![Cheap [Home]](/blog/logo.gif){kind=logo}
I'm a coward when it comes to the forward looking types. People with eyes scare the bejeezus (I'm sure that spelling is the correct one, thank you.) out of me. Sight, foresight, hindsight, they're all forms of diversion. And that's what I'm best at, it surprises me that I'm so startled by this observation. Its when I walk in public, I'm looked at as though I don't belong there. Maybe I don't. But their eyes don't belong on me. It's not my fault that they have nothing inside of them to spend their time in an inward looking fashion. Then they could turn their eyelids inside out and look at their brains, and it's always a new development a new discovery. Well, now I'm prepping for converting my UT (if you turn it sideways, it looks like a long C and a plus sign missing the right connecting line) to XP so I can check in and out of the wired. I was at a friend's house yesterday And he was running it with everything in his room and his life through the new box and the music came through it and into the stereo and his days were planned for never, and he was connected and it was exactly who he was. It was spectacular. But when I looked around, I remembered that the only reason it is so perfect is that it's all low key he's living a muted existance and he has his own little private ampetheater to echo back everything he has never said and I said to him in his drab little interior full of browns and tans and dead oranges so I say to him you have it all here and its open and all you have to worry about is if you should keep your door open or closed to block out the smell of the world around you and you can hide away and never be seen and you live in a grave yard. AND THEN it hit me in the eye right upside the head as I had seen it and heard it a thousant times before and never bothered telling him that the song I was listening to was a requiem dead he's dead and he still lives there in his coffin with little wafts of ghosts passing by from the spirit of the burning herb and its impossible to truly grasphow sad it is to realize that you're friends with the dead not just the dead, but the long dead and that you never noticed it before. Zombies cranking gears inside my brain and insidious passivity with a mind for success and I never ever in a million billion trillion years understood why people would ever want or be so worried about dying twice after they've already died once, and having never lived at all, their very being seems to be imaginary. But solid like a brick in the head so solid like a splitting headache and a split skull and solid like your head on the pavement but liquid enough to spill you out like in the inquisition where they would perform exorcisims by drilling holes in the heads of the crazy to let out the evil spirits. All full and infested and rotting malignant tumors spilling out of their containers into the world around them contaminating that which may have one day been the holiest or grounds or that which holds no ground but surrenders to serenity. And to do so it to let go and befree of the daily churning that would drive one to existance. So I keep asking myself and I never ask him anymore by he's the key and I'm the waste that drags on the bottom of the boat and gets caught in the propellers and moves to another country to be free but I'm not and runs away to home to be away but only is inside of a skin that makes me uncomfortable and with no one to talk to and no one to listen to but me I can only speak in a muted tone because nothing hears me and when I hear echos they tell me to shut up, so I ask you like I've asked you before (like I've asked me before) why and why and why doesn't it work for me to stick around? Because to stay is to die. Because to change is to conform. Because to escape is to suffocate. Like floating free in space. Right before your head explodes. And you can see yourself. From the outside looking in and all you can think about is that what you've done is never for the better. It's just change. It's just death. And this? It's something like my wayof delivering the liturgy. Amen.
posted by Fred Boursier at 9/16/2001 4:08 PM
Mercy. Or passion. Or something. Anything.
posted by Fred Boursier at 8/27/2001 5:10 AM
Epiphany. Its that point where everything starts to make sense. You know, it can happen anytime, and mine always come after I've been awake for a while. And alone in the universe with only me, and a slice of American cheese still cooling in my hand, and the light of the morning just breaking through my windows like a thousand dawns before, but this time, the haze is illuminated... and you've just figured out how we can all get along, and just who you are. It all makes sense. It's not because it's late, because you're brain's slowing to the pace of sleep... it's trailing and fading and distant, but it's still recognizable. Like if I saw it again, I would recognize it, in a police like up or something... "Is this the idea that hit you, sir?" And I wouldn't need words because it'd be confessing right then and there. Maybe it's a waking dream. It seems that way, when things are simpler, just a dream. Maybe it's because all you're being bombarded with is ideas. When the rest slacks off the mental track picks up. It needn't be so distracted with keeping you aware. It's like dreaming, except the entity of the dream, the fabric of it is processed, converted into words or what you think are words, and when they are spoken in your mind, it's everything. That you want it to be. And there it is, bold as a new day, plain as the nose on your face, and cliche as the concept of you. But the vision is like alcohol, the idea in your head. In your belly. When regurgitated, it doesn't look half as good as it did when you initially took it in. But it was a good effort. Eleven.
posted by Fred Boursier at 8/16/2001 6:47 AM
My wheel of being is starting to drag.
posted by Fred Boursier at 8/13/2001 10:45 PM
You know when I make sense it gives me the chills because of the bills I'm paying rent on my sanity piling up on my table broken arms lying disabled smashed and shatter like glass ... lest I say something too crass. Like a flash and gone again into the tomorrows of a funky existance that only makes sense when you cut it with something. Like beauty. Something you know is true like a sunny day because you can feel it and smell it and taste it like existance true and constant lying vacant on the floor. Its like that day, you know, you can pop a quarter into a gumball machine and get piece of mind. Brain damaged by bits of fragmented broken shattered sanity. Pay up.
posted by Fred Boursier at 8/6/2001 2:55 AM
You know I always expected an end to be an explosive and volatile thing, like killing an idea, a god, but there's none of that here. When my ideas, when my thoughts, when I die, I feel like I will just fade, long into the histories and memories of those who knew me and then when they fade and die there will be nothing left. I let my existance be that of the rag, absobing pulling in, draw away the trash the poison the venom from the wound, like a bandage... I don't stick around. I can't say I didn't bring this on myself. I merely soak up the venom. I inhale the fumes of hate and despair and who can I blame for the way I am? I can't be depressed about this kind of ending now... I am no comforting tomorrow. I am no zen flower, existing, floating from plane to plane looking for perfect harmony. There is no glory for me. Like the trash gone, and forgotten, but the venom spewed and released and driven deeper is nothing any more than a memory. Explosion.
posted by Fred Boursier at 8/6/2001 2:43 AM