The Graph: Math of Story, pt. 2

“No bones. Not even a knee cap.”

 

 

 

 

As if knee caps are a different currency altogether, and, if that were the case, I should have a buried treasure full of gold somewhere, risk-free, in the desert.

I’ve been watching Breaking Bad in consecutive order, an anomoly for me other than “Lost,” “Deadwood” and

to gorge on one season a while back; I saw a middle episode of Breaking Bad (the one in season 3 where the twins are buying body armor from a semi-fucktard redneck in semi-trailer, but I knew everything (pretty much) that I needed to know. I think I watched that in a motel in the midwest or was is South somewhere on location and half asleep, and I can’t remember when that was exactly, but now I have made it to the gun pulled on protege and sensei, student and teacher, grasshopper and master, season 4 episode 12 or 11 or something, but either way, it’s been a bad season for Walt.

I don’t

feel as obsessed as I did

 

when I dreamt I was in Deadwood (because I woke up bleeding

 

Then, there’s Mad Men, which I watched on Netflix from the beginning and that show holds up but can be watched as a one-off, and you get the story of the man, in a Greek tragedy kind of way. Breaking Bad kind of unfolds. More disturbingly, Breaking Bad kind of unfolds in a strange parallel universe I like to call the entertainment industry which is in fact owned by the German Multinational that, on paper, owns the Laundry/Meth Lab and Chicken/Chile HQ, based on conference calls privy to, dimensions of difficulty it takes to function in the ‘real’ world, whatever that is, I still am not sure and all the signs are telling me I should be.

Yet, this I know, I know how to tell a story. The math of story is a graph that must move downward spiral to be ripped usunder to go where no man has thought to plunder to be redeemed and taken to the place unimagined, beyond and beholden, all the nipping at the heels of and chasing with shadows has stopped, but the signs point nowhere, are quite deceptively evoking payment of some kind and this should be no bones, not even knee caps, but something else entirely.

by 4:50 haven’t made as much progress

Tuesday’s gone with the wind 4:44 started

All these devised interfaces for me to write what I know for the immutable time capsule, the diaries of not a mad woman despite the claims by others who shall remain faceless at this point in time as this is just a platform trial and entryway error momentum: 101 cards, starting today.

Making progress.

I still think about what that icon meant when he said he hated progressives on both sides. I ponder such things. I need some sort of absolution.

going with counter-intuitive as lesson for today

card 101: See? I am not an asshole? Love letters 4 days away.

There’s no way to know…

…if this were true, you just have to go with it, I imagine myself surfing again on a perfect morning in the perfect temperature water amongst friends, no tiger sharks in the making or anything wrong with a perfect day, coz you get those once in a while even if Henry Miller turns out to be an anxiety-ridden, rule-maker not rule-breaker, and Jack Kerouac was delightfully all over the place but feels in the end like a Dead Beat Dad, since my generation, the X-girls, the generics, embraced it, not afraid of hiding out on the plains of nowhere. Until it means waking up Rumplestilkskin style, 25 years later after a bad, bad lapse in acceptance of what others refer to and agree upon as reality. And I’m not just talking psychedelic experiments, but the ways of art, or physical training that likes to puff up its spiritual bases (see tai chi, yoga, martial arts that are humanly impossible and make you feel like ben wa balls, the equal and opposite reaction).

Repeated exposure to threatening stimuli also causes sensitization of the nervous system. Sensitization results from a pattern of repetitive neural activation or experience.

Image

The Math of Story, pt. 2

Or the continuing math of the continuing story.

the deep dark motion


an expanse that happens to come and go  unpredictable,
since the emotion attached to the action or inaction beckons 
self-flagellation, mutation, abomination.
But today that is not the way I feel or think perhaps it is the sunshine perhaps it is the adherence to whatever shreds of practice can be maintained in constant (chosen, assigned, managed, apparent) chaos, a swirly world of why is no one listening to what I want?
Why am I not absolutely perfect, never misunderstood, completely influential, with flawless, arguments, solutions to every problem and that other thing, which remains to be seen, will eventually be determined as I am trying to sort that out each day as part of the healing I must face, or die. Literally I won’t be able to continue the way I was and that is both frightening and freeing–not so much for the baked-laced-drench-your-desires-saturated-over-consumption phase that occurs in many artist’s awakening and they use it as an excuse to get fucked up. Not that so much. This is one of those shifts they talked about but I was too far up the valley to feel it until now and I don’t want to jinx anything and go back to the shitstorm that usually seems to present course for me to chart my way through.
 
I want, more Lonesome Dove cattle drive than Bonnie and Clyde so I can focus on things that I want to put energy into —  because sharkland beneath the sea of sharks swimming and eating and swimming and devouring everyone who is good, with those dead eyes.
on a stretch of road
littered with lost souls, we held our tongues.
so now, in this
day to day
existence
we can’t tell
which
is easier
and all we want
as days go by
is less trouble
less testing
less trying
for needless senseless random exercises in futility-
no. no more of that please and thank you.
even if no one reads this, no one cares, no one knows a god-damn thing – there will be no random futility here. That’s been disassembled and analyzed and I’d be happy to explain my theorems to you, they are well thought out. What else ya gonna do but work out those kinds of academic problems when you’re living a block from skid row and it’s hard to tell where your next meal’s coming from sometimes.
 
but no matter
no mind
that’s all
behind
us now
get it
driving fast
write off
the past
and then the hush that came before the roar…

It’s as if
the sea does part
but
these days
it
happens
on the
freeway

Wednesday is a goth girl

“Never give up. Never let things out of your control dictate who you are.”
Unknown

The mornings are cool near the desert and life begins sluggishly because it stays up late. The to do list creeps up slowly following like a hungry dog, starved for attention, as they always are. Dogs are in fact bottomless pits for that, and perhaps that is the problem between us and dogs. There really aren’t any because we want to be needed so absolutely, so resolutely, so infinitely because it makes us feel loved and we want to be loved, salutated, abbreviated, and exonerated more than any marketing meme expert will ever be willing to annotate and tell you.

I play with words because the meaning has been knocked out of them by a fast cash paced society where we are all just moving along the moving sidewalk of life, through the airport of existence, looking out for crazy bombers to lose their nerve when faced with the absurdity of a plan that includes killing yourself for someone else, and yes, that includes you, God, and you know what, that’s why god loves me. If you understand that, then you are a Buddhist koan, answering itself just like Narcissus knew that looking inward would be the place to start.

However, the ‘fable’ warning only poets and biologists seem to ‘get’ was that if you go too deeply into the inner me, you, narcissus alone without an ‘other’ (first caveman sort of thing), you can drown. Like chimpanzees, we need OTHERS. We rely on our fellow kind, the humans and the people who look like humans, not so much the alien race pretending to be human (the guys in suits planted in certain supposedly strategic positions around the world) or the hybrid shape shifters who wreak havoc on our guardian angels (who prefer to be more like us and are known to slip up on occasion which just keeps the good-evil thing in a bit more of a fair game, because then they have to make up for it).

Some will say: I DON’T UNDERSTAND A WORD YOU ARE SAYING.
Some will think: OH THERE IS NOTHING ABOUT THIS THAT IS DELIBERATE.
Some will analyze: AND THAT IS WHY IT’S ALL JUST STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS DRIVEL WITH NO BASIS IN REAL LITERATURE.
Some will realize: THINK AGAIN.

I may always need a re-write but the way I phrase things and the words I play with are based on a long-standing study of literature in a way you probably can’t even imagine, so if you do have feedback like I CAN’T UNDERSTAND A THING YOU ARE SAYING, it would be nice to know more specifically why you ever read a thing I write and why some of those things resonate with you, even if you don’t ‘understand’ me. That’s one of the harshest things to hear–it’s actually easier for them to not agree with you or not like the way you write than to have someone you have trusted, admired and felt comfort in, albeit fleeting as every passing kindness is in these brutally distantly close times, tell you in some off-hand, dismissive way that you make no sense to them, and actually, come to think of it, never have.

That was part of the elusive heartbreak files, which only served to cause more heartbreak in the end.

I am only trying to monetize my pain so I can use it to pay for the happy ending I intend to live out for the rest of my days.

Prometheus has a mistress

yet it is not
surprising
that few people know this

Icarus
ascending
nobody cares
this time
it’s hot in
the desert
she is sick
of wasting time

granted,
the mistress must
wait
each day
for
him to come
home from
workprometheus hurts

AH, Prometheus
I could love you
better than
Athena
Prometheus
moulder of mankind from clay
tortured by Zeus, reborn every day?

accelerated then degenerate
as is
the ancients way

The last days of January

I came back to cottage # 43 to take a nap but instead polished off the Glenfiddich 17 (or possibly 12, I can’t recall because the bottle has already been taken to the recycling bin) and went through the box of cards I found in my father’s closet. You see, he is an amazing artist, despite having become a medical doctor because his own parents thought his dreams of becoming a wildlife manager were not going to provide him with enough God-almighty dollars, and so he has over 6,000 (at least) photographs loaded on his iMac which I have been wrestling with the past week to get his iPad set up so he can look at butterflies.

He perks up when he hears a birdsong and we tried to play the identify this song game but of course apple wanted someone’s credit card number for the free app, so I gave them mine which is always dubious as I can’t seem to live off the edge for more than a year or two at most (having decided to do exactly what my grandparents warned against–pursuing my first love, well actually more like third, and choosing a ‘career’ in film and television. (The first two are poetry and photography, with a hint of horses, the ocean and little creatures in there as sub-categories).

Back to the day at hand. My father keeps his room at 90 degrees or more. I am now wearing a t-shirt in Ohio after 8 inches of snow fell. This from a girl who does well in hot, humid climates, but loves snow because I never get to see it living in Los Angeles and now I guess I love snow because I guess you could call these pre-hot flashes for my pre-menopausal state, which I have self-diagnosed being too poor for even Obamacare.

My grammar and syntax are not up to par, and for that I apologize to all my English teachers and professors, but not to Bukowski, Henry Miller or T.S. Eliot, my favorite writers. This is all their fault.

That’s the worst-written preamble to a confession I’ve written in a while.

LET US GO THEN YOU AND I

I sit down to go through my dad’s cards that he has made (photographs of birds, butterflies and petroglyphs) because I want to send thank you cards to all my friends who have rallied to send me here to see him for what could or could not be our last time seeing each other in the physical realm. I love my dad for many reasons — not the least of which being he is actually my adopted father, and for some reason, we have always just ‘got’ one another from the watermelon seed spitting contests, to playing poker for M&Ms to today when he flipped off the nurse (who I ‘luckily’ met later and agreed) with a gesture I can replicate but not explain and we laughed the way that Walkers laugh. She is a bitch, this nurse. I have let her know with my body language and explanation of how I clean his urinals because they stink of piss.

I apologize in advance, retroactively and from afar, so bear with me, there’s a story here in this roasted chestnut and for those of you who say you don’t understand me, well yes, you could hire me an editor or just leave me the fuck alone.

I sit down on the ‘love seat’ in his cottage and start going through the box of cards (one thing that did not have blood on it from his ‘recent’ ambien-induced sleep-walking fete that took him into his closet and left him bloody–thanks Cleveland Clinic best heart doctors in the world jerk-offs for not caring about your patients, even the ones who were residents and interns at your esteemed medical establishment, and me, I was born there–go figure) — and I start looking at the cards and choosing which one goes to Ashley, and Val, and Virginia, and the lovely high school friends who have so kindly helped me in a time of need that I don’t like one bit — and I started to cry as I have been doing lately, and I am not a crier. I hate crying. I am the person you can cry to. I am the strong one. I am the one who has nothing to lose while you have everything, and I can always make you feel better (emotionally that is, let’s not go to that other place right now)…

Because — well I don’t know why, to tell you the truth. I am crying right now.

It’s like when I would drive down Kahuna Road on Kaua’i at a certain stage of my life and when I would hear “Rocky Raccoon” on my White Album maxell tape, I would start crying. ROCKY RACCOON? Yes, it used to make me cry when I would hit this one turn in the road where I could see the Pacific ocean just perfectly as I passed Kapaa High School.

My Dad’s current girlfriend (he left my mom after 38 years of marriage, our family pretty much imploded and with it any hope of me believing in marriage–I have remained UNMARRIED despite having common law status relationships with 2 men in my 49 years, who I ultimately don’t trust) told me that my father said to her — he wouldn’t do a thing differently in his life.

We’re like that–I never regret. I don’t believe in it.

Thank you for putting up with this stream of consciousness…

Now, I must wipe away those aggravating tears and prepare to meet the grandkids of a dear friend of my Dad’s who want to go into FILM as a profession. And you know what? I don’t discourage kids from that–I just try to save them some pain.

http://www.glenfiddich.com/us/