My Brother and My Sister Don't Speak to Me--But I Don't Blame Them

AND IT MIGHT GO ON FOREVER UNSAID

Do I care? I think others wonder that of me. I think the few individuals for whom I truly, genuinely do care for, even they aren't sure. How closed up am I? How introverted that they can't tell. I wonder if maybe just one among them understands--Can see pass my code and read me as I am. Because I do care, in my own way. However, I don't blame them if they can't see, it because I don't show it. Like all things that mean anything to me, I like to keep them, selfishly, inside to myself. But maybe my definition isn't valid. Perhaps there is no care if it is not visible. Its action v. thought, which one is real? Are we who we think we are or what we do, what and how others see us.

I don't have answers. I am only locked in my mind and from there, see things as I am accustomed to making sense of them. Though true, that with age and its accompanied experience the faculty for making sense of these things expands but for the most part questions answered lead to newer questions asked.

I wish the people I care for could know that but maybe since I don't want to change the way I express myself, then maybe its true, that I really don't care. Maybe thats the action confessing the truth about thought.

A Pervert is Touching Me

On Perversion

Every artist has to be a pervert. The beauty of Art, or what makes Art special, is that its a perversion. A twist of the norm altered into exceptionality. Even a renaissance painting, even a still life of fruits on a table, focuses on a perversion of attention, for why take note of such a thing as a fruit bowl enough to paint it? Should we spare ideas for the preservation of comfort and conformity? Should there be a respect for the norm? I believe nothing is normal, there is only the strange we are used to and the strange we aren't used to. In a forum-lecture on cognition I once attended, it was said that consciousness is attention. We become accustomed to forms and ideas and they take on a comfortable familiarity in the background of the blur we call "everyday life". The perversion of these forms and ideas is what challenges us, what expands our understanding of the relationship between us and them. If the universe is wanting to become information as Terence McKenna has stated, if all points are in fact seeking to connect to one another, then perversion of what has been temporarily installed as "established" is universal stimulation to this penultimate goal.

While Facing a Broken Tune

Iron & Fur

You woke up with a knife in your mouth, you woke up and it was heaviness to talk. Your wooden thoughts creak and crack, you carve them into unassuming shapes--the seeking of warmth and cold simultaneously; a blurring picture in the back of your eyes. The burning silence of life and its only condolences have forgotten how to speak, thus muted by memory.

there are times you belong in a bottle; there are times you belong in a cargo moonship. I dive blindly into ramparts of waves; the ones that static the surface, glisten the brow while episodal moods pale your smiles and dry out your depths. I seek coolness as my body overheats easily; my mouth bleeds with aborted words--useful as ink, in it, the knife does dip and marks on flesh what a voice will not.

Motion as Noise

SLOW MOTION WATCHERS

My new neighborhood being the tame, domestic corpse that it is, there isn't much by way of variables. Things seem pretty constant, and that constant is a still collection of quiet moments; the deafening absence of energy that by comparison makes ones most minute spark of excitement seem a cambrian explosion of living, raging plasma. Against this canvas of silence, every sudden deviation from normal seems supernatural. Which is why in the mornings, while walking to the train station, I sometimes am relief to see a certain young man...you may call him challenged...Retarded, is the word I really want to use but everyone is so PC and generally overly sensitive. Retarded, and yet Accelerated would better fit to describe this, either young looking man or old looking teen. His head jerks around and he looks about as if just let out for the first time. He slaps leaves on branches and runs across the street even when he has the light. There is a parking lot everyone cuts through to sneak some seconds off their morning walk to the station, there's a sharp corner that hides the coming from the going--and at this twilight, I noticed he seems to rev himself up for the stage at this isolated parenthesis. He runs, jumps, spins, dances, really lets loose. Its great to watch and I, as well as others observe, timid and jealous, wishing we were as accelerated as he.