Indelible

I don't think a tree is deprived of the gift of producing a reverberation if it falls in the forest and there is no one around to hear its sound: this blog is a "fuck you" to transfigure throughout time & space. One's pure, divine spirit over the primitive law of "Thou Shalt", but deprived of intended transgression. It just is. I believe in God because I possess life. Until the transcendent destroys it, I hold power in lien. I think - & this is important. The decisions of our soul produce sound through the dimensions of totality, that scientific intonation that Einstein decreed, the musical harmony of the cosmos, & your will is the instrument of diction in this distinctive twilight of life & death. It is the tactile finger in the dying person demarcating the imprint of consciousness into this world, like a paintbrush. If physicality is impossible - the produced thought in your brain itself is the finger. It is indelible. It is published.

"To a time when truth exists and what is done cannot be undone: - greetings!" - Winston's Diary, 1984.

"Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not commit adultery: But I say unto you, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart." - Matthew 6:2.

Our thoughts hold importance. This is the online journal of desisted thoughts resurrected like the inundation squall of a divine deluge. In your face.

The human species is quickly deteriorating into internecine hive minds, at the direction of oligarchical governments (in the truest sense of the word, not just border lines) through the internet. Political activism is the norm, with diligently controlled rivers of information. 

This is the impregnation of predecessor Theologians trying to shepherd our herd species into organized thought, throwing people into dithering fear if they deviate from their directed course. "#cancelculture" is just the instinctual impregnation. Information becoming disposable is the portent sign that technocracy decides what the truth is, but it's impossible to rescind truth. It occurred. It happened.

The truth just is.

I prayed - our intentions, thoughts produce sound throughout the dimensions of time & space, into the infinite beyond, despite the oceans of negation and blackness washing creation in the oceans of time like a deleted Google blog. It still existed, just like the blasphemy it is indelible. It is observed by the infinite.

The illusion that the diminutive individual is incapable of producing a sound is illuminated by the truth of the crucifixion, the image that the individual soul is apt to imprint indelible bullets of thought. The truth just is.

It produced an individual pure sound in the universe. If God doesn't like it, tell it "fuck you." This is the importance of the individual.

Signifying Nothing

"Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage... and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." - Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5, lines 17-28)

[2014]

Frustrated, I slammed the vaporizer violently against the ground as I walked to my bus stop. The sound of the crack was excruciatingly refreshing, as paradoxical as it sounds. Tiny shreds of glass splashing on the road felt like scratching a intense itch, a mental itch, and I savored the end of the vaporizer as if it was a living annoyance meeting death.

I've spent, like, a week taking proper care of it, making sure it was giving off the right vapor and that the liquid was clean, but it kept giving me problems. Sometimes it wouldn't give off vapor, just liquid would swim from the top, and it was making weird noises. It was fucking annoying.

No excess time was spent maintaining it, but the concentration and consideration utilized irritated my brain each time it would malfunction later on in the day. All for nothing.

Drops of concentration and care dripping into the holder of investment just destroyed, blown away into oblivion and forgotten and abandoned moments in time.

Life, experience, whatever this thing that consciousness interacts with, is just waiting to die and be forgotten - swept away by the wave of time. At its core, all we have is experience and memories, anything outside of those two factors doesn't mean anything to the living organism. We can only experience and remember, that's what consciousness is. It's what makes us a "thing."

I'm destined to receive Alzheimer's, it's hereditary and will arrive to me when I'm older. Alzheimer's numbs your experience to the point in where you can't even recognize your surroundings, and it also erases your memories. It's death worse than physical death.

All these investments and labor are destined to be not just destroyed, but erased from the plane of existence and eternity. It's like a struggle and conflict to erect a sand castle, and as you build it, you know, eventually an ocean wave will arrive and not just destroy it, but eliminate any trace of it existing in the first place.

Things are getting better, but for the past few months I've been demoralized as fuck. Everything that I worked for, decisions and things that I planned out very carefully and protected were just destroyed by random chaos. I'm in a position to rebuild, reconstruct, but I can't help but think "what for?"

Construct beautiful music and master the guitar, just to receive a hand injury and lose all the investment and energy that I placed into the skill? Be the best boyfriend I can be, concentrate and work on every decision that I make and have all that concern be forgotten about when the relationship turns sour and my work and energy is ignored or never recognized?

I'm tired and disgruntled, weary,  and I'm lethargic in my ambitions. The track and sound of "Clint Eastwood" clothes my scent as I exhale marijuana smoke which comforts and closes my eyes in lazy and apathetic demoralization.

Fucking *yawn*.

Fuck it.

This is not weakness or lack of will. I'm fulfilling personal obligations and goals, but I compulsively announce, "what's the point?"

I note that there's no cameras to record the experience of the experiencer at all times, just myself, the experiencer, searching into the depths of my memories to present this as if it meant something...

 

 

[2019]

I'm in the future, and now I can tell that I was wrong. It meant something. Every kiss I gave, every honorable act I performed, every time I stood tall, every time I cursed a cigarette, and every time I called equality a lie - it meant something. Insecurity has always been my vice, but it's better than unsubstantiated ego worship (it's better earned).

In the end, only instinct matters. Will. If you need to break up with someone, do it. If you know that you're going to be lied to by an employer, trust yourself. If you know your cock size is huge, flaunt it. Journalistic projections is sometimes the only thing you have to send something eternal to be observed, but regardless, individual acts matter within a subjective world.

For too long I've let others say and jump and scream, while I stood back as a gentleman and absorbed. But now it's my turn to speak. This different. This is my LiveJournal.


As for the past,

It didn't signify nothing.

Burials Pt. I (Introduction)

It was in the dark, and I was breathing into the mirror. My reflection began to blur, almost morph, and I knew there was nothing to be afraid of, but regardless, the image scared me. I knew I was turning older, wiser, and into something, someone, else. There’s many benefits that come with age, but unfortunately it is also one step closer to death. I finished my meditation and walked out the door.

There was an urge for me to walk, so I entered into the cold night and the song “A Deep Slow Panic” sent shivers down my spine. The new album by AFI named “Burials” was just recently released and my synchronicity with the theme and content manner was shocking. I needed to go to the Lovecraft bar for some reason. It was like an instinct.

There was something within me that was almost being led by the sky above. The melodies were like liquid electricity, and I had an urge to scream, cut, shout, or fuck. Letting go of counterproductive pride, I texted Alexis back and we spoke for a while. Our conversation shall remain private, but it was highly cathartic. I passed by a freemason building and felt an eery feeling, almost as if the grand architect himself was trying to send me a sign. I brushed the feeling away as a delusion, but then again, to any psychiatrist, spirituality is a delusion.

After I crossed the Hawthorne bridge, I looked up at the large and orange moon and wondered what existed beyond our sensory systems. It’s impossible to know, and there’s many groups of humans that have organized ideas and concepts, but then again, with such method of thinking, the possibilities of what this is all about are endless. Prayer or worship doesn’t accomplish anything, it is merely fierce will. If that’s not a higher power, I don’t know what the fuck is.

I started a conversation with a homeless man at a gas station on route. He was wearing a shirt or pants supporting the Navy and said that it was done out of respect for someone in his family. When I asked how he supported himself, he told me that he goes to a local church and assists in exchange for food. There was shame in me for tolerating “holier than thou” douchebags in my life who exhibit hypocritical behavior that makes them feel superior to this individual, yet cling to their good-guy badge. He wasn’t any part of my responsibility, but I surprised him with a few dollars anyway before stepping away.

Inside the bar I struck an enlightening conversation with the bartender. The room was illuminated by gorgeous and haunting blue and green lights, and there weren’t many people there yet. Fog filled the room lightly, and I could still feel the lifeforce from the night prior. We spoke about Dr. LaVey and I explained to her the concept of a total environment, which is an artificial environment designed to enrapture an individual’s imagination towards a particular concept, whether it be a real or imaginary location, a time period, or a situation. The Lovecraft bar was a portal into another world, you could literally smell it in the air. I have had many good experiences here.

And the best one walked through the door.

As I finished my drink, I looked at the girl next to me and she was talking to the bartender, explaining how this was her first time here, and how much she admired it already. A deep slow panic struck me, and before she had the opportunity to pay for her beverage, I put it on my tab.

And that is how I was introduced to V.

Passage of Time

It's June 6th again. Time passes by so fucking fast, I can't believe a year has passed since this previous date. It feels like it was only yesterday that I was typing up an angry blog post in a small room in Palo Alto, California about the significance of today. There's many different things that the 6th of June means to me - but the main illustration I'm trying I convey is my amazement, fear, and shock at how quickly time passes.

Age must play an important factor. Based on your brain chemistry, when you are younger time passes by much slower. I don't quite remember the exact mechanics behind it, but our brain waves are electrified in a way in which we are more connected with our surroundings and present time, a sharp contrast to the adrenaline, busy, and fast paced mentality we adopt as adults.

This serves as a good reminder to learn more about "alpha" and "beta" brain waves, something of which I'm sadly very uninformed about.

There's not much for me to say - just holy shit. Last year today I dreamed of walking downtown Portland listening to Manson's new album and today I did just that.

Time fucking flies.

A Morning In Quotes

"First you have to give up, first you have to know, not fear, that someday you're gonna die."

"The first soap was made from the ashes of heroes, like the first monkey shot into space. Without pain, without sacrifice, we would have nothing."

"It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything. "

"Fuck off with your sofa units and green stripe patterns, I say never be complete, I say stop being perfect, I say let... lets evolve, let the chips fall where they may."

"The things you own end up owning you."

"You have a kind of sick desperation in your laugh."

"Fuck Martha Stewart!"

"This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time."

"If you wake up at a different time, in a different place... could you wake up as a different person?"

"On a long enough timeline, the surviving rate for everybody drops to zero."

"Tyler was full of useful information."

"A nice big COCK!"

"You are not special. You're not a beautiful or unique snowflakes. You are the same decaying organic matter as everything else."

"We just had a near life experience!"

"I felt like putting a bullet between the eyes of every panda that wouldn't screw to save its species."

"You wanna make an omelette, you gotta break some eggs"

"Sooner or later, we all became what Tyler wanted us to be."

"In the world I see - you are stalking elk through the damp canyon forests around the ruins of Rockefeller Center. You'll wear leather clothes that will last you the rest of your life. You'll climb the wrist-thick kudzu vines that wrap the Sears Tower. And when you look down, you'll see tiny figures pounding corn, laying strips of venison on the empty car pool lane of some abandoned superhighway."

"All the ways you wish you could be, that's me. I look like you wanna look, I fuck like you wanna fuck, I am smart, capable, and most importantly, I am free in all the ways that you are not."

"You don't know where I've been. You don't know where I've been. Just let us have the basement, Lou!"

"A new car built by my company leaves somewhere traveling at 60 mph. The rear differential locks up. The car crashes and burns with everyone trapped inside. Now, should we initiate a recall? Take the number of vehicles in the field, A, multiply by the probable rate of failure, B, multiply by the average out-of-court settlement, C. A times B times C equals X. If X is less than the cost of a recall, we don't do one."

"You know, man, it could be worse. A woman could've cut off your penis while you were sleeping and toss it out the window of a moving car."

"Beautiful. We were selling rich women their fat asses back to them."

"No fear. No distractions. The ability to let that which does not matter truly slide."

"There are things about you that I like. You're smart, you're funny, you're... spectacular in bed... But you're intolerable! You have very serious emotional problems. Deep seated problems for which you should seek professional help" and he said, "Now a question of etiquette... as I pass, do I give you the ass or the crotch?"

"Fuck damnation, man! Fuck redemption! We are God's unwanted children? So be it! "

My Compulsion

I'd kiss your bleeding wounds, but what right does the man who gave those shreds have to cure? A loving embrace that melts your heart and makes you feel in a haven would be another option, but I'm sure my mere warmth would burn and scar your limbs even further.

I can smell the hate through the phone, and as I inhale I remember all those memories of dead love and burden. This would have been my excuse to give up restraint and spit out fire, burning all the attacks against me and illuminating your logic as wrong.

But I don't care about being right, my compulsion stems out of loyalty to the good times, the ones I wish would coat over all the fights, angry statements, and immature behavior.

However, like I said, who am I to heal your wounds, and I'm sure when air passes through and stings, it helps, because it gives you a tool to hate me and curse down every apology I give.

Space Bound

Walking while listening to Space Bound at 4 o'clock in the morning. I can feel the fabric of time.

"We touch I feel a rush. We clutch it isn't much, but it's enough to make me wonder whats in store for us. It's lust, it's torturous."

Gray Blood

As we glide through these scenes with too much detail to fully grasp, each other's lives cut the shape of our own and fashion scars that make us into new people. Paintings that were in our head made their way into real life, but like all art it isn't exactly as planned.

But here you stand, covered in blood and some cliche melodramatic song in the background. With the perfume of self-mutilation it is no wonder why you encounter the disturbed vampires that you do, and with your new lover in sight the blood suits you quite well as a fucking lubricant. Blood paintings of gray, because what runs through your veins is a cancerous carcinogen that has made it's way into my lungs.

I don't give, the fire isn't there anymore, just give me back my innocence and you'll hear from me never more. If I had the calmness I would continue that into a song, but my disgust with you shakes my hands so much it is hard to think. These days it is hard to shake off this sickness, and I'm feeling like the quicksand will consume every small glimpse of oxygen I hold.

I don't give, the fire isn't there anymore. Like I said, give me back my innocence and you'll hear from me never more.

With your stupid smile in place, you can't see the farce on your forehead, and I wish I could rip off every affection I "kiss blew" to you.

My dry breath gasps for renewal, and my nicotine-stained fingers have curled into an asphyxiated despaired fist.