A Bunch of Stuff Today (Stream of Consciousness)

Well, here we are again, another nail in the 2 by 4 that I call my self expressive mind.  You'd better start running now.  NOT THAT I'M SELF CONSCIOUS.

We all carry a weight on our shoulders, conceptually, we understand this; I'm not the only one with money issues.  Somehow it's rude to draw attention to your financial problems, because you're immediately seen as disregarding other people's problems.  How selfish!

All of the sudden, we realise just how taboo our individuality is.  We feel the need to label ourselves.  Do we do it out of ennui and/or disgust at our individuality?  Perhaps in our lonely society, we strive for a common social connection.  By "being" gay, straight, religious, or liberal, etc. we're sacrificing our individuality in order to relate to the community.  Which isn't necessarily a bad thing; however, when our labels confine our individual expression to that which is socially acceptable, we limit ourselves drastically, and our individuality becomes quaint and unnecessary   Heck, even a bit scary.


It's stream of consciousness.

So there I was, briskly marching ahead of the pack, leader's my middle name.  They'd look up at me IN AWE, they would even name their children after me.

Yes yes, I'm introverted, and I don't tend to take the lead on things unless I know exactly what I'm doing.  The above paragraph was obviously sarcasm, I'm hilarious.  Wasn't sure if you knew that about me.  I make jokes, they come easy to me.  I go about my day to day life; standing up, sitting down, walking here, walking there.  And that's just the beginning.
"Golly" he said unironically, "wait'll you hear what happens next!".

They were tranced in flabbergasted bafflement.  None survived.

The rabbit floated on still water with broken wings guiding the way home towards the music.

He slept, fully aware of what happened the day after tomorrow.  Grinning, he chucked the beaver into the river, "GIT BACK 'O 'ERE 'OU CAME FRUM!" he exclaimed, privy to nothing but his singular path.  Jovial inside, he saw the reason in it all, even when she let him go.  It's no wonder the Sun still rises, and dinosaurs don't exist anymore.  Points make lines, and lines make cubes; linear motion is still a representation of the abstract, lest we forget.
All inhibitors inhibit.  All walls block, and all barriers stop...
"Some people are simple, some people are complex", only two kinds of people, eh?  Hmm.


Segue goes here, how about some all encompassing poem, yeah.  About flowers, they're nice; pansies are edible.  Stick your tongue out, catch a snow flake, whoopy doo.  Any-who, something to do, don't know, what about you?  ADEQUATE.


Wearing his job on his mind, he could no longer see his face two steps ahead.  Forcibly confined to the present, it seems.  Two roads to follow, one happily sequestered in escapism, and the other mishmashed with the other badgers underneath the grounded bolt of lightning as it strikes the new bridge on 57th.

Randomness is what exists right now, look any further than that and you get into some pretty confusing shit.  Either imagine an existence for yourself, or try to understand it all to the point where the confusing shit just doesn't seem so confusing anymore.  Neither is good nor bad, just don't do either if you're trying to get somewhere specific.


Eventually this will all seem like "a lifetime ago".  I had a good life!  Yes, surely worth the use of one of those fine meat bags that are so hard to come by.  The 50's were some of the best years of my life, gosh.  When we were younger...able to get around; we're getting old, you know.  Anyways, we used to drive through the mountains, spotting the eagles perched on the tops of trees.  I remember this one trip; oh, I don't remember where we were driving, up in Washington I think.  Anyways.  It was late November, and the snow was falling, it was beautiful.  So we pulled over, it fell slowly and softly...
How do I stop my life from turning into a story?  As if I imagined the whole thing.

As We Paint Over Stippled Ceilings

Our worlds collided with a stick of the tongue,
A petulant bond.
Petty trivialities; mere bi-products of our adolescence, I guess.

Though wounds heal with time,
the objective memory of ourselves will stagnate and strive for permanence.

We'll wallow in each others wake,
until it all inevitably becomes ironic.

Outsider

Immediately he looked like an outsider.  It doesn't matter what he says, nothing can convince me that his opinion has any weight.  Sitting there alone, casually, soft smile on his face.  Why is he here?  Outsider.

The long hair, unkempt facial hair, the hole in his jeans, I know they don't mean anything; but they sure don't help.  We're all products of our experiences, he can't help who he is.  Shouldn't he be at school, or work?  Where's his girlfriend?  Why is he laughing?

You need to start when you're a kid.  He's 21, maybe 22; too old to become one of them.  It's a brain development thing.

After the show, on his cellphone.

He spoke with a steady, prevailing rhythm, laughing again, colloquialisms easily conjured.

He smiled as he stopped to gaze at some paintings on the wall before he left

Alone.

So it's not just music.  Outsider.

Oil Sands

Pointless plethora o' penny; preparation for party political passion; plagiarous people Plying poor pence.
Poisonous plastic people plotting pointless pastures, replacing the penniless and the Perturbed.

        Slurping slobbering tongues of serpants obscured in slithered surmise;
        Falsely contributing to headless morrows without regretful demise.
Powerful plugs pillaged by peoples pliers;
Plying and plying weary wires.
        Dare I drive the drenched slurping serpant starway?
        Shall I arise, to revel in rogue realities awry?

In the tumultuous urban trenches, grand gluttonous termites ravage the delicious "sandy Freedom".

Sitting In A Yellow and Red Room

Sitting in a yellow and red room, the ceiling is white with stubble.  Floor frayed gray.  This room has been assigned to the front corner of the house, slanted walls.  Littering the floor lays the various and the precarious, but without haste, I continue to examine.  The rubbish eclipses the bed and the desk.  There is a sturdy wooden stool standing with me sitting ontop, erect, enacting a lighthouse scan of it all.  The floor is close, but not close enough; my feet barely graze the carpet hairs.  A spot on the floor, free of it all.  I reestablish my gaze upon my perch as I allow for all distal projections to escape me, refusing to let them slither through my jugular.   The thinking mind vacations with the heart as I stumble about the remainder of the room, I glance through the square metre window.  Holes in the screen.

I stand easily to my feet, free of it all; but encircled by the petulent scrawls, I grow weary of what's to come.  Jagged corners and confusing scraps, I wish for the end of it all.  The tumors of thought trickle through, unfleeting anxiety.  I step a harsh step, soaring bloated blood to my blinded head; carpet hairs rise a brazen.  She exudes the silhouette so familiar, there's no question of her intent; but I ask anyway.  I return to my perch in a yellow and red room, ceiling white with stubble; waiting for something different.

Fireworks

He'd lay barefoot in the sand breathing the moist ocean air.  There are the clouds.
He'd bask in the sun as the warmth trickled along his stomach.  There are the families.
He'd time his pulse with the waves, as the breeze chilled his scolded stomach.  The many boats aligned.
The Sun prepares for its nightly cryogenic swim, he'd gaze with her as it sailed over the edge.
She never liked the smoke.
It conducted so finely and alas, dwindled its last flame, he clapped.  She clapped.
He'd scrawl in the sand commemorating the occasion.  There is the wind.
She'd thank him and say that she'd had enough.
He'd point to the many families staring above.
She'd point ahead to the many boats aligned.
He'd point above, but she never liked the smoke.

Oh Man, This One Chokes Me Up Everytime.

// Maybe I'll start with something supposedly simple, a bug. //

There once was a bug, this bug was black.  It had a name, its name was Fred.  Fred was crawling through a patch of leaves when he stumbled upon another bug.  This other bug was blue.  It too had a name, its name was Bob.  Bob also, was crawling through the very same patch of leaves.

// I WILL NOW EXPRESS MY ABILITY TO CREATE CHARACTERS UNLIKE MYSELF TO DISPLAY MY VERY OPEN AND KNOWLEDGABLE MIND. ahem...*cracks nuckles* //

Fred was a bi-curious female transvestite bug. He/She was often shy infront of male/female bugs, for they usually sent blank, condecending looks towards him/her while pondering how to perceive him/her which intimidated him/her. Ever since that incident with the magnifying glass, the garden glove, and the firewood pile, Fred has felt unsure about himself/herself due to all the hateful burning and swatting and all.

Bob was a lesbian male transvestite bug from the planet ZOB-TOG-BLOG-CHOG-COG-SOOooo00p, he enjoys tennis.  Bob grew up in a small fUTlOrP near YIP-TIP-GUPUPUPUP-POO-F00OOoo, ZOB-TOG-BLOG-CHOG-COG-SOOooo00p.  He/it/she and his/its/her best LapKAP UPI-UPI used to spend FLAzAp by the ROorrogutz on ZUGGA-ZUGGA-Z00P street playing tennis; which Bob enjoyed.  Bob was very YAMA-YAMA with UPI-UPI and they often had WUGGA-WUGGA if they had extra FLAzAp after playing tennis.  Bob felt very comfortable around UPI-UPI because he/it/she liked him/it/her even though he/it/she was not very good at WUGGA-WUGGA.

Fred had never seen an alien woman before, let alone a blue one.  He/she was quite nervous, though excited at the same time.  Fred was attracted to this woman/man/thing and he/she couldn't help himself/herself; he/she told him/it/her his/her feelings and asked if they could crawl through this patch of leaves together.

Bob, who had recently broken up with UPI-UPI and left his/it/her SHOMthe small fUTlOrP near YIP-TIP-GUPUPUPUP-POO-F00OOoo, ZOB-TOG-BLOG-CHOG-COG-SOOooo00p for Earth, pondered this request from Fred.  While thinking, Bob thought of how comfortable UPI-UPI made him/it/her feel, and he/it/she was deciding if this new alien man/woman could WUGGA-WUGGA as good as and as many fUTlOrPs as UPI-UPI could.

Fred's insecurity, while Bob was pondering, was steadily increasing.  Every second that went by, made Fred increasingly inclined to refuse identifying himself as a strong independant bug only to succumb to self-hatred and obscurity.

Who's Tom?

Now, Tom knew he wasn't very smart; and also knew that he had to find his own unique ways to go about functioning in society.  Tom was special in his own way; but even though he was bound for far simpler things than most, he still wanted to expand his understanding of the world.  So he developed a skill, or rather a knack to conceptualising the written language.  This knack laid in using ones memory to remember previously read letters, and construct sets of letters in a linear, sequential order (typically from left to right).  Once various sets of letters had been remembered, he believed that they would form ideas.  Often Tom would run into letter groupings with letter counts of staggeringly and often mind numbingly large magnitudes.  Such things as "news paper" or "WARNING: Fire Hazard" would baffle his tiny brain immensely. 
So when Tom began to try his hand at grasping the intricacies of the written language, he was intimidated, disgruntled, disconsolate, discontent, and a bit sceptical at his motivations; but in the end, he pushed on and reasoned quite a practical conclusion.
Tom concluded that all of the important letter conglomerations came in groupings of three.  He was filled with intense exhilaration as he settled into a steady, all encompassing view of the world.  Tom could now construct a daily routine for himself, and check it now and then to make sure he's staying on track.
Here's a quick summary, or rather, a staggeringly accurate descriptive account of Tom's average day:
When Tom gets out of bed in the morning, he goes to eat.  He rather liked eating, but less so if he got gas.   pee and sometimes poo would follow; but after his morning routine, things really start to pick up.  The afternoon is when he starts to have fun and really kick start the day; but all of this excitement tends to make Tom sleepy.  This is about the time when Tom usually concedes with a nice long nap.
5 hours ago, Tom found himself pondering intensely over a group of mysterious symbols inscribed on a build-it-yourself bird house instruction booklet, the symbols were "w," "o," "o," "d."  After considerable effort, Tom assumed correctly that these symbols were in fact letters and confidently settled into his formula.  He arrived, perhaps a bit hastily at the letter grouping of "ood."
Tom was confused.
Tom construed and pondered over the letters again.
"Woo."
Tom was excited.
Tom liked "woo," it meant he was about to have fun.  He was also quite fond of the words "wee" and "yay."  But it was late afternoon, and Tom had had enough excitement for the day, now was not the time for fun.  So Tom had a nap.