Archive for consciousness

As goes the psyche, so goes the pen

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 13, 2013 by JC

Drip drip drip drip thip thip thip thip drip drip drip drip thip thip thip thip…

“Sounds like my faucet in disrepair,” you say?

Try hearing that all day, every day. Try hearing and feeling drip drip drip drip thip thip thip thip on top and inside your head all the time and then try such flippant comparison again. Every fucking time there’s the sound, there’s the sensation, the two make the phenomenon—drip drip drip drip thip thip thip thip means wetting of the same 1-inch radius, the same pi-inches-squared area, followed by geometrically different but equirhythmic radiations all day long.

I won’t talk—I won’t—and that’s why the dripping and thipping won’t stop, why a bit of my scalp is bare, why little, cracked bowls are wetted in the same time, time after time.

I thought this method of torture was bygone, but it’s 2013 already and still
I’m getting dripped and thipped insane by this routine, these habits, by myself. All the play I have now is with letters. No longer do I play with sounds, spoken words. No one would or will play like I want to.

This, here, my jungle gym, my wooden castle like the one distant daddy brought and built one Christmas—brought and built by daddy, played with ad nauseam, until that consistency became drip drip drip drip thip thip thip thip.

Though I’m aware of what’s happening and my body and the rest of me are free to go, I continue furiously and only semiapologetically; what separates this from my boyhood playground?

I suppose that since I am still that boy at heart I need to play, and since now I won’t play with my body like I used to, I must play with letters.

But can I reengage my muscles, my bones, my connective tissues, my organs? My soul is healthy, engaged. My letters come from my body, so my body is engaged. That’s right. This is everything I need.

Ricky’s Dead, Time for a Shop

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 10, 2013 by JC

I came home one night, hard day in wake, expecting to have salad with my steak. I got to the kitchen—having clitted and clatted up the stony steps—and all I saw was an expired spring mix; no steak, no chicken, no salmon! I opened up the spring mix to make sure there was no hope for it, bent down to a suitable distance for testing, sniffed…

So the lettuce smelled like when Ricky took that jizzy fart in his unwashed mouth and plugged it up along with his nose. The stench escaped through his eyes, must have been! Ricky would buttress me there if only to herald his lung space but now he’s dead. Died that same time. Needed to be uncouthest. Couldn’t be anything-elsest, Ricky? I wondered if the gases were noxious or if Ricky wasn’t the athlete he said he was—if his known muff diving failed to live up to his alleged deep-sea diving.

“Lettuce for dinner? Is there nothing else? No peas, beans, oats?” I led.

“Check the ice box and the pantry,” she said.

She read my face, my slanted mouth and furrowed brows, and knew she—cause of the present association, her native herring and bean-induced flatulence co-enablers of Ricky’s last oral stench—should say something. She, after all, likely finished the oats, the beans, and the peas. The oats, the peas, the beans if you like allusions. Played that one in band—really tested my nine-and-ten-year-old lungs. Repugnant Ricky had the same breathing tests I did, plus one yes that jizzy one too many. Hope it at least occurred to him at the end that a hard jaunt would have been better.

His Pragm’ic Way

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 8, 2013 by JC

“Yes, yes,” he thought as he watched a cube’s lifetime: ship to island to touch. “Fieldy is in for…oh I’d better not jinx what he’s in for by extroverting the details…how I’d love to just…but no, ‘spill the beans spoil the mash, spoiled the mash? Brace for a bash!’ grandmie thought, methinks. I wonder where she went toward the end she used to be such a lucid Lulu and then became a Lucy Screwsy to the word. Always wise, make no mistake. Ah, she learned me broad: I know my Shakespeare—I know she’s sluiced, by me or otherwise, what’s past is prologue and what’s past is sluicing and lying, foisting, denying; Dickens—some just want more, the mischievous, vagrant, and parasitic; my folk the mean golden, the fed, actu’lized; albeit, I think, grandmie died unforgink, on that one as, yes, she could have just dropped me, in soci’ty, n’ spared me some time, some purchasing dime, some ungood nonrhyme; my sincere soul mate: that Scotty, A. Smith, who saw plowman and sower as one and the same, that it’s always pro-me me to tend to mine own, ‘less best for me isn’t just, which case also I must, mind in-less-out prime! Wilson* b’ damned! To the Emersons, the Jameses I’m indebted for moral holidays ‘llowed to glide o’er, the top of a lake with frictionless co’er. In-less-out is for what to vie, so if it taunts I’ll FOIST, DENY; the pragm’ic way will ne’er relent; for pleasure-hunts I’ll ne’er repent! What comes—ensues—is it in short; I’ll invoke, always, its support.”

* This is excerpted from a novella I’m writing. The thinker suspects Wilson, Fieldy, and everyone else to be screwing his wife.

The Sharpest Knife

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on January 17, 2013 by JC

You want all the jabs you can get. In your mind they reinforce the idea that I’m evil and you’re perfectly innocent.

I’ll devastate you with the truth–as I see it now and will always see it–until you’re as done as I am.

The truth is that whether you choose to self-examine or not, you were the first, worst, and most consistent sociopath in this relationship.

Exhibits A-Y (one more and we’d have had an alphabet’s worth of evidence!):

You hid at least three mustache rides from me and falsely portrayed yourself as a rape victim (twice!) to keep this ever-fucked-up relationship going and control the way you were perceived.

Ask Aidan, that best friend of mine you shamelessly, desperately, disgustingly assaulted with your eyes and threw yourself at in my presence and behind my back–he gave you an 8.5 on a 10 point scale for sociopathy, and he thinks you’re pathetic, “desperate enough to make anything work,” manipulative, narcissistic, and always good for inspiring a hearty, derisive laugh. I’d say he’s got the nail hit on the head about 75% of the time with that description.

Ask Brian, who you dubbed more attractive than me in a public setting.

Finally, ask skinny-fat Greg from California; skinny-fat, bitch-titted, sociopathic Rob; Mountain-Man Dan, your opportunistic white knight in underwhelming armor; poor, little, puny DM, pre-diabetic Ashton, the abusive, scrawny Chris W; poor, little, puny and probably homosexual Sol; fat Bill, Tim the Borderline Autistic, approximately seven hipster app developers in Portland, and Felix, from whom I would have sought lessons on breaking up if you had it your way–only a few of the innumerable sexual vacations you toyed with embarking on or actually embarked on while we were together. Maybe you were just insecure and trying to make me jealous. That, of course, would vindicate you, right? Vindicate your getting sliced, sluiced, stuffed, schtooped, slammed, fucked, made-love-to, cunnilingualized* real good at every opportunity. Here’s a secret: as long as you want it, as long as your fickle, BV-afflicted thoroughfare of a pussy craves novelty, anything unfamiliar will serve you right, so don’t worry about finding a sexual match. Everyone who’s capable of copulation–even if his erectile prowess is lacking or sporadic; even if his hands are useless; even if he’s an atrocious kisser–is a potential match for you!

What’s more: if you’re ever desperate for friends, you know you’re always a hit with half-chubbed heterosexual males! Avert your eyes to the crotch–I know you like to and it never lies.

I hope that’s comforting to you at this difficult time. You’ll find your next “monogamistic” arrangement very soon, I’m sure. Perhaps you won’t get 7.5+ inches of ready and athletic phallusticity out of it, but you’ll synthesize happiness from your deferent, abjectly cuckoldable and immasculine husband–modelled after Daddy Len and me circa late 2010 and early 2011, before I grew a sufficient pair to confront you on any of your endless bullshit–and your lifetime of messy, dramatic affairs. You’ll find someone who has potential but no support network, habits or interests that encourage testicular descent, you’ll run him into the ground, and then you’ll find ways to make him feel like he’s wronged you.

My conscience, for one, is still sterling.

P.S. You can tell mom and dad they’ve succeeded in creating a spineless-monster-cunt-milquetoast in their own combined likeness, and that I totally would have slammed the shit out of the former’s cooch 30-40 years ago.

*(I was no competition for Rob on that, as I couldn’t bring myself to grow something comparable to that misshapen strip of shit on his upper lip. I’m so very sorry I didn’t get better acquainted with your clam, the cutting edge of vaginal epidemiology, while we were together.)