If anyone ever wants to collaborate on poetry or short stories just hit me up. I love collabs.
Not every day needs to have a significant other,You don’t always need to have a good week,You don’t always need to have outside support,You don’t always need to walk with others,It’s okay to be alone for a while,It’s okay to feel pain,It’s not okay to pretend that pain doesn’t exist,It’s not okay to hide your […]
This is hyperbole but I want all your attention
The fourth wall no longer exists
There’s nothing to break
We’re here, together
I have nothing left but my pen
Alone in the dark
The contrast is stark
Between you and me
Where you sting like a bee
I hide beneath a tree in the park
And I deploy
But no one has a good enough decoy
For the blood in the spittle
For the chicken little
We all are together in disguise
Which is what makes it such a surprise
I don’t know what people from other cultures are like
But I asked myself the question, “Do they shoulder others’ burdens more than Americans?
And if so, does that make their society happier?”
For if I am of mental wealth, and I am on the phone with you, a stranger, and we have a brief professional relationship for you are a member of a group that provides a professional service,
Should I not give you more happiness, if I can afford it, and you are down on your day?
And shouldn’t everyone do this, whenever they can?
And won’t this make everyone happier, or less down on their days?
I think how strangers interact is a large component of what defines a “culture”
And I think we, in the States, can improve how we interact with each other
To make everyone’s life better off.
More forget me
Until I am all but forgotten
Remembered by a few
The remaining connections of my life
What do they have in common?
I wish time could tell me who my friends are
I don’t know yet
It’s the ones that are in the middle
That push it, innocently
You can’t hate them
But what can you do?
“You have to get rid of them“
But that would be wrong, too–right?
So it goes
With the ones in the middle
Hey! Sorry for butchering the title, it’s a mouthful.
Just reaching out: We’re looking for collaborators on our chain story! We’re hoping to turn it into a novel! (maybe).
The authors are Samasya Tapasya, myself (varjakbaby), and pretty word for ugly thoughts (is that his name or just the name of his blog?). Please leave a comment if you would like to contribute! We’re sort of writing sections out of order at this point in time so we could really use some help!
Full story available on request, and previous sections published (just search for “Civilization was Created by Few, Built by Many and Given to Most” on WordPress).
(early end to the workday, and an intro to the politics of the story):
Elijah was nearly finished debugging when South Silicon City experienced a power outage, the third in four weeks. Like the previous two, residence of SSC were not given an estimated time of when the issue would be resolved, but in the past, power outages were fixed within a few hours, though it seemed to have progressively gotten worse, despite SSC containing 3/4ths of the tech industry in SC and each hour the county was down, companies lost a collective three billion dollars. The government reported the cause of these outages to be equipment failures, the result of the much rushed conversion from standard power to solar power the city implemented shortly after its creation, but they had no response to the failure of redundant power systems that kept the servers operating, creating suspicions that the cause was sabotage. Add in the fact that SSC had the least amount of residence in the city—most of it being wealthy executives, city employees, athletes, musicians, and the rest of those considered SC’s aristocracy—and the only other county experiencing similar outages was North Silicon City, where most of the remaining tech companies in SC were located.
Elijah was the first to ask to go home.
“The debugging is just about done. I only need an hour or two once power is restored to finish up, test run and implement. I’m off in an hour anyways, so I can just finish up at home, or on the train if the servers come back up. Either way, it will be done before midnight tonight, in time for a test run on the West Coast domain early morning, and if everything goes as planned, we’ll implement it world wide by noon tomorrow,” I spit at my boss through vibrating lips, forgetting that I only speak in paragraphs when I’m on one.
“I put our coffee machine out of business,” I follow up with an awkward laugh, hoping that would suppress suspicions that I’ve been putting coke in my coffee instead of sugar.
“Fine. But you know what will happen if it’s not done,” she responded with crossed arms and punchable frown.
I know what will happen? No I don’t, bitch, what the fuck is that supposed to mean, a threat? I thankfully only thought.
I ran to my desk to grab all my stuff, paranoid that the power might come on just in time for my boss to renege.
Before jumping on the shuttle to the train station, I smoked a hipster spliff to calm down.
The shuttle in and around Talk Corp was the only high speed transit SC had. The train lines across SC still operated on outdated technology. After 40 years of planning, California was still without a high speed rail. At first it was just a matter of funding, but now it was a matter of partisan politics. Southern California miraculously turned Republican over the course of ten years. First, the New Republican party proposed and passed an amnesty bill better than the Green Party had ever even proposed. Second, a national emergency was declared by the President over the treatment of Mexican immigrants on both the American and Mexican side of the border. The Cartel Wars, that killed more than five hundred thousand people, some of which were Americans, was acknowledged by the government, allowing the reallocation of military funds used in projects across the world to be used to fight the brutal war raging on the continent. Joint military operations from the US and Mexican military crippled every cartel in Central America. This, followed by the legalization of drugs in all of Mexico, and parts of the US, destroyed the remaining cartels, making America and Mexico the top drug exporters in the world, resulting in endless funds for the two countries to “use to combat addiction and provide support to families who’d previously been destroyed by drugs”. The final nail in the Democrats of Southern California’s coffin was a Wikileak exposing their decades long plan to exploit illegal immigration for votes, blocking bills regardless the positive effect they’d have on both Mexican Americans and Mexican immigrants. The border wasn’t open completely, but an immigration program presented by the New Republican Party in Southern California allowed more immigrants than ever before to enter America. These immigrants were placed in programs all across Southern and Central California that provided proper education and job placement. It’s not known if the radical change by the Republican party was done out of empathy or a stategic coup de tat to take back California, but the citizens didn’t really care, as long as it produced a positive outcome. Ever since then, the Democrats of Northern California and the New Republicans of Southern California have been at odds over any program that even slightly preferenced one over the other; one of them being the California High Speed Rail. This meant citizens in SC still had to travel an hour or more to get home, depending on the county.
I got to the train station right as one left. This is a bad thing to some, but for a misanthrope like myself, barely missing a train just means you’re one of the first to get on the next and catch a single seat in the back car. This isn’t a sure thing, occasionally rude people in the back will try to shove to the front, but I’m intimidating enough to keep the line cutters at bay, occasionally unleashing elbow jabs at those getting too close to me.
The next train was late, as usual, but I didn’t care as long as I got a spot in the back. The doors open and the race commenced. I sprinted down the aisle, jumped up the stairs two steps at a time, and got to my spot before any of the other passengers got to sit down.
Alone, in a train full of people saying things that don’t matter, blasting music.
“I put my headphones on for this world I ignore”
High and ready to ride.
(a love scene):
They made love. They made scintillating love. She squirmed like injection fluid while simultaneously dominating him completely. He locked eyes with hers, fiber optic cables wired to the central nervous system controlling this wrecked panoply-concoction of mystic, destructive, benevolent, revolutionary power right in front of him. She embodied in a fragile soul meant he probably could have forced his way in, but she somehow shut all doors, and then reopened them at will; temptation overload. The foreplay was the intercourse. She was dirty, unfair, and spirited with her movements, the skyscraper along her spine smooth and ridged under his fingers. Her back muscles twitched and strained under her minuscule frame, minuscule to him; she didn’t mean a damn thing to him. But the obvious truth–that he didn’t know–was a lie. His mind racing faster than his heart, he grasped at straws for arousing vocabulary. She preempted him:
“Send me your data.” She meant it. It wasn’t just cheese. She sounded like she meant it. It was completely fake. He was in love. The cognitive turnon factor was an exponential gain modifier on the sensuality of their motions. He wanted to be consumed by her, to be her brain slave, to be her revolutionary at a whim. The cycles timed and timed out again and again an again, like oscillating Argon laser pulses, sent down a beam splitter, refractors, focusers, and recombined with themselves to build a complete picture of their joint signal. It was unity, it was cohesion, it was building the city from the ground up–from underground up–into something new entirely. They were made. They had it. The moment she kissed him his anger came into play and he turned violent. She didn’t give a shit. In 2020 the animalistic urges still rose, as in the populous, but stronger. They were the people of SC, entangled in the mess of a system no one knew how to get out of. They were suddenly aware of the talk buddies, and they knew the mission would never be complete. Be complete. They knew.
What did she mean by that, “Send me your data?” He began to think, as they slowed down. An independent process in his mind, a relay circuit outside the main method loop, drew his attention and he wondered. It was a ridiculous thing, to be caught up in such a detail during that moment, but he couldn’t help but think it held some greater meaning. Everything was a mindfuck with her. He was being boned and his main method knew it, and the side process knew it.
The enhancers kicked in and his blood raged. He bit her on the neck, with some palpable force, somewhat more than a hickey, and she began to bleed. Her fingernails dug into his ass cheeks in response. He wouldn’t be able to sit comfortably for two weeks after that night. They continued this primal dance of love and lust for one hour and sixteen minutes, until the enhancers wore off, and they disengaged.
A meaningful silence hung between the two characters. E was first to speak.
I sort of get infected by the nightmare of people
What I mean by that:
They, the people in my sphere, in my perception,
Come to life, on my inside, in my mind.
Doesn’t mean it’s authentic.
I have–my brain has–enough information to make a mental
Model of the person.
But it shies out of control. Tends to.
So, I “see” people doesn’t really adhere to canon.
They’re not really there–
Only, they are.
The modelling parameters are corrupt, when
Such “nightmare people versions” are instanced
In my mental model
So the people look nasty, or malicious, or what-have-you
There’s no web certificate of authenticity
There’s no SSL encryption
Just the barrier between inside and outside
So I see them:
The people I already see
On the outside, on the inside
I think I’ve explained it
Any ambiguity can be discussed in the comments section
Thank you for coming to my TED talk
Well no one seems to be sustaining the party or doing the heavy lifting tonight (but bless you all working on books, blogging about travel and gardening, mysticism and magick, the plethora of things you do–so wonderful), just on my feed I mean, in my opinion, nothing is quite for me.
So here I am. Doing it myself.
Here’s the thing.
I might have…
Okay well nevermind. I just never really have anything to talk about. So much is off-limits. I don’t know what to say. My finances are in check. I even started budgeting, never mind that I practically have enough savings for the deposit on a new house. I’m so financially responsible it hurts. Well, not that financially responsible; it doesn’t actually hurt.
Hidden in this, somewhere, must be some meaning that I’m just not seeing.
Sorry, there was a implicit change of topics there.
“No one’s holding you back.”
That’s the obvious thing to say. Innit.
You know what I think about that, if you know me half at all.
Chess: For analysis. Not a fun game. Brutal, failure feels terrible. Chest pain. Pressure. It’s not an overdose.
What am I talking about. I’m drifting off. Segues. On the road. On the blog paper. What is blog paper? I wish they made it. They = the market. The market = commerce section of society.
Maybe it exists in some country. I don’t know all the countries. Interesting thought on my evening walk earlier tonight: I’m just doing everything wrong. No, sorry, that was an interjection without the appropriate punctuation. I just had to get it out. What I meant to say was: Well now I forgot. That, too, was an interjection without the appropriate punctuation. Oh me. What do I ever do. What do I ever do.
I haven’t the slightest.
But you know; and you know; and you know.
Three’s the magick number.
But for loss of words, there isn’t much in the blogosphere.
Not that I’m bashing.
But there’ it could be much more personal. And it’s already helluv friendly, but it could be much… well, more. Unless my illness really is a psychotic paranoid dystopian world enforced upon me with no traceability back to reality whatsoever.
Man. I don’t want to.
Mmmm. Hmmm. Right. Now. so..
Okay okay okay. I don’t know. I’m sorry. That might not have been what you were expecting but for sure I don’t have any legitimate clues. And he flips it, and now it’s some sort of symmetry group for me to analyze. That’s right: I know some math.
I bought like four books on math for my Kindle within two days recently. Within the last week. Kindle books are cheap, but they’re not free. What can I say.
Don’t trust what you read on the internet.
I guess what I’m supposed to do now is try to remember that interesting thought I had on my walk this evening. Here we go…
*clocks ticks away*
Okay, now I realize: There were more than one. I like the way I said that. But anyway, there were more than one. The one I remember is: Things can be categorized into two categories: 1) Art; and 2) Everything else.
Doesn’t that sound interesting?
Art, and non-art.
For starters, what does that say about the way your mind works, if that would be by chance how you categorized the things and concepts found in the world?
Interesting, for starters.
And then, why this sharp disjunction–one item category vs all-but item category.
I was trying to, basically, come up with a word (or at least a phrase) for what non-art things are. But I couldn’t! So I just thought: Art, and non-art.
Why? Why look at the world that way? Muse. Interesting. The Muse of Interest. Not financial. Not computational. Not informatic. Just conceptual focus and leisure.
So to me, folks, that’s how the world is. There’s so much art in it, really, that it’s not like a 1/99 like it seems; I’d say it’s more of a 45/55. [Art/non-art].
Excuse me, I might’ve overdosed on my psych meds for the night (can’t remember) so I might be complaining about minor chest pain interjectedly throughout this post.
The dead giveaway will be if my speech is slurred. So I just have to talk to myself every once in a while–nope, starting to feel it. I probably overdosed. I don’t think it’s lethal though. It’s such a small dose to start with. The other dead giveaway would be akathisia (intense restlessness-like second-by-nanosecond counting down the moments not moved, always needing to move, nonstop, incessantly) and as you may have guessed, no, I did not get up out of my seat and start crazy pacing around the room. I’m still here writing.
You know, the worst thing I would feel about if I died were my family. It would hurt them so much. I just can’t die. That would be so unfair to them.
So I better be fuckin’ careful.
And sane. About my actions.
So back to the topic: art vs non-art. Art is something aesthetic, or, inspiring, or sentimental, or full of feels or a certain genre of cognition. Style comes to mind. Motion, ideas, dreams. Some words that I see coupled to art.
I just did a slur check. Turns out, talking to yourself is surprisingly amusing. I should try it more often.
I don’t know what to say about the art thing though, folks. It’s up to you. Define art for yourself, as a homework exercise, and I’ll give you a cookie and a web beacon as a reward. It’s a deal.
The next topic I wanted to touch upon was…
Well actually, I’m not so sure again. I didn’t really have one planned. I’m sort of making this up as I go along. So much animosity from these family members. Egads.
But it’s kind of funny, brother The Youngest did a Mario RPG pratfall in his room (I deduced from the sound of it) and it was simultaneously funny and intriguing. Like, what was he doing in there? It’s such a bemusing (in a good way) little gesture. Gesture I guess is the word for it, right? Would it be? It’s a little more whole-body than just a gesture, though.
See? Topics seem to spring up.
Oh. A visitor who I haven’t seen in a while. Miss [name omitted for confidentiality]. Knew her from school. That’s about as personal as I’m going to get (this time).
Well at least she’s not bothering me or being abusive or anything. How nice of her. Feel free to hang out and watch, motherfucker! =)
Pratfall. Mario RPG. You should look it up. You probably can’t find it. It’s such a small piece of the game I doubt anyone’s dedicated any videos just to it alone.
Here’s the first google youtube hit: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ClOF5s8Xfnc.
That’s right: Mario RPG IN GERMAN, motherfuckers.
What a term of affection. A word which I feel is mispelled officially, but I won’t digress.
What was I talking about? My mom just texted me from the beginning of her shift at the hospital so I got distracted from this post. You know, this post I’m seeing behind everyone’s back.
Lol. I’m just obsessed with wordplay aren’t I.
In any case, do I say that a lot? Yes I doooooo.
Okay. Getting a little loopy.
In any case:
Actually I think that was the end of our topic.
Ugh, starting to get a headache. Weird. Don’t normally get headaches. As long as there’s no akathisia or slurring, I should be alright. I can tolerate minor pressure/pain in the chest. I’ve had that before with no consequence. My regular blood pressure is fine and I exercise mildly routinely so I should be in good enough cardio shape.
What’s on all your guys’ minds? Guys’ and gals’. I never hear from any of my followers, it makes me so sad. I would love to get to know you all better. I know the majority just slammed dat follow button and never logged back in at all, but some of you I recognize by your icon or alias as regular Like-ers. Thanks! Thanks for all the Likes! I really do appreciate it.
God, you can tell my mental health is just milestones better than it used to be, can’t you? Go back and read some of my blog posts from two years ago. Jesus fucking Christ. Horrifying. Bad horror novel.
Yeah. I was not in good shape. I don’t want to talk about it too much, but I don’t want to suppress it and not talk about it at all, either. Moments of time belong in time. So it goes.
I am on such a roll, I just don’t want to end this! Ugh, more chest pain. Like a knot behind my left pectoral. I rrreeeeally don’t want to go to the ER. Such a hassle. Why isn’t it spelled hastle? Cakes. Anyway.
I could go on for ages. I really feel like so able right now. If the risperidone (the one I might’ve overdosed on accidentally, just a mild OD), the normal regime, doesn’t do the full job, we might increase my abilify back to 20 mg. So anyway, that will probably be the nail in the coffin for the schizoaffective disorder.
That feels like a good note to end on. Just namedrop that bomb of my disease on y’all. Yall. Y’a..
Oh yeah! I should write a poem for you, the Audience, my cherished audience, as this is a poetry blog. Here we go!
I nearly died that night
Thinking of you in your red dress
Caressing the pet cat and meowing at me
For not displaying enough affection
I was underperforming at the pinball
Machine and as usual gave up too soon
But you resurrected me and now I am here
Well, there’s not enough to be said about the
Situation, circumstance, matter
Lest the hats we wear control us a little more than
We may think to know
I give up on you when you know me
But weld the two joints together and
Animatronic love chaos unfurls its
Sails and dives into the Caribbean
The only Bean native to the American cost
Loss, and all strangers associated with it, may
Be assailed, at whim with will, to distribute the
Funds set aside for their own well-being
I give up when you call me
A loser, anyway, sticking tongues out doesn’t
Renew the lease or unleash the peace or
Mend the tears in the fabric we wear together
We knew then, as we do now, that holding it–
Hands in hands in sacks–
To such high standards wasn’t wise
So we grew out of it, on purpose, and touched our lips to
The soothsayer’s ball and sand a lullaby, soothing
“Go, go, little ball, go…”