This page is dedicated to roughly 1/3 of my reality.
hellmopedcarinosa helbet'stalbot's tammy lurklynbinhofstralpkginandtonic finger descent represent harrowing spin fern loud bell droplet carniforous debit radar hammerstein carob niejas link us send the right bin check it then spin me feel you throbbling feel you drear come to sing faf gibber cop linguistics of balogna can you hear treble breath? copper table drinking moose judicious camel rot check the hems cock the stern bolt my henhouse shut you bend lemon crank felt denim cry stain of what belt it out surrepticios? how? chenyakenya bildungsromanfingerchen broad fennel seed...who knows when i wrote that.
JANUARY 11TH, 2001, 3:47 PM
you'll be strong tomorrow maybe if i can make it through my stern-talking-to today. and why can't i get any community service jobs? no one knows anne bancroft, this is to my advantage as a jerk. i don't eat hell-o jell-o but my tummy likes to mock it. ready to take on the world, i want to help, i want to save and heal. got an offer? i forgot there's truth to all sides, i forgot compassion, relativity, to wash the dishes, thank-you-notes. can you really eat a whole pint of that stuff? and all this lindt, calling to me. can't resist peeling back that delicate foil, biting into that tight mud that pushes against my teeth and bursts a honey straw when i defeat it. i think he should be a drummer, because he makes a good rhythm on my belly, like daddy used to. daddy's a drummer, too. selfishness wakes me out of selfishness and brings me into selfishness. where's my shiny jiva? laura said thoughts are not soul, i liked that. and jains say it, too. anekantwad. porcelain polar bear, turned on its side. 2 hands are still, 4 hands are bouncing like hot atoms. there's something magnetic about a radiator with chipping paint. it calls for a wire brush, littleboylaughter in my right ear. can you scar a radiator? jains don't worship gods, they emulate the deities that serve tirthankaras. deities are unliberated, they must be born into the human body to achieve liberation. the human life is the highest form of pre-liberation status. it is a chance for perfection. i still have yellow spices staining the crotch of my pjs (yes the pair that glowed for me one night.) no stern-talking-to yet.
JANUARY 12TH, 2001, 2:24 PM
i think i just don't understand what beauty is. and i try to do what laura said, putting beauty in the place of soul, and stripping away everything we can think of that normally allows us to arrive at beauty. what beauty did johnny from "johnny got his gun" know? the beauty of the warm sun touching the only sense receptors he had left, a patch of skin. and with that patch of skin he could feel the vibration of people walking into the room. this was beautiful for him, too. but what if that patch of skin were gone? the things he felt with it were beautiful because they gave him hope. is there hope underneath the conforts of the sensory world? is there hope when all there is left is darkness and blankness? if johnny were stripped of his thoughts, too, would he be effortlessly enlightlened? and is that hope? so maybe beauty is that hope. haha, but what is hope? it seems to me one must define god before one can define any presumed absolute, like beauty, because, well god seems to be the name for that quintessential absolute. thank you dr. wolos!
JANUARY 17TH, 2001, 12:18 AM
The only thing keeping me from enlightenment right now is ovulation. It's pinching at my worldly tubes, holding me like the string of a red balloon. my mom, her eyes were closed and totally awake at the same time. she was awake somewhere else, where everything was relatively real, where she said "something kept coming after her." that's as real as it gets. i think this isn't my body, i think that wasn't just chandra signed on as the AIM screen name i know to be his. god damn that television set is always on, always on the same channel, always the same faceless man in a business suit. must be serious. it all comes rushing back and i can feel all the different shades of motherlike sweaters, a store just for mothers, because it wasn't for kids. how do i recall without a source? where is HE? what was that? you can look at one naya without rejecting all the others. you can give one thing your attention without be exclusive. but why is zero indescribable? he'll tell me that, he'll tell me with pictures. "Can a Pro-golfer Use a Cart?" lol. i've never thought so many things at once, i've never been so cold. so betrayed? toni morrison, what she said about knowin' more people. if she would'a known more people, she would'a loved more. god. i know you know what i mean. it's really terrible, those pales and plastic watering cans with generic smiles. they don't ever stop smiling, they aren't given a chance to know frowning, to understand that smiling exists right now, but it doesn't exist in 4.12 hours. because that's the law of origination, decay, and permanence. the plastic smile is eternal, yet it also originated, and it will perish. but won't it still be smiling, when all the plastic is fused with ashy orb? will i still be smiling? will you?
April 3RD, 2001, 1:03 PM
Time is a teeth-gnashing, man-made headache. It's TIME to ride a pony, it's TIME to carve mandalas into a termite-ified stump. Anything that can be changed by man can be created and/or destroyed by man (or she-water.) Fists of lost time pieces signifies true luxury. Gregorian monks? Teardrop in each hand, swirling until each becomes an ocean of you, pilgrimage, whispering sacred, dusky wine spilling down our throats. Twenty-two minutes to go. Stop glancing at your wrist like that, you've gotta feel to believe, you've gotta have faith to L-O-V-E. Dear Humanity, you don't really exist. Because one man doesn't know you're out there. Translucent linen belongs to him and he gives it freely to my rib cage. Without any sort of disturbance caused by corporate butter packets. This sort of greasy negligence silences the Music.
