An interesting phenomenon.  To wish you were never born.  To sincerely crave the cessation of the contexts creating your differentiation mechanisms, contexts of blood and lymph nodes, contexts of public transportation and cigarette-smoking, contexts that tell the interior, the soul that is so rudely imported, that a beating heart is better than one that has stopped, that clear skin and symmetrical features are a bonus, that love is an address visible and findable by open hearts and minds, that leaving yourself vulnerable to the consequences of absence is a harder thing than being vulnerable to the fullness of presence; that genital-to-genital contact is one of many routes to a solvent, leaky bliss, is the pseudo-culmination of a set of biological and cultural canons, canons which are in all meaningful senses inherited, inherited and (perhaps) arbitrary in a Kosmic sense.  This body, these bodies, is where the Brian David spark is smiling, is where "I" hope to accrue all of the finest things this Garden of Edenic Choice has to offer, but I could just as easily be plopped into an alternative—(at least from a human-centric point of view it would be alternative)—set of variables, a different biological mode offering sentience its needed viability, new contexts claiming their own routes to actualized needs, higher and lower.  Instead I am here.  I am breathing oxygen.  I have at least three bodies, one comprised of energy that is sore, a backlog of failure, a series of finely laid down subtle grooves of disappointment in my motive self, a planet with six billion people who aren't able to get any distance, ironic or post-ironic, on the lives they've ensconced their holy ghosts in, and an agenda with one item on it, to help out and have fun.  And I also have, apparently, a lot to learn from being in terrible, saddening pain, unrelieved by posturing at radical objectification.

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Somehow the apparency of the motivations of those around me, and my own (motivations), coupled with an enormous (but untracked) quantity of keg brew, and a poverty of food, depressed me into "napping" in a sitting-up position about two hours before the party finished, where I later woke, wondering what the fuck was going on, and where was I.  This flavor of unfulfillment, of patchy-at-best satisfaction, has, I begin to think, something to teach me, and is, I begin to think, more interesting as phenomenon than gratification, which is, I hope not, the reason why I continue to "attract" it, unfulfilled scapes.  And yet I grow weary.  Fucking weary as hell of being the guy whose biography is easier spun as maudlin than farce.  Not to say the scale of my tribulation is comparable to any other sufferer, a statement I avert on more grounds than simple non-equivalence of phenomenology; which is to say I do not think I suffer the harshest trials, only that the trials I do endure are more potently construed as tragedy, except when they become weightlessly hilarious.  There is a peculiar intensity in keening for a mental, emotional, and physical climax to an evening, a properly placed orgasm you might say, in a context exceeding the merely sexual; and a peculiar intensity in the sadness that you may be the only one hoping for such, and likely the only one who could envision its, the culmination's, form.  Faced with the choice of forcing a zenith and making an ass of myself and passing out, I opted for the latter.  Would you do it any differently?

The honesty of confusion, desperation,
and culmination is so rarely shared in
measured doses, so often shot through
thin membranes @ unsustainable psi,
damaging more than the surface it hits,
dragging two or more into its grief-orbit.

You can't pay for the way it smells after rain.

I just realized that I am having an enjoyable evening, alone and in my room, with no negative impact on the already teeny dollar figure in my bank account.  I'm drinking water, reading Little Brother by Corey Doctorow, and listening to NIN's new album, the Slip.  Can you really go wrong with those entertainment options?  Super-classy, super-new, super-relevant-ish, super-inexpensive.  Free.  If I was feeling better, I'd even review the products a little and offer explanations for their goodness and cross-contextual relevance.

— the aging process of modern infrastructure, unaltered, with no human activity thrown into the sim, over one or two thousand years

— all of the food I will ever eat, collated in a landfill or some such

— a marble for every time I've second-guessed myself, as seen in a pile

— a GPS that lights up all the locations people are receiving or performing oral sex in my city

— a horse's consciousness in a yuppie's body

Love is content voiced with surety. Is an artifact whose author is dedicated, an aesthetic whose benefactor's fists are clenched with investedness. Love is, as I said, deciding "this is what I want to say" and saying that.

Love is an exploration of the borders of knowability between two motive evolving selves, between two biologically viable hosts of sentience, between two abstractly distinct units, between humans. Love is the meeting of our eyes on Tuesday, when the wind is branded LITE and it feels like morning cuz we just woke up, and no matter how long we hold the other's gaze, and no matter how our eyebrows twist into sympathy or quizzicness or rage, and no matter how many times we've curled our toes in the presence of all our subpersonalities, we know for one quarter of a second that our best friend really isn't ourself.

Love is a teenager: she cannot see the future and so offers the future up on this or that alter, offers it freely and gains the antithesis of numbness. Yet numbness she will seek, suicide—that voyage—she is willing to undertake, when her needs and wants are eluded. Why? She will counter your question with a vehement misarticulate spool of verbal thread: Why not? Why was I born? Who brought me here? To whom will I return? Love doesn't hurt, hurt is Love.

Love is, obligatorily, a metaphor for four letters. It is also Everything. It is also something unique that could happen between you and I. A blooming, a stolen shred of spacetime, a violet shroud, a glowing gas that pulses between our avatars with the anti-pale effulgence of our mutuality, and all its tiny anti-tinny secrets. I want this, this watery affect, between us, especially us, because, may I say this? Your face is a gift. Yes. And I was born to receive.

The idea that this day is the First Day, that God created the Earth before your morning tea, that this world of indiscernibly merited taste is the remainder of some freely unbalanced equation, that with the ignition of Form came its riveted history, all in one seamless liquidly fluttering orgasm, a transmission of Everything to Everything, conveying to the buoyant awareness stuck as velcro to the fuzz of human bodies a complete phenomenal archive, column after lumbering column of all we considered earned and ingrained, channels of back-splattering duty and youth-rupturing labor being in this way all illusive communiqué, passed on as viscidly as possible at the hitch-less dawn of breath, changes nothing. For a God that could do this must surely have paid his dues, even as you think you have paid yours. A God like that could not be other than I.

Sorry it has been so long since I've updated.  I'm not sure what to say at this point in time.  I'm working at a liquor store, as has been the case for a month or two.  The job frightens me, somewhat, as it skirts a very deparved side of human nature.  A muck that, only occasionally, conspires to "bring me down"; even though this is Canada, and are alcoholics seem to be minor winos.  Lindsey is down and we go out in the evenings, and I'm beginning to wonder if there is something else I could be doing to improve my life, other than washing up on the beach of collusion with compatriots.  Infuse a little stability, maybe.  One, after all, shouldn't require the constant reassuring sonota of social waves, crashing, a little erratic, a little erotic, a little erosional, on my semi-lost casket of light.  But what else can I do?  I am on a series of missions, unresolvable by solitude.  Unresolvable, as well, perhaps, by drinking.  In any case...

for me I wish the Galilean churn of courses set on self-deceptive bearings would part its frothy lips, would float me freely down its middle, would bear me up to shores of excellence, where safety is a joke, but love is the sand.  i wish the same for you.