sea shell

i want to believe that this empty shell has something inside of it. i don't know when it washed up. and it doesn't feel alive. but i want it to feel that way. so it kind of does.

but living things respond to other living things in a particular way. and this shell...it only responds to itself.

it's protecting the absence of life inside. and all i want to do is show this shell that there can be life in there if only it would welcome some wandering thing to make it it's home.

but welcomes are hard and few to come across out here by the salty sea. and even harder to part with once you've found one.


i just wish i could welcome myself...

sending out sounds

whilst conducting the ritual practice of releasing my inner demons through the frequencies disturbed and released by the plucking of the five metal strings stretched over the black magic that is my fender bass guitar....i made a discovery today. not only am i capable of constructing seemingly run-on sentences, but also my neighbor was lounging in a plastic reclining chair in her backyard facing our house smoking a cigar. she's around my age. now my curiosity has the best of me. was she enjoying hearing me play? is that why she's facing our house?

my ego apparently wants to be inflated.
best suppress it with the digital world.

hazardous bragging

"i just found out that i can jog in place and play most of the riffs i've written for my bass AT THE SAME TIME. sure lot's of people do way more impressive stuff while they play, but this is ME we're talking about. i've been doing it for thirty minutes and i've been so pumped up i think i might explo"

~these were the last words recorded by the cycle shifter. our best guess is that the last word he was trying to type was explode. which he did. everywhere. and we're still cleaning it up. don't jog and play bass at the same time unless you're an experienced professional. the results can be very unpredictable. this is a message to musicians everywhere from a concerned citizen. remember it and thank you for your time~

clueless claws

i wish i could get close to someone without feeling driven to scare them away. i just want to be sure they know what they're getting into. true: i'm not as bad as all the judgement i lash myself with throughout the day. false: i can control my emotions and what i think i want. unknown: how far into the mother's shadow of chaos will i sink? and how many pieces will she tear me to when she sees what i've grown to be? this is not what a key is supposed to become. if things continue, i'll lose my birth right and become an open door for god knows what.

trying to force things...not being patient is what my real problem is. instant gratification shines a nice little gleam of reflection on my fangs. both are chipped from grinding my teeth in frustration, hungry for something i can't quite picture. but once someone gets close enough to smell their soul...close enough to taste. all sorts of paintings start strobing behind closed eyelids. i find the most appetizing to me and the transformation begins. the mutation builds in my throat, focuses on my vocal chords. i make sounds that promise a apocalypse of the Mundane Membrane. a trip through a song of the abstract and strange. trees. teeth. and tea. a morphing experience from sweet to symposium. then the death of another searching cycle. and finally a parting of ways.

i have to tame this wild nature inside me before i hurt someone else. these claws have left enough emotional scars for one in-carnation...

digital baptism: submergence in the binary stream of subordinance

welcome to the project!

this stream of content is brought to you by the unsettled mind of a restless shipwreck of a human being. somehow the remains are still afloat. they aimlessly haunt whatever waters they happen to get washed into. the colors go all wrong when you get close enough to see. marvelous clouds of ectoplasm twist the light into inconceivable swirling hues that glow and strobe with a chaotic tenderness. it's all so alien. it's all so entrancing. it's so very hard to leave. but everyone has a limit. when wayward sailors and wondering women of the sea come in contact they are are oh so intrigued. they have a cup and they think they can fill it here. consume a piece of the abstraction and break free of what they've found themselves trapped in. normally normality. but once things get too foreign to define, it's time to abandon ship. because Nietzsche was right. if you gaze into the abyss long enough, it will gaze back into you. my heart is the hole in the horizon. absence unlimited. anything is possible in the territory of the chaotic neutral. a blank slate absent of belief makes an invincible sail that all sorts of pictures will paint themselves upon.

i've lost sight of the land. i can't walk on the solid-sphere without my sea legs going all wavy-gravy. without the rhythm of the raving sea beneath my belly navigation will fail me. the land of the lost is where i pay the final cost. a roaming plane of the Mundane. no morphing. no change. everything is painfully plain.

i could go through my past right now. tell you how i trapped myself in my psuedo-paradox. the open mobius loop of desires falling in and out of themselves at once. but i'll spare the details and minimize the story enough to fit in a few short sentences. it is an equal summation of nature vs. nurture. i'm just as guilty as the people from my past. we all did this to me. and now it's become clear that i have a decision to make. i can watch this ship wreck get splintered into smaller scattered pieces or i can start building a new craft out of what's left. if i rebuild i will never be able to replicate the original design. i know this. and i can deal with this issue by either keeping a small skiff at hand for the rest of life's voyage, or i can learn to leave the sea that loves me...that is me. and over time become a dry being once again.

i wish sobering up from a dream wasn't so real...or terrifying.