Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Not too good here
I`m in a huge mess as we speak
I need your help urgently
what's going on?
I`m currently out of state now
And i need you to help get back
what can I do to help?
I need you to loan me some few cash down here to my name via western union money transfer
how much are we talking?
I`ll refund it back as soon as i find my way back home
yikes. that's a pretty tall order
where the hell are you anyway?
I`m far from home
I`m stuck in London,England
Jeez. How have you been?
it's been a long time
I`ve been out of state for about 2 days now
Do you know how to get the sum down to me here
pretty sure I do.
hey, why'd you fly all the way to England just to need to come back two days later?
I`m at a local library as we speak
Pls be fast
yeah right. Max at a library
that'll be the day
c'mon, where are you really?
some whore house or something?
I`m at kentish town at the moment
Darek i don`t have much time on here to spent
weird. hey, you remember that time we all went to that club in Granite Bay, man that was a heavy duty night.
hey, what's happened to your grammar?
you used to be really good with your words.
I need you to help get this done on time
oh? why the urgency?
You kidding me
yes I am
Its too scary and brutal here
in London, England?!
the most proper place in the world?
how much did you say you needed?
I need to get flight ticket back home in time
in time for what?
out of curiosity
wow, you can get a flight out of london to the US for $820 in one day?
Lucky i still have my passport with me as an identification to pick up the moneyhere
that is lucky
wow, you can get a flight out of london to the US for $820 in one day?
That`s what the embassy told me
It ill be better if you can help wire the money online now as we speak
US embassy here in London
Hey did you run into a guy named Thomas?
he's a buddy of mine from high school
he might be able to help you out of a jam
you remember him right?
How much can you afford to loan me
What about the Embassy again?
The embassy told me to get a return ticket
is there some situation?
The prob is that i did`nt book a round trip ticket and all money i got on me have been stolen by some muggers who attacked me
you were attacked?
man, are you okay?
I was mugged at gun point last night
That`s why i`m on here
just like the good'ol day huh max?
My wallet and card were stolen away from me
what can I do to help?
That`s the point
I need you to help wire the require sum online now to my name
Via western union money transfer
you need money?
yikes. that's a pretty tall order
did you go to the embassy yet?
Can`t you get that for me?
Already been there
what did they say?
I`v been told to get a return ticket
How many time have i say this
I told you already earlier
How much can you afford to help with?
Hey, do you remember Thomas? I hear he's working out there. He had to get out of the county, on account of that psychopath Helen. Damn she was nutty. I remember you guys were really tight. best friends. He might be able to help.
I'll call him
where are you again?
whoa whoa whoa
what's with all the language?
I'll wire you the money
Wasting ur father time
just stop calling me names?
wasting my father time?
You fucking with me
Max, c'mon, we're buddies, you know I wouldn't do that
I need you to help me out of mess
I hear you
what can I do to help?
You telling me all sort of rubish
you've been in London too long
How much can you afford to send
send what exactly?
You`re telling me story
ok, how can I send it
They have Western Union in London?
will wonders never cease huh?
hey, did you try the embassy?
that's pretty bad that you were attacked.
Iya la yai
and those Britts are always so proud of their manners
Iya la yai?
Hey you talk to much
too much man
you're always saying that
that hurts my feelings
I can't help it.
these keyboards make me all nervouse
I`ll never forgive you
I'll loan you the money
how much was it again?
yikes! That's a pretty tall order
when do you need it by?
why so fast?
I need it now to get a flight ticket
Stop all this shit
a flight ticket to where exactly?
I said you should`nt ask me anymore question
was that a question...?
I`ll remove you from my friends on Fb now if you still continue to ask questions
wait, please don't do that. please.
what can I do to help?
you never used to cuss so much max
You must be kidding with your parent and not me
are you okay?
If you`re serious you`ill have done the transfer and not keep on asking how much and how could you help
Just fuck it
I`ll be removing you straight away
okay okay, remove me then
but I won't loan you the money if you do
You`ill have done the transfer
You don`t have money
Max, I'm crushed. is that all mean to you?
Fuck your generations
Fuck my generations?
I don't understand...
Friday, May 15, 2009
Friday, December 5, 2008
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Current mood: energetic
The energy neither comes nor goes; it's you who slips out of focus.
Is it the attention that waxes and wanes?
Why does the attention wax and wane?
Interest is the great motivator of the attention span, like for a sled dog driver, interest is the whip, so somehow find an interest in yourself (a.k.a. your energy, not what you think you are as it relates to the world and its view at large, because their view is built upon everyone else's view who ever existed before them just like yours).
I ask myself these questions, but where do the answers come from?
Are they from the same place the questions come from?
Why would something ask itself a question and then turn around and supply itself the answer?
No response; a faint chuckle.
A cosmic joke?
Thursday, November 13, 2008
If a Little Fig Fell
Current mood: artistic
I just wanted to write something down, have an iddy biddy diddy hummin' inside my noggin. I wonder what I would do if I could write down a word or two every now and then, probably something else like I do. And I wonder what I could do with all the time in the world to just put it all down on paper, probably something else just like we humans do. So for now I guess I'll lament my lack of time to even find the time to rhyme although I know that's just a fallacy (see?). I blind my mind by the wherewithall to do anything and everything I've ever wanted to and then complain that I'd rather be writing it all down – what comes up inside. It's the experience though; I have to admit, not the etch-a-sketching, that seems to hit the tree of my life's fruits, and down come all the things that make up my dreams and everything else too so it seems…
Saturday, October 04, 2008
A Humility Thing
Current mood: Humble
So I've been working on this humility thing. It seems to me that true humility is a quality of greatness, but the act of humility is an easy one to create. It's like once a human being figures out the rule that humility is a very attractive quality, and it is very well received socially, and it can open a lot of doors, they work it to their advantage. I pretty much prefer to be up front with who I am and what I believe in (even though I've found a trapdoor in that), and I do Appreciate that quality in others when I encounter it, although it's a rarity. I say pretty much, because I've found that sometimes there's a need to be roundabout, but with an understanding that roundabout is the only straightforward route available at the time. Sure there may be some places that I find difficult to explore, like when someone feels bad about themselves right in front of me, well, I feel bad about myself sometimes too, so I'll sit in awkward non-acknowledgement until the moment passes or I'll find something else to talk about to subvert that feeling of inconsistency in the moment, which could be construed as a graciousness in not pinpointing an embarrassment, but that doesn't seem to be a true grace. A true grace from my perspective would be to acknowledge that sensation/feeling in some gentle way (sometimes I'm not so gentle I know. Is that my lack of humility?), so as to help another out of a perpetuation of their ego. A perpetuation that really doesn't need to be there for the situation to unfold, but acts as a domineering father figure shouting from the inside out to cripple our ability to gain the necessary momentum to be ourselves at all times (although I guess to see it that way is another perpetuation).
Is it my place to do this? I don't know. I would love it if (and do love it when) someone were to acknowledge when they see a place in me that I'm not acknowledging; that place where I'm not coming across as true unbeknownst to me. It'd be like they were freeing from the confines of my own…bullshit? Maybe bullshit is too harsh a word. What would be a good euphemism for bullshit…oh, euphemism, that's perfect! So it'd be like they were freeing me from the confines of my own euphemism, which, to me, would be the true grace, because there are those who would seek to elicit those places in others in order to gain some strategic upper hand – oh they're not entirely sure what they can get out of this person, but why clue them in on something they don't know is inhibiting them?
Some people, out there in the world, actually hold the keys to some prison cells we've built for ourselves, for the very reason that they were an inmate too at one point. Apparently the act of doing this is an imposition, from a social perspective, and it's an arrogance (i.e. lack of humility) to presume, which, to me, to think that the assumption of presumption is "this or that" smacks the toad ridiculous. I mean, how else are we going to know when we're falling on our faces, or when our perspective isn't coming from true places? It's got to get brought in the first place to be explored. But instead we seem to hide that piece of ourselves behind the façade (myself included) of euphemistic social graces, which, don't get me wrong, really do help when the situation is brand new, but only because that's the way the dance steps are programmed.
So there is a dance going on, and the music plays only on the inside, the steps only with the perfect dance partner, and round and round we dance, like circling the rusty drain of thirty-four year old bathtub haphazardly adorned with chips and crust rings. The question that arises for me is what happens when we hit the center? Are we sucked into a dark oblivion never to be found again? Or is it that the way looks dark and fraught with terror because we don't know? Mayhap on that side is rainbows and flowers, or some delightful vision from the Wonka Factory. We don't know though, maybe a few do, and they tells us, "Go there."
Go there?! Are you nuts? That's the spirally drain of a thirty-four year old bathtub! The lord only knows what's down there. True, but maybe amidst the soapsud encrusted hairballs and urine caked pipe walls, there really is something to behold. I mean, we already know what's up here, a painful dance of tension and release, self gratification and torment. And if you're saying, "man Bernie, what a bleak outlook." Don't give me that euphemism, because we all go through the ringer at some point in time (the crazy thing to me is it's a ringer created by habitual mind), it's seems to be the way we live life, and looking away from it seems to elicit a clichéd moment of awkward non-acknowledgement, for those who would rather look to see it, and maybe change it. For those who would agree not to see it, well, I guess they would dance away for a new release created by the tension of that moment. Yearning for the clock to strike a certain time, the month to toll a certain chime of week, away from whatever slavery in which they're confined that day. But, we all do this to some degree otherwise we wouldn't need that "ah-ha!" moment to bring us to, so we're all the same in that way, all of us superficial, tokenistical, superfantastical, sometimes submersible, ultra lovable human beings, so we can give each other a break instead of pressing the white hot iron to the sensitive spots we see, because if we're all the same, then the things that we do that might be construed as sinister, malicious, or just down right not cool, are completely forgivable by way that we all do it too!! "Ah-Ha!!".
Okay, okay, the "ah-ha" moment aside, to bring things back into scope, it may be bleak to see things as the ever-present-tensions-in-need-of-release kind of way, because it sounds like we haven't the ability to do what we really choose, because our choices have been predetermined, in part, by and large, by what those before us have (i.e. seek a release of built up tension) and you'd be right (get over it, huh? Just because I released that tension? Jeeez. I know. I like being right too…more release? Yowza, it doesn't seem to stop), but it seems to me that only when things become their bleakest is when we ever want to look any further than our own noses, even though the noses is the closest we come when juxtaposes to the superimposes of structures we lay down on our world (i.e. a marriage and it's resultant biohazards, an empire that aspires with it's giant footprint leaving behind a trail of mangled paychecks, a followed dream for which we fought our way upstream only to find that the world still ignores what we think we are because it's that world that wants to be free in that way too, etcetera and such…), and right under the hair that seeks it's breath of fresh air on the rim of a nostril, I'm told, is this moment in full flair. It's a world outside of the ideas and philosophies we ream and shape into the dream, but only when we find, as we stare out at the grand picture, that our dream is empty and devoid of anything real do we think, "What the hell happened? I thought this was supposed to be the bees pivot points… Why do I feel like smoking down a joint every single time I find this place?" Because, I feel, we think we're the dream, but just as we can't be the piece of sculptured stone, or the pretty painted bone, we can't become, are not the results of, the happenings of things, because we already are those things in full happenings, and it seems to me that the only thing that makes it empty is that piece of us that stakes a claim on what it would call "territory", and will fight for it to the death if need be. When you write the song, you let it go, just like the note that's sung, it's not like you can cram it into an exposed armpit. Why would you want to?
I look inside of myself as deeply as I can nowadays, and I see all this turmoil, this turbulence, conflict, division, derision for the dichotomy, which splits me more ways from Anydays, and in all of these fragmented pieces that have staked their claim for a piece of the pie of a life unseen, each one of those slivers is not really me, they're more programming than anything else. Taught and programmed how and what to feel and why and when to feel it and who or where to feel it about, it's almost as if each one of those fragments is in some way, not really "me", but a short iteration of "me" into a longer perpetuation of the "me" I think of as "me" but isn't really me, an instance, so to speak, that arises into each situation for which it was designed, let's go with: "I like spinach," I don't like lima beans or vegetables in general," "I'll have a piece of that steak because I like it," but only because my Mom or Dad liked it, because if they had said "ewww" to it every time I went to have a bite, just like they did when they were changing my diaper, I bet there would be an instance of me that says, "Yuck, how can anyone eat steak," which leads to, "I can't believe that person eats steak," unfolding into, "There's just something about that person I don't like, maybe it's because they eat steak and I don't," which iterates v. 3.1 in the form of, "I don't really like anyone who eats steak," and then, "Let's kill anyone who eats steak, because they kill cows and the cows need justice for the easily and readily countable years of insult to species," then we can allow the cows to flourish and grow out of control and eat all the green grass and Funyuns, and then I guess there won't be any greener grass on the other side of any fence, but maybe that's a good thing, for me and for everybody so maybe that's the way it should be, and maybe I should begin to work at convincing everybody/anybody who will listen (ad infinitum, ad nauseum, domo arigato mister roboto…).
It's a humbling thing when I find myself in cozy silent solitude. A time when there's no one else around upon whom I can exert my influence; the realization strikes me that the only influence I exert is on me, and any attempts exercised on the "outside" are cursory, illusory, because it's really still only me who is influenced by my own projection (for a decent portrait of projection of ego, see exhibit A: the last paragraph, and see exhibit B: this entire diatribe). I've found that, if I'm willing to listen, I can tune in to those little programs and I can "hear" them, pointing me in the programmed direction. "Eat a snack", "Play your guitar", "What's she doing now", "Never mind, she's doing this or that", "I did well in Improv the other day", "I'm really good at making funny voices" and so on and so forth. The interesting thing to me is there's a feeling that accompanies each one of these little instructions or depicted scenarios, and it's like I'm in the grips of a drug, some bring about bad trips, some bring about good trips. The projection of me and my habitual thought patterns, patterns that seem to recur whenever the familiar scuttles from the underbrush and takes flight. I, being the predator that rains its influence on what it considers to be "outer" (if only to take a break from influencing myself in whatever way) take off in hot pursuit, the taste of coercion dripping from my incisors already sighing the breath orgasmic with a lusty satisfaction smeared on my jowls, like a toddler in his high chair under improper care, or inattentive supervision. But I can't damage by way of exertion anymore – fuck me do I try though, not out of malice, more out of a repetitive retaliation; an automated response to behavior that's inconsistent with my own house of cards – and every time I do it's like I end up the remains of a once pristine 8 ½ x 11, crumpled up and tossed into the garbage can that contours itself into the shape of mind (what shape is that again…?). But being squashed up into the creases of my forehead, and not comfortably, was never my idea of a good time, even then it seems like my idea of a good time puts me there too. Why does that happen? I have no idea; maybe it's a humility thing, or the lack thereof. So by way of intelligent response I shift into the forms of the martial art of moment (a deep and treasured, honored tradition that's spans the space between my DNA), an art that seems to determine it's masters by their depth of humility, and the dance continues, until somehow I realize that the music that's playing is played by "me", and the steps I dance trace the outlines of "me", and the partner I seem to dip and sway is the dipping and swaying of "me". "Me", huh, now the concept of that smacks the toad ridiculous...
Friday, September 26, 2008
September 19, 2008
Let’s Have Sex Instead of Putting Out the Kitchen Fire...
I yearn for justice; burn for it in fact. There's a piece of me, on the inside (maybe it's the outside) that still feels the sting of the steel gauntlet smashed across my face, and that piece churns toward the return favor of an eye for an eye. The object of said seek (without naming names to protect the… umm… innocent… ahem…from those who would follow through on retribution in my name) knows this is inside of me, because it knows what it's doing. It's as clever as I am in its clarity, a shadow-me that understands me more deeply than I do on some level, but still I burn.
This unsettled seeking leads me astray from my own business, the business of getting down to the bottom of me (figuratively, you sicko, but funny to imagine the literal), the business of letting go those outrageous, egregious, indignities suffered at the hands of my own projection of self-protection and survival. Because, if the claim to nationalistic pride is moot and the need to self identify by heredity has been given the boot, then the want to validate me by the behaviors of those I see is completely beside the point too, which, when understood this way, works to actively free me of a prison of my own design, or one of my own worldly training.
Could be culture that's the culprit here, but if I can see it then it makes me an accessory by default, or by dumb misunderstanding. Don't get me wrong, it's not like I'm beating on myself too badly (or maybe I am, but denying), because how long can I allow my shoulders to stoop under the weight of social programming (there ain't no real thing, even though it does feel like I've placed an awkward, gangly thirty-three (33) year old, one-hundred thirty pound, five foot three inch, screeching, scrambling, virgin, fighting tooth and nail as I take him to get over his fear on my back)? It's this programming that tells me to fight back, and hand over the come-uppin's, but who's really done anything to me?
If someone does something that I disagree with, and maybe that something is even seen to violate a belief I've held firm in my understanding of human decency, then maybe I should take a look at that reference point – see its nature and its origins, and wonder why I feel that it keeps me safe, when obviously it doesn't? Is it because I know what I believe in, and by knowing what I believe in and would stand up for, I can operate with clear confidence as I make my way in the world? But wouldn't defining myself by what I would stand up for automatically make me stand up when that definition is challenged? And, enter someone, anyone, who wouldn't give two shits for a pile of gold about what I believe in, couldn't that button be pushed by them at anytime, and wouldn't I be forced to stand upright like a tiny toy soldier on display, bearing my rifle and bayonet? You might ask yourself, "Why would anyone get off on that?" which would echo my own sentiments, but then again, why would anyone get off on getting off? Why is it, for some people, they would get off on the notion of feet being rubbed on their face? It's not for me to decide or say what does or does not get someone off, but it would seem to me that people can get off on some pretty peculiar things (relative, of course, to what I might find peculiar…maybe another reference point to examine), meaning that the feeling of control that one might get by finding a button to push on another human being could be tantamount to a fiendish foot fetish.
So my ready run has found me an encounter with a hardcore, tale of erotica, button pusher, and my buttons are always on an open display – I sort of make it a practice to keep them exposed just so's I knows what it is that will make me stand at attention upon somebody's whim – like some carnival freak who incites mass public appeal – and I don't guard the buttons I know exist, because that would be operating out of a fear (not only that, but I kind of like to hand over my buttons just to see what someone will do with them, and it allows me to understand my pressure points so I can massage them in to oblivion), it would make me stand on vigilant guard, which would also curtail my interactions with just about everybody, unless I trusted them with my buttons, which would force me to operate in the world in such a way that would make me be very particular about whom I let into my life. And as the ball of yarn unrolls in the underpinnings of my not-so-silent-anymore subconscious, I realize what an exhausting endeavor it is to live a life with these particulars in place. I guess it could be argued that that's just the way it is, and it ain't no thing to keep your guard up, well, okay, be that way if you want, but it occurs to me that, in the entirety of this much too long sentence, I've seasoned liberally with the words "force" and "make", implying to me that we have no choice but to do so, and that, to me, is not living very freely, and if the operation be one of the seven layers of, then the fear of the button be the constant blazing inferno that keeps me there, not the button pusher, so my quest for justice, vengeance, just desserts, payback's a bitch, or what goes around comes around seems invalid. My feelings surrounding the situation, however, seem pretty real.
So, if by invalidation, it's not about seeking retribution, because the situation doesn't really exist in any real way, but my feelings about said situation are very real, and keep me from being happy, or present to my experience, then it would seem to me that I need to reconcile the way that I feel inside. And I don't mean to extricate myself from the situation in order to make myself more comfortable, so that I can be present for the remainder of my days only to die with my comfortable ego lying comfortably on a cozy deathbed and I'm either writhing in agony, or slipping away in my sleep just to do it all over again the next time around this merry-go-round we call life, because the way I understand it, if a similar situation arises (a talent for which the Universe seems to have an uncanny knack), then I get it that I'll be sent right back to the rack for a little bit of pre-ego game stretching. Not only that, but I'll have an undercurrent of fear pervading my life (my being) of the situation coming back, so I wouldn't be free in such a respect. But man, oh man do I burn for retribution!
It really only distracts me, this wrathful fomenting, from what I'm really about. It's as if someone, let's say Randy Johnson (a pitcher in the major leagues for those who just went, huh? He throws a fastball upwards of 100mph) threw an apple at my head, and now my ability to walk in a straight line is compromised, because, not only, after finding out who threw the apple, am I searching for a resolution outside of myself, all the while that I'm doing so I don't know peace. Peace on the inside. Because it fucking burns! But I could go through my entire life, or multiple lifetimes in this struggle and not ever get the admission I so desperately seek, so what else can I do but resolve my feelings to the situation in order to let go?
"It's like this," Johnny De said to me, "Where is your ego?" (since the only place to look is inside myself), "Look for it. You can't find in there, because when you're looking for it, you're present, and, it doesn't fucking exist" (author's note: I embellish with the fuck word, because sometimes it conveys the point beautifully. Johnny De in no way, shape, or form used the word during the delivery of said moment. not that he wouldn't, just that he didn't) Whoa…he's right, if I search for the justice seeker inside myself I can't find him. There's no purchase to find for my gripping hands, no hands to grip with, I'm just looking. Present. I don't rightly feel incensed when I'm just looking for it. And since I can see that there's nothing in there to touch or feel physically, then I'm chasing a puff of smoke with sandpaper. How am I supposed to catch a puff of smoke with sandpaper? So just looking doesn't actually cause me any harm, and when I do so, for some crazy reason, everything within range of my six senses just springs into view, because now, here I am, just looking. Cool, huh? *sniff sniff* is there something burning?