No Title

All 3 bled through without sound. I stare at the 1970s and its spawn, Eli Roth (and his predilections). Balachander’s movie is a well frozen over. I lack comedy. Twin Peaks still frightens. None of us is evil. 

Letting Go has its minimum. The Drowning Pool has a prose situation, but still is meager–despite mathematical matchings of narrative. 

Looking up at the starry sky, noting every face, every direction; these are the Cameron planes. God in each event. Earringed Pax looks at the horizon. I smell blank; the remainder driven to the outer edge. I stare into Lew Archer's moment; he sleazes into saloons. His narration nags its price to pay. If we continue, what comes about? 

Eliot Ness, defender of law, must unseat him. 

How do I manufacture a image with greater contrast? If I shrink the image will I ever see it again? Titanic is majesty--Avatar only clouded-out hell. 

From far astray to this day, born-again. Our trials ended, leaving only reflection. This new period is of reckoning; can we root out the remaining vagrancy of the soul? Is this exhaustion, or just a new physiological epoch? What is its history? How does this status effect circumstance? I, I, I--it’s always that now… What does the extreme subject become? I’ll go to the gym, ride the bikes; but how do I reestablish the timeline? 

The novelty of the written page is gone. Back to the insane and the sober. 

The writing here is better all together. I’ll strike each away till all that remains is the imperial unit. A tight wind of pages to be snapped outside of obstruction. Our only enemies cast aside for righteous men. 

Do I need to peel back the melodrama? Or is it just romance? Just one single thing seems interesting… 

How do we go back? Our dreams still just scan our natural sickness. Some simplicity makes any life lost into a greater expansion. Am I back to the evening sunk into late-dusk? (Think no further than your rolls of the dice.) 

The germs in the air from the hours of anger and mistreatment float away into the nighttime. I open the books and possess their words. Now it’s a foreign place. All the light beams coalesce away and my body centers onstage. They are coming to the darkness--our age broadens, now a new utility for young and old alike. 

You encounter an image, which leaves confidence to wait an extra moment or two. AA, a circle of chairs, lit industrially, seating church-coffeed, work-attired NPCs. Nary a reason to worry at all, just a natural way through. The structure of a period piece brings about this type of experience. Have a seat in history class, experience the simultaneous spirit that weaves the historical into the modernness of the present.

Autumn turns

We sit, still before our actions commence. It's like a windowsill--its depth there to lean upon. A nice twisting rail. The promise of late afternoon, evening still to come. Staring down the aisle. These memories do not present: in neither past nor future. 

Not in sequence; all of the peace parts, then returns to gather its new direction. A play of William Shakespeare. It's weak--there is no action, just a reading through the words. I've found a new pattern and it builds momentum. The grains of the wind by my side. All things one with God, our loveliness. 

All I can feel (and know) gathers together, surrounding--a life earned. A brand of sensation, swiftly in first, then second, up to the final heat. A bright green upon my shoulders. Proud, a single finger upright, exclamation upon my face. My eyes straight forward, reflecting the resignation of the evening.

Concerning some over-determined notes I used to call Journal

I used to write in a journal 2 different times. The first was in the terminal, the other was in notebooks. I ran out of them months ago. Habeas corpus hiatus. No longer do I glance upon newsracks and see the newbegotten halcyon of wished-fors… I see the great wideness unpresent before. The newcency of this millennium--a new 2001. I read the words and sentences on pages. When does it end? I read Twitter in total regression. I see everything as I did before the 4chan turn. No longer do I render the scenes of neatness into isolated personhoods. I stick to the gleaming reaction of the turntables. Of Edward, himself, and his wishes…

Reflections on Dishonesty and Hatred

The grooves of life held but not long for this state. The green leaves placed just long enough. The poet, a national villian, who keeps to his piece. The hymnal, just out, a windy blowing just across one lot. A promise made to the citizenry: One day they’ll all come home; we will live together again. There are the ones who are writing this all, and also the ones running pickups. 

A heart beats as its progeny wishes. Lifelong habituals, quickly speared and de-cycled. Time which is unto itself–the crypt and its keeper’s royal ordainment. A life beyond its own presence–a new motion arc. 

Not any dueling set. Just life stuck in a place. A whirling similar.

April 2

For some reason writing isn’t the plaid fortune it was before. I guess I used to bunker down in and kick away at one of the drafts. That system, since dismantled, hasn’t been replaced. 

There are things I care about, that I could write of in detail. Saying how and why, the particulars, what it makes of the life I lead. However, those things are not of interest. How do I make statements that bear the spirit of our shared existence?

The things that are the most difficult tend to have the most resonance. Posts are frequently rote regurgitations. But lifeblood stuff is not so easy to identify. It escapes and lingers ever after. 

So what is the same about this year and the last? I lack the pressure of the made… but what is the same? I put myself on, and make my way through..

2023-05-08

There is a nice way to characterize the life that is both led and desired. All those involved will face the eminent consequence 

I’m not saying the beauty should limit our aspirations or lifelong physical demands

Our nicest processes say unequivocally there is a great beauty found outside our soul (our one and only)

Rounding the demonic curve, you know how to swerve away, a completed fullness of itself… Not so quick this time..

12:24 PM Wednesday, April 5, 2023 (CDT)

I remain loyal to a continuous spread of language as a base for expression. When you think of something and all that’s returned is a blank outline, how does that make you feel? 

There is a batch of little things that is significant to the overall arc. Each rational belief submitted squares itself tethered to the average. The theoretical stakes now glide to the horizon of the actual–an accumulation too big and too wide to wash away. 

One out there still has the power to transform all these wisening beams into a beachfront scroll. How do we sequence these events of life together–what’s leftover of the long night’s dream? A new stream of letters, addressing lives future and past. A universe backed and steeped against any unbalance; its strands asserting a collective reaching toward a more regal plane, such that they are never seen as particular but as a single collected point inside the dream of the never-world. Disjoint stacks that bleed across the edges of a one-piece; we finally see the new one-life unfold into the wide open space.

Big movies

A transition to paragraph form. Matching subject and construction. Always on the computer, looking out windows; the views are the same. A high baseline of things to look at in direct frame. Attractive people and long takes. An embarrassing or lost sense of humor. My enthralled 2020 self. Once the period is passed it settles into the familiar. What was once moving, but now is not thought of at all. 

We must find the emotional initiative that guides life through cinema. An interest abstracted into nothing; moments of sufficiency, rendered by forced recreation. There is the new classical acting style, a direction encouraged by the simultaneous joys and difficulties of something grounded; the layers of your psyche are peeled away as an experience slips on.

The single unbroken relation

What is it that determines the structure of today’s writing. Is it the quest for unbroken relation? The obsession with truth? Refusal to accept reality?

The newest generation writes auto-fiction. The words on the page are not a relation to reality; they are reality. The question is:

What other things relate to this current state?

There are other interesting things that go on. But what things occur as usual? I still dutifully read things without the immediate sensations of a bookish child. There have been 8 so far this year, but only The Burnout Society found total quality. The others managed infrequent flickers (liminal trash). But I still continue through.

The new period is total fascism. A lovely mode within the unnecessary and trivial…

I return to the museum of art–reconciled after years of ashy avoidance. The modernity died in Aspen, to great disgust. We still are in wonder; is a return to our godsent and heroistic vector assuming itself? Does it now stand again, in its place of tapestry and goodness? I stare, only finding clarity escaped of blanketed sunlight. A final gleam by our great beloved. A straightened screed for the prim and proper. The things we state and declare mean less, blended into the background. A nice friend on the street corner makes his greeting. Only a brief encounter, but weighing enough to follow with rapturous shake.

On the graduation of the spirit

It's often that those of sentimental flourish deny the soul its natural gravitations. It's like they don't understand what a ripeness like that requires.

So we stare out the windows--mostly just the west. When does the new, modern, bluey architecture swirl up into its full construction? The pallid grey green lingers over black. There's only so much of this to save.

So, like, we've seen the great digital. The guerilla setnaps and their alienations. Once again, the trek left unmade. These artifacts can't be so easily cast away. They are the partials of reality, or even the units of the dreamscape. My half-boots trudge through the fluff. I'm in; time to take my duty. The afternoon ephemera begs one more chance. I stay hard in repetition; maybe tomorrow.

Mister Neighborhood, I just want my trains back. Mister Silver says good job son. Mister Yellow Box knows a place aback the commerce stand. I know him before. My triangle stays me close. I'm not long now.