Korlsin

I don't like that work takes up my entire days; by the time I get off, a lot of places are closed or closing. My brain tries to close up shop pretty fast, too. But I don't let it. I don't like giving my days away--but this means I get to keep my nights. My nights are mine. My nights are sleepy and wild. My nights are haunted. I don't go to bed until I drop. And it kills me. But these nights are mine.

Sometimes, in some senses, the world does not move. I move, I change, but the world does not; and so I must run to find the parts I need. I go to certain places to be a certain person; I avoid other places because I am avoiding the certain sort of selves I become in those places. I go to places that and comfortable. Places just familiar and just strange enough to allow for entire sections of my brain to be let alone and forgotten. I am where I am.
Today I went nowhere.
Was I no one?
I make places of people as well.
Were you more me today than I?

One side is eating the other, getting larger, getting longer; but the shifts are still discernible, still there, of course. Here is the other now, back again. This is a good time for it; I will not fuss and roar. I will fall silent, as it demands of me. I have made so much noise; I have wanted to; I have had to. I am tired now. My body is full of it, and it takes my mind with it, sometimes when I am lucky.

Noisenoisenoise
This is what I have become

Nothing? She wants nothing. She wants nothing. Good God--how I want nothing.

Too much too much
noisenoisenoisenoise
Tyranitar uses earthquake FUCK WE'RE ON THE SAME TEAM YOU DUMBASS AHHHHHH
I think I can stop making noise. For now. I am ready to take on the black hole, leftover from a busted up star, that swallows nights whole at the edge of my galaxy. Take on? Tend. Feed. Unfeed. I will sit back and see where it goes, what it uneats next. Two strips of asteroids to the right, but that is too far to coast.
noisenoisenoisenoise
I apologize if I've been rude or a dick to anyone in the last month or two. If I've imposed myself upon you, if I've leaned too much, because I feel like I've been leaning a lot, and often, and on more people than...ever, really. I apologize if I haven't responded to you yet--I have something to say, I just haven't had a chance to get around to a few things since work started. I apologize if I've said anything stupid, because chances are I wasn't thinking. The louder I get and the tireder I get, the less I think about semantics and shit. The less I talk; the quieter I talk.
I apologize for not throwing out a 'thanks' more often. I am embarrassingly thankful more often than not, but shit at expressing it.

Time to sleep; time to put my lips to the tail of a blue snake and put this skin to sleep.

At least for awhile.

Mudspeak

Adam and James
Here in the dark, I'll say your names
Breathe your skins up from the carpet stains
Coffee wine wine sweat vodka water saliva blood vodka salty
Say it with me now boys, no shame no shame
Let's learn our lessons
Five times over
To hell and back
Follow me down the bottle, boys
Breakin' promises and spillin' prayers
Through rum soaked hair and slices of rye--
Mm, ain't this all the way to-



I do not think I can say either is worse than the other, or better for that matter. They are simply different, and each in its own season seems worse; the dust in this season or the mud in the next. They are both the dirt, and will both do whatever it is that the dirt does. They both kind of suck.

Happy people of a certain sort make me sad. Is that fucked up? It sounds pretty fucked up. It feels fucked up. But I haven't been able to do anything about it.

This cat's couch is comfortable, very comfortable; but there is something outside of the picture that is not. His comfort is fuzzed. There, see, his eyes--dark and bright like that--he is looking for another couch. He is wanting another couch. I wonder if cats ever want anything more than complete comfort. I wonder if this is a thing that is even possible, for any animal.

So...so the key here is to spread yourself thin. So thin your skin is like--no, no fuck you--so thin you can touch the edges of everything--anguish, ecstasy--and this is more maddening than drowning in any one thing entirely, I am beginning to suspect. Drinking is lovely but this is better. This is Tantalus' Tongue, for who are we to say that he is being so seriously, so unfortunately punished? The gods have their deviant ditches; I must imagine them sympathetic to those men who do as well. He is not in hell; not the way he is said to be, at least. He just resides there. He comes for the place, not the people. Some places must be gone to for some things to happen. Would Tantalus have been allowed his strange existence anywhere else? Would it have worked? If you are to go to hell, do not go because you have been told you are damned; go because that is where the goddamn parties are.

I can't tell whether my words are devolving or evolving into sounds. The sounds are the more...accurate. But also the easier of the two. So are they the best? Or do they have a ways yet to go? Where the fuck are they going, anyway? What do they intend to do? Sounds are safer, too. It is too easy for it to sit easy with me. I feel I must be cautious of this, wary of it, lest I become--but there was a story by Borges like this wasn't there?

I do not admire Odradek in the least times like these. I would deck him across the room if I felt it would do anything, but it wouldn't. So I won't.
My disdain hides affection; but that does not mean the disdain is not present and quite real as well.

Fuckin thing SUCKS


Some times more than others.
This being the former.

NoiseNoiseNoise

A man is employed at an estate as a servant. He is a carpenter by trade, and has been employed under the title of servant for this purpose. He bears the title of servant, but performs none or few of the duties of the other servants; he is, first, when he wakes up, a carpenter; he is, last, before he sleeps, a carpenter. When he is asked in town who he is and what his profession is, he says he is so-and-so's servant. He does occasionally perform the duties of a servant, and he wears the uniform of a servant. When he enters his workroom, he puts the clothes of a carpenter on over them. If the estate goes bankrupt, he will have to find work elsewhere, like all the other servants. When he advertises himself, he will most often advertise as a servant; it is the more popular and common of his two functions. But he is a carpenter, and wherever he goes, under the title of a servant, he slips back into this role and is allowed to. He is paid the same as all the other servants. And he serves, does he not? He is a servant. Just not as the others in the house are.

The things he makes, even, are not the things a carpenter usually makes, perhaps. But they are given places and paid for and more is asked for, and so he earns his keep. They do not question why he makes chairs and desks and frames for them; but they wonder why he kneels in sawdust all day for this sort of work rather than waiting on one of inhabitants or tutoring the children.

In his spare time, he slings his tired body upon his bed, or else crafts more things for the estate. He has never been seen to craft anything for himself, nor does he seem to own any bit of woodwork to show that he has ever made anything and kept it. It is often wondered how he learned to shape and carve wood. They wonder at it, but not too much. They assume he is simply a man of few possessions.

But this lack of woodwork is the only speaking detail given regarding the carpenter's investment in his craft. He keeps none of his work for himself because he invests nothing in it that he wants to keep. They call him a humble man; he is not. He is greedy and he is silent. He makes only what he can give away. They may call some of his work art, but it is not, not to him, at least; the primary function of his woodworking is a profession; the primary function of this profession is to take the place of another profession--that is, that of a servant, the sort whose title he bears but whose duties he does not perform.

I will explain this later. Or delete it. In a couple of hours. Tonight. Satellite.

.Quinn

I have drafted fifteen blogs in the past week.
I HAVE ABUSED THE CAPS LOCK BUTTON IN MOST OF THEM.
I have written shitty prose in some of them.
I have unposted one of them.


The point being: my writing is shit lately. Moreso than usual. So here's some of the pictures I've been drawing. Maybe they'll make more sense than what I've been writing. I dunno.

*

So I've started drawing these things.

And I'm not really sure why.
It started with this. Part of my 202 notes. Picture makes it look big, but it's actually quite small. The size of my thumb. The rest of the page is filled with other things.

Someone said "demiurges" in class. I like that word.

Right color. Right pattern. This is the only thing I am certain of.

Headplaces

I am stuck between a love of this form and a love of transformation. They do not contradict or oppose one another, I want that to be clear. They do not. In the same way that indigo does not oppose a spectrum of colors; it is included in it. But still, it is difficult to hold the two of them in one head. One is a stickyness; the other is wet and quick and fluid. They do not oppose one another. They are running hand in hand, lips peeled with curiosity; one is just lagging behind the other a bit.

Vulture

A man is not walking. What is this?

Walk, the bird whispered wetly. Get up. Walk. It swabbed it's bald brow and waited for the man to listen to its magic or not.
The man, moving man, living man, did not.
And what was more--a smell, sweet, so sweet, so heavy and musty and ill to any other, but only sweet to the bird, was coming from that sweat licked head of his.
What's this, now? The bird craned its bald head to follow the man's progression. What is this what is this? Beneath his feathers, his stomach rumbled eagerly. Come now, come, I am forgiving, but this is unforgivable, the bird whispered, its lips drying and hardening as the man moved on and on.
When the bird descended, the man threw his arms and fell back. The bird faltered in its path but swung around for another assault.
What are you doing? The man cried out.
Give me that sweet head of yours, the bird replied, the sound whistling through its cracked mouth.
No! The man replied fiercely. It is mine!
It is dead; the dead are mine. Give it to me. And those legs, too.
I am walking, am I not? I am talking, am I not? This head lets me talk and these legs let me walk. They are living, you wretched bird!
But why aren't your legs talking? Why aren't your words walking? They are dead, fleshman, if they are not doing these things.
I could not make them if I tried!
Then they are even more dead to you, the hopeful bird said, winging lower and lower. Give them to me; they will be useful to me. They will fill four bellies tonight, strengthen sixteen muscles by morning, and be burned in the beats of eight wings by noon.
The bird dove. The man clutched at his face with one hand and beat the bird off with the other. He felt as if he clutched at a strange rock, heavy on his shoulders and under the sun.
Where are you going? The bird asked.
I am running. I have committed a crime, and now I am running from the law. I do not know where to.
What are you thinking?
I am trying to think of a place where the law will not find me. Where I will not feel guilt.
You will die before you find this, the bird informed the man. Look, part of you has already died--your legs cannot speak and your head cannot walk. You have forced them to do one thing too long, and now they have forgotten that they are interchangeable, as all your organs are. Soon they will pull away from your body, as any organ that becomes fixed must. They will never walk or talk or beat or pump again. But give them to me and they will push and burn and fly and, in these moments, remember when they talked and walked and pumped. The bird made lazy, patient circles above the man. Now use them or I will use you.

The sun was hot. The day seemed endless. The law seemed infinite. So the man conceded. And after three blinding hours of pain, he forgot every word he said, including their agreement, and when a stranger passed by, he cried out for help. The bird did not look up from his work; he continued to dive at the man, turning his silent legs to talking blood that pumped beneath his dark feathers.


Dear every author who's work and images I've mutilated for my own purposes this quarter:

Hope you don't mind. I'll try to be kinder in the future.

Sincerely,
ThisCat