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11:34am 22/07/2008
  fell asleep to mad max II, i guess. makes you dream about a lot of dust and rust and wake up asking "whatever shall i wear to the apocalypse?"

i have left myself with a half-hour to ride a mile and back to get clean clothes, and crush and haul cans from several places. oops. i guess i'll just flush it down livejournal.

i had forgotten cans as a source of income, so i'm no longer unemployed. take that, america.

life would be a lot easier with a cocaine addiction, or maybe one of those fancy-schmancy aderol scripts. i'd certainly get a lot more done between five and ten in the morning.		  
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11:49am 16/07/2008
  i'm procrastinating on going to the shop.

i've become familiar with the sensation of 'concussion hangover.' this is where you do something like DROP THREE BICYCLES ON YOUR FACE and feel groggy the next day. they're basically whole bikes sans wheels, so the handlebars overlap, and when one falls they go like dominoes. at least my arm is all bruised as proof that i TRIED to block the punch.

the hilarious part is that i was trying to hang up a build-a-bike and told the kid to let me do it because i was 'afraid the rack was a serious liability.' apparently.

i'm definitely becoming better at first aid. when you don't have health insurance, butterfly bandages are better than sliced bread. it was one of those 'impact splits' as i call them, where it's not a cut or a gouge, but just split open to the point of looking black at the bottom. skin is really taut over the brow ridge, so every time i moved my face even slightly, the cut ripped open further and deeper. i call this type of injury 'a run in the stocking.'

so as a review of poor people medical terminology;

an impact split really gave me a run in the stocking yesterday. i've got a gnarly concussion hangover.'

okay, time to go build bikes.		  
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01:40am 07/07/2008
  man. when someone steals your password and tries to delete all your shit, it is a knee-slapping good time.

hopefully it's homeland security! ha!

no, i have my finger pointed.		  
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crushed velvet revolution.   
02:18pm 12/02/2008
  let's focus on the things that can't be used me in a court of FEMA internment.

i stabbed myself in the hand a while ago. despite the profuse projectile bleeding to a beat of "ka-thump, ka-thump," the triage wasn't impressed. neither were they impressed with the oozing eyepatch of the kid who was hit-and-run by his own schoolbus. nor the roomful of other uninsured who had been waiting for eight to fourteen hours. they did, however, give immediate treatment -- no forms, no waiting room -- to a rich man's toddler suffering from allegedly falling off a chair. what classism?

and did i have a right to be outraged, as a white observer, when the white staff treated only the whitest customers (patients seems misleading)? when most of the waiting room had seen it all before, since the day they opened their eyes?

well, we stopped the bleeding with a bike tube tourniquet and got a ride home. i didn't want your lousy stitches anyway.

too many questions. don't worry, a half-white man is running for president. he'll unshoot that black baby -- BOTH bullets -- in lima, ohio, and unslaughter its mother. because a town of thirty-some-thousand really needs a SWAT team, and a SWAT team really doesn't need a warrant. or to even look before they shoot. they're all resembling anyway, i'm sure.

don't worry, a token and a token are running for president. would you like bread or circuses? don't worry, the primary isn't rigged! nevermind clinton being so lonesome on the ballot in michigan. nevermind the voting machines arriving after noon in california and vermont. came in the morning and have to go work? well, so much for voting. at least you're not in prison yet, like 1 out of 136 u.s. residents are.

it's okay. the last two elections were decided for us and we didn't object. the florida recount was released in november 2001, and you were a little busy with nine-eleven-nine-eleven-nine-eleven. i understand. nothing undemocratic about bush-bush-clinton-clinton-bush-bush-clinton, anyway.

that's IF the appearance of an election actually goes off in november. the patriot act and directive 51 are a lot of effort to just gather dust. just add disaster! everything's in place, continuity of government, martial law, the whole shebang. it'd be such a shame to let it go to waste, especially with 40% inflation on food. the quality plummets, the price skyrockets. let's see how stalinist walmart looks to you in a few years. let's see you argue about honest competition and the free market when it's the only place left. let's hear your diatribe about choice and variety when you realize the difference between generic and name brand was just the salt, sugar, and marketing all along. there is a line and when you cross it the numbers disappear and price tags all just say "NOT FOR YOU."

think about where your food comes from. FUCKING THINK. ignore the privatized american gulag labor working on the farms, sure. but remember that there is no "more sustainable" or "less sustainable." it IS or it ISN'T. black and white. simple. you can twiddle your thumbs and lobby for a few extra years for the sake of your conscience, drag it out for all of us, but in the end nothing has changed. agribusiness takes more from the landbase than it gives. period. you can't bandage the damage forever. therefore production will peak. or already has. now use your imagination.

hunger is the biggest gun. you have been given no reason to trust the finger on that trigger.

the borders have closed, my friends. the wall is up and the war is on. the baby boomers sold us out and ALL WE GOT WAS THIS LOUSY DRUG CULTURE. to everyone that i care about: please, LEAVE NOW. you better run run run, learn spanish, and don't look back.

the late hunter s. tells us: there is no such thing as paranoia, only ignorance.

all i see are patterns. historical and physical. exponents upon exponents. spirals. i get dizzy.

if you need drugs to see what's happening to space and time, then you won't understand it anyway. blackhole have mercy on my soul, let this just be dementia.		  
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05:31pm 13/08/2007
 
mood: distressed
oh, there's nothing to say, really.

thanks to the fluoridation of water and all.

the world's a mess, it's in my piss.

little punk rock joke there. ha ha ha, ha ha, ha.

my life is a big tangle of wars. all worthy, all exhausting.

i just deleted five paragraphs. tough fishy to you, titface.		  
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Dr. Classwar (or why i've stopped wearing make-up and started wearing the same clothes every day)   
12:53pm 23/04/2007
  well. shu has taken my tobacco to work. i discovered this after fixing my cup of coffee. now there is a gaping routine-shaped void in my life.

shu also called me to say i shouldn't open the bike shop alone. the only way to ward off our narc/thief friend is a rusty machete, which might well do the trick versus a coke-sniffing gun-toter if i weren't a bumbling white runt.

the first night he showed up, i got my first whiff of The Fear and the biggest shot of adrenaline in my life; it isn't surprising that most people would rather be bungee jumpers than activists. i mean, what are we gonna do, call the cops? ba ha ha ha!, et cetera.

and once my very marrow ceased its vibrating, The Despair moved in. then the "if i loathe everyone so, who is this project for? for whom am i filling a bottomless pit with my blood?"

well . . . just like he fucking hippies, it's for The Less Fortunate. the problem with the fucking hippies is that they think that group is limited to those that are a) brown and b) don't live on this continent.

and for those that decide to sell their cars while they still can. for those who will make changes to their lifestyle without waiting for the government's cue.

for those who can't afford their coal-fired utility bill, let alone a brand new solar panel. to put on what? their scumfuck apartment? their leaky-roofed foreclosure-bound house on the south side? right. so now the middle class can berate the classes below them for not only being lazy (which must translate to "lack of ruling class aspirations") but being "detrimental to the environment," "un-green," "unconcerned," or whatever the hell words will spew with their bile.

sorry, fuckers: it's hard to worry about organic cotton pajamas when you're eating the last can of chemical-laden government beans.

the liberals must be thrilled: "green" is quickly bloating into the must-have status symbol.

now they can buy moral superiority to the have-nots! until now it was just pity for their lack of palm pilots! now you can be richer AND better, which they've had to pretend not to believe for so long!

i understand this to be an uphill struggle both ways in the snow for the rest of my life.

anyway, i would like to have a band called "surprising diarrhea."		  
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what the queers are doing to the soil.   
12:50pm 10/04/2007
  you can tell i'm unemployed when i start to hit the livejournal bottle. yes yes, i have more wageslavery lined up. but today is raining and thawed -- what? no dry and firey doom of march and icy death of april? -- and i have a nice cushion for the bike pushin' lined up.

a few sips of coffee and i start the sweats.

i seem to have an utter lack of inspiration, but i have a feeling my militancy has shifted dramatically.

here is my life. i live in a one-bedroom apartment smack dab in south-central fayetteville. everything works, and the carpet is not beige. it is very nice. therefore i cannot afford it and look forward to my lease running out in june, so that i can find some roachy, drafty soviet crap. or put a cot in the bike shop. who needs indoor plumbing anyway? it is clearly a tool of the man! fuck the man! fuck showering in the summer!

i am developing important life skills, like how to soak bags of government beans.

oh yeah, and how to start a nonprofit business from slim paychecks, thin air, and determination. uh, and blood, sweat, grease, and tears. oh, and joshua. lots and lots of joshua, card-carryin' oklahoma commie with his minnesota vocal chords and college education.

enough about bicycles. let's talk about me.

i've had this incessant sinus infection for eons which costs me my hearing and my naturally patient and mild temperment (har har har).

enough about me, let's talk about the end of the world as we know it. i feel fine!

i wish that transportation liberation weren't so time-consuming, because i do believe we are upon the light at the end of the petrol tunnel. bicycles are nice and all -- they're my full-time job that sucks up nearly every drop of pay from my conventional full-time job plus farmer's market -- but you can't eat them. believe me, i've tried.

but even if this "dandelion collective" takes off and the hippies can keep their asses in town and the coke outta their noses for the growing season, i haven't much confidence that it isn't too late already. i mean, i guess seeing the middle-class prostrated in my lifetime will be worth it, but . . .

more conspiracy theories that i have bet my life upon later. goodbye.		  
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bah! house.   
02:13pm 23/12/2006
  here comes the train of thoughtcrime, one day ahead of schedule. chugga chugga woo fucking woo.

saturday afternoon. sitting next to a stapler that one could beat a man to death or at least terminal vegetation with.

the plan is to paint my claws and shave my stems later, proving gender issues the result of captive boredom.

(you know, because i can't find my way into some shoes and maybe socks, out the front door, onto apfel the bicycle, over the mountains and through the woods. THREE CHEERS FOR PREPOSITIONAL PHRASES! HEILHEILHEIL!)

anyway, i am looking forward to living on top of a red carpet next month. yes, it seems i pursued and leased a studio apartment on the basis of floor color. i am feeling very monetarily snug. forgot about those utility deposits and thanks to jesus being born, i'm missing over a week of work. good for stewing in my own juices, and as cityscapes (thick glossy and free magazine for the aspiring local bourgeois) says this month: "if you have a problem money can solve, you don't have a problem."

all humans are equal, but some are more equal than others. however, their equality is not determined by any of the crutches common to rabid eugenicists (admittedly including &rea's own passive-aggressive and deeply ingrained cunthate, which, sadly, has been internally justified or excused by its correspondingly vicious penis envy): race, creed, religion, SOCIAL CLASS. since this is not a utopian (from Greek: οὐ no, and τόπος, place, i.e. "no place" or "place that does not exist") and brave old world, there is not now nor in the foreseeable future an unbiased method of determining which specimens deserve to fill two parking places with their diesel magic carpets, fill their bellies with good food or any food (alright, so the US has a lot of portly working class and even homeless -- and it is wise indeed to keep them stuffed with cheap fats, salts, and processed sugar a.k.a. the other cocaine) stroll through granted mansions or pace in numbered shoeboxes (well grab your destiny, you stupid lazy laborers! any time you see fucking fit to give up your hobbies and low blood pressure, you can exchange days of your pitiful, "uneducated" existence in direct proportion of square feet! think of all the new angles to watch television from!) . . . fuck. experiencing some turbulence here. i don't how we are to make our grand economic exodus from this sick serfish game, so i shouldn't preach about these pipedreams.

. . . the only important point that i've derived from ingesting psychedelics (psychedelic drugs are psychoactive drugs whose primary action is to alter the thought processes of the brain. the term is derived from greek psyche, "mind" and delein, "to manifest", or delos, "beautiful".) is that it is crucial to abandon or radically organize these immense, rancid buildings. trapped in this elevated box, with hives of strangers extending above, below, and beside, borders perforated by screaming motorized traffic, what your mind is left to obsesses over are the thousands of tiny lumps in the "floor" which is clearly some anonymous someone's ceiling. or you can gaze out of any of the four windows at a precise mirror image of your own poverty. if one positions oneself just so on the futon, you can censor everything from the roof down -- ah, a few feet of pure, framed firmament.

the only healthy use i see for these buildings is to fill them with our fictive kin, annex them together, give them respective newspapers, garden plots, and abolish rent.

do they owe us a living? and how.

ah, how wonderful anarcho-socialism sounds on the paper of someone with an inability to respect or command authority or function socially.

luckily i live in a progressive bible belt. i was puzzled as to why the new bike paths "end" in parking lots until i realised that, actually, they begin there.

step one: buy shitty mountain bike at walmart.

step two: transport it in your escalade to quaint "downtown" and peddle lazily for half a mile.

step three: describe your lifestyle as "active."		  
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teenaged like a fine wine -- angst du jour (it turns twenty in eight months).   
01:20pm 07/11/2006
  SAVED DRAFT SAYS QUOTE ITS ALMOST NOVEMBER UNQUOTE.

oh, the schizophrenic hormones. it can pretend it has been perceptively cynical and sassy, but it knows it has been having a very morose, jewish week. it subconsciously boobytraps its own mattress in a guiltstricken cleaning frenzy.

headlines: RADAR-CLOAKED SEWING NEEDLE (KOREAN) INVADES BALL OF NICE BLOND ARKANSAN PERSONS FOOT -- BICYCLIST WAS USING THAT, DAMNIT.

FORT RIGHTFOOT FALLS -- INTRUDER REFUSES TO PULL OUT.

see also: BLOOD FLOWS GRATUITOUSLY UPON THE CARPET -- APT. NEIGHBORS TRY NOT TO QUESTION SCREAMS.

LEFTFOOT REGRETS THE MAIMING OF ITS COMRADE BUT REFUSES TO PULL ALL THE EXTRA WEIGHT AROUND HERE -- RIGHTFOOT IS REPLACED BY HIDEOUSLY UNSKILLED NON-UNION BASEBALLBAT UNTIL RIGHTARM SAYS FUCKETTE AND MOUTH CONCURS.

POLITICRITICS SAY that my pants are on fire but the lie was white as a nazi brothel and to take that as you will (as opposed to as you wont?), but it knew where its own pliers were but could not muster the superpowers to extract the stigmata itself.

major resurgence of &rongyny (currently i am recieving love nips from roommates cat on M. FLEXOR CAPRI RADIALIS).

accompanied, naturally, by dual rattails.

&REA STICK-N-POKES PIXELATED DOT REPRESENTING SAGINAW ON PALM AFTER LONG DEBATE -- WEEKS LATER TATTOO FALLS OFF -- FUNDAMENTALIST PHYSICIST/PRACTICING ATHEIST RENDERED MORALLY UNABLE TO QUOTE TAKE IT AS A SIGN UNQUOTE -- BEING PERSONALLY AND INDIFFERENTLY KNOCKED DOWN PEGS BY SCIENCE AND RANDOMOSITY FAR MORE DISTURBING THAN ONE FELL MONOTHEISTIC SWOOP.

i love when michiganders come out of the woodwork and fall into context.

CAPTAIN &REAOGYNY RESENTS ALL WHOM ARE ORIGINALLY FROM WHERE THEYRE FROM -- QUOTE JEALOUS, UNQUOTE SAY FINGERWAGGERS.

TANGENTS LOSING FUEL FAST, THOUGHTTRAINS INSATIABLY DERAILING.

PASSING MOTORIST SUGGESTS QUOTE GO HOME, HIPPIE UNQUOTE.

PUNGENT BEERSWEAT ODOR PERMEATES ENTIRE DIMENSION.		  
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06:21pm 17/10/2006
  alright. today is the day i have slept off the illness and must ask ourself: is &rea alive or dead?

i used to laugh so hard, my pupils would dilate.

how the tables turn.

woke up ten minutes after my phone rang. to lazy to listen to vinyl today. all that flipping. worse than pancakes. complete sentences! (that is a command.)

i don't have any coffee so i'm drinking a beer.

i want a pet snake that thinks it's a dog.		  
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06:01am 16/10/2006
  little squares of paper + one bottle of cold coffee concentrate + two cases of old style equals twenty-six very slow hours.

ouch.

so much for chewing.		  
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this banter stinks of patchouli. (shameless sluthood and aimless revolt)   
12:29am 28/09/2006
  there's just not enough time for reading AND thinking.

i just want to act.

the brink of serious overhaul. on a petty personal level, i realize that i've being living nonmonogamy willingly for my entire life. i guess the conditioning only worked well enough to make me feel guilty and angry and jealous and hold myself back -- also the case with anyone who's ever fucked around, had an "emotional affair,"  yearned to strike up a conversation with a bus copassenger, or had a lover and a pet simultaneously. 

i mean, i've spilled a lot of guts all over the most unlikely of people this summer, and vis versa. comrades are comrades.

the nameless seventeen year old boy going home to seattle and telling me why he ran away while we touched our knees together and stared at the moon out the train window.

the guy who stopped on his bike on the sidewalk to make shy, cryptic remarks about how his life is going and inquire about mine.

the surrealist creature fashioning pancakes out of freehand white powders and melted ice cream.

the one who helped me keep an eye on utah and slept in the seat beside me and helped me carry my bags out at my stop.

these are significant, valid forms of love. i am NOT creepy. i am not a slut. i am not desperate or needy. i am not strange or insane. i am entirely the opposite, and that no longer terrifies me.

and i, for all the world's advance:
an upright mammal, wearing pants.

and when i look around, i see a brilliant assortment of apes. very confused apes in the nastiest throes of evolutionary puberty, hurtling and breeding to extinction -- but none the less, animals -- functioning purely on instinct. you feel to survive. a synonym for brain is sensorium. you are tangible.

love and hate are merely passion, indistinguishable. but the shade varies, even the faintest of which is valid.

it is okay to pet the dog of a stranger: it is not acceptable to pet a stranger (thus the crutch of cute pets in public -- acute cultural symptom of loneliness -- and let's not even mention "church"). it seems the taboo should've developed at the other spectrum -- flaunt affection for only foreign species openly? not that all animals are amiable, but it's often a matter of the individual. there are humans who are naturally inclined toward a force field and living alone. but there are others who would like to sleep in communal nests or smile at someone without twinges of self-consciousness.

buzzword: balance. fuck the hippies: however, when i finally interact with someone, when we finally nuzzle our antennae together and exchange guttural noises (language = glorified monkey chatter -- i happen to be a monkey, so it is indeed glorious) it is usually after an extended period of pretending not to stare, or perhaps performing as an invitation for comment. for instance humming a song, drawing a picture, sighing. some of these courting displays are more transparent and pathetic than others but i am guilty as charged.

is this natural? we wear clothes and deodorant and facepaint and haircuts, so is this peripheral eye contact and thinly vieled, abashed interest a necessary way to size each other up? when you notice someone's hat, is this a healthy substitution for sniffing their ass?

should i seize my impulses to poke people in the shoulder when i like them? to hold someone's hand for saying something beautiful? to pat heads, to kiss cheeks, to sniff napes?

maybe one man's repression is another man's refinement.

i am the former. i have no qualms with the latter and expect the same in return.

most gaping hole in logic of the following goes to: there are few enough people that i relate to enough to be on a head-patting, randomly smiling level. so say there's five people i love enough to coddle.  that handful will feel singled out, will take it personally, will be more likely to misinterpret my actions than if i had a flat rate of affection for the entirety of the species -- then i'd be merely maladjusted and unmannered.

but i've seen drunks and been drunk. disinhibitors lead me to suspect that discomfort with physical contact is more nurture than nature.

i believe whole-heartedly in open relationships in principal. in practice, those righteous convictions tend to spontaneously combust.

well. practice makes perfect.

one giant leap for andreakind: disengaging the social anxiety cycle and conventional affection.

let's play.

-----------

if i focus all my energy on designing and organizing an independently sustainable ocean community -- the precious, final pacific frontier -- i run a relatively greater risk of accomplishing nothing.

i am torn between:

tolerating this culture and allowing them to dig their own grave (cellular sports utility televisions sold at walmart sponsored by our lord and savior tax deductible) while i try to find the door.

or strategize based on the preexisting conditions of society while i try to find the lightswitch.

the door may be locked and the filament may be burnt out.

obviously, i should do both. if i turn on the light, i could see the goddamned door. and suddenly recognize that thing i've been tripping over all this time as a battering ram.

how symbolic. gag me with a spoon.

first, let's define this idyllic "revolution": i resent the helpless and apathy of my generation. we're sicker all the time. animals in captivity don't live long, satisfying lives, no matter how fucking comfortable they are or how well their couch has adapted to suit their fat ass. we are not happy because we are increasingly removed from the cause and effect of survival. "i butcher this cute furry thing, and i convert it into hopefully more energy than i expended in catching it." we are dependent and irresponsible.

and the root of our dependence is fuel. the kind you insert into your mouth and masticate -- shut the fuck up about gas prices. you are choosing to submit yourself, because the odds are very high that you have two legs attached to very useful feet.

alright, so these poor unfortunate warm-blooded machines need to eat. irrelevant to paychecks and taxes.

i can pack the freezer with a deer and i can dumpster dive this winter. but come spring, i want a way. that's two seasons of patience and premeditation. a community garden. a seizure of public land, by the public. (sure, berkley fucked it up royally, but defeatism is not in the schedule of survival.)

fuck this. i'm not even going to proof read.		  
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03:02am 26/09/2006
  I love how I am too lazy to crosspost, so my captain's log is smeared across three interweb sites plus paper, backs of envelopes and reciepts, et cetera.

Well. Five hours of obsessive-compulsive disorder. I love the owners of this kitchen and I needed to tell them how much I love them. As a bonus, emotional purging goes hand in hand with the smell of chemicals and shit under one's fingernails.

Know what happened today? The revolution began. Forty times two is eighty ounces and I thank you.

For the record, I no longer have a telephone.

I am growing hair. They call me corn tassel.

I am going to sleep.		  
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04:54pm 23/09/2006
  yes, beautiful things still happen.

and they still involve railroad tracks and cigarettes.

it could be worse. he could be married.		  
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11:17pm 12/09/2006
  so here is the moment of pixelated truth, fingers fueled by mere vodka and lettuce.

i am officially off the processed sugar. two days. i go through intense, illogical cravings: "i'm not hungry but i'm going to stir some sugar into this grape juice." so far, willpower emerges the victor. i manage to dance a lot in the basement.

compared to the very logical cravings that i submit to on an hourly basis: "i'm going to compress this brown, chemical-drenched plant into a little tube of paper and light it on fire and breathe its putrid smoke. boy, this feels good. i look cool."

oh well. revamp one vice at a time.

in other news, i'm not crawling back to arkansas.

no, no. i'm striding confidently back.

oh pride, be strong. ten days remaining in the land of lincoln. i'm going to get a lot of shit and spend a lot of time laughing. my wintering is supposed to consist of accumulating funds for another escape: might as well do it in the company of my dearests, where i have a built-in demographic for my zine.

this has been a success. lessons have been learned. friends have been made. states have been invaded.

as i've chewed peoria, a decidedly bitter taste has emerged: this fucker tries to seduce me with the good old "stomp on my toes under the table" trick. so i use the good old "look at me and my little-boy-hair-do, i'm obviously a dyke" excuse which backfired miserably. i escaped unscathed. i'm pissed.

not to mention the racial tension that is thick enough to condense in the air. i'm sorry, but i'm going places and doing things and i do not have time to deal with a culture that cancels out its own momentum with skin color. may they save themselves.

i need to soak up as much river as possible before i go. 

i can't wait to showcase my new intercontinental callouses, san fransican scars, and prison tattoos. tell about the time i made stone soup with that pebble from the greyhound station and chipped a tooth.

a winner is . . . me.		  
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internet turrets.   
03:30pm 10/09/2006
 
mood: content
in this record-breaking singularity/celibacy, i have time to compose a detailed mugshot of this mythical creature i will hunt to my grave (thank you, biology), setting the occasional snares baited unsuccessfully with cleavage or eye contact, catching glimpses of his diluted ilk on berkeley sidewalks or in artfag coffeeshops.

i expected to sit in this peoria monestary, this domestic tribute to my dna, and end up with a much broader, lenient (read: desperate) concept of my elusive better half. you know, "this guy has two legs and his head is attached to a neck! holy shit, it's my soul mate! no doubt about it!" much to my libido's dismay, quite the opposite is happening.

ten or so commandments.

1) superficiality aside, this specimen will have an enourmous schnozz. yes, the romans shall be shamed and his character has been fired in the furnace of jeers involving "his own ski resort." the better to smell me with, hippie.

2) his magic endowment will be consistent with the rest of him: not one of those sore-thumb spare-part jobs, fused on in some clumsy pubescent afterthought. circumcision is a cruel, unusual, and unforgivable sin of the fathers.

3) thou shalt have an ass.

4) he will know at least three songs on the subject of my moles and birthmarks, of varying tempo.

5) drunkeness will be secondary to voice-enhancement in whiskey drinking.

6) he will be vehemently intolerant of christianity, television, and deodorant.

7) his violence will not be affected by one's variety of genitals or number of chromosomes.

8) his teeth will be a well-groomed trainwreck.

9) his education will be entirely irrelevant to "school."

10) he will be unable to distinguish slayer from pantera.

11) he will completely lack a desire to spawn or own a dog.

that should narrow it down slightly. i need to talk to the milk carton people.

in other news, after brushing up on relativity, i've spent the week conducting an experiment (documented only by ashtrays and a dent in the coffee supply because i love science): a natural 360 degree rotation of my sleep schedule. left to my own devices -- devoid, for the moment, of wageslave responsibilities -- i have a precisely 28-hour body clock, ten hours of which are sleep. i started off with the 0300 to 1300 sleep shift. today, i woke up at 0300 and anticipate going to bed at 2100.

i watched the full moon set this month.

when i rule the world, i'll order the orbit slowed to 28-hour days. take that.

hm. i have hives on my right elbow today. one more drop in the bucket of skin disease. seriously. why can't my internal organs be sick instead where nobody has to look at them? in other news, i have officially reached a record mass. just what the world fucking needed: one hundred and thirty nine pounds of butterbeast.

lots of entirely unrelated events: i make a batch of fudge and pralines and divinity, and then decide to take a leisurly stroll down bulimia lane. ha ha ha. just kidding. i'll make a list of everything i eat and run up and down the stairs for about a week and then forget.

wow. if you didn't know how monumental my sack is, you might think i'm a fucking girl. well, it's my pity party and i'll cry if i want to.

to make a long story longer, hello i'm fine how are you?		  
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01:50am 05/09/2006
  well. the interweb is never as much fun and as many games as you remember.

here i am. i've got some friends in peoria and i'm fucking stoked. all will be well. grapes will be wined, rhubarb will be pied, and zines will be xeroxed.

just finished my last book. relativity. the universe quakes around me. now my wish list is inhabited by two things: a book on quantum physics, and a couple good hits of acid.

another one rides the bus. i've got the system down. i would prefer a bicycle but we do what we can. need to become a wageslave for the utilities and save up for the rainbow gathering next year.

i haven't been carded for cigarettes lately, even devoid of makeup and hair. i must be getting old. need to find a black hole.		  
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04:42pm 27/08/2006
  Mediocorps is going to be great. I swear. Nevermind I have, thus far, no content and no circulation and no photocopier.

The last week has been a deep breath of staying up to witness the ass-crack of dawn. I have seen very little of my species. I have done nothing but enthusiastic domestic chores. I am making wine from the grapes, pies from the rhubarb, and breakfast from the raspberries. I am learning to embroider. I am talking to the plants. I am hunting for bugs in the yard. I am singing songs in the attic. I am growing hair and fingernails. I am reading the dictionary.

I exhaust myself every day, and I haven't even looked for a job. I am at least one step closer to how my nature intended me -- working full-time for pleasure and survival, instead of an hourly wage. "Unfocused angry youth, fuck the system," yadda yadda yadda. Being sober isn't so bad.

If I can find an open mic, I'll recite like hell.		  
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Grab your balls and head for the cornfields and stripmines, boy.   
02:21pm 15/08/2006
  Ah, stuck between the Pacific and a hard place. I currently lay my head in Yreka, California -- population podunk diddlysquat -- and although I unpacked and the California Conservarion Corps was going to get my act together for minimum wage, I'm pussing out.

Brace yourself, Midwest. Here I come and I'm bringing the party, Peoria Heights.

I'll hop the train on Friday to winter in the vacant house that my waxing-senile great grandmother has lived in for seventy years. I am looking forward to a peaceful hermitage, tending gardens and dusting, detoxing.

I intend to forge the artfag scene I want out of thin air.

Depression and caffeine withdrawl has sent me into deep, deep sleeps. Dreaming is my hobby, waking is my work.

So much for fleeing the country. But this is the beginning, not the end.		  
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russia russia gray gray gray.   
08:54am 29/07/2006
  well, some brief clarity during a stiff cup of coffee. fog-clogged oakland morning, smoking a clove, sucking ripe plums from the branches and stomping on the spare ones with my new boots. which are made for walking.

and that's just what they'll do.

i jumped the gun on settling in the east bay. urbanity amplifies loneliness and there are no stars visible.

it's an expensive way to live so sadly. preemptive rejection.

last night, in a strange bed, drooling on somebody's girlfriend's pillow, my brain cooked up a nightmare: i'm back in arkansas, and as a present from my parents (there's the unrealistic part), i get another greyhound ticket. i definitely was not interested in getting back on that hell-bound bullet but i did anyway, then realised i had no water, no food, no money, no identification, and no ticket. so they make me get off in flagstaff and i have to walk back.

sleep being my drug of choice. even the damp, dreamless kind.

the problem, as i see it, is radiohead lyrics. where do we go from here? the words are coming out all weird.

the drifting is hitting its low point. i hope. brain simmering in a restless brine of "i don't miss anywhere i've been, i don't want to be right here, and there's nowhere i'd rather be."

except in my private, crumbling oil rig, with fifty to seventy-five hand-selected specimens and self-sufficient sustainable living and a libertarian communist manifesto playing spine to my newly discovered anarchism, munching and slurping at the sweet sweet fruits of an independant solar-powered utopia.

2016, i set sail.

in the meantime, i'm in dire need of a place to lay my head and starting to worry about inserting food between my teeth.

am i searching? am i running? i'll think about that more on the train.

just around this bend. just over this horizon. just past these mountains. just a little farther.		  
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mccannot
 
 
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