The Stream: 8.6.17


Now that we have that out of the way.

There is a look on certain performers, so invested with emotion of a moment; you know exactly the look it. The eyes closed like an orgasm, waves of bliss and giving a fuck falling off them as the voice opens and the mouth screams in unholy ecstasy; the entire body moving forward as if pushed into the eternal moment of now; bodies hanging loose in the guitar, reflective telecaster moonlight. The moment of hereness.

Whenever I think of that moment, I think of the immortal Jeff Buckley during his appearance on the BBC, performing Grace

Look at that moment, around 5:00 minutes. It’s so…divine. And that sounds cheesy, and I also don’t give one rat fuck.

It’s a look of astounding power. Whenever I perform out in public like a jerk-off, I aspire to that look. I aspire to feel like I’m in front of this crowd and all the feeling is trying to leave my body like a brick wall pushing its way out of the highway of my vessels into the presence of the moment.

The moon is a harvest gold right now. It’s twin lives in the reflection of my window, a simulacra that suggests the other. My heart is on fire. And I’ve just watched Game of Thrones.

I feel all over the place. My heart is my brain and brain is not my mind, and I’m letting myself run over it. What a sense of liberation.

My need to be poetic is frankly obnoxious. But everything is obnoxious. And sometimes, surrender to the now is vital.

The night made black around the moonlight, like ichor fluid and the Moon is haloed with gloria in excelsis dio. Jeff’s voice is the howl of the wolfe int ┬áthe background in the faded studio in britain.

Passion rules the world, more than possible.

The name Emma.

If anyone is confused, and reading this, sorry; I ain’t going to be helpful in the ways of elucidation. Fortunately, no one I know is reading this, so I don’t have to worry too too much.

The words are in me and they are me. I mean, maybe not.



This is not going how I had hoped. Which is perfect, I suppose.

We don’t give enough credit…and god I’ve said this a million times… but we don’t give enough credit to yin and yang. Just yin.


Jorge Luis Borges is one of my favorite writers. He’s laconic and smarmy, but so smart you don’t even notice.

This post is a sentence fragment.


Sometimes, when I do too much, I shut down. I leave this moment without realizing I have, and I go to a place that isn’t. It’s the future and the past, and it’s not here at all but it’s vital. It keeps mefocused. But it also make me scattered brained and passive.

Right now I’m closer to a series of images, than a self. And that’s probably more scary than fun, to others. But to me it’s beautiful, and I’ll tell you why.

The need to beatrice…shit.

You ever have someone fuck you up badly for no reason? No reason at all? There’s a service interruption in my whole gestalt sense of me, and she’s part of it. She’s always been part of it. She’s still there, and she isn’t: she’s shcrodingers muse.

Man, that joke stopped being funny a while ago.

But these people, who have so much influence, even when they’re not here; like fucking ghosts in the night. I feel like she’s hovering around the pale gold moonlight out of a Borges short story. That if the sequence of random number I spewed hit the light at just the right angle, if I let myself fall into the eternal present, she would be back, or she would be…something. Hell if I know.

Honestly, she just scares me, so it is likely a good thing she’s not here, anymore.

I’m sorry folk (s?) that I seem so crazy. And I know that’s repetitive, but this is an unfiltered myself. This is my brick wall on the way to god. it’s really for me, and no one else. I assure you I’m ok. And I’m only saying that because potential people who care about me, still matter to me, even if they are only theoretical.

Oh, I made myself sad,somewhere.

It’s been a taxing couple of weeks, and improvement is on the distant horizon. But, like all things, I have to keep moving forward. Be the Batman to life’s Joker. Something I can do, but which scares me.

The disconnectedness to this piece gives it a quality of something honest. The redundancies, the lack of cleverinsight, the inability to maintain a train of thought for a few sentences before veering into no stringer bell neverminds it’s a kind of aesthetic that has the gripping feralness of honesty.

Man, that was fucking pretentious, even by my standards.

But letting it all hang loose, it has an appeal. To befree of the sense of restraint. To be spelling errors, and existential dread, and joy all at once. Because life is wonderful too, for all its fucked up incoherence.

Just like me, I suppose.

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