101113 starting to play games again 101213 veterans miss the purity of war; youth's vulnerability likewise holy 101313 Dolphins first sighted in cuboid today. Though we know they've long existed, it's exciting to have evidence *in carne* as it were. Let's ride one! Bisexual creature with dreams in your skin: if defeat brings shame, humiliation, and pain, how does the glory of war arise from this ungodly trinity? 101413 It is the time of year when we are adding blankets, not putting them away neatly in the trunk to stay dry and whole. When the barn boards slice the moonlight and we bed down in the straw, you and I can be reminded of our animal nature, our mortality. 101513 Somebody said to him, You miss intimacy, don't you? He stared at his big toe, white, knotty, flashing fish-bright under an inch of sandy water in the bottom of the boat, and said, Yes. 101613 "The problem was how to keep the wheels of industry turning without increasing the real wealth of the world. Goods must be produced, but they must not be distributed. And in practice the only way of achieving this was by continuous warfare." How did Orwell know all this stuff, back in 1949? Wasn't everyone flush with justifiable warfare then? Thoughtcrime, indeed! Doublethink, without a doubt: in school they pay lip service to "critical thinking" while never coming near anything like this with a ten-foot pole. This is only to say that I don't feel like typing much tonight because I just want to keep reading 1984, I can't believe I never read it before, how could something so obvious and devastating be passed off, chuckled about, and tolerated in schools, don't people believe anything they read anymore? Also I'm horny. I voluntarily assigned myself 45 days of abstinence from even monosexuality. Then looked at tonight, it would be 46 if I started tonight, which is really a continuation already, and I want to go masturbate but her minionette face appeared on my screen and called me bitch, and I slipped back into the slippery throat of her putrid perfection, yes I am, yes I am, I really am a piece of shit under her shoe, and always will beg to eat lick suck and smear myself and fill my eyes with her shit and be raped by her and utterly submit and debase myself under her, earning not even her scorn or derision, even in her complete and thorough absence I voluntarily enslave myself, no program of personal so-called growth will ever change that. I remain her castrated bitch, I will castrate myself for her without her even needing to ask, I will plunge my head into any toilet even without the pleasure of her belittling spit, and I know above and below all else that I will eventually pour myself out to her, for her, and she, uncaring, superior innately and permanently, will always own me, never need me, always win. That is who I am, I meant it when I said it, pretending is the most potent magic, and that is who I always will be. Please,, I beg you, I am meaningless without your hatred, I am nothing unless I am your useless trinket, I am worse than dead without my willing suicidal sacrifice to the destructiveness of your torturous offhanded ridicule. I will spend the rest of my days begging for your forgiveness, for the slightest recognition from you, for the smallest indication that you might ever glance at me, breeze past me, laugh at me, kick me, beat me, honor me with any indication that I may be granted even a moment's existence in your terrible world. I shall always beg, pretending reluctance, and slowly, like a febrile mouse, I will open up, soften up, bend over and loosen up my asshole in the furtive hope she'll bloody it once more with her exquisite nails. 101713 Feeling like crap after eating at Culver's. The girls' conferences went well but for some reason I still feel like shit. Meeting all those earnest teachers. They all seem really genuinely good & competent & trustworthy & all, but I don't know. Something. A glass wall between me & them & the seemingly real world they're at least somewhat successful in. Plain envy? Probably. I'd like to think it were more than that. Pre-emptively defending myself against shame and ridicule and nothingness, I tell myself I'm supposed to think it isn't. So thirsty. 101813 She never makes biscuits anymore, he thought, watching her slather butter on a piece of toast. The way the knife went scritch, scritch, scritch filled him with contempt. How he despised her certainties, even her subtleties because they missed so much. How could one person be so smart about cars and laundry and shopping and even the rearing of children, while steadfastly remaining so utterly ignorant about the transience and illusory nature of everything else? How could she be so effortlessly convinced of the concreteness of experience? It made him tired. And yet, there was an immediacy to her wit, a roundness to her body that he knew would pacify him for one more night. Dutifully he followed her milk-white ass up the ladder. They had been playing treehouse for so long, he was beginning to become a squirrel. 101913 "I've had..." he began. She wondered why everything always began that way. He was a true consumer. But he wasn't the only one. And she of course wasn't the only one he'd had. What was so special about eating? 102013 He'd had ham. She'd had him. Biscuits from the buffet are never good. Too dense, too chalky. Coffee not much better. Morning rapes the sunrise of your idle dreams. Work, the constant claxon, clamors GO! Churn those grown-up baby legs! You're late! 102313 You shouldn't have did that thing what you did. But, I shouldn't have did my one thing neither. Not neither no more, anyhow I don't know I guess. But I tell you one thing. 102413 There is a secret tsunami in me. It brings a dark underwater world to cover my land, splinter my house, make me wet forever. It wants to kill me. You have a sharp arrow and I long to give you my pounding soft white breast. I am the hart. Take me; spill my blood; please. 102513 I can walk the dog and evolve. But there is another noise, and I don't give any spiritual luminosity into the sunlit days. Some things have changed. Lampshade butter pall pearl crocus deal derail canteloupe frame. Sinking feeling. Anus. Derision. Calumny. For some reason, always cannelloni. A disturbing kind of emptiness; not sure whether it's better, worse, or the same as nothingness. There are so many conflicting voices but it's all just one voice. That's the weird thing about consciousness. Nine red birds can almost reach your window. Now! 102713 Self-discipline: kind of meaningless. Maybe that's the appeal. Consciousness more and more seeming like a curse. No plan becomes permanent. The emptiness always returns. Is it really emptiness? Our questions imply their answers. Why am I not talking about anything? Why this dry, pseudo-clever, white blankness? Why not the turgid conversation in bed? Why not the failings of the father and the faith of the daughter? Why not the personal? Why not the diary? Why this aloof half-dance of noncommittal? There's a tension between the career and the personal. I vacillate between wanting to marry them and wanting to sever the hemispheres; what's that operation called where they did that to people? And then they could see the picture but not form the word, or be reading the word but saying something completely different? corpus calloscotomy, a drastic way of alleviating epileptic seizures. Too much lightning in the brain. You have to ground it out. How come the concept of an electrical ground is one of those things I just can't get? It's weird. Like certain math problems, it's one of those things I've long thought I should be able to grasp but never have. Electricity. What the fuck *is* it? Or it can split apart your rational side from your hidden desires: "When they asked the right side what their patient wanted to be when he grew up, he replied 'an automobile racer.' When they posed the same question to the left, however, he responded "a draftsman" (Gazzaniga and Sperry). What do I want to be? Which of the two answers that popped up immediately is the rational one, Mat? 102813 I have poured enormous energy into feeling guilty about failing to pour enormous energy into a place I didn't realize I don't need to be pouring it into. If I'm going to proceed with my career, and I pretty much have to at this point, I'm going to need genuine association with other professionals in the field. Not news, right? But that means SO not what I've been telling myself I was supposed to think it means all these years. Ever since the blue pickup truck and stopping to write on cardboard. It's not the markets, the workflow, the networking, the manuscript guidelines, the copyrights, the editing, the agency. Yes, okay, there is all that stuff. It exists. But I can fucking well figure that stuff out when and as I need to. Here's what it is: I need association and mentorship in the real work itself, the heart of it. Storytelling. I like to tell stories. To go deep, to get real, to open up my raw, naked soul in and among other people, whose failings I have recoiled from, whose lack of fantastic perfection has so rankled by illuminating my own exact same lack, to do this is the work I need to surrender to, to accept the interdependent nature of. It's not about being smart or clever or knowing how to scan the line, or doing the exact right type of research in exactly the most profound and sagacious and erudite ways. Yes, all that, there is all that, that exists. But I can tell a story with a rock and piece of felt. I can pour rootbeer into a box. I just can't do it alone. You, whoever you are, I am coming out to find you, because I need you. And guess what? You need me. Because we are a cohort, we are a school, we are a generation. I have had it up to HERE with believing we don't and don't deserve to exist. We do. Let's do dis. And let's do it now. Push the button. Get into the elevator with me. I have scars and belly fat and I can still have sex. Let's eat a snowcone and go to the boardwalk. These are the seven most powerful words. 102913 Where's your precious inspiration now, douche bag? Extrinsic motivation will ultimately fail, usually exactly when you need it. Lazy speech patterns and lazy thought patterns are related but I don't think they're exactly the same thing. I'm just writing whatever. One word leads to another, but it's not exactly words in isolation. It's like a semi-voluntary quasi-markov chain. That seems to be the way we usually operate. There's a certain amount of inertia built in. Here's my sneaky plan for nano: Do the fifty grand, but keep *derrière la tête* the idea that if I can harvest a 10K story out of it, it will have been worthwhile. That means four out of five sentences or words or whatever, can be complete throwaways. That should help somewhat with the freeze-out game. Your brain's a constant billiards game, complete with geometry, invisible lines made visible, camaraderie, smoke, the click-clack-click... clack... click..., occasionally the thump, several times a night the rumble and roar, the bravado, the rack, the perfection of the triangular arrangement, how particles can be made to behave as a single organism, and then BLAMMO! the excitation comes in the form of a renegade, a maverick, an interloper and it gets you every time. Some part of you pretends to be surprised, and some part of you's not pretending, even though you knew, you had to have known it was coming. Didn't you? I mean, because around half the time *it was your own arm that cocked back and let her rip,* it was you that did it, and still it makes you start, makes you jump, makes you giggle inside like a girl. Your brain's a constant billiards game, complete with devastating social failures and the gravity of knowing there are certain ways you're supposed to act. Smoking gets you off the hook a little bit, but nobody is free. The concept's simple, the math's intuitive, the execution's moderately hard, the aplomb is near impossible. Wait, what does that even mean? Why are you eating while you're over here and we're talking about this? Don't you realize you're getting radioactive orange crumbs all over my frog-green felt? Fuck you, man, get out of here, you don't even know the rules about when and where to put quarters on the rail. Go to the bar and drink, do you think you can handle that? Can you just stick all your bits of memory together and have a person? Is that how it really works? Because if you could do that, I think I could have a real business idea, here. I think I could really make something out of all this junk I got. I got stuff from all over the place, I mean some of it's broken, some of it works, it's all kinda beige and yellowed and some of it's cracked, and the fans they spin up and they sound real loud like the bearings is worn, but shit it still spins. It still spins. So what if I could, what I'm saying, what if I could put all this shit together and have it actually be someone? Would that or would that not be some seriously fucked up shit? I mean, people would pay for that. I would. Wouldn't you? You know you would. Dude. Think of how much you could save. Old people, I don't mean like they're old, I mean, they come from back then. Can you imagine? Make a person that doesn't know what a iPhone is. Make a person that can ride a 10-speed bike on the sidewalk. Make a person that knows where the best pizza place is on the south side. Make a person I could walk and talk by the river with. Take all these pieces of shit and scraps and shit I got laying around, and make a person even if it's only for a little while. I mean, they've got to fall apart pretty quick, probably. Nothing can hold all those parts together for very long, and a lot of the parts you can't get anymore. But it could be cool, I mean at least for a little while. It could be cool. I'd kind of hope they wouldn't see it in my eyes. I mean, see that I'd know that they were going to die real soon, and they--I mean, I don't think I'd want them to know, you know?