The Place of Dead Roads

I’ve been paying close attention to all of the new “features” being foisted upon me by Facebook (and Google to a lesser extent).  With that in mind, I have decided to begin a full-scale disconnect from those social media platforms.

I will preserve my accounts (as I don’t want to lose the usernames should I ever become famous) but I will no longer be maintaining any updates or friend lists.

Any communication I wish to broadcast to the internet will be done here or through Twitter.  Also, I will be making a few changes to my blogs as well.  I have added functionality that allows me to control the visibility of my posts.  Most of my posts will be visible as they always have been but there will be some that require you to be a registered (and logged in) user to access additional material.  I am also contemplating using a password protection system on some posts to further ensure that only select groups of people can read more sensitive and/or personal material.

I expect all of the changes to be fully implemented by the end of February, 2012.  I also expect to be posting to the blogs more frequently that I have in the last couple of years.

Stay Tuned.

Disconnected – left with the lingering taste of Gin and citrus – cold water cascades – Baritone and Blistered – sound passing through circumstance – there is only emptiness swimming inside my brain.

There is no abstract thought – I am blank for the first time in a epoch. I wander the halls inside my head and listen to the noise.

In the uncontrollable urge of placing motion to music there is a stillness of spirit that is more profound than the rhythm.

Articulation in amplification – synchronicity in sound.

Rhythmic oppression of the senses.

Repetition of Rhythm. Repetition of Behaviour Repetition of Consciousness.

The Rhythm blocks the consciousness.

Dulled by alcohol and exhaustion there is little left to the imagination. All that is becomes a portrait – obvious for all that are willing to see.

See the beginning – prepare for the end.

We are what we feed ourselves.

The power behind the current arcs to form a disasterously disruptive discharge.  I do not have the dielectric strength to resist – I have not the capacity to transform.

The circuit is fused.

The chipset must be replaced.

Some things I find difficult to articulate. I wonder if National Public Radio is really as romantic as it seems – I find it doubtful that it would have made any difference. There is no poetry here; no fluid words or lyrical sentiment. Everything now is electricity and memory – It’s tactile and palpable. I am possessed by the singularity of the moment.

Sleep calls. Words are wrapped up in exhilaration. The meaning is twisted but clear.

The memory of my eyes shall taste what my lips see.

Are there really midgets on every street corner in Las Vega$?

In a narrative flow the words seem stilted.  I can feel the heartache pulling me into a fugue. I try to write and it fails me; even now I struggle to hold onto the words and their meaning.  They slip from my thoughts. They pass over my lips and whisper to an ear that cannot hear them.

I scream myself to voicelessness only to realize that I’ve been shouting at the deaf.  It’s been so long that I can’t remember the sound of my own voice.  All I hear is the rasp of dead air scratching raw flesh inside my throat.

I’ve been crucified.  The cross I bear was my own unique design; I even forged the nails that would support the weight of my own presumption and frivolous ego.  I gave the hammer to my executioner and smiled as the spikes were driven through the tenderness of my compassion.

Hoisted up for all to see, a shining example of such spurious love, no one bears witness to my undoing.  I am no martyr.  I am barely a man.  I am smoke and shadow. I am nothing more than function; a means to an end. This is my folly.  This is mine – and mine alone.

Sleep sings sweet seductive songs and I cannot resist her lullaby.  One day I will wake, resurrected and face the word as someone else – someone you won’t recognize.  I have nothing left to give.  I have nothing left to say.  I need a moment to clean my wounds – Christ’s Wounds – and find a way to heal the breaking of my heart.

I don’t deal with much introspection in this blog. For the most part, I don’t really think that the details of my thought processes and emotional states are of much interest to anyone. There is also my worry that by becoming too autobiographical I will upset or alienate the people that I care about.

If we’re not friends or I actively dislike you then I have no moral ambiguity about telling random strangers that you’re a fuckwit; or worse.

On the other hand, when my psyche or my ego become overwhelmed I feel like I need to say something. I can’t keep a diary or a daily journal – that’s just masturbatory. I don’t find that therapeutic at all. I try to weave these things into prose – a fictional memoir – but even that might be too telling.

Admittedly, I’m not feeling much like myself these days. I keep hearing a harsh (but honest) voice in my head. I feel diminished. I feel smaller. I feel guilty. I acknowledge these things and move on. The feelings won’t last but the words and their meaning will linger.

It’s the failure of optimism and the treachery of pessimism that allows our emotions straddle us with the quandary of what it is to love.

In Heaven,
There are no angels.

This is an empty place.
An ethereal void of hopes and useless miracles,
Of blood and ambition,
That follows a stream of faith-
Into Darkness.

Networks of directives and principles,
Firelight and methane burns-
A toxic night,
In cities of iron and decay.

Prefabricated lives and deaths,
A cybernetic limbo-
We are slaves to the electron,
Red, Blue and Green fantasies,
Destroyed.