we think aout our

symptomatic.

Hm.

Me: "yo, you saw that george wallace is the new mr. Vegas?"
Him: "yeah, I think it's cause someone's dead."

Indeed, vegas has some of its best and worst moments. I've had a few odd run-ins, mostly because

Oh I stopped typing for a couple of hours so I forgot what I was trying to say. I apologize.

to become this less often.

.
pretty soon, i'm going to hurt until it stops
.

Violins.

I saw her only that once but I wanted to see her again. I thought a little about her, only once as well. Just how she looked and how I imagined her to be. Couldn't have been older than 19. It wasn't that. She could have been 30 or 300 it wouldn't have meant a thing. Her hair was too dark to be natural, some kind of crazy black which could have looked so dark only because of the severity of her pale skin. It seems like a canvas to me now. Blue eyes i think, or green, or grey. Something that made her entire eye stand out against her impossible dark hair, as it dangled, covering half of her face.

I don't think she smiled.
She was with a friend.

Her knees were extremely knuckular. They looked way too gnarled and swollen to be on this person I hadn't met yet. It was definitely her first time here. And why don't I just go over to her and ask her a question, or humanize myself.

I was talking to Jeff, hardly a friend in the way that you traditionally think of a friend. Just a person that's come in enough that you feel relief that they've come in as opposed to a stranger, because you can follow up on old conversations. He was looking too, but we were both casual about it. It's hard with a friend-non-friend to non-overaggressively illustrate attraction and/or interest to a female or male in or outside the nearby area. So we said nothing to each other. Kept talking shop. I was genuinely interested, in one portion of my conscious brain, about what he was talking about (which I later followed up on and did get actually excited about), but some other fraction of my attention center was modulating and spinning around her, the bichromatic girl of silence with the bogus knees.

When she left, I tried to wll her back. Not in some active way, with magick or telepathy or reverse psychology but with deep internal thought and hope.

Although she did come back, I'm not a believer in some deep seeded undercurrent of the mind in which we are all recipients of mental callings from odd creepy strangers that saw us in their place of business weeks before they saw us. No, I assume she just lived in the area and was filling out applications everywhere in her proximity. So I see this application sitting on a desk in the back office and her name is her name and suddenly she's more than this girl who could only be described as physical features and who I thought she was.

Who did I think she was? Well. Probably a really shy but confident young lady who'd never been told that her art was incredible because it was just too abstract for the average male or female of her age outside of her demographic to fully grasp. And she had never seen anything outside of the surrounding two hour radius so she was anxious to get out, but never had anyone share that dream who would actually do it. And she loved to text.

But as I'm looking at this application, I'm thinking there is no other way to handle this situation than to move forward with it. So I called her cell phone and hung up when it asked me to leave a voice mail. And when she called back in 3 hours, I said I'd try to find out about setting up an interview.

She said that the next day she'd be busy and she'd definitely be okay to come back on Monday at 1030. That's fine, but my last day was two days prior to that, and oh well and oh no. She'll never be human now.

(you must be powerful;
for you have a more human face,
sad as the universe;
I abhor you with all my being;
and i would rather,
from the beginning of the centuries,
have had a serpent coiled around
my neck than look on your eyes.)

one clip.

Not getting enough sleep has always had the same effect on me. The distinct feeling that I am always forgetting something, or not retaining knowledge. Writing memoirs on some seismic etch-a-sketch. things going away, more things coming in. Some slide show.

Unrelated: I'm not sure if I'm just sad, or starting to give up.

Go-Getter.

I think while tearing through a taped box, I felt a vein or blood vessel erupt. It wasn't painful, but internally wet. Something thin and skin-soluble slowly gave way. Warm gave way to warmer. Some small flood engulfed by body.

But I'm almost positive this would have left a mark. I'm probably just elaborating.
-
I finished reading a few books this week, since down time has been at a pretty soaring high while babysitting the store (see <a href="http://www.flickr.com/iamnoimpact">my flickr</a>).

Spook by Mary Roach was great. It was essentially 'science tackles the afterlife,' as stated in the subtitle, though it did have quite a bit more history than experiment. Or, history of experiments. Either way. I expected (my first mistake) more modern interface with the way the afterlife was perceived, but as it was it held up very well. The author did do a good amount of hands on stuyff, but most of the meat of the text was in going over how it was relevant that she carry out what it was she was carrying out as well as a pretty good recounting of the people and inventions that others had used to question the existence of a soul and to prove its presence. I emailed the author and she emailed back which is great as well. I never fully expect to hear back from the people I send words to, so when I do, it's always very exciting. My initial goal, at all times when sending "I-checked-out-yo'-stuff" correspondence is simply to let one human know that another human is listening. Crucial.

The Drunkard's Walk was a book that was meant to explore randomness and how it affected our daily lives. It completed its task. However, without any level of conversationalism or much human element. In an e-mail to carissa, I explained, "I thought I was on a train to humanity town, but ended up in robot city." This was a book which proved itself via probabiliy, statistics, and mathematical history. I should have expected as much from a man who had worked with Stephen Hawking on a book (A Briefer History of Time). It was enjoyable, but more like reading a text book or an essay than a standard read. While unexpected, still good. I actually used the phrase, 'all things eventually deviate towards the mean' yesterday to a customer. Zero social skills.

Today, I actually cracked, and finished Coma by Alex Garland as well. It was fine. A little amateurish, in that I think I could do better but maybe not. I'm not very good at gauging my own skill outside of my own perspective. I might have delusions of grandeur for all I know. But it was a quick read, and had some good imagery towards the end, though the ending itself was wet hot garbage. And come to think of it, too, the actual events of the story were kind of floppy too. I'm a bit of a fan of Alex Garland, but mostly in the way that I'm a fan of The Mars Volta. One of the things that they've put together really showed me this vast, limitless amount of potential, and while their subsequent works haven't floored me and haven't even entertained me as a whole, there are passages and tracks that have given me glimpses of the strength of their past work as well as promise for that taste which I grew fond of coming back at some point in time.
-
I'm currently working on this premise; trying to prove it:

If I can not send images via email then I can not send images to flickr
AS OPPOSED TO/RATHER THAN
If I can not send images to flickr then I can not send images via email.
-
Mike Knoll came in yesterday and got me thinking about checking out a couple of bands. Ride and Mogwai (specifically, their second album). I'll try that.
-

Tornado invocate.

Show merit for the pathogenesis.

stud lise lise? shari earthmen.
stereo incisive incisive reflexive lise.
zen portraiture:reflexive hemingway.
part zodiac.

6179.

At first, it was because there was no internet connection to be had, but I thought I'd make due, and head to a starbucks or wireless hotspot from time to time and unspool that which had been spooled. Read. Keep tabs.

It turned out that this whole internet thing was very much a habit of convenience for me. The fact that it was there at the end or beginning of a day made it the reason I went to it, though it's apparently not so much a hunt or a chase of it that I'm finding worthwhile. Kind of upsetting, in a sense. I get lost in thinking what I used to actualy do online for the hours I'd spend there. I never would even attach myself to AIM. I guess a lot of wiki'ing and that sort of affair.

I have no laptop now. Hardware failure, etc., whatever. So this phone is it at this point. I set up mobile blogging to see if maybe this'd keep me connected. We'll see. I'd like it to.

Blog

Blog

FAR too comatose!

and how would they know?
far too gone, my face is their liver feeling.

grand theft auto iv is far too much like this addiction that won't stop a life that just won't stop these tasks that just won't stop.

m.

the saxophone sound. the drifting off needle in arm. won't she know me? it's words. ahhhghh, it's only words. you talk to it like it's something else. human! she/he human!

mod.

TO DAVE: ON LSD

a tweet:

awinedrowning: if you are blind and you take LSD... does anything happen?

my initial answer to this is you probably feel an extraordinary amount of different things, not just things you can SEE as we have come to know what SEEing is.

the blind SEE with their skin, their ears. their mouths, their noses. think of a pentagon equally divided into five sections, each shaded in a certain amount. remove one section, leaving four sections, but still distribute the area equally, this time between four sections instead of five. this is how i always understood the way that those with sensory disabilities adapt. i could be wrong.

my initial answer would be to say that they'll probably start to continue with the standard effects of LSD (hyperactive, lucid imagination) that plays itself out in the standard sorts of ways. new ideas, new experiences, free from the boundaries we're used to, and almost haunted in each new idea's life.

my initial answer would most likely continue through to say that they would probably feel things that weren't real on their skin, they'd hear things that weren't real in their ears. although with their other senses, they might smell or taste things that weren't real as well.

the initial answer changes a little bit when you throw the idea of someone who wasn't blind their entire life. which then gets more fine tuned when you think about how much of their life was spent with vision, and at what accuracy. did they lose their sight by way of degeneration, or an instant act?

i read up on the drug, though, when i got home tonight. apparently, albert hofmann, the father of LSD, experienced "fantastic pictures, extraordinary shapes with intense, kaleidoscopic play of colors" when he closed his eyes on one of the first days of accidentally stumbling upon the more 'psychedelic' uses of this drug. three days later, he went on a full-on TRIP, taking a theoretic "maximum dosage", and ended up experiencing a maelstrom of things, as you can imagine.

he began to speak unintelligibly, and on his assisted bike ride home felt that he was completely stationary while in reality he was actually moving at a "very rapid" pace. for several hours, he thought he was possessed, his neighbor was a witch, and that his furniture was threatening him. one key thing he mentioned (in specific reference to the blind) is every acoustic perception, such as the sound of a passing automobile, was transformed into optical perceptions. the next day, he mentions, though, (in contrast to the blindness) that his breakfast tasted unusually delicious, and all of his senses were "vibrating in a condition of highest sensitivity, which then persisted for the entire day".

to further color coordinate:
...an experience of radiant colors, objects and surfaces appearing to ripple or "breathe," colored patterns behind the eyes, a sense of time distorting (time seems to be stretching, repeating itself, changing speed or stopping), crawling geometric patterns overlaying walls and other objects, morphing objects, a sense that one's thoughts are spiraling into themselves, loss of a sense of identity or the ego (known as "ego death"), and powerful, and sometimes brutal, psycho-physical reactions interpreted by some users as reliving their own birth Many users experience a dissolution between themselves and the "outside world".

further breakdown:
VISUAL:
includes the illusion of movement of static surfaces ("walls breathing"), after image-like trails of moving objects ("tracers"), the appearance of moving colored geometric patterns (especially with closed eyes), an intensification of colors and brightness ("sparkling"), new textures on objects, blurred vision, and shape suggestibility. the inanimate world appears to animate in an unexplained way.

AURAL:
echo-like distortions of sounds, a mixing of all sounds which makes it harder to discern distinct sounds, the feeling that what you're hearing is your thought, a general intensification of the experience of music, and an increased discrimination of instruments and sounds.

--

so, i think my answer is close, although there seems to be a lot more going on with the visual end of things.

and what in those possibilities.

i wasn't sure if respite is the word, but it was.
for various things, at the moment.

it took me a few pages to say everything, and it was all disjointed until the end. there were a lot of small things i needed to say that didn't make sense in summary or conclusion. big liner notes. remember-the-time's. perspective. i don't even remember what it says. i get arrogant or egotistical or archival, and always find the need to have a copy of things that i've written to someone. i didn't this time. again, for various reasons.

-

SEEKING:
creative peers.

we're all very silly about our feelings. popping them up in the electronic field. let's feel good about what we're making and share it with each other instead of making it a VIP experience as part of a larger audience. call if you need to ask.

objects downstream propagate upstream.

what i need are really good headphones.
again.

i started thinking about who, exactly, i'm writing for. the perfect, "correct" answer would be myself. i write because i need to and i want to. i don't care who my audience is, what they think, how they react, or what they would like more or less of. i write to exorcise my own demons, and to manifest my own emotions into wellsprings of wordsplendor.

while this is true some of the time, it's not true all of the time. there are callings for both sorts of explorations, and i think that since i've just started to think a little bit more about these different facets as real functions, it starts to add a little bit more mechanic to the magic of the medium that i love most.

i've had more than a fair share of ideas for fiction that i thought i would start to unwind for my own love of the concept, and my own emotional output. the vision that i would have for a project would begin to collaborate with the ideas that i'd been inspired by and the collective surrounding environmental elements (background music, room noise, setting) to make a real product out of the raw skeletons that i were starting to collect muscle and skin in the brain. the more that i would get out the initial ideas, the more i would start to draw upon my peers and heroes for inspiration. what would THIS person do, or how would ANOTHER person write this? what would make SO AND SO love this?

and it becomes hard to retain that creative vacuum once you've gone that far.

i haven't written in a while, and it's certainly not because of a lack of ideas or emotions. there are plenty of both running completely rampant right behind the membranes of my fingers. my problem, at this point, is the idea that maybe no one would care. i think that's a very wrong outlook to have on any hobby, but especially one that tends to have such a relieving effect as a creative outlet.

i recently went through my old livejournal account and deleted much of what i read that i felt shouldn't exist. it was an odd thought process. i wasn't embarrassed of it or anything. well, i think i was. but i also just did to it what i think i want to do to anything that i read and don't approve of. approve may be too harsh a term. but looking back on those entries, i feel that there was this enormous imaginary audience that i felt i might have been speaking to. that concept sort of disgusted me. i'd start off entries by saying, "hey folks," and would apologize for "not writing as much" as if anyone noticed.

it's not something that i'm about. make the music you want to make, and the people who should find out about your music will. that's kind of the overall mindset i try to keep on all things. the whole "be yourself" ideal. if you try hard to impress someone by being something you're not and you succeed, you can either fail in the long run or become someone that you're not. there is no success here. if you live what you want to live, the others that live the way that you live (and therefore should be your peers, friends, associates, etc.) should become attracted to you. this goes for writing as well, and really, everything.

i feel like that whole concept is applied even in the distribution of this blog as a whole. livejournal and the myspace blog system just seem to become too watered down, and even when they aren't watered down, it almost becomes interpreted that you're trying to bring out a reaction or a response.

i've been having a hard time with that whole thought process for a little while. i thought maybe if i'd confront it by giving it a body of words it might be a little easier to tackle and eventually overcome.

--

i posted the poster for THERE WILL BE BLOOD back when i first saw the movie at the farmingdale theater during a matinee showing with about 7-10 other people, all at least twice my age. to me, that's always how this movie will feel perfectly viewed, and i've described it the same way every time:

it's a very silent, personal experience.

if i saw it in a packed theater with someone else, that might be how i'd feel it needed to be seen as well, but i'll never be sure.

i've since watched this movie twice. at first, i wasn't exactly sure what i'd taken from it aside from the fact that daniel day lewis crafted a masterpiece of the soul in daniel plainview. but after seeing it a third time overall, i know what it is.

it's the morals.
no new revolution.

the tweet i'd posted was meant to be about him:
a man of exquisite, relentless morals and no remorse.

i can get a sense of it, but can't quite define it at the moment.

moobout,

SOMEONE'S DEAD!
call me on it.

tonight had a sort of specific purpose which got shifted in the interest of media and awkward circumstance.

that place never was real
that face never was real.

i'm looking back "loading..." is what i'm getting but even without pure memory, textwords, i know what i was feeling in brackettime. i still love you.

relative.

i feel heavy like i need to carry myself.

the library; the garden.

i'm not that into it anymore.

i almost called in sick today. i was so into this weather and it brought back intense vibes of when i first came back and who i was seeing and what we were doing and what i was reading and listening to and writing. and so much has changed since then and i've mired myself down into this particular situation and have been working and coming inside and playing video games and not reading a word that didn't lead to shooting or cutting someone down but i have been earning a lot of achievement points which is more or less alright. i looked at the weather over the next few days and it's not more of the same, it goes back to what it was doing before it was doing this. but today is like a trailer. i'm okay with that, because i've been waiting long enough.

today makes me feel good.

this upcoming week, i get to legitimately find out some information which will affect the next months or years of my residential life. and romantic life.

i still haven't been paid, but they said it's coming.

channeling.

artist adie russell lip-synching ginsberg, and kerouac as well as others.
when you're done, go back and check out her other stuff.

on the road for the illiterate.

this is pretty wonderful.
the artist took the book ON THE ROAD and broke it down into colors and numbers, essentially. the color of the burst is the subject, and the size of the burst is the number of words.

not only is it impressive in vision and scope of the work, but for me, at least, it works as a great reminder of all of the different things i felt while reading this book.

outstanding.

subject.

when they come home, they steal all of my air and my silence and drive me back to my corner.