oct 11

Kurt Vonnegut’s Basic Rules of Creative Writing:
1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
4. Every sentence must do one of two things—reveal character or advance the action.

5. Start as close to the end as possible.
6. Be a sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them—in order that the reader may see what they are made of.
7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.

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Greatly misinformed public and bold statements underlining the causes to fight and kill one another without any choice for treaty. It doesn't even come up in the discourse. The words are fight, fuck, and steal. Give nothing to the lesser opponent, no mercy for those in need and slaughter all of the animals. Put everyone through strenuous mental torture until the dialogue is shifted from rebellion to total obedience. Whisper evil things into the sleeping ears of the converted enemy. Everyone, it turns out, becomes an enemy and we are hopeless to find a true cause to this whole evaluation. There is a devil inside each of us, it is greedy and insatiable. This demon is the dark crevasse of the soul with ability to turn the election. Fight or accept, give or take, there is little left to ponder either way. Think of yourself as a fool when you where younger then grow up and into the realization that you are still that same fool in retrospect. While being introspective in coffee shops. Pretending to get all of the necessary work done in a matter of minutes to feel that productive high. Burning neurons in big empty cans. Fire pits and big ocean waves to put them out. This phase change is eternal for the location if the tide permanently rises. (but there is always low tide for a moment.) We are grains of red or blue dust, purple being the decision in between, the bold mediator to transfer secrets between the other colors. Only ever appear purple when together, making so many compromises in order to refrain from allowing the opponent to take offense. There is the over-sensitivity, where no topics are discussed in any great depth, with any great passion, because both people are afraid of offending the other, or the audience of the other. In order to persuade those in between it takes convoluted sentences and points misled away from truth. No memorable quotes it seems. Nothing like the past when murders took place in order to achieve the voting rights we young people neglect. The devil is inside them all anyway. Puppets with no surviving puppeteer. They are without strings though nonetheless hollow shells. 

Oct 10

It's an 'us vs them' attitude but I am the only 'us'.

You were more than just a terrified witness

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A house haunted by something evil and hateful. A hallway into the depths, like a mine shift. As it collapses, running and asking politely if there is a way to enter the small building at the end of this long hallway. Tasteless jokes and the house shifts around. A blind seance.. a topless women, the demon could capture anything and turn it against us. Something horrific in the fact that people walking by are affecting, turned evil, then returned to the world. This is a dream, yes. But imagine it all. So much fucking darker and lewd. There is a sinister feeling in the air, like something is waiting to murder you. The other two or three treat the place with ultimate disrespect and I sense a feeling of something tensing up before an attack or at least an inhale before an exhale with the power to wipe us all off of the face of the earth. An endless mine shift-like structure. Discovering that beneath a house. What once was an underground community. People lived here. Whoever lived in this house once brought them food and supplies in return for infinite sexual pleasure with the women who lived in the dark tunnels. This arrangement worked out for years. Dirty, disgusting... the man lowered provisions down and heard them feeding like wild animals. (Somehow he is coaxed into doing this. The women who exist in these caves could not be very attractive.) But one day he is thrown into a jealous rage, boards off the exist and cuts off the electricity to the people in the tunnels. Many of them die by blindly falling down deep chasms or by infrequent, then frequent, cannibalism. Many years go by. This man still living in their with numerous mistresses who claim to hear screams from the basement. but he cemented over the opened with layers and layers. He tells her the place might be haunted, jokingly. Though he has constant nightmares, as an old man, of vicious mole-like people coming up through the depths and seeking revenge. He wakes up in the middle of the night with a start due to one of these gory, awful dreams. His mistress goes down on him. He lays back and calms down until he feels a gathering dark presence from all sides. Creatures lurking. They are no longer people, they have existed and procreated in that dark chasm. Peeling off fingernails by trying to tunnel out. They got out through the earth and through the mold. In the nighttime. Lights on in the house. Screaming violently and breaking through windows to find the master of their entombment and they tear him and his mistress to shreds. Some came out and tried to live about ground but committed suicide due to exposures and pressures never felt down there. Many remain down there. Tunneling everywhere. Haunting. Logical. Illogical.

Pictures in short skirts and all diabolical plans against my involvement. You are so photogenic. Big mirrored room and every provocative pose possible. all angles and all heart ache reduced. erase the past. it is not even there. you are not that little boy you are this man.

Oct 9

incense smoke in my eyes, a cross breeze from the finally cool California air, asking advice for how to warm up to the new cold, and asking how something would work out. I say, "It should work like that but we won't know until we try." And that becomes and attitude. Overs firm believers of multiple personalities and persona to enter when in the right crowd, a crowd of actors ideally. Wishing to succeed in the amassed sarcastic daze. Learn to keep the mouth shut regardless of all the wastefulness. Playing dress up and never becoming sweaty. Lose masculinity to appease some golden rule of thumb. The attitude of looking at a girl and feeling guilty for thinking anything sexual about. This is in direct conflict of human nature. It's a train of thought I'd rather never entertain. All high strung and tightly wound. Different attitudes I find so clashing. I try to tolerate but I know one day I will be permanently affected. Something coursing strong and steady through the blood. A crazy new experience and all  of the valiant weed scientists become new and sturdy. The paranoiac feeling where I feel I must constantly correct myself for validity... Or constantly feel the need to clarify a thought or to be able to think over what's been said and to return to the subject later. I wish to never let any bullshit build up for the unsaid. Rather say too much but I know nothing of tastefulness. I gauge reactions but then end up outside again feeling the opportunity to be ignored wholeheartedly once more. I feel I need to clarify. I meant to say that your golden shining moments always seem to happen when no one else is around to see. To witness. To experience. It was a joke and I'm sorry. It was in jest. The best things always tend to happen somewhere by accident and then you try to relive and it is never quite the same again. Communication falls flat. "He needs to read something else other than the bible!" I feel my face hot and then suddenly sullen, stupid. Gossip about this but no one enjoys to talk crap. I hurt inside from the actions I take automatically so therefore I think in order to change this but constantly am interrupted by that crucial life or death train of thought. God damn I fucked this up! but now I'm fucking it up more by thinking too hard about what I said! If I said anything bad bring it the fuck up to me. I feel something astir but it is also probably my paranoia.

the world is a business. rise or die

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The inability to act in the face of immediate action. There is a world of people better than me out there. "this has more potential than that." Why? because of money probably. corrupting influence. recording albums weighing the pro's and cons of a scream versus a voice. drinking beer in bed and sudden exhaustion, a huge god damn sandwich, hire a ton of people and cut the hours down for nearly everyone involved, full-time musician, through some strange miracle... how to get the work necessary down?

practice. practice. practice.

write accurate, grammatical sentences. exercise the brain and body at once. feeling like there is someone somewhere better at what I am doing that I am. How can I carve anything? I had memories attack me last night. They will tonight again. Scar tissue and heartwarming hold-holding subway-riding. In love in a city of angels. Everything incredibly accessible and suddenly working towards a collaborative good-time goal. Will I manage to pull through? I was just playing this cool riff and then I tried to count it out and everything fell apart. In different time signatures and radio-friendly songs with little or no meaning behind them (for me). I wish you shared the same love and enjoyment of our language as I do. The extra sauce on the lyrical content. Really go deep and thoughtful. Whatever improvised becomes genius. musical and effective. efficient and crazy lyrical.

let me write! I love to, mostly. I have experience. I'll work with you if you work with me. 

oct 8

Of course I enjoy fiction. The poetic and the inspirational words. It is the movement of them. The rhythm like a train chugging along, or quick, feral attacks against your conscience. The story jabs at you. Breaks down defenses. Brings inside warm, pure and honest joy. It is the reason beyond all. The huge capacity of human potential. "It's on the best-seller list" does not mean shit to me. That is never a sign of great literature. That is a sign of great marketing or a whimsical narrator that everyone knows. A joke of novel, mostly teenage drivel. I'm of course being much too harsh. The world has shifted. People enjoy video games. I enjoy learning and reading. They argue for eye and hand coordination. True. It is stimulating the brain. But at the absence of self-revelations? Do they play these games and find about the true nature of the fabric of their being?

Worry about the next fix and entirely forget the concert we should have been in attendance.

"I'm worth so much more than you can offer me" - attitude. Awful excuse for humanity at its worst. The person who enjoys historical texts but considers themselves a forward thinker. Definitely not a contradiction. Simply an interesting thought. I seem to be all out of interesting thoughts at the moment. All hope slipping through the cracks because I've allowed them to widen.

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Global sensibilities. Why would anyone give a fuck about anything I write and put online? We all sometimes have feelings of incredible inadequacy

oct 7

Here I am, straggling behind the very essence of the generation I was born into. Everything moving so quickly. I know you were also alive before all of this stuff happened and the pace of the world shifted into hyper speed. How can you ignore that? Where does your memory go? (Doesn't happen with people who claim to exist only in the present and future tense.)

I'm offering you a fucking suggestion! (What I'm saying is already powerful.) Make it more powerful. Never whisper given the opportunity to yell.

Here I am. Alone with a bottlenecking generation all excited to enter a stupid and less productive lifestyle. A type of living where you are lazy as fuck in the face of ultimate responsibility.

Remember how it was before all of this bullshit!

No? Me neither.

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play until fingers sore though no blood pouring out. would have to play that rigorous for hours due to the already formed callouses on my hands. all of the blisters and huge sores. go for adventurous times. drive up for the holidays. delivering bullshit I do not need any longer and returning with equipment I can potentially use from now on. 

sussurus: whispering, murmuring, or rustling