Pointing..

Point! A trip to Meijer reminds me of an often overlooked symptom of consumption (taking a far backseat to oil et al): packaging. Everything comes in a box and for some reason or other (food spoilage, sanitation, aesthetics, et al) everything must come in the box. What happens to the boxes? Later a drink from Speedway in a plastic cup that will never be used again, using a straw that will never be used again--the straw itself wrapped in discarded plastic. Recycling is one thing, but it has too many issues to ever really work. I suggest Reusing. Fill a mug; give the earth a hug.

Point! 'The Office' is overrated, or at least it cannot possibly live up to what it has become. When comedy is reduced to gushy, romantic water-cooler conversation the following day and the key force driving the show is a sweet romantic plot thread, it's time to reassess your situation.

Point! I have a new hat. Now I have two hats. One is this kind of brownish striped cap that I've had for a week or so, and I purchased a cheap, um, something else. I don't know hat terminology, I apologize. (As an aside, the hat was labeled with plastic and paper that I threw into the trash without any attention whatsoever. Should I mourn their retirement or something?)

Point! When I really try to deduce why I do anything, I end up with the idea that I have no free will whatsoever because I cannot for the life of me remember immediately ex post facto my reasonings or train of thought leading up to the action. I miss my free will.

Point! No new music can be created; all that can be done is the composition of stylised covers of older tunes paired with different words.

Point! 'You are what you eat' is the greatest aphorism I have to combat my evolution to Chinahood. 'You are what you have' would make me instantaneously Asian. Of course in retrospect either would land me in a factory somehow or other.

Fratricide Futurism..

It's Worth Analysing More, For I Met a Metaphor.

Adaptation in Senses, Unnatural Complaining.

Adaptive optics are, according to NOVA, how to see through my atmosphere. Odd that I’m blowing it at myself with my cheaper instruments. The temperature here is fine , and I’ve walked to a room with A/C in order to let my roommate, who had just walked in when I had left, go to sleep. There is a girl sleeping here too so whatever;

now I am lying down in this here hallway, it’s chilly enough. I’ve calmed down significantly from that NOVA. I’ve cooled down. NOVA told me a black hole was at the center of the galaxy, something caused by wicked cold and deathly hot temperatures. Odd I’ve got fans running. And listen to all that noise in the background:

some kind of music, a static hum-fan, my respiratory system, my muscular and skeletals through this here pen. I’m thirsty enough for a drink, granted that would create more noise, but it’d sure calm me down, or cool me,

or silence this here trachea. Does the carpet seem indolent in repeating itself or is that just me?

It’s not something to cry about but if you’re already sniffles from a cold that might be acceptale. And after all, the carpet’s okay, especially with adaptable optics.

The Response to the Response.

Scott tells me I have a message! Hallelujah!

She tells me I am angry! Grrrrrr!!

Get out of my way, commas & periods!

Kathleen: 'You can't read your own work.'

A dichotomous item mash!

'WE ARE REMINDING YOU OF YOURSELF.'

and, as an, ah... aside, I like your bow, Becky.

I am inside when I make my jokes.

How exactly do I pull this off the page?

What might I do with the rhymes of this poem?

Count to 10.

'My Party Has Died of Dysentery And I Have Scribed My Epitaph in 8 Parts.'

Here lies Eli T. Drumm
or at least he would have lied here
had his last requests not included incinerating his expired body.
-
Polymath, a true Renaissance Man of modern times,
aspirer, lover, philosopher until the end.
Surely the species has lost a fine asset!
-
Of course let's not get ahead of ourselves.
We all know Eli was an incredibly pretentious, judgmental bastard.
I mean, he wrote his own epitaph in third person.
How ridiculous can you get, y'know?
-
Unsure of himself, unsure of others, or of nature or God.
A life spent in the void of this uncertainty
coupled with a wicked sense of humour
and a good, solid, American, Christian upbringing
yielded the fellow you knew or did not know
and the fellow you see before you now, dead
(except he's not actually here, but we've been over this).
-
At this moment, he is either existing or not.
-
Brother, son, owner of his dog and cat.
Friend (often enigmatic but certainly well-intentioned),
lover (or at least he would have been if there existed such a thing
as a functioning, loving, emotional, intelligent, deep, abstract female,
and statistically there was/is though they never met).
-
Astronaut, extraterrestrial, meteorologist in every sense of the word.
-
My life was perfect.

I Should Be Asleep Right Now..

I am starting to think that my mind knows what is better for me than I do. There's this absolutely brilliant and terrifying spectrum of noise around me all the time and then again I only perceive the slightest bits of it now and again. Something is only music if I want it to be music, if I tell it to be music, the same way that this hall is not as beautiful as a canyon or cat or Calgary or Christine at all. And yet it is. Of course it is. Every single minute detail even in this small hall on the ceiling, feeling the same way I always do during an intense session of stargazing. You just look at the carpet and for a moment let go of all your inhibitions and what you're trying to tell yourself about the carpet, everything your mind-knows-best attitude says about the carpet being a uniform plane on which to walk and nothing else, no abnormalities, nothing worth paying attention to, and you begin to feel angry at the people that might have dropped the hint a long, long, time ago that this carpet wasn't worth looking at. The dots, each one of which enough atoms to feed a continent, with enough persona to love for all time, to never know all the facts about. And I feel this way. It comes at me when I try to leave my place in the middle of things, when I try to reach out to other spectra of size, smaller or larger, mildly more minute, like the carpet, or incredibly vastly larger bodies than myself. Maybe they can think, Jupiter or these weaves of coloured fabric I walk on. Likely it is that they have their own lives, their own families, their own happy suns and daughters and sons. In fact, I probably believe in that more than I believe in the sentience and/or sapience of most humans I know, biology and common sense aside. But please! Let me communicate with them! I cannot reach out to them, talk to them, get to know their dreams or if they even have dreams or words or minds like ours. Such a disconnect exists between what our dictionaries, such horrible, closed-minded things, call life and what life actually is. Even if we are the only aware, aware things in the entire galaxy, wouldn't it be horrible if we went about our entire lives believing wholeheartedly that life is a separate distinction? The Philosophy of Biology reigns supreme over our arrogance, even my arrogance, or, more accurately, the arrogance of a mind that tells me to ride certain coasters and skip others, skip the majority. Don't you want to hear the sounds you never hear, touch the signs and smell the colours that you can never feel ordinarily? And yet I know, I know, I know, I know that to ask for such a wonderful and wonderful and aforementionedly terrifying gift would kill anyone. There are reasons why we only perceive small fractions of sensory input. Come on. I am Winfield, I am human, I am somewhere in the preposterous middle between nuclear physics and behemoth galactic clusters. I have to be where I am, I have to know all about where I am, and I have absolutely no idea why. For some reason, although opposites attract enough, I must pay attention solely to my kind, my size. This is all geographical. And isn't it odd, everything is smaller and larger than me at the same time. I sat up a few minutes ago and all of a sudden I was struck with an intense feeling of wrong placing. Or perhaps that's not the right word for it, but it was something... along those lines... something that existed and was telling me that everything I was looking at and ever had looked at was wrong, that there should have been other snippets in different places, a strikingly dazzling girl walking toward me at deep dusk in a field of grass with a startled and imperative look on her face, a woman crying, her face bleeding for some generic war problem, someone worshiping something, maybe God, who knows, Hands, length, width, bubbles, a cityscape, a human being wishing for solace, solace, solace, solace, solace, solace, solace, solace, solace, solace, solace, solace, solace, solace, solace. And, and. More noise. Someone's coming. Divert myself, divert yourself. Help me. Help yourself. Now I am decaying. I decay. Stop me, or pardon, it's just too late. I want connection. I want connection please. Look at me. I want connection.

Her Attempt at Conversion.

On a street somewhere with asphalt reflecting sunlight into my glasses
inside with water reflecting words into my ears
there's a girl talking to me from across the table with a name, but of course I don't know what it is
Again and again pelted by stimulation of my ears and eyes
trying to make sense of either of them but all the information is so damn disjointed
Confusing, Disconnected, Mingled, Sliced, Seasoned, Coloured, Colourless...
(I hear those scientists haven't perfected the polarised earmuffs yet)
So hey, what's wrong, what's wrong. What's wrong with me
tell me so that I might, tell me, tell me, tell me,
but all I get is just those disjointed words all over again
with different patterns sprinkled with copyrighted confetti so difficult to get off of your face or out of your ears
shredded books of love, of love in my hair
but it's my hair and a part of me will always hate her for it
Yeah, smile, smile, smile, reboot, read, smile
Let me have those headphones in your bag and I'd tell you just how horrid your music is
with all the same progressions and professions and transgressions
too many and yet they're always right there and I can't insult them.
Reboot, read, smile.
Where am I?
Where am I going? Where am I? Tell me, tell me, tell me.
But the asphalt it just too much and it boils over into my subconscious
tells me something is wrong, takes control, but no, I can control it for a little longer
Much of it all makes sense, tell me, tell, tell!

Sertraline..

I Can't See Straight or At All..

Please help me I am driven by my drives
But all I want is love, somehow, rromance
Mail order substance X from Paris, France
Or meld me with some other peoples' lives
Or plant me in a radiant new shell
Or mind control the females in the yard
Or teach me how to lose my natural guard
Perform your actions fast and now and well
For I grow so impatient waiting on
A Love? A wife? A toy? A 'her'? A thing?
We're all so tired from the fast running
I'd take whatever, pack up and be gone
Aw, hell, I'm still at my computer screen
Deciphering what the hell these syllables mean

Trials of the Modern Comedian: 1.

Group; Nongroup; Companionships?

Mankind is not unique
in that he can talk and speak;
though with others we'd much rather,
we lose wisdom when we gather.

So today was the sort of fluctuating updown that would, um, never mind. I guess I'm still looking for cool individuals around college, and there are far less of them than I had originally anticipated. I find myself anxious that the people I meet don't care to spend time with me even when I doubt it to be true. Whether or not there is anyone, statistics prevents me from finding people, though I have leads. Tonight was promisingly spectacular, and we'll all see where it all goes when it walks and talks toward the future.

I don't think I believe in free will.

When Dealing with the Basics..

Repel! Repel! Repel! Repel! Repel! Repel! Repel! Repel! Repel! Repel! Hold strong! Repel!

The only other alternative is love.

Tenorly Sayonara..

Time for organisation! Items are here and there and they need organised. By organised, I mean that my organs will place them into a specific manner that I consider to be their proper place. Some might call me arrogant, and by some I probably mean 'me', but hey, arrogance is a personality trait and I am proud of who I am. Shouldn't I be? I thought so.

Au revoir Luciano, bye-bye Pavarotti,
you've been soulsnatched from earth by a heavenly Scotty.
Leave your music behind you, back here it's desired;
up there it ain't useful and sure not required.

Lovers of Harmony Serenade Me With German Romance.

I.

Trumpets, fanfare, pats on backs,
requirements are rather lax;
sectors, vectors, circumstance,
success is founded upon chance.

II.

All these old bald fellows in front of me are trying to appreciate the same orchestra as me, I suppose. No proof.
Fiscal, quarter note!
And it's all in 4/4.
White men watching black keys
ALL ABOOOOARD!
Let's keep this concerto together.
... but beef aside,
the music says 'atmosphere' and 'duration' to me
(I naturally look for nature metaphors, which I avoid.)
Bows like palisades rising in vibrating air
White keys watch black suits
And it's all in 4/4!
The pianist typing away furiously;
A, G, C, C, G, C, C, A, G, T?
Black suits on white hands playing black instrument
Black spots on white pages but only so I can discern
Sing for me, brown beautiful bowed blue-blood violins
Crystallize my sordid, searching spirit, liquid like viscous molasses, malformed like Jell-O, Sing!
Sing, bass and cello!
Lock and load the magic flutes with sixty-fourth notes, laden with history and chemicals, solidify me within some long-lost romanticism from back in junior year of high school.
Just tell me it won't be in 4/4, promise me.

..... ah, no, it's not that easy, like meets the ear or eye, black or white or black or white. Amidst the subdivisions, deeper than the theorymath can explain to me outright... there are my, my, my, my, my?
Our?
Landscapes! Ours.
So, between the extremes, I am content to be competent, to be cognisant, to compliment on a concerto well-played.
Complexity is not overrated, just misunderstood.
All my notes flow together and it is this quantifiable yet ungraspable musical dynamo of human experience that has made me so allwardly happy.
Red hair, brown violins, purple curtains, red walls, yellow lines.

We will return!!!

fin. for all of us, for now.

My Climatic Gravitational Cereal..

Finally a cool breeze is here, I've been needing it and also the rain that it it brought by. I can't really describe how great this weather has become, all of a sudden it's just falling down to soft music featuring the beautiful voice of Luciano Pavarotti and two or three moods and scenes or scenes have just been thrown together at the last possible moment to tell me that there's something to this Saturday the eighth of September of the year two thousand seven and as dramatic as this is I can sense a slow beat in the air. The rain is musical, chords and notes and rhythms, I've got my fans on, blasting the cold air into my face with a tint of the moisture that's been in the works for God knows how long now.

I could feel great like this all the time and I'd still want questions answered. I'm out of Life, and the kid on the front of the box still has the nerve to smile. The front of the box never runs out of life.

And? Is there?

It's about time for me to go to sleep, or at least attempt to. In all spirit of hopefulness I'll dream something tonight and remember it tomorrow morning but I suppose that's stretching it. Recounting from earlier, though, at about two:

So much human, everywhere sapiens protein...
And why would I feel I have consciousness if I did not?
And is there such a thing as intrinsic value? How?
And is there such a thing as difference?
So much everything, anything, anywhere; collisions!

The 60,000 Ws..

This is a shorter framed thing. This is writing with no goal in mind. As I see it, it is sputtering, easy for those without reliable willpower and likely to fall prey to biting off more than they can chew, or purchase for that matter.

Going here are places, things, and people that relate to what I'm looking for. The answers to the questions are in part the questions themselves, in that I don't know who, what, when, where, why, how I am looking for. No ends, simply updates and thoughts. I am glad to have talk.

I am yes for time being. Begin: