Something of Import

I was going to write a critique of the American obsession with vigilante justice and situational morality and neat story arches that allow you to free fall into your own value system, but then I started watching TeeVee. That was a joke, that last part, but seriously, I was. The deadly sins don't stop at seven. You can hang yourself from the flagpole with your pride waving in the breeze. The imprinting, the patterning, the genuine desire to become who you have always wanted. What is the actual difference between changing yourself and hiding behind a self-made mask. The cool math boy scene without a single female voice. I suppose muses don't understand copyright laws. The desire is always greater when fueled by failures of the past. These vectors of memory lurking in someone else's detritus. We're all dumpster diving for clarity, dusting off the poor little rich boy mythos of our prophets and poster-children grown up and discarded. Going through the cracked and weary spines of our underlined atheistic dogma that took root in academia and followed us into "the real world". "Abandon all hope" amended to "Ride it Out".

I just want to write a story about the salesmen of the apocalypse. I want to use the stories I've heard, the themes I've loved to build something I can be proud of. I dont like to delve too deeply in this format, out loud in the swirling electronic graveyard. But I suppose whispering to a void is better than talking to myself. I talk to you to tell you about the people who inspire me in their own indulgent ways. The select phrases repeated, your catch (and release) phrases, the fazes of the moon. Whoever gets the most stage runs the risk of the bad review. The hurt lingers far beyond the wisdom of overpriced tea bags. Your faith in the future sustains me. The desire to never stop: traveling, smoking, drinking, learning, moving. It is kind of reassuring to know that we can live a fairy tale, we just have to be prepared for the costume changes. It's kind of a one man show.

Spirit Animals

Revisionist historians pulling the strings, the melody struck a chord. Finding happiness in the sandbox along the temporal fold. This is the only city I have been able to walk at night with a beer without meeting a soul. A phone, an IPA, an empty playground... no not an indie movie preview starring a Culkin. My evening was a nice end to several days worth of ruminating. The reading, the writing, the reformation.

Hopefully the salient points will remain like bones at a crime scene or shells at the beach. You inspired me a few nights ago. Just basic stuff about a chance meeting improving quality of life and realizing being an adult means acting with knowledge available. Above all, trying not to hold your teenage ideals against yourself. Realizing that dusting yourself off is more admirable than flogging yourself into crippling impotency. I love you. One day I may articulate that further.

I will judge myself on the context of my characters. I am writing something of interest, but then I have to throw in a line like "fucking you with a sentimentality dildo".

I probably should have gotten a tumblr a while ago. But I like this. It's like notebook I can actually read later.

The emperor was found dead of (over)exposure. Impossible glamour of ecstatic (enlightened) extinction, future antiques in action. Nothing will weep for you but your wounds. as the shadows fill the room, i realize i have offered up another day to nothing. the surreal quiet was the only company present. the sentiment is mine, the sentiment is fleeting; but the words are universal and familiar. the authors who went the way of the warrior with their words, leaving their contempt face down a puddle of ink.

Memoirists who think their lines and bon mots are worth more than the forest it was printed on. You say growth I say cancer. An insubstantial blurb placed in between ads for used cars and coupons, that's where we all end up. You know that we all need those things, or someone does. The obituary equalizes a lifetime of inequity. Put the salvation on your tongue and wait for oblivion. It doesnt mean anything if the world doesnt end. The blood is just another stain if it doesnt transfigure you out. But oblivion is playing cards with Godot. your experience leaves you empty. bullet trains, cherry blossoms, lonely adjectives rotting flowers. Of all the hardrives in all the landfills of the world. The streets filled with Dickensian orphans who are sustained by their stories. They were named after saints, but that's where the similarities end.