Seasickness

Posted in writing on Jan 18th, 2012

I've never been seasick. I know, however, that seasickness is terrible. I've seen people seasick. Friends, you know. It's a miserable thing that folds you over the side of the boat, heaving and dizzy. I play with seasickness sometimes. Imagining that it's got me, that I'm beginning to feel that heaviness in my throat and that uneasy lurching in my belly. And then for a moment, maybe I really am seasick. Maybe. But I'll never know, because the experiment ends there. I stop imagining, and just like that I stop being sick.

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Operator Error

Posted in writing on Dec 23rd, 2011

Anton had expected the vast emptiness of space. Not really space, but the celestial aether of the multiverse. Light-less, colorless, breath-holding silence that whispered lazily for eons between each glittering universe. A disorienting nothingness navigable only through decades of meticulous research. Instead his tracking and communications display had exploded into chattering activity the moment the worm-hole closed behind him. His scanners were reporting an overwhelming 4,096 vessels; he was being hailed simultaneously on 256 channels.

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Amness: notes & observations

Posted in writing on Dec 18th, 2011

The following are notes recorded during and directly after medicinally induced self-dissolution. The medium here is a psychoactive substance isolated from a climbing, flowering vine.

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Karmic Coincidence

Posted in writing on Dec 10th, 2011

Listen: I was surfing high on an astronomical wave of mania the other day. That helplessly happy bubbling that comes writhing up from my bowels and spills out in a wide, disgracefully stupid grin. And laughing out loud, of course, as is custom.

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An absurd notion

Posted in writing on Dec 9th, 2011

I read somewhere that one of the basic personality traits recognized in many people is a tendency towards either intrinsic or extrinsic processing. This is not the same as intrinsic and extrinsic motivation, although there is some similarity.

Individuals who process their world on the intrinsic side of the gradient tend to see their circumstances as a product of their behaviors. Those on the extrinsic side interpret the world from the other side of things, feeling that their behaviors are a product of their circumstances.

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Barbarous mess

Posted in writing on Dec 5th, 2011

People don't live big picture lives. They hunker down safely in their small little world, staring at their feet as they put one in front of the other over and over again. And there's sense in that, you know, because the big picture will paralyze you. It will grab you by the balls and whisper taunts hotly into your ears. Because really, none of this makes any sense: no purpose, no meaning, no unifying essence, nadda. And then you lay down in the dirt. And the ride isn't all roses. Your friends die. Your family dies. You get sick, lose a limb maybe.

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All the world's a stage

Posted in writing on Nov 26th, 2011

There's the dream trip, in that maybe we're dreaming right now and who's to say we're not, and then there's the acting trip. That we're always acting. So first things first, dream wise. I dream myself into scenes, sometimes, and then when I'm aware, all of a sudden, I notice we're all acting, in roles like, and I've got to know who these people are.

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Just deserts

Posted in writing on Nov 21st, 2011

Listen: Love is not even the right word for what this thing is. It is a strange magic. A glow that alights on your features suddenly, a warm haze that transforms you entirely. One minute, you are just a girl. And the next...

At some point painful relevance springs up uninvited like weeds. A stabbing little squeeze around my heart that highlights objects, actions, music and more with a hollow memory of your presence. A gut wrenching absence of your smell, your voice, your glittering eyes.

This is not what I wanted.

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What Jenny left behind

Posted in writing on Nov 6th, 2011

Jeremy was standing outside of Joe's Liquor, leaning against the brick wall in his baggy coat and pants. He was woozy against that wall, with his yellow skin and his flat, long hair soaking in the burnt orange streetlight just like a sponge.

First he asked me whether I had a cigarette, then, disappointed, whether I'd like to go to his house with him. His words came out stumbling, burdened with alcohol and hushed with hopelessness. He was withered and non-threatening, a skinny, weak thing cringing from the snowy night in his big, ill fitting clothes. And so I went.

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Withdrawn

Posted in writing on Nov 4th, 2011

"A chica? If you went to Nicaragua you would need to find a chica?"

This is his casual mania seeping through. Perhaps more a good mood than true mania. One sided charm. Dud charisma.

We are sitting at a table, and I'm feeling a twinge of annoyance and a hair of depression. These feelings prick into me like two long, slick needles.

"No," I say, feeling like the response is forced and deadpan. "A remote town, or something. Somewhere that I could live quietly for six months or so."

"With a chica?"

There's a joke on his lips. He knows the answer.

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