Chronological Monster

We have recently dug very deep, without first realizing it. The head is spinning. Our sky is reeling.

I am grinning and smiling and laughing at the knees

Old man Bottle would be proud

Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all

Old man Bottle would be proud

Three teeth stuck in the shoulder of a twit star

Bits of gum and string and wandering

Get out of my head, Kafka

A deep sea creature opened the valve behind its sheep's eye and spat a bubble that reached the surface, reached the large, slick skinned creature that skirts the beaches. And back again, this is what the leather skin was heard to have said:

February 19 2008

But what if...something more?

Would it be [] worth it, to fight against the clockwork runnings of the world, to escape the day? To prolong the night?

Can what is not...act as one that is? Can what is not real be realer than what is? If so, what is truly real in the world? When something spikes to the extreme, the two become close, and a path between the two is almost visible. Just barely reachable. Maybe.

But how is one to know, [before trying,] if such a path is walkable? If it will not simply disappear beneath our feet, whereupon we will be left with nothing, as nothing, with not even our [] memories left?

August 18th 2008

I've been meaning to ask you. Where do you go when the clock rounds midnight? And who are you when I see you again past one? It's an improper mirror. Or is it the only proper one?

December 1st 2008

The hunted man

hangs his gait

on the highest spire in the land.

December 27th 2008

Ev: (sighs heavily, dropping her head back onto the couch) What's it like, to choose your own name?

Le: Well...(pauses) It's like falling. That moment before you hit the ground. You know it's gonna hurt, but gawd, it feels good before you get there. Maybe even better, because it's gonna hurt later. Right before you hit, everything's already there, jammed together in your brain: pavement, bones, blood; red, wet, heavy. In that second before impact, your brain condenses all these anticipatory sensations down to one word. The actual impact is just to cauterize the word to your brain.

Ev: You've got a morbid streak of your own, you know.

Le: Thanks. I try.

I wrote like an arrogant dipshit. Still do.

I love it. I hate it. I love it. I'll never.

I am always wanting to stay up--later, later, longer. Sleep comes; it always does. The longer I am away from it, the more eagerly I meet it. Sleep is nothing after a few hours of few movements; but after three nights of slipping, drifting, dizzying movements, quick and wild living, it is everything. I am caught between a love of this form and the next; but the next will come, and the longer I deny it, the hungrier it comes

Sense of elation

I am always fighting it; dodge, punch, clothslineTAKETHATBETCH

The jaw shakes dark metal held with a pin. It rattles. It shakes. God, how it shakes, how it makes me shake as it nears--my entire world gets redder and wilder and the bruises crawl up my legs like the stains of wet beetles or the patches of a plague--trembling fingers reach touch-pull--

But no, not yet, run, stretch it out, push your head back and offer the bands in your neck to whatever demons or gods you will meet in these longer nights. Be a god; touch yourself. Cry out at the edge of your own fingernails. Offer yourself to yourself; take from yourself your self. You will not remember by morning; you will not exist by morning. So make as many stains as possible. Leave trails. Leave blood. Invite yourself back for more. The endings are endless; but that does not mean they cannot be played with.

I was up at 4am one night. I saw an episode of FLCL. I didn't know what it was. I was really fucking confused. I thought, somehow, what was in my brain was being projected into the tv. My nose was about five inches from the screen. I think I was smiling for most of it. I was clutching my sketchbook. But I didn't draw until it was over.

I am not a very good player, still. I have known better; I have known much better. I am too much in love with my erroneous ways to become very good very quickly (or perhaps ever at all).

But I am in this godforsaken game until the end. Or it, at least, is in me.

In a green forest verdana there is a clear pool of water. Narcissus stares and stares and stares. The water does not try to reflect him; it shows him only that it is a clear pool of water. And so it reflects him perfectly. Or rather, so imperfectly that it is exactly as it should be--those things that must make no sense in context because they are already whole without. He stares and is mesmerized. The forest verdana burns around him. He is oblivious. He is absorbed in his task--that is, trying to pull his essence from the water, or else, trying to push what essence of it is in him back into the pool. He absorbs; he is absorbed. Is this my name?, he asks, over and over in his head. What is my name? Is this my name? Is this my name? He cannot help seeing himself in clear pools of water, even as entire green forests burn all around him.

We are whispering now--

Isaac?