beard

Everything around us is subjective to perception. My life and your life and the lives that intertwine. The way we look at the bearded guy. The way we walk into a nook and forget the beer in the corner store. The way we chant into the unknown sideway alley and all the other stuff.

bananas

Where does it come from and where does it go to?

Why does it linger and why does it come? I forget to understand how awful it feels to feel a pang of complete dullness. Sometimes nothing is enough. What means just doesn't mean. Or doesn't matter. The tipping point is so close to the exhaustive button, as though they were placed together with no gaps almost.

I feel like a really thin needle or an unwanted fruit. I feel like a savage, a hut creature of the huts.

I could get a hold of a coconut right about now and throw it around.

I feel closer to the ground nowhere, everyday the essence of stuff becomes more and more artificial, like people forget collectively what being natural means. Because no one knows what it's like to live close to the ground. More and more there is this inhumane. Like monkeys that can't peel a banana because they just got too good at drinking Up & Go, Banana Flavour.

Excuse me sir and you and everyone, fuck your complete lack of common sense. I'm trying to preserve something which I forget the shape of.

essay

purr

One may be sick, hungry, poor and rained upon but still have wellbeing if
one feels an active part of an organism that is bigger than oneself.

- Hawkes, The fourth pillar of sustainability

band room

---^-------@

An open compliment is like spraying a flower directly into someone's heart of stone.

fittingly

"And why do they want you? What is it that gives you this strange, crumpled desirability? Your job isn't special, your law degree isn't special, your soon-to-be-heritage-colours worker's cottage isn't special. It's your crap that's endearing. It's the basis of any relationship, way beyond even the choice of who wins on to whom. It's crap that sustains things. The mutual vulnerability that comes from knowing each other's crap. How shallow would we be if we only felt things for people on account of their successes? How likely would that be to survive? I don't understand why this is making you so uncomfortable right now, why you think you should fight it. This time of glorious failure and perilous achievement is probably your finest hour, but it's not as though it's come out of the blue. I don't know what kind of glamorous past you would have liked to have had, but you didn't have it. Your life, like mine, is a series of conventional successes that don't count for much, plus good times and crap."

- Nick Earls, Zigzag Street

supersonic

mojo motions

The most dire and extreme circumstances made me cut off my needy hands and replace them with mojo motions. "Just go through the motions," he explained to me as he went through them. I get it. I got it about a week or two before he showed me his tricks. He's trying to teach and I'm always eager to learn. Most people in life never put themselves in the position of students. I think that's a real waste of self-improvement. I must be the queen of self-improvement. Maybe that's what successful people are made of. And what softies are made of. I am a bit of a softie. I told myself recently, "I need to harden the fuck up," then I got a hardcore jobbie-job and I hardened the fuck up. It was strange. I remember sitting at the steps at the back of the shop smoking a poorly packed cigarette and texting my friend with my trembling hands, "It's really a make or break scenario," to which she took a while to reply. I remember the day my life was hanging by a string. People call those days Mondays. I called that day the End of My Life as I Knew It. I was seriously hating on life as I knew life. I was on the brink of letting go because I couldn't take the pressure. I was prepared to pop the bottle cap of life. I wanted to fizz out slowly like goo.

But I persevered, or something along those lines. One text message, one afterthought, one drag of a cigarette, and a blank look on my face. I realized it was stupid. That it wasn't worth any of it. Not just the situation but everything I thought that meant anything. Meaning hurts and meaning we create. I let go of caring and said the always outstanding "fuck it". And then meaning melted like the very butter I was spreading.

And then I suppose I started weaving this different fabric like a caterpillar that's no longer sick. This imagery makes sense in my mind, maybe not in yours. In any circumstance, I set myself a few House Rules. The House Rules of my brain are standards that I should never drop. They are job requisites that my new-found tough side has to follow. They are the Rules of Improvement. So I jotted them down and consulted them and tried to let them flow. One of them, in fact, is To Let Things Flow. And by doing this shit, stuff started to go right for once. Because another one of them says Don't Think About The Past, so in either case I wouldn't know if I'm doing it right. It just feels right.

All of this to say he thinks he's teaching me, and maybe he is, but I think it's my own mojo. Motion is important.

pretty much the best thing ever

taskforce

I guess it's probably better to learn your limits and how much you're actually worth before you become a screw in the job-force machinery. Realising your own humanity and how much it should be respected. Noting down that the basic facilities of respect are an inherent right and not something you should earn. That to be a worthy individual you don't have to be important or successful, rather someone with a working brain and basic coping and social abilities. That you have the right to feel right. That this shouldn't be what you are actually battling for, or attempting to pay for once the green bills are stretched towards your sweaty hands.

a drunk poem

dearly titled: i do i do (my drunk mind is hot for repetition)

i love you
i love you
i love you
i love you
i love you
i lover you
i lov you
i love you
i love you i love
you
i love you i love you
i love the you
i do love you
i love every bit of you
i would sit in your room for days and listen to all your ashtray
complaints
i would hang around like a lonely time-free consuming lover
i would paint your legs and laugh at the funny scars in your shin bones
i would watch the entire Sabrina marathon
i would sleep naked for days even though i don't like it
i would devote myself entirely but be so casual and smoke-filled you wouldn't even be able to tell
i would kill people
i would love you like you love your mother
i know i have to
i know i have to love you dearly
i love you so much it doesn't fit.

i would love you every day and every night
i would love you until it didn't feel right
i would consume the pain and take the strain and drain my sorry windows
of legged bathed wails
i would love and drive every day to your isolated cocoon
god i love you
beyond the doom.

the poetry of things

dangerous > safe

the poetry of dreams

literature > reality

self-sabotage 101

1) A casual but unfortunate meet-up
2) A vulnerable pretty rosy face, mirroring something, something.
3) The tragic establishment of rapport
4) The cruel attraction of a pair of eyes
5) The complete loss of self (including the selfish anger that attracts the pretty fly in the first place)
6) The molding of the self to resemble a more suitable companion to the opposite sex - includes outfit makeovers such as rap hats, Vans, checkered shirts and American Apparel dresses.
7) The leering, the offering, the repeated texting.
(Optional at this stage: carnal pleasures)
8) The erasure of any social life as one waits by the telephone and finds no joy in anything but the other person itself.
9) the subsequent every availability - breeding boredom, contempt, and disinterest
10) The end of interest

topshit