Dear B.,

I’m writing you this letter to tell you I won’t be answering phone calls from you or agreeing to see you in person for the foreseeable future. I’m still willing to correspond with you via email or letters, and I want to keep in contact with P. and K. without limitations, but I have some deep seated issues with you and our relationship, and, frankly, I feel us talking on the phone or seeing each other will only be a waste of time unless we address these issues.

I’ve decided on written communication because interruptions, distractions, and misunderstandings are one of the issues we need to work out. I recently had some problems communicating with someone else and I found that slowing the dialog down to the speed of the written word helped keep the conversation cleaner and clearer. It also meant we had a tangible record of our conversations, to which we both could refer. The page was our impartial observer. It’s a court of last resort, but that’s the point I’ve reached.

As you read through this, I’m pretty sure you’ll ask yourself, “Where is all this coming from?” Time and again we’ve had discussions where I’ve tried to talk to you, tell you about feelings and thoughts that mattered to me, and instead of listening you’ve assigned a cause to what I was saying which allowed you discount or ignore it. In general, the cause you’ve assigned has had nothing to do with matter at hand, but I suppose that’s what makes it so effective: one can’t argue with the absurd.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve made excuses for you. “Well, you know how B. is.” I learned long ago that getting you to understand me was difficult, but any sort of vehemence (let alone actual anger or frustration) made it completely impossible. The more abstract and circuitous, the more likely you were to actually comprehend what I wanted to communicate.

One problem: People aren’t abstractions. I am not an abstraction, I am your son. Frustration and anger aren’t nebulous concepts, they are tangible and immediate feelings. They are my feelings and you refuse to deal with them, and thus refuse to deal with me for who I am, which leaves me to choose between your denying me or my denying myself.

Up until now I chose the later, because self-sacrifice goes over better with one’s self-image and no son wants to be denied by his father. Notice how even now I’m generalizing – talk about a bad habit. I extended that self-denial and generalization into the rest of my life and it cost me heavily. For a long time I wore myself out trying to make myself, especially my feelings, into abstracts. Eventually, I even learned to edit out what I didn’t want to see about myself: “IsoGolem (Abridged)”. Neither actually worked, except to make me unable to see the sources of my problems, making my own actions increasingly confusing to me and everyone around me. The more I tried to make sense of myself, while still avoiding those truths, the more confusing life got. If A. hadn’t suggested I get counseling, she and I would probably still be married, still miserable, and still unable to understand the reasons for any of it.

I’m not saying any part of the previous paragraph is your fault or responsibility, it’s mine. I made my choices, I own them. My point is, beyond just my relationship with you, I’ve driven this road until long after the wheels had come off the cart. In the last few years, with continuing therapy, I’ve done my best to leave that road behind, but my relationship to you has remained exactly the same as it’s always been. I’ve avoided trying anything new out fear and apathy: I know I can’t change it, so why should I even try. However, I’m tired of this vicious circle, of feeling this way, of having to carry your baggage along with my own. I’m tired of all of it and I just can’t do it anymore.

I can’t change what you do, but I can change what I do. It’s time I took the chance on the other option: for my own sake, I’m going to start being honest with you, and leave the choice of what you do about it up to you. If you choose to blow me off, then so be it, but I’m done excusing you from that choice.


The problem I’m running into, now that I’ve decided to start being honest, is where to start. When it comes right down to it, you don’t know me. You know plenty of facts about events in my life, but those facts are to me what a script is to an actual production of a play. Maybe not even that. So, the volume of information I have to choose from is rather overwhelming.


You don’t know me. That’s a good enough place to start. Can you imagine my frustration, my sense of abandonment, my anger around that simple fact? You’re my father and you’ve never listened or paid attention to me long enough to get a sense for who I am. You’ve done things for me (but not what I needed), given me things (but not what I asked for), given me money (but made me pay emotionally for it). It’s always seemed like you were interacting with “The Office of Your Son”, not with me personally. What I really wanted you to do was see me, notice that I was paying attention to you and have you pay attention back. But nothing ever worked.

On an overcast afternoon, may years ago in the loft, at the old dinning room table, apropos of nothing, you spent an hour or so explaining to me the meaning of a circle with a triangle inside. I couldn’t follow most of it, but you took the time out of both our days to tell me about it, so I believed it mattered to you, it meant something to you. Several years later, perusing the “Twelve Step Shop” near my house in Seattle, I saw a brass belt buckle with that same symbol on it. I don’t remember if I saved for it or asked J. for the money to get it, but I knew I wanted to get it for you because it meant something to you, and you knowing that I had paid attention meant something to me. I very painfully remember the look of somewhat pleased confusion on your face when you opened the box and saw the belt buckle, that look of “Well, thanks, but why?” The symbol didn’t mean anything to you; you didn’t even remember the symbol, let alone telling me about it. It hadn't really meant anything to you, it was just something that crossed your path around that time, and your verbal diarrhea made you dump it me. Silly me for paying attention.

So, I don’t really know you very well either. You talk a lot and almost never say anything. Every so often you’ll make a statement that matters, a kernel of truth, but it’s buried in the middle of a sea of chaff. Worse still, you make no distinction between which items are important and which aren’t. From the weather to depression over your mother's death to a random conversation you had three years ago to car crashes to some vague implications that you might be proud of me to what you think you might eventually do with the cuckoo clock to the story of something you did ten years ago, they all come flowing out at the same monotonous rate and tone, with hardly a breath inbetween. I’m certain some of those are more important to you than others, but how am I to know?

I must say, aside from the other benefits of written communication, I’m looking forward to not talking on the phone with you. I spend those calls in an odd mix of feeling bored out of my mind, running myself ragged trying to find the signal in all the noise, and being generally frustrated at how little signal I can find. I can’t even count the number of times I’ve just made up an excuse so I could get off the phone. Worst of all, after I hang up, I’m left exhausted by the effort and saying to myself, “Well, there’s another block of time wasted, another number of minutes I’ll never get back.”


I also need to talk a bit about things, stuff, possessions. I don’t have to deal with this on a day-to-day basis anymore, but it plays a big part in the history of our relationship and in my life. I don’t think I need to go into much detail on the history on this one, it’s legendary, another one of those “Oh, that’s just how B. is” facts of life. The irony of you loosing “Clutter’s Last Stand” inside the house and having to buy another one doesn’t even begin to cover it.

In our last conversation you said something about your not being possessive, but you are. You care about having those things sitting around gathering dust more than you care about people around you. The things win. They always have with you. You have a two car garage full of junk you never use. You had to go rent a storage unit for $200 per month to hold even more junk. That junk gets $200 every month, and what do I get? What does K. get? What does P. get? Don’t you have anything better to do with that money?

I remember the discussion we had on getting rid of things when C. and I visited a year ago. We were trying to explain how to get rid of things and you weren’t listening. It was one excuse after another, and the lamest excuse of them all was that P. had a closet full of clothes and why should you have to get rid of things if she didn’t. I could hardly believe my ears. In what fucked up reality does a closet of clothing that she wears on a continuing basis compare in any way to a garage and a storage unit and more full of junk you never use?

I’m reminded also of the movie of “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof”, that whole set of scenes in the basement between Paul Newman and Burl Ives. “…a million dollars worth of junk! Look it, does it love you?!?” I asked you to send one of those things to someone else who I can guarantee will fix it and use it. It’s no secret P. would be happy to have it leave the house, and J. would be overjoyed to have it in hers. Again you offer excuses like it might get lost in shipping. Never mind it could have already been stolen out of the storage unit and you wouldn’t even know it. What it really comes down to is that your attachment to the thing is stronger than your attachment to the feelings of the other people involved. And don’t go sending the clock thinking it will solve anything – the clock is just the most recent example. This not about you deciding not to send the clock to J.; it’s about what that decision says about your priorities.


You turn seventy in June of this year. With some good luck you you’ve got another twenty years ahead of you, but on the other hand you might not wake up tomorrow. What are you going to do with the time you have left? What kind of example are you going to set for those around you? Are you just going to coast along until you die, leaving P. and K. with years of back taxes and hundreds of square feet of junk you’ll never get around to doing anything with?

I’ve chosen to make a change, to go a different direction. Now the question is what you going to do? Do I think this letter will spur you to make changes where J. and P. have failed to? Probably not, but I’ve done my best to say what I needed to say in the most succinct and palatable way I can. Like I said before, whatever you decide, I won’t be taking phone calls from you for a while, but you’re welcome to send me email or a letter. I’ll also be happy to talk to P. or K. if they call, just not about the contents of this letter. Again, none of these restrictions are out of spite or malice, this is just the only way I feel we can communicate reliably for now.

Your son,
IsoGolem


I haven't sent this yet.... And I won't. Here's why.

Today was a bad day. Today I packed all my things in boxes, I'm moving out. Which might seem like something you look forward to. Not in my case. If you for some weird reason want to know more about me please check my writeup at December 31, 2003.

Back? There, now you know.

I hate spending time with her. I used to love it, used to loath every moment spent apart. Now I long for the hours I can spend by myself, or with my friends. I want to go on, but some things still require contact. Damn.

She gets mad at me for being irritated and harsh. I finally stopped caring. She wants to be friends? Fine. Don't expect me to be "boy-friend"-nice to her though. Civil, polite, then I draw the line. Don't expect me to find this as relieving as she does.

While we were packing (she needed to help so that I didn't take any of her stuff) she got a message from the other man. And she started talking to him. Then I got mad. I used some rude language and for once it was me who was mad and her that was standing silent with nothing to say.

I can accept if we've grown apart. That happens. I can accept if we weren't right for each other. Sometimes it takes a while to find out. I can't accept that she dumped without giving me any sort of chance. I can't accept that she's chosen someone else instead of me. How could I? Why should I?

I'm feeling my emotions changing. Once they were all warm and caring. My loved one could do no wrong. I wanted to be close, be friends, 'cause that way we would soon be together again. Now I'm just feeling empty and cold and hard. If there is any love left, it's completely neutralized by the amount of hate I feel.

Why must I be such a good guy? Why can't I scream and break things? Why can't I ignore the reasonable action and act according to my primal urges? I don't want to be nice. Nice has gotten me nothing in all of this.
Oh, how I hate her.

I used to love her. I don't anymore.

My life is defined by cuffs of leather on each wrist with steel D-rings. They say 'Property of the Lady' and I am. Anyone who walks into the house can see them. I can feel their eyes on me, judging me. They can watch my naked body as I walk accross the room but they can't touch.

Flashes of the past. Sitting at the Lady's feet as she reads and pets my hair absently. Waking up to the pain of my nipple between her nails and being told to go start breakfast even though it's 4am and I've only been asleep for a few hours.
Running through the woods here, avoiding the path. I can hear the dogs not far behind. This is all for fun. When she catches me she will tie me up and bring me back. Torture, followed by hugs and kisses.

I kneel before the Lady, trembling with desire. She gestures for me to rise. Nylon cord to attatch each wrist to rings set apart on the wall. Leather cuffs being buckled around each ankle. Attatched by a bar between them. I am facing the wall but still she blindfolds me. I can hear her sharpening her tiny little knives that hurt so much. I flinch at each sound that comes from behind me but I don't struggle. If I struggle, she will let me go. She will untie the rope and hand me a robe. I don't want her to stop before she even starts. I crave the feel of the knives.

One year later...

It has been a year since the funeral. It has been a year since I resumed my journey. On January 3, 2003 they buried Christina, an event that changed my life, although they didn't really bury her. Something happened during her death experience as a five year old with terminal cancer. That something convinced her that being buried or cremated would negatively impact her journey. She recovered from the cancer then, knowing it would return, and when it did she gave specific instructions to be buried above ground.

At first her inspiration came in the form of demonstrating that life here is temporary and we must make the most of what time we have. Then she came to me in a vision, showing me that the road does not end with death. I already knew these things, but I preferred not to think about them. She was restored to her full beauty in death and ran playfully through a field of purple flowers.

Later, she would speak to me while I was driving home from the funeral. "I'm with the angels. It is beautiful here."

A year later, what have I learned? Perhaps too much. I've hit another down phase where I must rest and collect my energy. I have retreated temporarily, but this period will not last for long. I have reached a level of empathy where I can feel what others are feeling all too well and it is making me forget what I feel. I've started processing emotions like some kind of robot. I feel what people close to me are feeling and then attempt to respond in a way that will give them warmth or reinforcement. I do not know how I feel about anything anymore, and that is why I must retreat for the moment.

Then I begin to wonder, is it even possible for me to retreat, even temporarily at this point? I talked to my brother and my two nephews over the holidays. My nephew Alex is autistic. He is high functioning and very intelligent, but he simply cannot comprehend the collective reality. It makes no sense to him. He has always seemed to connect with me on another level. When his brother handed him the telephone to talk to me, he said, "Uncle Keith, I have to tell you something. The princess is in the castle and if you don't go get her, the dragon will get her." Following that outburst, he wandered back into the house. See, on my brother's cell phone if you are inside their house the signal breaks up, so everyone goes outside to talk. Not Alex. He sees no point in standing outside in the cold to talk. He'll go back inside, even if he can no longer hear the person on the other end. So, I get five minutes of static until his mother takes the telephone from him. "You have to go outside to talk, Alex, or Uncle Keith can't hear you." These are the first words I hear after five minute of static, followed by, "I like to talk on the phone inside."

"Is he playing some kind of fantasy game on the computer or something?"

"No, he's playing with his brother's trucks."

One might think I would interpret this as a sign that I needed to go forth and save the princess. Actually, that would be quite silly since this is all I ever really try to do. The kid is in tune with things beyond our comprehension and he is never terribly obvious, so most people just stare slack-jawed at him. He's pointing out my greatest weakness. If there is a princess in a tower and she's in trouble, my white horse is parked in the barn ready to saddle up.

And maybe it isn't a weakness. Maybe it is the whole point. The road behind me and the road ahead is littered with lost princesses, most of whom have wandered off and tried to set up camp in the brambles.

There once was a man who loved a woman so deeply that he would save the entire world if it were the only way to save her.

That is my true weakness, or perhaps my strength. There is no black and white, only shades of gray, and everything depends on perspective.

On: 'My Thoughts are Worthless'

A Paean Regarding Instability

Hello. I've had this jumble of things sitting around for a while. No place but a daylog will take it. The end. .
Informatics:

Trying too Hard as Ironicisms. Son

Effort as joke-core

"JUST KIDDING"

(Living in Language)*
(Living in Language)*
(Living in Language)*
(Living in Language)*
(Living in Language)*
(Living in Language)*
(Living in Language)*
(Living in Language)*
(Living in Language)*
(Living in Language)*
(Living in Language)*
(Living in Language)*
(Living in Language)*
(Living in Language)*
(Living in Language)*
(Living in Language)*
(Living in Language)*
(Living in Language)*

                                            *squalor


On the Constitution of the Universe:

Shirts made of poison!
Ashes made of dusts!
Hands made of feet!
People made of lead!
Maids made of mead!
Red made of yellow!
Atoms made of rocks!
Sands made of fleas!
Fellas made of dames!
You made of me!

kill humans.... to death

                  no sympathy.
                  not even once.
                  I'd rather be...
breathing
Fuck killing.
Let's kill.
Fuck-killing.
Let's kill.

FLOOD YOUR BASEMENT

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xprophecyandmurder/prophecyandmurder/prophecyandmurder/propheticdeathsx
xwearentevenboredanymorewearentevenboredanymorewearentevenboredancumbersome
xwearentevenboredanymorewearentevenboredanymorewearentevenboredanymorex
xwearentevenboredanymorewearentevenboredanymorewearentevenboredanymorex
xwearent                                                       anymorex
xwearent                                                       anymorex
xwearent          I lost ourselves                             anymorex
xwearent          in the delicious                             anymorex
xwearent          ecstacies of war                             anymorex
xwearent                                                       anymorex
xwearent                                                       anymorex
xwearent                                                       anymorex
xwearent                 ((inject yourself with death))        anymorex
xwearent                                                       anymorex 
xwearentevenboredanymorewearentevenboredanymorewearentevenboredanymorex
xwearentevenboredanymorewearentevenboredanymorewearentevenboredanymorex
xwearentevenboredanymorewearentevenboredanymorewearentevenboredanymorex
xprophecyandmurder/prophecyandmurder/prophecyandmurder/propheticdeathsx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Here is the most profound thing I've ever written. And I do it a disservice putting it here, in this way, right now. Nevertheless:

"We aren't even bored anymore"

The sinking feeling when I realize its truth is enough to level my best intentions. I'm not even asking "so what are we going to do now?" anymore. I've encased hope in concrete. My memory isn't even good enough to forget anymore. God Save the Queen

Humans of note:



  1. Awol One
  2. Henry Darger
  3. Louis Althusser
  4. Diogenes
  5. Robert Rauschenberg

Thing to do:

"I like to understand things in terms of other things..." -Lee Matheson

If I plagiarized my 'whole' life from a Shapeshifters' song, no one on here would know. "Night of the Living Humans"

(humans ain't shit)
(we're all under the same roof tonight)
(shift to shape)
Truly these are the last days.





It hit me today -- I'm incapable of written sincerity.

And it broke my heart.

Below is a picture of

(Don't worry about scrolling down, the only thing here is the big heart just below this sentence, it is all i have to give, I love you all so much..)

Isn't it true, sir, that you are dead?

That may, or may not, be a fact. Friend.

A

(how we win the war is none of my business)
(war?)
(?)

Extinction





i swear to god that you're dead

Above is a picture of
pleaseplease

“Anyway, long story short” is a phrase whose origins are complicated and rambling



the empty void of being clever instead of human






On the intricately detailed application of pain to a particular human body




  • Fordlandia
  • The Art of Getting Over
agambe a game of numbers

play on, words.

THIS THINGS I BELIEVE

4.48 Psychosis

melonsara: (10:18 PM) being mark makes you stupid

You are going to die.

B

Below is a pitcher of

I have so little to give.

I SWEAR TO ___ THAT ___.

I SWEAR TO END THAT GOD
>> if: Straight numbin' a fool.
>> then: x everything isaiah... this truth
This                     It's                 Don't                    .
is                       three                mind                    . 
the                      chapters             the                    .
story------------------->long                 mess.
of                       and
how                      full                                              .
my                       of                                               .  
body                     blank                                           .
became                   pages.
my
mind
and             NUMBERS
how
my
mind
died
from
neglect.-------------------------------------->_________
You seem to be number than usual.
Thi
s is t
he stor
y of ho
w my bod
y became
my min
d and how my mi
nd die
d from
n
egle
ct. It's
t
hree chap
ters lo
ng and
full
of bl
ank
pag
es
1. Don't mind the mess                                                       .
2. on't  ind  he  ess                                                         . 
3. n't   nd   e   ss                                                           .
4. n'    d    -   s                                                        .   
5. t     -    -   -                                                         .
6. p     i    e   d                                                          .

C

trust me






I hate and I love.
Why I do so, you may well ask.
I do not know, but I feel it happen and am in agony.

D

Living your Life 2.0 Chapter 1: Death Chapter 2: TBA Above is a pitcher of

On Being Inconsolable Being

submit too
Isn't Dying Great???



(((the poetry of war)))




Pssh... if it happens

Oh come on now, you know that everything happens!

Yeah. I guess.



Hey, you want to see the gap between my love and my pain?




pair of dee\
parroty     \ 
parody       }--->   is the sincerest form of insincerity
parity      /
paroticism /













_                     _


space invaderz






































do the following: del *.agendas
Retain boredom.
Forever.

E

I'm ending it right now.

"Is this an accurate projection?!"

Dude, don't worry, it's non-representational, no one will get hurt, I fucking swear to GOD. I FUCKING SWEAR



our lives
6 times
a game
of
numbers
lvov



F

No. It's the children who are wrong.

"Love is like a simile"

True to form.
H'e's'i'o'd

Use your words!

... to be convinced...

                        gods above
                                  ---------------
                                              gods below

G

Hello. I am Being a Poem. Want talk?

If my life gets any more beautiful,
      I'm going to choke myself...

      To death.
(((With silk gloves)))

H

Well, maybe you're living the dream but...
(That was a calligram...guess what!)

"If truth grew on trees... my orchard would be withered and dead, and probably repossessessessessed by..." She blinded me with SCIENCE!

I

Things to look further into:
  • Elizabeth Diller
  • Richard Scofidio

Question

If:

A bridge to the twenty first century...
collapses.
And no one lives to hear it...

Does it make annoys?

Answer:

((((...God, does that much adolescence pass for 'writing' nowadays? Quit until death.))))

J

Lethe

Lesotho

  • "Never forget."
  • "Why?"

K

HW

This is a list.

-- globular cluster
-- vehemently opposed
-- so to speak
-- what have you
-- memorandum
-- harassment
-- kiln
-- destabilize
-- orality
-- wordsmith
-- what are words worth
-- use value
-- kinex
-- the blob, by the five blobs
-- broadcast
-- a show in april
-- verbal #1
-- 'production'
-- pipe links
-- link and bobolink
-- foucault
-- a girl
-- topology, klein bottles
-- the elegance of mathematics
-- drinking
-- bridgewater hot tubs
-- a week in march
-- procrastination
-- slang
-- salty (see above)
-- end to ends
-- wholecars
-- khyber wednesdays
-- before: khyber mondays
-- mokka
-- the pit
-- anti-plato
-- pro-plato
-- neither
-- jkk
-- lightbulb head
-- idiocrates
-- pandelion

Things I don't own: ~(you) Ich bin ein 31337 haX0rc157.

L

We are not communicating

1.  YOU WILL DIE
2.  YOUR WILL DIE
3.  YOUR TILL DIE
4.  YOUR TILL LIE
5.  POUR TILL LIE
6.  POUR TALL LIE
7.  POUR TALL LIT
8.  POOR TALL LIT
10. POOR STALL LIT
11. POOR STALL SIT
12. DOOR STALL SIT
13. DOOR STALE SIT
14. DOOR STALE SET
15. DOOM STALE SET
16. DOOM SALE SET
17. DOOM SALE YET
18. LOOM SALE YET
19. LOOM SOLE YET
20. LOOM SOLE MET
21. LOON SOLE MET
22. LOON DOLE MET
23. LOON DOLE MAT
24. LION DOLE MAT
25. LION DOVE MAT
26. LION DOVE MATH
27. ION DOVE MATH
28. ION LOVE MATH
29. ION LOVE MOTH
30. IN LOVE MOTH
31. IN LOVE MOUTH
32. I LOVE  YOUTH
33. I LOVE  SOUTH
34. I LOVE  SOOTH
35. I LOVE  BOOTH
36. I LOVE  BOOT
37. I LOVE  BOON
38. I LOVE  SOON
39. I LOVE  SON
40. I LOVE  YON
41. I LOVE YOU


from "You will die" to "I love you" in 41 moves.

Ever.

M

Aleph
Aletheia
Aletheistic
A (le) theistic
A, the 'I' stick

Cluttered Games.

N

Never happe(-e, +i)n(es)s.
One thing that is occuring: Right now I am crying to death. All the pieces that seem to hold together to make what I am ("me") have begun to fall apart, unravel, crumble into so much dust settled on the cobblestones of a graveyard with a rickety, rusted gate.
The ghost of my life is death, and the breath of my existence has fluttered out into oblong abstraction.
The only problem we've got is that nothing can be taken seriously, just as we touch down as so many needles, plucking, pricking, murdering-to-dissect-- ... just so we begin to realize our unerring arrogance.

Has this occured?

Certainly.
Does it matter?
Who listens to Strauss?

.."worried and waiting, expecting a visitor"..

O

I think we're alone now.
So, I've been meaning to ask you 
    (it's what I've been meaning):
                                   will you marry me to death?
                                   it's for a fundraiser 

Things that I wish:

  1. It's a secret!
  2. ((It's a party!!))
  3. Well...alright.
  4. ((A communist party!))
  5. I wish that you were a zombie, and I was a phoenix...
  6. ((Shut up))
  7. And then we made out and had a baby...
  8. ((...))
  9. That would be great
GOD: YOUR Stupid
((That is to say, not my stupid, but your stupid.))
  --The 'one' that you own.




RUPTURE NOW
Eat a wagon wheel pin ball head

P

"What if I should find it rather flattering (((((faltering))))) that you should steal my property? Theft is the best compliment one can possibly pay a thing. And do you know the most amusing part? I assume that, having made up your mind to effect that pleasant robbery, you will suppress the compromising lines, the very lines I am writing now, and, moreover, fashion certain bits to your liking just as a motorcar thief repaints the car he has stolen."

Q

xxxx xxxx xxx xxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxX

Boeing 747? Ain't got shit on this.

R

R R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R RR R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R R

S

melonsara: (10:19 PM) heh
s iz fer saras

T

Which way am I thinking right now?
     -This way.

What does that mean?
     -I don't think it 'means' anything, exactly.

Does it make sense to act "how am I thinking" or "in which way am I thinking?"
     -Sense?   

Clearly we're not talking about the same thing.
     -In what "sense" do 'you' "mean" 'we'? 

We, us, me, "I"... clear?
     -Yes. Now, ask again.

Who da' Irredentistist?

>br> J'aime les territoires.
Ich own ich.
Which way am I (are we) thinking right now?
      -The way we are thinking right now is called an infelicitous speech
       act.  That's what 'way' it is.

How are we thinking right now?
      -Clearly.   

Everything hinges on meaning, doesn't it?
      -Yes, 'it' does. (Es gibt?)  

U


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the mask of zorzo
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V

Good afternoon.
How do you do sir?

W

Walls are a necessity in today's modern societies

When I look around today, the biggest anachronism I see is pregnancy. I just can't believe that people are still pregnant.

X

Is anyone so beautiful that I couldn't dismiss them, murder them, leave them to the dust, with a withering and vacant stare?

Is anything so beautiful?

What remains for me?
Show me fear in a handful of dust: the beauty would be too painful; too honest. No. In a handful of dust I see only the half-failures of my exhausion. The half-measures, the truncated legitimacies.... the notes almost sent, feeling on the verge of feeling. Your dust; ashes. My dust; collected in a gaudy vase, "I'm saving it for later".
Collapse yourself.
Vessels are full.
Vessels are empty.
And everything is half-shattered.

(is anything beautiful?)

Are you ready for the sex girls
Sex sex sex sex!
Sex girls

Sex sex sex sex!

Sex girls
sex sex sex sex
Are you ready for the sex girls
The hot hot lean hot big hot girls
Are you ready for the sex girls

The hot hot lean hot big hot girls

Y

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Z

Can't we just kill him?




if i ever die, i hope 







"Hoping that..." (instrumental hope) is so hopelessly outdated....



Live/Die X Live/Die = Live/Die
"God, you're SO fucking boring..."

If life doesn't kill me, nothing will.

God, I hope it's nothing.

HW





















in brackets: vegans who eat prosciutto

Instead of living, let's try dying

((It couldn't "hurt"))







Hello.

Here is the story of one day.
It seems that my life fell apart today.
I say seems because I haven't been able to fake concern yet.
It's my mode, my 'fashion'.

I live a sickness.
Insincerity.








♫♫

Q: What is it when you kiss someone who isn't your girlfriend?
A: Cheating.

But what if doesn't mean anything. This was the Skee-Ball of kisses. Inconsequential, breezy and brimming with "What-if's". It's not that I don't love her, its just that I am a young dude. 20, just around the corner, seems too young to be this involved. But what, then: "Of course I love you. Just stand in the corner for five years while I fuck around on you. THX SO MUCH."

It wasn't the kissee, its everything that came with it. Before you're birthed, someone should warn you about things like this.

We gathered together to say goodbye to Allan "Hawkeye" Pierce today. The word came this summer at the track when he stopped coming around, and the word around the campfire was that Hawkeye was sick, and hopefully would be getting better soon.

Thing is, Hawkeye had pancreatic cancer, and nobody gets better from that. He was a profane man, who cussed like a sailor, but kind, funny and unflappable. I wasn't there but i know what he said when the doctor told him the diagnosis. He would have shook his head and said, "I guess I'm fucked now."

The unflappable part of Hawkeye's character was important. He was a corner worker, one of Lake Erie Communications best. He'd grown up a farmer a few miles from Watkins Glen back in the days wen the formula 1 teams would rent out the local garages and you could walk through town and perhaps run into Jim Clark or Graham Hill. For twenty-five years he had worked tracks everywhere. Four years he had served as corner captain at the United States Grand Prix. He had worked the 24 hours of LeMans.

I'm a good corner worker, but i get excited when a couple formula fords decided to do a June Taylor Dancers routine right in front of my corner. I'll make the calls, get the flags up, and take care of business. But on the net you can hear the excitement in my voice, and the moment where I gather myself and make the call.

Not Hawkeye. You could have half of the champ car field doing endos right in front of his face and all you'd get would be a quiet "oh shit" and drag from his cigarette. He'd make the call, and when a rookie made a mistake he lost the profanity and became like Dad.

Hawkeye had a great sense of humor and it showed at the funeral. He and his brother had madea contest of giving loud toys to each other's children. HIs brother claimed to win it by virtue of giving Hawkeye's son a chain saw. I don't want to know how old the boy was then. And bro pulled out a buzzing ray gun to let everyone know that the contest would continue with their grandchildren.

Hawk was a guy who wouldn't say much until you tried to leave. Even as he was dying, he'd watch TV when you came visitng. But when you tried to leave he would get up and follow you down the hall, IV in tow. He just wanted you there.

A lot of us from the road racing fraternity were there to say goodbye. The service was perfect. Hawkeye wasn't a churchgoer, so the minister didn't know him, but he knew enough to admit it and let the family handle the eulogies. The words weren't sad, but rather humorous reminders of a man who brought more into life than he took.

Death is an inevitable part of life, a time of passing. As you grow older, it becomes more and more a part of your life. My father once told me that not a month goes by where he and my stepmother aren't attending some kind of viewing. Lately it has started becoming a regular part of my life, one I can do without, even though i know one day Death will come for me.

But i do believe in an afterlife, though i know of no scientific evidence which supports that belief. And I have a favorite idea of heaven, though I know of no theological texts supporting my intepretation.

My heaven is place of wide, tree lined boulevards and lots of cafes, where Isaac Asimov and Jules Verne share a glass of wine, and read the latest texts from Balzac and Socrates. On Wednesdays Jimi and Byrd jam with Mozart. And when you catch the 'A' train out of town, you get to wooded race course in the rolling hills.

if my version is correct, when my time comes and i've stood before St. Peter, I'll get there and find my way to this track. And there will be Hawkeye. We go out to our corner, unroll the flags, check the firebottles and take our positions, while Jim Clark, Graham Hill and Juan Manuel Fangio dice it out on track.

That will be heaven.

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