cross pollination...

This happens to me more than not. I am in the process of writing and working to build a subconsciousness undermining, while hopefully succeeding in, the generic concept known as business as usual. Owning a mom and pop shop with all the trappings of homogeneous business tactics while being the counter culture curmudgeon I've always strived to be, can cause conflicting conniptions across the virtual and the brick and mortar mental environment. Most of these hyper hemorrhoidal spasms are of my own making. Most are of my own imagination. I still find many times when I wish to 'go off' in a minimal subliminal cyclical redundant manner on some oaf or entity within the community I cater to because they generally piss me off, should be drawn and quartered for their anti-social predatory behavior, or say something Republican-ly repugnant. Without this website, I would possibly be looking at creating some kind of shrine honoring the demented mind of one Theodore Kaczynski... anti-techno-capitalist and mail delivery bomb specialist extraordinaire. It's good to have a virtual alter ego from which to anti this and anti that from. It's good words can substitute for bombs in plain manila envelops. Some call it balance.

from the mind of mueck...

maybe sometimes...

We are not alone...

thanksgetting...

while surrounded, by compounded
stone hard Buddha proof walls
in an autocratic spore attic plutocratic
zen free zone,
and amped up legions
passing out marching orders
loud and proud,
fist pounding punishments
and we adhere out of fear,
fear of and fear from
but not for,
for fear for breeds compassion--
compassion breeds noncompliance...
the non-preferred begets,
contrary to the lure of vengeance,
retribution against the against...

...while surrounded by those compounded
stone hard Buddha proof walls...

have you ever,
with forefinger and thumb,
pulled your eyelids away from your eyeballs
so air can get behind them
cooling and drying in a most pleasant way...
a great hangover effect diversion?

have you ever sliced boiled eggs the short way
instead of the long way
to make devilled eggs
and serve them to guests
who take up the whole dinner
fussing about how they won't sit up in place
and why it's wrong to do that?

have you ever cooked
as much food for the fewest people possible
to gorge upon
until nearly sick
and then nap only to awaken
so as to keep on gorging on the leftovers
while having this overindulgence sanctified
as a national holiday?

have ya?

working through it...

I'm penning shit... again. Why? Maybe it's because I'm not using a pen... not pressing ink to paper... crinkly paper where I can feel the friction... hear the scratch and maybe it's just because I'm not angry enough, not drunk enough, not inhaling enough toxin. So I'm penning shit. I'm not in deep enough... skimming too many surfaces because of too many distractions. Where is my beloved sensory deprivation. I've lost the way through layers laid; not by me... maybe by me. I've hit a wall--thick, rough to the touch... skin abrasioned but the mind is glazed dull. Unable to get where others have gone... unable without a pit stop via a drunkin'-smokin'-foul toxic inebriation. Buzz me. Too many years of the mundane. Time to go totally insane.

So the remedy is a Blue Sapphire gin martini-- extra dry with a jalapeno. Fucking hot and then onward downhill... something degenerative toward rotgut. Rotgut gets ya deep.

Sometimes when my mind empties, when picture prose and gutter rhyme connections become unlinkable, I get cerebral cramps and frustration bores auger-like, pulling chunks of gray matterless meat out of my skull with each revolution. I revert into a primal subhuman form and get unreasonably cranky... pissy, intolerably uncooperative, and wonder if an exile on hermit street would not be an inadequate self admonishment. The problem is, by the time I become aware of when I've reached this state of unbeing, I've got most people around me running for the hills. Without the freedom of self expression and it's many forms to apply release, things may have or still could get socially unacceptable... best to lock the door.

So I stand a slave to the word, servitude to an it, not a who... and Dylan was wrong. You don't have to serve anybody, you just end up serfing whether you like it or not. Because servitude becomes an indentured process and demands adherence and gets rather abusive once that line of submission is crossed.

The other night, an owner of a public watering hole within a greater whole served me pan fried oysters. I gorged upon them, washing them down with a hoppy foam covered brew. The effects of that overindulgence was still felt at 3am even though they were just delivered fresh, shucked fresh, dipped into a just blended egg wash, rolled in bread crumbs, and then after a rather high heat treatment, they gave themselves up and were served... to me... by a server. No where within that process did I feel superiorily entitled. No where did I feel charity. It was a moment within a moment of existence. Several someones got paid. That's fucking service!

And while we ate and drank and inhaled she said the lines dividing whatever defines life from fiction are smeared. I said that was because life is fiction and we exist within the whimsical nature of what is perception and expectation and perceived entitlement. How can that be anything but a recipe for the null and void... something to bring to a boil in a cauldron, stirred, and then poured down the drain? She said life is not a soap opera. I said how do you know?

seattle redux

relentless foodies
with charge card weaponry
aimed to engulf and devour
as interest rates soar or sour
as these nuevo consumer thriftless
bistro here
cafe there
20 percent tips roar
4 dollar coffees pour
and the alphas spray
this way
and that

what happened to dumpster diver chic
and the tragically hip elite
smoking shermans
while grunge rhythms beat
while punksters draped in goth
doc martin treaded flannel cloth
and guerrilla insurgent art
decorated the billboard landscapes
making fun
pranksters spring on then run
from the monied
mogul maven potentates

where be the street strapped
hobo mojo begging
gauntlets I traversed
the screamers
the drive -by beamers
the psychosis with the mostest
heroin chic thrombosis
meth muffin madness
and how now the streets have cleared
open access granted
for the card carrying crowd
too real the estate upswings
somebody is proud...

mostly about tea...

I'm reading "Three Cups of Tea". It's supposed to jar my not so rooted bones, shake my free-rolling foundation (I did grow up partly in a trailer), and give me the inspiration I sadly lack concerning commitment to process. I read tons of writer/artist blogs and the one consistent throughout is the commitment to process. This is my first free day in weeks to delve into what I am supposedly in tune with and all I can think about is my inability to stay focused. I can't image why though. The shop is ramping up for the yearly feeding frenzy we retailers lovingly term "the holidaze season". I have found (I believe) the bottom of a couple of market manipulated stocks that I can cash in to make the house payment next month. So distractions abound and my wordsmith motivations cannot be found. Thus exists this place, this nano driven place, where I write whatever that comes immediately to mind.

Playing the stock market is like driving to the casino with your freshly cashed paycheck and then blowing it all within moments after your introduction to the dealer sitting across from you. They are much better than you are and the odds are stacked against before you even pull into the parking lot. A stock doesn't move based on what it's done but on the guess of what it might do... or even more bizarre, of what someone or something expects it to do. First, buy stocks with OPM (other peoples' money). That way if you loose it all, you can change your name and move and still be ahead of the game. If the stock falls short of expectation, run. If expectation drives it down, load up and hang on. If it drops, run. When it runs, drop. And replace fundamentals with the degree of predatory nature of the stock's core business pertaining to the human experience. If it poisons, pollutes, degrades, increases disparity, or legally steals in the name of competitive indifference, it most likely is a keeper. Pathetic, eh? Making a measly living by bottom feeding on the drippings of the elite while maintaining a far left insurgent libertarian socialist prose... priceless.

I'm sipping on oolong tea. I got turned on to it in Beijing about six years ago. Keeeryste, has it been that long? It's a little pricey, but if a billion Chinese can emotionally survive the abusive hauntings of their past 5000 years by sipping this tannin infested nectar, I can afford the extra cost to see if there are some residuals left for me. It's that bottom feeding thing again. It takes less to brew so I can stretch it pretty far. Too much and the cup is not all that pleasant. I'm going to try the next cup English-style and see if a plop of bovine secretion can tame it down. But that means I could brew a more potent cup, and that would cost more tea-wise and then there is the added cost of milk. But more is better, right? Maybe I could borrow someone elses money to pay for it. How American.

good mornin' zombies...

morning saturation

regardless of station

a blither

here
a blather

there

a non rabble

babble

a nothings the matter

smatter

 

back to you, matt

 

self promoting how-to's

hyped up promo mofo

corp blow

attaboy

attaboy

no time for boo-hoo's

 

back to you al

 

runnith over caffine cup

no-proof positive throw up

bubbly cute

dull bladed acute

 

back to you robin

 

scripted sincerity  

unclear clarity... really

human billboarded

cut and paste career

million dollar contract dear?

 

back to you diane

 

high rise homogeny

good faced

ascension based

look over there!

someone else's prodigy

 

back to you meridith

 

death song...

I'm slowly leaving the material world to it's consumable self, fading away into more intellectual concerns with less thoughts of accumulation. Maybe that has to do with what's already stuffed into the basement and my aversion to the E-Bay culture as the way to salvation. That doesn't mean I'm giving up the finer things in life afforded by mercantile pursuits, it just means I don't spend nearly the energy on portfolio worth than I used to. If it produces then so be it... that is not my core agenda. I also don't spend time trying to figure out how things work or why they are the way they are. I'm more into searching for the reasons for the whys of interpretation instead reasons for why things are. I'm not sure it is that important the interpretation is that important. I want to lift the cerebral carpet and check the swept under dust for the subliminal truth... the one few are willing to speak.

 

Why now is there this relentless search for these subliminal truths that did not appear the first three quarters of my existence? I think I have a clue, and we can thank the current passing of Norman Mailer for it. This digging, scraping about hardened impenetrably perceived surfaces is my death song, be it sung for the next 20 or 30 years or the next two, it is something ancient, primal and is driving the inspiration, the ascension to perfected clarity. Things I used to think that mattered, no longer do and I need to convey that significance, one based on the life-long accumulations of perception, experience, and the residuals of applying them. Being brought to this point where as a participant within a social structure I didn't have much of a say in, I see more clearly the reasons for not giving my energy to certain levels of toxic irrelevance. When I finally get all that have to spew forth spent... then I am done... literally. Mailer had quite the long death song.

 

Tootles Norman. If you run into Kurt floating about in the cosmos, feel free to belly up to whatever one bellies up to wherever you are and drink yourselves into a more reasonable oblivion.

 

 

distressed digs...

I don't think I'd like to live in the shop. A freight train went through town on the hour every hour. It's purpose was to remind nobody that it was doing that. The town is evacuated by midnight as there is so much to do here at the time... like nothing. It's 7am and there is no place open to get coffee within a reasonable walking distance. At 7am, reasonable to me is 10 blocks. The walls are paper thin, brick and glass, so I heard and felt every one's bass speakers that drove by, the wind shaking and rattling everything that can shake and rattle, the early morning delivery/garbage removal pings and pangs, and then some noises that I can say I have long forgot existed or have never experienced. At home, I may wake up suspecting it was a raccoon shuffling about the compost pile or a lessor something getting eaten by a greater something that softly nudged me from my slumber.

 

I suppose this is all something I could get used to in time.

very current digs...

I think I'd like to live in our shop. I'm there now, adding to things previously thought and written on: cutting, pasting, expanding the original premise, and then I'll meld into something else previously written and a story will emerge. Hopefully there will be ebb and flow. That is how I write... decoupage-like, only without the sticky stuff. I think I learned to do that via many years assembling apparatuses for other people for little pay. There can never be enough pay for doing stuff like that... so I've heard.

The shop is in an old brick building with huge rafters holding it's roof up. It used to house a car dealership in the twenties. The windows are where the entrance to the car stalls were. Somewhere beneath the building is an abandoned gas tank with 1920 something gasoline still in it. People stand outside and smoke above it, flipping their spent but partially lit butts onto the ground. I worry about a potential "foom!" noise and subsequent sirens and screaming if one of them works it's way down to the mother load. The city health department is unaware of the potential and for unbureaucratic reasons, we all wish to assume the risk and keep it that way.

There would need to be some modifications to live here. First a reasonable bathroom, maybe a kitchenette, and a loft for a bed. I think the rafters would have to be cut, which could be dangerous... support for this and that compromised and well, there would be lack of support. I'd like to put a deck on the roof. We could sit and watch the sunset on the Skagit River. Herons and Cormorants perch on the high voltage electrical wires that span the river. Sometimes there are 20 or 30 sitting above the river looking for fish and pooping until one comes along. They appear to be well insulated from harm.

Anyway, I think I'd like to live in the shop.

phree market phuck...

a free market glitch darted through the sub-prime
and banks yelled foul for it had to do with their dime

and worker pensions buckled

while hedge funders chuckled

so in came a runnin' the Fed just in time

 

they all deserve your money

and with a regulatory threat

they think it a wee bit funny

it's you that should fret

with a little out-source here

a quaint shut-down there

it may not all be fair

but to them

it damn sure looks sunny

 

 

identifier amplifier...

I'm not sure what happened to people named Daryl and Ferris and Virginia. They seemed to have disappeared along with the refined intellectual hick personifications associated with them... like it just wasn't cool anymore to be named in such a way. Maybe they never really existed. Maybe they did, but those where not their real names. They appeared to just fade away, sometime I think after the not so Civil War. It took a couple of generations... ways die with people who project them. Many people died in the not so Civil War. Bartholomew and Terrence, Paul Terrence, and Monroe can be found notched in grave stones strewn about over-grown cemeteries near Mason-Dixon drawn lines. Time moved slower then. People took the time to spell out and pronounce a full name... including the middle ones. Somewhere, some when that became passe. I think it would be cool to start packing a full load of vowel and consonants again:

"Hello, my name is Richard Monroe Dustin. I am the son of one Ruth Madeline Dustin whose egg embraced one persistent sperm donated in a frenzied passion by another three named individual who remains unidentified to this day, thus I stand here before you versus not. I'm very pleased to meet you."

Could we take the time to un-tag ourselves in that manner, a forced practiced eloquence before the next uncivil action occurs?

the alger alp...

It's what the locals call it. As far as geographical monoliths go, we are talking about a pimple, an extroverted dimple sticking up in the midst of a barely identifiable division between valley and foot hill. It takes about 45 to 70 minutes to climb depending on age and lung capacity. The rock we sit on that gives us incredible views of The Sound, the valley, and various lakes throughout the region has bolts driven into it for people with far more agility and desire than me to repel and dangle off of. We prefer to drink a bottle of wine and eat some olive bread before making the trek back to the car. That's enough exercise for the day. The dog differs as she roots, snorts, and rolls in dead things.

I talked to the gods here today, to tell them to knock it the fuck off or douse someone else with their bad juju. I've had my fill the last few weeks. I'm usually okay with coincidence but this is getting annoying. In the meantime a giant owl scared the shit out of me, as I probably did the same to it, as it bolted from it's midday nap that I obviously disturbed. We'll take that as an omen for better things to come. The significance of its action pertaining to my predicament escapes me though. I'll just take what I can get.

dead silence...

Part hangover... maybe. Okay, definitely. And the empty bottles from last night are lined up on the counter for deposit into the recycling bins, but not today. I'm in disconnect mode. Actually, I'm surprised I'm writing this. I guess I don't want to end the day the way it started... the way it progressed with me in total shutdown. I hear these days are needed to rejuvenate. We'll, see. Normally I've lost any momentum and it takes a few days to regain it. Who says it's important to regain it? That's why my vacations are highly overrated and I would prefer not to have them.

I should have stayed focused on the book. The book... my new nemesis, antagonist, the thing that continually needs attention, that demands focus and commitment, that eats away at me and even the dull drunken nasties remind me of my inattentiveness. Guilt? The book is like the women I've rolled about in lust with, the ones with initial uncommunicative expectations that are not sustained past the primal chase. What's so hard to understand about that?

So now there is this... my possible futile attempt to gear myself up for a much more productive tomorrow. And what if it isn't productive? That'll suck. Mostly.

roadkill...

I think they label it vehicular homicide... taking a life with an automotive mechanism as the weapon of choice. We do choose, don't we? I'm sure it happens every time such transport is put into motion... a bug splats on the windshield, tires roll across slugs, squishing, embedding them between the treads, a rodent here or there, maybe something larger.

To see a crushed domestic on the road evokes a sense of loss. That could have been someones pet. Hurry past. Look the other way. The news starts in 5 minutes.

I suppose we can't exist at the level we do without taking some other life. We like to think we are at the top of the food chain even though pound for pound mano emano with a polar bear we are significantly lacking. It is different for humans. We have defined rights for ourselves and we do not recognize rights for other creatures that are evolutionarily yet incapable of doing the same... except for unborn fetuses, but that is a whole different topic still up in front of the supreme court. Besides, if we did recognize another creatures ability to define their own rights, we would probably go to war with them for being on the immoral wrong side of things.

We need to eat, but most of us don't hunt. We slaughter, or better yet, have someone else slaughter for us. We call them service workers. Very few of us eat what is crushed via the cars and trucks we use to get to where we have to go. That may change in the near fragile future though. Dressing a rabbit in the middle of a four lane might be a handy skill if one wants to eat that evening.

Last night I used my chosen mode of transportation to kill my second deer in eight years. I still think sadly about the first incident and I'm really not looking forward to this new accumulation. I didn't have time to react: swerve, brake, or eject. The way the law is written, any such evasive acts are deemed dangerous to human life, limb, and property and is best to mow down the wayward animal than to risk a head on collision or a roll in the ditch. Hitting the deer is considered the lessor result of an unfortunate uncontrollable moment.

I don't feel any better about the real important lives I may have had the potential of saving by staying between the yellow lines. When I got out to check the damage, fellow travelers in the vehicles of their choice sped around me as if nothing happened. We called the insurance company to let them know of the damage to our car... no concern was expressed toward the fate of the deer. We were considered the victims and minus the $100 deductible, a check would be in the mail. I suppose if compensation could be extracted from the deer's immediate family, a lawsuit would be most likely inevitable. It's probably best deer don't concern themselves with such things.

sort...

It's sometimes difficult to tell what is rushing in or pouring out. There are no one way streets, only revolving doors. Is there not a shut-off valve? The noise deafening; the echos reverberate. They are the night calamities: too much information, too many questions, not enough sleep.

A project exists and the end is not near. It started about four years ago, not as a single inception, just ideas that came together and collated into a process... an ending was sought, a result was projected, a final product envisioned. Time is running out. Multi-tasking has invaded, infecting the body. Tangents are multiplying.

There are no deadlines, only instead, a fading that occurs after about five years. That seems to be the limit of endurance. A five year burst is painfully normal. Beyond that, a staleness seeps in. Deterioration of purpose and driving spirit becomes all too evident to those involved. Disconnect lurks on the horizon, conclusion and resolution be damned.

This current journey, build-out in midstream, has many layers. They are connecting and conflicting, collisions that sabotage... organic in magnitude and thus overwhelming. Some say to separate, divide and conquer, weed out the irrelevant... the petty, filter the white noise, and keep it simple. Though simplicity is longed for, the need for the self defeating risk looms with the need to embrace the relevancy of everything. Detail becomes cluttered and lost in the semantics. Quality submits to quantity and suddenly supply-side commodities are over-stocked. The fog rolls in. Boring shit happens.... boredom, the worst of the human experience.

Some say commitment to the work has to be the driving force behind the passion. Some say to be too sensitive, too nice, not mean enough is not about compassion toward those whose feelings could be hurt. Instead it is about cowardice... the cowardice to stand up to rejection and criticism without taking it personal, the cowardice to not be truthful to oneself.

Some say all artists are liars, the lie being for the benefit of the audience. The artist dare not lie to oneself or the art cannot exist. The message will be tainted regardless of what's painted. The audience will smell the fear... the denial of the truth. This is the purity of the word, and once the word is given and it is false, the work becomes unworthy and useless. .. pointless. Clutter poisons truth. Boredom breads impatience and the passion dies as the commitment dies...

some say.