrs. berger's kitchen to be empty so late in the morning, but they were all there: mr. chaikowitz; his third wife; the old writer, Lemkin, who used to be an anarchist; and sylvia, who had taken me to a movie on mermaid avenue a few days before."

i started to read a story outside of myself today. there are certain conventions in storytelling. i've spent too much time thinking on what makes good writing out of various reads. it's all storytelling. playing on memories. when introducing a new person, be precise: subject zero, important because x and y, or y and z. the story teller weighs the options.

all remembered history is told by the charismatic. memorable words shat on a page become dead relics of previous experience lived. there is a probability, at some given time, all the particles making a person will align with other particles in space in such a way, so that the person should fall through the earth. an atomically thin needle slipping through.

so what of our memories? i look back and see myself objectively. i am not a sensory self patting a dog on the head in my back yard. i am another person, looking back. seeing myself as a child patting the head of a dog and kissing it on the head. i remember being scared she might bite back. that bitch was feral.

it was the fall. i was at the side of our house making paces, so as to measure the distance from the neighbors house to ours. i think i was told there was a legal limit as to how close neighbors could be. together, we shared a well for water and i think that was the border to our respective properties. i paced and found the distances to our houses to be equal. this collie trots along and greets me. i don't know what to do, or how to react. i remember hearing that dogs can smell fear. i was careful to pet her and i think i abandoned my project, running indoors.

i do not remember what i did for the remainder of the day, or life.

i heard you were living. i read about it on your BLOG.

A dialogue between organization.

QUALITY CONTROL: die die die
FBI: Call CIA
CIA: Let’s fuck this up.
Quality Control: Smoking rocks.

i don't know what this means. i have no recollection of ever having written this dialogue, carbon dated to over two years ago.

good luck climbing mount everest

face it pussy: someday you're going to have to eat something other than meat. or else you'll die. there's no escaping inevitibility.

I want some fucking happiness. i'll break off a piece and share it, I don't care. just a fraction.

were it not for my glasses, I would not have made it past the age of twelve, tops. 5 or 7 would be a better approximation.
we are not suited for such a harsh climate. this much is fact. we have clothes. most animals don't have clothes, they rely on what nature gave them. we don't for some reason. and with it: superiority complexes, delusion, and denial run rampant. i cut that list off at three because it's a magic number and i mean not to bore.

and so our group climbing mount everest falls into an icy chasm where nothing seems quite right. we can float if we want to. our gear is useless, so we set it aside. we pat each other on the back as if to say good luck: nothing makes sense here.

I DID ALL THIS BECAUSE.

and i don't care about personal histories of great stories anymore
because all that is bullshit past is bullshit past.
deary, deary: let's be done with charades and say hello to angels, the ones
that don't exist, nervous speaking concious angels with nothing to do but save
previous experience that mounts and amounts
in computable fractions of decimals, there is no answer to living
you can get drunk all you want to
listen to friends tell you about the future
and sit through it smiling.
when you're not smiling, they'll think something is wrong with you and strangers will say it looks like you're climbing mount everest. everyday i am moving toward something i want, moving away from what i know: complete self-destruction. same hand, different cards.

unspeakable.

i've carved out perhaps the simplest lifestyle i can possibly muster from Milwaukee. My dilemma is not being able to recognize anything much better than this. no distinct recognition. nothing spectacular. could my life be as good as it will get? a present-day arraogance might say so, but fact is fact.
+ surplus of income
+ virtually zero responsiblity
+ vitality and youth
+ potentiality of potential.


I guess I might be living my dream, but it's not quite there or it's grown stale. things need to change and won't. i'm not sure what else to do anymore. uncertainty is the opposite edge of a lake you dare not swim across.

there are bound to be seaweed tangles and misjudgements of distance. inevitability is the overriding certainty.

regularity of experience engulfs me in the flames

i used to be good at a lot of things. now i question whether i am good at anything. maybe i have expectations for myself that i'm not living up to, maybe i was never quite good at anything. i'd like to think otherwise.

look at how i waste my time

you can't teach her anything.

...

I need some fucking help not barbituates.

This kind of disappointment is very close to home.

after a ten-year plague we emerge from our home to bury our friends

how we'll meet and eventually marry.

when we're 40 something and entertaining work friends we've invited over for dinner, i'll have my hand on her thigh and i'll explain "she hit me with her car while i was trying to cross the street. broke my hip, of all things." pause for laughter, "she drove me to the hospital and we hit it off." she'll smile and look away. "it was hard though. we couldn't sleep together for months, on account of my hip being broken and all."

chaching.

make that money.

$$$$

walking,

a stranger moving from me.
a cat in space moves towards me methodically: paw over foot over paw. her stomach sways with the movement. perhaps she is smarter than me. she's asking me to define smarts.

pessimism seems to drown out the field of optimism on all fronts. maybe that's why i still smoke.

placing the love specimin in deprived conditions, devoid of light and stimulus, with a constant droning sound element, we observed the specimin crying, scratching, and shitting. bowel movements remained constant with a consistent diet. subject was observed frequently writing notes to the source of affection. very little could be assumed of the love apparition, aside from a general emotional attachment between specimin and love fodder.

...

i'm waiting to find a girl that will lay in bed with me to draw portraits of each ourselves. perhaps we will not wear clothes and bedsheets will become a dirtier white because of layers of charcoal dust. we will lay and draw. when we talk, it will mostly be about ideas. abstract ideas that mean nothing to us. our responses will correspond with the portraits, the portraits that become uglier with every incantation.

...

i ask the optimist: what are you looking for? yes, i know people that sit around and watch pornography habitually. if i phoned them up, the awkwardness would end engagement before it began..

...

supertramp coke parties.

well i haven't been here. but now i'm back. for keeps.

chase < internet

new years recap

i didn't fuck a single person. probably cos i haven't showered in five days.

helping people all along,
chase