and as close as i get to being a character in the matrix, is when i’m driving along at slightly above-average velocities, and i move my hand through a trajectory forming the quickest A-B path from mobile phone and back up to my ear, manipulating the keypad on the way, dialing mom while she’s at work, and instead of saying something like “tank i need an exit.!” i am saying “mom can you look online and tell me where the closest petsmart is?” and i feed her my coordinates and she almost seems to say “take a right on Carmia. NOW!”, except she’s really just saying “well, there’s one on carmia parkway. are you eating well?”

maybe it’s not badass, but c’mon. me in leather?

-

today, led zeppelin came back.

even gods get nostalgiac.

-

i may spend the evening with mathematical models, detailing probabilities of dynamic human tendencies with such rigid skeleton equations, pouring enzymatics on the furniture and floors, fresh to the peak season, notebooks and lamplight with a 30hance of showers and an infinitely small chance of the sun getting caught on the horizon line tonight.

the cords of reason may spell the words of their diamonds and electricities, but i will stop at being worthy.

and the sky is raining itself out. far past it’s line in the sand, dew point thresholds.

it cries onto the people who are on their way to and from the church,
just across the street from me. , i am inside my brick and windows, dry
forever, impenetrable, forever,
wondering
where my spirit goes before i’ve died,
does the stained-glass look so amazing with the water
running down the outsides?

why i’ve become hardened to the world, everything is certainty,
expected and tired, tired and feeling the lack
and the full
of stone and mortar,
subtly impatient within my legendary patience,
untended wounds from the loveydovey sharps,
states and tones to lull the mind’s attention,
before visions are pierced beneath a dopamine pane of glass,

burgeon my insensitivity, lack of warm blood streams,
insipid cold luck, getting stiffed and so old.

euthanized enlightenments, all dark forms in wet columns,
within tunnels, within the falling sands of a sleeping hourglass.

all that’s special, spilling out a crack in the casing, raining itself out
onto the thirsty dirts of the earth when i’m still alive.

nobody understands. i am trying to save myself again.

it seems that a simple little trip to svalbard is not so simple.

maybe it’s because almost nobody lives there and almost nobody has any interest in going there.

the kind of trip to svalbard that you’ll find is more often called an “exhibition” “expedition”¹. or two or three other nouns which simultaneously conjure images of adventure and SUVees.

the difference between a simple trip and an exhibition expedition to a place is about $4000.

svalbard was only going to be a leg of my trip. (i could throw out a funny one here and say something about the leg costing a leg and arm, or something or other, but i’m not that lame. not today.)

so, shit.

i guess i’m not ulysses, and this will not be the odyssey.

oh, elusive story, come hither.

1. chalk up to drunkenness.

dear journal,

what’s up? are you keeping fit? are you staying warm? do you shut off all of the lights to save on the electricity bill?

me(?)well,i’mwell, okay. you know how honesty can be. you know i don’t trust you, can’t keep you, such mired relics, such as myself so ready to grow into someone new, please; you probably knew my hunches were always too good, the mistakes need to be made to keep it all interesting, such an interesting life, you know how i’d like to drain the synapse catalysts, i’ve been stable for eighteen months, i feel box-dead and frameful.

if i were to drop, the un-killable sad-kid inside to take over again, fate waves no cautions, this body was always his and he can take it to hell or steer the chrome of drainplugs across the universe, would become dizzy at the turn of my head, start crying without a need for reasons or for the best reasons of all, phonecalls and sermons about too much blood in the plumbing ,

really just can’t suppress such powers when we yearn to force a point, i find no meaning or significance in any of this, forty or fifty more years of what?

who knows, journal, i might win one some day. i never stopped believing that you never know.

love & pestilence,
-tim.

heavy hung the canopy of blue

(shade my eyes and i can see you)

radiohead b/w low ?

yes, i might be interested in attending that concert.

so sad about zak, though.

-

i am in-between selves.

in the meantime, i will be here, where noone finds me or finds me out.

(anti-flagunfurled)