Archive for the 'Uncategorized' Category

It’s been so long

Here’s like, something to ruminate while you don’t check this website daily.


The Love Police

I’ve found the most wonderful organization/fighter for change: The Love Police

The Love Police is located in London, it attends/ambushes political meetings of any partisan with its camera and megaphone shouting out that the elections are but for the middleman, serving the purposes of the super-rich and elite, and we the people are being lied to.

It’s fantastic energy, a fantastic mission statement with fantastic methods of reaching towards the universal goals of stopping this modern form of slavery and consciousness control. Accusing the big media reporters of being cronies, not allowing them to speak on live television.

Absolutely wonderful. Share this with whoever you can!

US Military Slaying

From Collateral Murder:

Hangover Saturdays: Passion versus Productivity

Maybe it was the beauty the present morning was echoing through your senses that made you want to tie up that piece of severed rope you’d left on the kitchen floor weeks, months, years ago but never managed to pick up and throw in the garbage. It would tug at your mind to remind you to throw it away, given it’s lack of purpose, but something always came up ; probably since it never really bothered you when it came down to it, you just said fuck it and acted as if it was a subconscious thing that made you walk around it as opposed to on top of it every time you walked through the kitchen. But that morning with the ocean’s eyes sparkling and the sun’s rays smiling, with the tree’s winds glimmering and the bird’s essence twittering, you felt the need to fix it rather than simply throw it away and spend a few extra dollars on another one.

But maybe it was the little happy things that had somehow stacked up over the last couple of days that had completely blocked the blinding penetration of the past weeks of sweaty insecurity and civic lust, casting a shadow through your office window that graced you with the shade and the comfort that you hadn’t realized you’d been seeking so you could gather your thoughts. You finally gathered them in your newfound shadows and, upon weaving emotion through the seams of the rough fabric of thought, glided with your soaring spirit. Upon entering such a mystic state of euphoria, you forgot to remind yourself not to step on that severed rope in the kitchen. You stared down at it under your foot and smiled.

However, there’s always that chance that nothing in life is so simple or metaphysical. It could very well just have been the practicalities of a hangover: your mind, still breaking down the last of the ethanol molecules, created an extra jolt of that genuine emotion spawned from the act of having a good time or, simply put, drinking alcohol.  Maybe it truly  was a good time, because the last time you’d opened your eyes with such a sense of peace was thousands of kilometers away, in a memory you can only recognize as what outer space is to you now. As you lie in bed, that extra surge of emotion avalanches the snowed-over mountain of post-brain-cell-genocide thought back to the rope on the floor, and you rise out of bed to go tie it.

Despite the reason, you fixed that rope and it lays on your desk now, hanging out like you were for so many years. You don’t know what it’ll be good for– you don’t really even care, you’re just glad you finally took care of it. As you sat and stared at your productivity, you had a sudden urge to go partake in a passion of yours of which you’d deprived yourself as of late, so you did.

Sleep Paralysis

Apparently there’s such a thing as sleep paralysis. Before tonight I’d never thought twice about the few times I’d woken up unable to move any muscle in my body while knowing I was awake, but upon discussing it with a friend I realized that apparently it’s a big thing. Here’s what happened:

I decided to take a little nap to recover from the five hard days of post-fall semester partying, and before I knew it the scant eight minutes of The Office season six Christmas party episode was but playing to no audience but the couch and the Ghana mask I’d bought at the Watts festival of culture a few months back. Before knocking out I’d thought about locking the front door, as I wasn’t sure if I’d locked it after I walked my roommate out, but figured that the safe neighborhood and lack of people ever trying to break in and steal things would make it okay [though now I realize the last thing I remember was the Welch’s commercial appealing to the “intellectual” consumer, as it decided to tell me that “using the grapes right after harvesting maximizes palate pleasure…” Yeah, great alliteration using words the average public would connotate as “intelligent…” in a sentence that really doesn’t make too much real sense].

Dreaming of girls and conversations and sisters of the weekend, so vivid upon waking yet lacking thought being never remembered, I woke up not too much later—time matters not—hearing the sound of a zipper being undone. I freaked out, as I’ve just consumed a new computer and have all this audio equipment I tell myself I need available for stealing lying around the open apartment, and some of this stuff was in my backpack on the table. But I couldn’t move.

I knew this was not dreamland—I saw the funky lamp in the living room hovering above me, the couch I was lying on, the grainy ceiling; I sensed reality—but I still couldn’t move. Yet I had to. There was someone about to steal my shit, and I couldn’t move my body to stop it. I normally don’t freak out—life’s too short—but I felt ready to: what if they came to my sleeping body on the couch next?

It took a few minutes—or seconds, time matters not—but I finally broke out of it. I looked up over the piano, listened to the ambience of the open living and dining room, but heard only the ticking of the two kitchen clocks. I shouted a friendly “hello” to the indoor dusk, but heard nothing; sensed nothing. I laid back down. I put the show back on and went back to sleep.

Why I’m writing about this: this sleep paralysis has happened to me before, but I’ve never thought twice about it—I figured I was still in fantasy land and it just manifested itself into where I knew I was sleeping comfortably. This time I needed to move, and I couldn’t. I was helpless in a situation I’d soon realize was conjured up by my imagination. A friend came over later and he brought up some stories of the figures his roommate’s seen wandering around the apartment and the voices and phone vibrations that arrived when he was upset with his cat. While unrelated, I felt the need to share this weird experience I’d had but a few hours earlier. After sharing with me the term “sleep paralysis,” he showed me this:

Sure, Rogan’s a comedian. But listen to what he’s saying. This is a drug that does not merely alter our image of reality like LSD or I’ll even say mushrooms: it brings you into the subconscious with something our brain produces every night anyway—this is something real. Something so much more real. Yet our brain creates it to make sure our souls experience “dreamland” as it should (shit, we spend half our minutes sleeping anyway right?). Our Western world chooses not to recognize what can’t be explained by science, but if our sub-consciousness means nothing, then should our consciousness?

The zipper sound: normally I’d associate this with the average interpretation of what it would be in a dream: says Psychological Meaning: This dream may be a sexual innuendo. A broken zipper may symbolize your frustration at not being able to resolve a problem and Mystical Meaning: Yes, there is a mystical meaning for zippers. If you dream of a broken zipper, it means others will dominate you; both of which make perfect sense given that I’ve found something special in someone this weekend (hello, dream?) that has yet to work itself out, and I was about to be unable to deal with some motherfucker breaking into my home to steal my shit.

But apparently, the zipper sound has been attributed before in this situation to our connection with the subconscious being interrupted: we’re unzipping the barrier between the sub/unconscious to the conscious world to peer inside yet we’re still on the other end. Seeing that our consciousness is the dominant perspective of ourselves in our rat-raced minds, it makes sense that the sound of a tear or rip or zip is what splits the planes of our perception. The sleep paralysis is our pineal gland still physically engrossed in DMT ( = dream mode) and thus making our brain still not ready to communicate to the rest of the body, telling it to get up and kick some ass because someone unzipped my backpack.

But why did I wake up? There was no one here for it to be some message from the beyond telling me to take care of some asshole breaking in. Nor did I realize anything or have an epiphany about something going on in my dream that I so vaguely remember: I simply went back to my nap. That leads me to believe, with no research or evidence to back it up, that my connection was just physically interrupted, plain and simple. The anxiety (five days of straight alcohol anyone?) in my brain didn’t want me leaving reality yet: it’s been six nights since I’ve had a quality night’s sober sleep, why should it just ascetically decide to sleep and relax it all off?

Maybe it doesn’t want to anymore. It wasn’t ready for dreamland.

Hungover Sundays: 12 Bottles of Chuck Shaw

I am a hungover piece of shit. I tried. I fell back asleep. I dreamt of my little pink notebook that received text messages wherever there was open space, until there was no more room…

Then you could never receive another text message.

I have a horrible amount of homework to do.

I miss the heroin who’d actually discovered the road until morning.

I am drinking strong coffee out of a little espresso cup.

I think she misses me too.

I am creating words. On a paper that is on a screen that can print out to real paper if I wanted to spend the ten cents at the school library.

This coffee is actually quite tasty.

Alex and Alina and Fahad are supposed to come over to get their shit they left behind when they left me behind last night. I will make them clean.

I think maybe I will go print this, to prove to myself something that my subconscious is trying to tell me.

I REALLY miss her… She who found the second star to the right. She’s worth a few hundred dollars extra. She needs to take her job a little less seriously. I can’t believe what my mom said about that whole movie idea: hippy, executive: what the fuck brings two together so well?

Ah, fuck. They’re here.

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Another twenty some odd young adult who believes he sees things from a unique perspective. Here be my poetry & prose, short stories, favored school papers, rantings, and "blogs." Comment, critique, and profit.