nanowrimo 2k9

[Note, this was a scratch pad when i was having trouble writing the main novel. This might be longer than the actual story.]

I am having a hard time getting started, so I am listening to banco de gaia, “big men cry” I was trying to listen to outerspace’s blood brothers, but I had never listened to it before and it was good enough to be distracting. The difference with “big men cry” is that the music has no lyrics to distract you while you trying to type. Unfortunately this is just a warmup excersize, but I am still just typing to get back in the habit and to warm up a bit.

Fuck still having a little bit of a problem, mostly in explaining how the rats managed to drill undergroud like ants and build a colony starting from … ok, might have it.

– stuck again i aam just going to start writing, i am now trying to watch the wire again, and while distracting it seems like an ok show from the outset. Anyway, in Chuffs hotel room he sat in silence on his cot.

– ok i am just now typing to try to fill some of the space i need to get through it , the best part is a perticular sphere, there it is, just round and glowing slightly magenta. it seems to pulse, but is more transparent than an egg without the shell, just membrane. there can always be issues with dealing with spheres like this, but this was different, this was a dragon sphere. if there was any need to rebel against the shape, now would not be the time. The shape was determined by consensus in the early fifth century. There were earlier prototypes of the shape, but they were all unrounded, even kind of edge. There was no reason to accept this particular shape, especially given the odd history of the acceptance of new shapes into modern society. The council certainly agreed that this could potentially be ruinous .

– More ramblings
Its possible that this could cover just a short few days were a bunch of stuff happened and life was changed forever. Just saying.

Of course that might be cliche. It might actually be better to destroy the world, one typwriter a ta time. There are always times when there is noise in the wall, and the best option seems like getting a studfinder and a nailgun.

At a small church picnic, in a small seaside town, there was a particular strain of mashed potatoes that threatened to take over the world. It was a difficult time, if there ever was a time. The world was a different place back then, pretty much everyone had nailguns and the sun was a black hole. There were real value back then. The sway the the people held, simply with levers and stern words, could be the most elephant like thing a body could do. The particular of the haiku were actually caught in a different sense of the word. There is no reason that people should see road kill as something other than the union of nature and technology.

Speaking of which, down the street is a tired old taxidermist, who, on in the christmas spirit would recreate a large nativity scene with raccoons, and a very festive lawn decoration featuring only red lights.

There are a lot of corrupt cops in the world, but they have to be doing something right if they manage to keep all those horse corpses off the streets.

There could be another reason that I am typing there is no reason that I should stop, except that I have a word coun6t to match, if nothing else, i can publish my ashamed drunken notes on things. Initially I started writing this to  be an un-faq for why i actually posted, but i think its actually clear that I am not really great. I dont have a problem with that, and i would rather see that people are willing to try, and dont expect that anyone will even try, but I hope that people seeing how crappy my writing is under pressure that they should at least try even if they never show it to anyone.

Its not a bad thing, really. I manage to keep myself semi-anonymous, and dont really care if the people who do know me read the things I write. Actually, I bank on the fact that no one will even try. Its really much easier to write when you low-ball your estimate of potential readers.

There is no contempt, certainly. I only just read random shit in links that I click. The modern internet is inundated with advertising, it pretty much never ends. You can watch fan videos of a product from youtube, and the better they are, the more likely they are well funded.

I hit 14k. I’m out.

–even more ramblings

I just hit 18k, but im sick of writing about chuff and his stomach problems, and i dont feel much like doing dialog. I have the beginnings of a conspiracy chapter, but am feeling a little bit lacking in creativity. I suppose i could go back to nickles. I could send him off on a mystic journey to find some more hand-carved sandwiches. Actually thats not a bad idea. Or I could start the committee meeting.

OK, at this point I am just typing because i am kind of burnt out but need to keep going to make the word limniti. there is nothing wrong, in my mind, of writing to fill the word count because that is the whole point of the contenst. Rigfht now, i am actually just rocking back and forth in my chair and typing with my eyes closed, and ignoring typos, again i am just doing some typing excersiazes because that is what this whole damn thing is babpout, but I am trying to keep going. the most impoetANT THING TO DO WITH WRITING, OR ANY CREATIVE PROCESS IS TO DO AS MUCH AS YOU CAN, SURE, A LOT OF PEOPLE NEVER BOTHER EDIing anything or start writing with their caps lock on. Now that is a run on sentence. I still havn’t figured out how I will add all this emo journal shit in, but I think there is some point where i think everyone has to fight a giant, sentient fire breathing truck. There is nothing really bad about writing this much. I think the problem people have crossing over into doing creative projects is just figuring out a way they can get started. the second hurdle is finishing something. The hard part about finishing things is the reasaon a person editing their own writing is difficult, you have very little sense of what might be wrong, so you tend  to gloss over unnecessary words and typos, it is very hard to re-read your own writing objectively, especially when you are under the constraint of a deadsline. This is the reason that most creative projects, especially writing have editors and publishers. Unfortunately, the higher up the creative managing process runs, the harder it is to see it as a creative work and more as a product. Anyway, you wont be able to have any practice refactoring or reworking shit until you have something to work with. and the better you get at reworking stuff, the better your processes will be, and the better your processes, the easier it is to get things right the first time, so your subsequent major reworkings will actually be with more difficult problems and improve the overall structure of your creations more.

Of course there are alwayss times when you will want to ditch everything and start over, which is why completion is such an important part of the equation. Even if you take on a problem that is too ambitious, you can (if it is something personal), break it up into smaller problems, which are usually about education. Which is the other key part of accomplishing something like this: approaching the problem in manageable chunks, but always making sure there is a particular result that you can do. If you can’t break the problem up into a manageable chunk or schedule, then you are approaching a problem that is too large. The only way, paradoxically to learn how to estimate these sizes it to try to just pick something and do it. You will certainly figure out if it is beyond your means quickly. There is something else to be said for the creative process, but I cant really think about it right now. Again, I am just trying to fill out words, I’m at 19k now, but I want to go a little bit further before I quit tonight, maybe I will just try to figure what I can do to get me to nineteen thousand five hundred or maybe actually twenty thousand. That would actually be pretty quality, i would be forty percent done, and actually only a day and a half behind. So I would have to write six thousand words tomorrow to be completely caught up, but I have already written more than that, and actually a good chunk of that was relevant to the novel, even though I havn’t come up with a single idea for what to do about that . Maybe this could be a really shitty meta novel , like me struggling to write a novel about some shit. Kind of like adaptation, but without any arguable artistic meric. Including the ending. Though there should probably be some crocodiles somewhere in the book. They are pretty kick ass. Crocodiles, I mean, none of that sissy book bullshit. If I were fighting a giant crocodile, I would probably need some heavy equipment. Like, it would be cool to hit it with a sledgehammer, but if it was one of those 20 foot fuckers, that would probably just piss it off. I think shooting a crocodile is missing the point. I mean, i think maybe with an uzi, all the bullets would just bounce off the fucking thing.

And now, time for some wisdom on jam: jam is good, but its not jelly. Jelly is delicious because it is like jam without the fruit. Now there is some jelly where they actually mix seeds back into it, but that seems pointless, because if i wanted to pretend to be eating fruit i would be out in the street with a bullhorn, wearing only boxers and a sandwich board that said “FOR HIRE” in backwards letters. I think thats what the big companies want these days. In fact, if modern consumerism is the death of us, I think any kind of premixed butter is actually a good thing. Maybe its possible that the rapture is going to take the southern baptists away because it will kill them all prematurely of heart disease? Maybe thats mean. Is it mean to say that old people are useless because if they packaged them and sold them in stores, nobody would buy them? I am actually just repeating old fucking jokes that i think i made before my grandparents died. There is again, nothing wrong with any of that.

Now about mediocrity. There has to be some way to work this in as them making power plays other than just writing intentionally bad poetry. Maybe goths could play a role in it? Or bling-bling rappers? The original idea was like jeff foxworthy, and i dunno dane cook, but i think it would be better to celebrate the eternal mediocrity of humanity. In fact, maybe the council of 300 could actually be a force for good, but too mediocre to actually do anything. It seems like there isnt much that they can actually do to affect this novel, because nothing has actually happened.

OK, story so far:
Chuff and crew fly in to SF, go to a bar, get drunk, chuff stays up all night, wakes up, pigs out at breakfast, takes a bath in a sink, and gets tacos (with gravy).

Nickles gets a “hand carved” sandwich, some supplies and gets drunk.

Funny, seems like most of my writing is just about getting drunk and eating. Maybe that is a reflection of my fat wino self. Also, there is a conspiracy group, which has done nothing but use the word “shuffling” like 500 times, this doesnt really seem constructive. It was kind of a funny idea i had ages ago, but can’t really even remember how I told it. Maybe I’m having an existential crisis? Maybe im just having a shitty blog post. Maybe im constipated with flaming gas ass and that is the ultimate end of the evenings writings.

The other stuff that doesnt make sense or fit in: the storm which is magically gone at the meeting (because its out of town, they are in the hotel because its closer to many many bars in case they get too foul?), the infrastructure / arteries stuff. I guess that could be worked on. Mostly because the only two real characters introduced so far are separated by many different sizes of roads. I dont know why that should seem interesting.

The storm I think should just be a random occurance. Actually it should probably be supernatural. Some major force of nature without any specific cultural allegory. Just a pissed off magic cloud fuckin shit up.

San Francisco seems like a good epicenter, because its near sharks and I live there, and it also has some pretty schizophrenic weather. Unfortunately, i dont have many opinions about the actual city, or care enough to make anything destroy museums, or wash the homeless out of the tenderloin.

Actually, thats not a bad idea, Nickles could make it to the tenderloin and decide to start a reign as survivalist king. It could become a center of something other than civic and heroin.

I think what it really needs is to suddenly have shit get awesome. Giant trucks and landwalking sharks and flying platypus and shit. Maybe some magic fire chainsaws. I think thats whats actually important. Fuck this jelly and jam shit.

Ain’t nothing to it. Gangsta rap made me do it.

–
Just starting again, its always hard to get the motivation to keep working. Of course it is not that much effort to type, which is why i am adding so many unnecessary asides. There are a lot of reasons that someone wouldn’t like eel, but I can’t imagine the soft crunchy bones being one of them, rather I would imagine that people would have a harder time eating a hideous underwater snake that sometimes lives in rocks and just sticks it head out to kill things. That might be the beauty of it, though: eels kind of taste like candy, except all the skin and bones. Thats what eel sauce is for, it makes eels or palatable, so while you are chewing through eel spine, you can pretend that its a barbequed mushroom or something. Except that you are having it cold with rice. Comparatively, though, it can be a delicious aside to a variety pack of cold salted fish mash.

Well, that isnt working, i guess i can explain what i was doing in my fun time at work today, i actually converted a bunch of xml files into a database, which i now run locally. That may not seem like much, but boy is this going to be good character dialogue for when a fat stupid ners walks in and won’t shut up about all his awesome stuff.j

There is a new wave in town, and I am talking about the spray that makes waves waves. We should try really hard to make our hair more wavy. Its difficult, but us straight haired folk can’t deny the call any more what the hell is it that we have to do in able to be able to respectably wear doo-rags. This is not a joke, i got an awesome camoflage doo-rag a couple years ago in rural washington, and I actually wear it while Im cleaning the house and shit. Now, my uncle has very curly hair, it basically just grows out in an afro, and my dad actually used to buy him doo rags and pomade. Which I think he laughed at, but it seems he always hated his brother. Kind of fucked up. Anyway, my stepmom also has very curly hair and would iron her bangs straight and actually use pomade. So I wonder, what do the white trash folk who have straight hair and wear doo-rags do. They have no excurse, but it is just a fashion based entirely around people who have nothing in common ethnically. Well, thast too extreme, the folks i mentioned before were white, certainly. At least as white as me. But to wear a headpiece thats made specifically for tying down curly hair while its being specially “conditioned”, raises the question: how is this fashion and not just bathroom wear? Still its a pretty awesome camo doo-rag.

I really need a new pair of shoes, fine this is turning in to a personal diary, but it doesnt fucking matter because I am still typing. There are a lot of things to worry about, but the fact that I am just typing endlessly again for this fucking thing. Lets try it, actually i should probably stop listening to this Hot Karl fucking demo which is mostly just about a white kid being a sarcastic dick and trying to be a rapper. It is, actually earnest, but its still kinda wack. Even with the mc serch intro.

What the hell? I can’t even type bullshit crap for one thousand words. I think i’m just getting warmed up, but what the hell, suddenly im listening to nerdcore and im angry in the wrong way, not angry because the music stirs some kind of emotional resonance, but rather that its just a bunch of fucking cultural references, and really annoying. Kind of like if i was forced to make a rap album, but i think i would hate everyone who liked my fucking album of nintendo raps. Yeah, i get it , it was cool, nostalgia, nintendo, shit I wrote a fucking poem about nintendo for our 6th grade newsletter about how addicted I was, but I also wrote like a solid paragraph on why we should have a longer receess. They made people stand up and read their favorite pieces from the paper, and a bunch of people actually picked that one.

Fat kids.

In the same reading, I remember a certain kid, ill call C.E., who was not the brightest, actually wrote a poem. It went like this:

Red,
the color of blood
and someone lying on the ground.

Whats funny is that I used to mock it for being so simple, but I still remember it 20 years later. This kid was someone that was belittled and made fun of by everyone. Including my self and my friends, during high school, he started talking about how he was taking martial arts lessons, and then he started lifting weights. He stayed local, but got bigger and more fit. He was always amicable to me, and i dont think anyone gave him shit after that. Good for him.

–
Still stuck typing, what the hell, Im typing, but it doesnt seem like I am making any progress, why should it, there is always an impossible object to try to face. In fact it might be an insurmountable wall of crap, but apparently if you keep chipping at it, it becomes manageable. There are always other problems with trying to replace nothingness with something, but you wont usually figure out what that is until you lay the first brick.

And then there were the forests. The ground was a lighter brown than the soil laying underneath it, it was always covered in brown pine needles. The pine needles were actually edible while they were on the tree and could be covered with tasty tasty sap. there were lots of fucked up animals that lived on live pine leaves, but they actually had a higher arbitrary status in the animal kingdome than the creatures who lived off of dead pine,.lleaves. Its ok, im ok, we are all ok. Especially you’re fucking parents. And by fucking parents, i mean your parents fucking.

Whats the worst thing i ever did? Had to go to a meeting with my mom and a friend of mine got me to throw rocks at their cat. probably fucked that whole thing up. In fact it might be a miracle that I never git stung out on any fucked up drugs. i think it was actually my contiual aversion to needles there is nothing that could make me actually want to get a shot. for that i avoid doctors, dentists, flu shots, and blood tests. Geeeeeeeeeh, shit just creeps  me out, i dont think i could watch a muppet special about getting a flu shot without having to look away.

p.s. those chicken wings were fucking disgusting.

–
OK, i am not even typing striaght, but i think i can manage to actually get a few more words in tonight, i dont care any more, i am trying to write so much, but physically failing. note to self: you should start drinking after you start typing. web browsing will just disguise your condition. also rap music might be a very distracting kind of thing to listen to while you are inebriated and trying to type.

–
Now I am just typing furiously at work while trying to actually do some stuff. Got to love all the programming and diagnostics and what not. Like house,but for some shitty rss trawler.

–
Yet another painful entry. In order to start typing, one must first embrace the true nature of output. In order to be striking, ones output must be overwhelmingly psychotic. Not in the mental sense, surely but rather in the fact that it should overload peoples initial reactions. In fact to be psychotic is the wrong word, but being ballistic might be closer except for the negative connotations. The most important thing about output is that it has to be continuous, with quality taking a back seat. Great artists like picasso, or leonardo did not grow to notoriety through a single masterpiece, but rather from a lifetime of prodigious output that was made possible through tedious discipline. It seems that most people know some random person, possibly an outsider, someone who has written a great song, or a great poem, someone who can scratch out designs from the depths of their brains, but like most people, they can only proceed as an avocation, as soon as it starts becoming work, it is hard to stay inspired, hard to keep going. It is preferable to do the fun part as long as its fun and still save time for tv and “hand carved” sandwiches. The best thing to actually do is lose yourself in some activity to the point that it is effortless, and it sseems that you should be less con cerned with the output, but there are still a llot of people who try to get bty as artists when mostly they are only interested in promoting themselves and shovel out whatever half assed crap that they can be assed to do when they aren’t boring people with the endless details of their genius. Fuck it all!

–
Boat  man white man, whats the fucking diffedrence. What time is it in whatever land i am thinking of why is it that there are malls eeverywhere and churches. Is god money, come on? This is deep shit!

All that and more could be found at your local campus bar, your local pot party, even methheads are occasionally right about things. Gotcha. What the hell is there with any of it why not any opther part of things being as they are.

So, maybe megatruck, and that badass guy and nickles could have a major showdown? What the hell do marketing assholes have to do with it? I dont know. And all that shit about “hand carved” sandwiches? What was I doing with nickles, why have so many things been these fucked up ramblings, what about all the freaking minefields out there. Wasn’t there some fucking elton john or whatever the fuck that guy is supposed to be? What if he was a boatsmith, or a snakeman?

There is some shit to go through,s there are never any more fundamental problems than simply trying to get shit done, or forcing it to be done. is there a time in a place in a world in a difference in a life or death wituation. Why isn’t it? Is there any of the once over, the twice over, the fleecing, the mincing, the dancing?

Where are we as people if we permit this to happen, what is the difference that I have made. why havn’t any of the people or things that we are all inside of every single day trying to worry about what are they working through. why shouldn’t there be any kind of work that the rest of us can use. Why when give the options do we choose only to procreate and play games. Why do people want the protection, who are they afraid of, and how much more of the world can we expect to get out of this if we can’t try to force anybody out of their own antipodes, the antibodies, the scariest parts of the psyche that sit there just below the surface. the teeth the busey the long hot shower in the morning that put you to sleep.

Where is the good of the endless analysis and purgatory of reading actually do us anything other than harm, any pieces or patches left that we can’t caluk over or seal with our own misuunderstandings? Where is the want, where is the breathing through fear, where is the support telling you that its not ok to quit. Why can’t we just do these things.

There are enough places in the world that we could probably all breathe, but no one just wants to be like everyone else. New jersey, i think is what equates to the american ideal, or so say the foreign interrogators. What more do we want? How many words should we count, histrionics? Histogram. There could be any one of another couple of things but possibly not so much but more likely the ones that are able to rescue, or reach all of us, there is no point in a rescue back to a life of slavery and servitude, even though the things that people want tend to enslave them to their own desires of something in the past. If people evolve and change, then how is it that they can’ tmanage to fail to not belittley understand or understate the origins of their own misunderstood fear (and stuff).

There is a long history of emoticons, its just unclear as to how our emotions became so transparent and generic as to allows simple icons, and that using these icons as currency has simply replaced our own wrathd and second guesses the fact that we are all just molotov cocktails stuffed with toilet paper and thermite. What the fuck. if its now actually a jocular change, then maybe it should be for the jugular. There is too much going on and not enough to think . Not enough to murder, not enough to keep carrying all through the night, or concerned for their own well being. The safer you are, the fatter you are. The more insualted and powerful you become, the more likely you are to take physical risks rather than economic or intellectual. People simply want to be told what they think, so they can agree easily. There is nothing more offensive than being disagreed with, unless you are someone who is so unsure of themselves as to think that their own ideas are simply just contrarian so they can agree with someone telling them they are wrong. More dangerous still are people who think resistence to their ideas actually prove them right. Most of these people have a hard time seeing past themselves.

But then what? What are we left with? A sticky pile of socks, some used bars of soap and nail clippings. Dirty dishes, washing powder, the secrets of the universe. And in that our souls are just incinerated, its not that anything is lost, we have to keep going. We could of course all be mercenaries, working under the fold of our own salutations, dogs, running in packs, waves lapping and ebbing against the tide, heads floating in jars. Too many brain stems, and not enough activity. The world just works like that, i guess. there isn’t any delusion in simply wanting to move forward, since that is the only thing that actually happens without any intention or intervention. The easiest things is to simply not, to take another shot, turn up the volume and slip in to an unconscious blundering fantasy annoyed by the rude awakening of the alarm clock.

Where else but in our sleep, our dreams, are we crazy enough to force ourselves into our fantasies and fears, to think of giraffes and buckets, valves and aids, fights and ideal reconcillations to unrequited loves. But fuck that shit, thats not a fantasy we can control, not a place we can change the channel, not a thing that we can sit there ant let ourselves be numb.

– The concepts here are not bad, but fundamentally, i dont know how to write stories, i can mostly just write self-centered rants about shit. I have no concept of description or conversation, i dont know how to make characters work, and generally dont read enough to try to figure out people should act. I think the recent anti socialness i’ve had has not really helped me be infatuated with talking to people or telling stories. There could be a piece where the brain stretches, but not with any incredulity. The worst part might actually just be trying to make something better where it doesnt exist. Simply trying to find a sweet spot, or maybe just making something and knowing when it is done. Are parameters important? Thats the only thing that actually has me trying this, and if nothing else, i know what my abilities and limitations are regarding this, but i think i have lost some amount of passion with respect to actually figuring shit out. There is not a place, or a time, or an anywhere where it seems like you shouldn’t be running and pushing, but the dieet makes me want to sleep, the day makes me want to lie idle, the plain truth is that i am just a lazy fuck and dont need the hassle or ridicule of what i am doing to feed back on me like a fence of trouble, like a place of a paladin, or a small piece endwise, carrying on. Responsibility is the noose that hangs us all, regardless of if you are responsible or not. There has to be some kind of way that there are people always looking for the next big thing, but it seems like its impossible to find, where is the motivation for it, where is the planning? Or is it simply inspiration, i never have any good ideas, or a sense of execution, but it seems like i can blather on for hours about nothing. Still this is a typing excersize and a word limit and it sits there, forcing whatever people around it to be bent to my whim even if it doesnt make any sense. There are 12000 sentences that start with there are in this fucking thing. The title of the book should be “there are”, doesn’t really matter though.

One of the things about putting this shit online is that i dont expect anyone to read it. These side passages were originally just going to be musings that i inserted at random points, but they are actually pretty much the whole damn thing at this poeint. At least a significant percentage. Thats pretty unimportant though, since i think i have actually post this out, but i dont expect anyone will want to read 20 pages of rambling even if i do post this crap. One thing that is telaling is how little humor there actuall is in this, its like i dont have the sense of humor or the drive to actually make this shit keep going. Now, if there were some kind of bowie knife for literature, some way to really stick a dick in the ear of old country/new country, i mean what they fuck kind of shit is that?

– And it seems like i am stuck again, maybe a fluacious flirtatious arguing feeling of dogs fighting, knives brandishing. Teeth clenching ugly arts of war, pushing issues fighting whatever cause might be the middle class fancy of the day, people sweating, pushing stubby noses against the bus windows, begging for a taste of the modest wealth that passes for them, eating what they see on tv like some kind of leprous smorgasboard of crap. This section does not end, time does not end. If a tree does fall it does make a sound, but it doesnt matter. It actually doesnt matter either way. There is too much distraction in modern life to be able to feel good about being bored, there is even less substance in the distractions, but feeling bored might actually do some good, maybe not having electricity, maybe having an all week sabbath switch, maybe just having a crooked electrician take out your whole city block from a wiring accident while you were trying to steal cable. There are better times than now than to be caught in a bear trap. I would imagine the future, where they have a bear-trap vaccine might actually be one of those times.

Its a terrible thing that people still want to hire party clowns, what with John Wayne Gacy. In the end, didn’t they all really just want to kill people? It is a crime, but the lilly livered liberal in me thinks that they could be turned around with a nice christmas present of a sock and maybe a stapeler gummed up with chaw spit. Not only that, but there is reticence in the some kind of brand of redneck vengence. Xenophobia is a fine justification if you are explaining yourself to someone who is xenophobic, but i can’t imagine them giving vegans any sympathy. Even other vegans.  Take that you small town sheriffs.

–
I need another twenty words. Its not a big thing, but i should actually try to grind through another thousand. Its rough, but im still not even through rambo. Still going though, but it seems like i am still just introducing a bunch of crap constantly, why is it that i can’t really continue a story? maybe its more of a violation of the “show, dont tell” rule, or also that i can’t imagine gvery much interesting dialog between so many people that i have so much contempt for. i suppose i could just keep writing bitchy entries like this, or i could just keep introducting random non sequitors, or maybe just changing chapters. Thats not a bad idea. I keep telling everyone else that its just about starting something new and moving on, and i think thats what i keep doing, part of the problem was that i really had no idea of what i was trying to write about. i think the sartoris thing came out a little better because i at least had a few ideas about it. Maybe getting meta there. And holy shit what the hell is wrong with sylvester stallone. Freaking roid rage mental disorder. There is possibly one other reason for it: sheer might. Or what is it about the idea of crazy dudes going on rampages against the man that make the cinema. And why aren’t there more good shitty movie. Wtf.

–
Another hour, another movie, another block of spew. Where else could it be, what reason is there to run. Where else could one fined the time, the humor, the veritable smorgasbord of sweet sweet salty fish. The county fair perhaps? But this is simply a tickler to my own ministerial persuasions. This is not what we promised, not what was hoped. OF course there are worse things to do with the world than try to find your own way througth the desert with a bucket of salt. Its more than simply finding optimism in a shiny new penny thats left up on the ground. Its a lot more hardcore than tying electrical shocking barbed wire around your balls and doing jumping jacks. Shit its a hell of a lot cooler than all of that. So where is the mystery, the mystique, the menagerie of angry pieces, and angry politics. While the other side loots and pillages each mental capacity, we are instead left with the slivers of dignity, of grace and manners. Should no one stand in the stead of good politics. Fuck that! I say, fuck the manners and the equivacability of relevance. Relevance idn’t matter in motown, why the fuck should it matter here, and we’re even better then motown, we got gasoline, we got style class and world class rat traps, there has never been anything better than the fucking rat trap. Like they say, buiild a better mousetrap, well this shit is the ultimate rat trap. I am completely in over my head with this stuff, i dont think its even possible to feign interest in anything like I am now. In fact there might be an easier way for me to work through the fluff and degraded concentration that only comes from smoking fiberglass insulation through a piece of aluminum siding. In the ghetto, we call that “chuffing”. Not to be confused with the marketing asshole that i am supposedly writing about. There is probably a better word that the one that I am looking for now, but there is nothing that is not slang related that my ministry of street cant handle. What the fuck.

Still, not just trying to continue, but trying to continue in style, its possible that these notes might end up being a more significant part of rambling.

Ok, new note added: metadata: the fact that these can probably just be enteresd all separately and then rearranged at will. Its a good thing these sections are unnumbered. They should probably have a letter ranking, and be added in just to scramble the whole shitty operation and make people less sure of what the hell i was thinking, or mauybe it might actually break up those few chapters where there is a monotonous “structure”. Regardless, all this navel gazing certainly feels like cheating, so i feel pretty good about it.

–
still havn’t decided if there should be zombies or anything else weird in woodvale. good that i’ve managed to make absolutely nothing happen so far, but thats just fluff for the home stretch, which i am sure will have many many battles of homeric proportions. Or it could just devolve into a shitty emo blog. I’m cool with it either way.

Though what might be a nice change of pace: instead of zombies or werewolves, maybe use an obscure monster like the jersey devil, or maybe just an insane gargoyle pharmacist who can keep flying back and throwing flaming napalm pills and poison needles. Some ridiculous crap like that.

Its better than actually trying to direct some movie and describing creepy sound effects or some shit. There is always the mind of madness, though i dont know if i can top flying in on a mountain of cocaine. That shit was pretty funny. The longer this section grows the less likely that i will actually get around to reading it, but that doesnt actually matter. As long is there is a lot of bad company on my motorcycle tape deck and plenty of malt liquor on the radio.

It would be a lot easier if i could just get more of those damn sandwiches, lovely greaseless mystery meat and spray cheese, biker heaven man! There is nothing like being covered in sandwich grease and tearing down a dusty road, letting it all just grind into you.

Also, it might be cool if the schizo guy from the other scene were all hanging out in the bar that was just described in the book. Maybe someone i could tussle with. I bet they got some good sandwiches up in that bitch.

–
Another day, another mountain behind and in front. What more can you say. It seems like it can be impossible to even get in front of the damn mountain, let alone close to it, but if you keep going the mountain does a funny thing: it gets smaller and smaller. You don’t have to do anything more than just keep putting one foot in front of the other. In the same direction of course, if you just follow one damn foot you’ll be walking in small circles, talking to yourself and petting an imagniary cat. Nothing right with that, probably, they also probably think they are going somewhere, counting, fifty, one hundred, five hundred, ten thousand, a million … it doesnt matter, walking over well trod land at that point doesnt count. The path will simply give away to the constant pressure, and while it wont become effortless, you will still have to pass out occasionally and eat your imagniary cat, but if there is enough of basic sustenance, someone could walk in circles for years and make no progress. Climbing a mountain takes persistence and preparation, but in the end the action is the same: one for step forward. And to the statisticians, its the same number of steps.

Allegories aside, something else could be at play, the nurturing insanity is just a pathological want of obsession. Nothing more, of course, and is that a bad thing? Probably, the less able someone is, the harder it is to provide for themselves, let alone whatever the hell they are trying to do. If there were a schizophrenic brontosaurus placed in the middle of central park, how long would people deal with it just endlessly walking in circles and eating the trees that it didn’t trample. How long could such a thing even last, and who would pick up brontosaurus tree crap.

Of course, they could always bring in the military to kill it, or let local vigilanteism take its course, but what would you do with the corpse? People in oregon once thought they could get rid of a whale corpse with dynamite and only managed to pelt the town with huge chunks of rotten whale carcass. Think about it.

–
And its time to keep typing, i have a few ideas:
one: nickel could get in the warehouse and find a huge store of sandwich meat and turn into a super beast that fights mega truck in the end, but i still have a few thousand words before that is even a possibility.

two: nickel could fail repeatedly at getting in the warehouse because he sucks.

three: nickels could run into the woods, park his bike just inside the forest and let his survivalist instincts take hold. He could chew some bark off a tree and weave it into a very sturdy ladder that he uses to climb the tree that he just chewed the bark off because he can’t get a grip on it, but even if he could it wouldn’t matter because he is too drunk.

four: a self aware essay about how all the characteres and situations i write are basically about myself and i have a limited imagination

five: a bunch of punkass kids from the other service station run into the woods and try to ransack his bike.

six: all of the above!

–
Sometimes, when i think of the reptile, i think of his feet. gentle feet, no anger in the cold veins of a cold blooded creature, and then i think of the reptile eye: yellow. Excellent for a politician, a clergy man, or a middle school teacher. Nothing else matters to the lizard except eating bugs and mice, or rats, or people. The foot size matches the predator, mother nature will always produce enough stomach acid to swallow a giant organic piece of meat. Now those factory farmed humans, some lizards might have a problem with that, but i dont see why they should feel that way, but what the hell do i know? they’re lizards!

–
Absolutely i think the planets should be outlawed. What the hell do the planets think they have on us? They are just some little fucking light in the sky, they give a shit if there is a tin can in a ditch down here on earth. People say they are bigger than everything we know, so fucking what? Why would it especially care what we do on or two this hunk of mud, eh? Nothing at all. If those planets are up there thinking shit about us, then they are proabbly glad we are covered with lice and oil, shit they don’t have to deal with us, i bet they are thinking very ver deeply about the one fucking thing i’m doing and dont see as a just a bad fucking infection. Maybe they’ll make some cleanser for that. Atomic, maybe we can call it “comet”. Fuckers. But what the fuck this world done for anyone, we’re born just to feed back in to the dirt, which is just fighting a war with the goddamn ocean anyway. So, yeah, we’re up here on the ground, but we got the other planets laughing at us, we got the ocean trying to kill us with waves and constant cloud coverage. At least we can thank god for wood and concrete.

–
Only another 500 words, or somthing like that. This might just be my own inability to actually keep typing, i am now just struggling to catch up to the daily limit and im still a few days behind. It almost feels guilty typing this as i am once again just typing to try to fill a word count, but at least im not talking about some abstract shit or some lame quasi motivational tripe about trying, its actually good to just try to write unhibitedly, if that isn’t even a word. i seem to be making a lot of spelling errors, so i sat forward and focused more on what i was actually typing rather that just priming my backspace key fingers. What the hell, also i just made it word association, which is pretty good track, but i also really need to pay attention to the words since i have already heard them a bunch of times and shit. thats cool, though i think maybe listening to new verbal heavy shit is kind of a difficulty when you have never heard it before its actually pretty distracting because i am typing pretty well, and managing to follow along with the track without that many typos, so its actually probably a much better thing to keep listening to shit like this, rather than new awesome shit because the awesomeness of it will probably actually just keep fucking distracting me, and i will have to keep writing crap like this just to fill walls and walls of text.

–
ok, just another few more to go, its getting to be a pain. I think i might actually prefer doing something else at this point, but i have been listening to this goddamn song over and over, and it doesnt seem to be motivating, its now just getting distracting because i think i can memorize it if i just keep listening and listening. holy shit this music is driving me fucking crazy. well, no actually thats an exaggeration, but i am definitely burning out and i think i should quit at two thousand tonight, so this is absolutely illegal word padding … unless! i post it as alternating chapters throughout the hopelessly lost “narrative” that mostly involves typing either “nickles” or “chuff” over and over and over and over and over again. No problem, though, because i still at least have enough coordination to have typed this far, fuck it!

Can’t actually stop because i am less than one hundred words from the end of this particular session and i think i can just quit then as long as i keep doing some amount of work. Plus: thanksgiving is coming up, so i only have 3 work days this week, minus: well, i have to do thanksgiving, but i think that is pretty low stress, i might try to make some pies. Those would be good. My original plan was to make a pumpkin pie, but i’ve never really like pumpkin pie, so i thought i might also try to make a pudding pie, like how my mom would make. mostly because i like those.

Fuck it. thiry five thousand, im done for now. (Seventy Percent! Can’t quit now!)

–
Another set of ramblings, another social lubricant to get the fingers typing, to get the words flowing and thinking of what the hell this is even going to end up being. I am starting something new in every chapter and seemingly dont have even enough to go on with that. Maybe there should be even more enemies. Or little shrews or something should take over the picnic area and start blowing up cars? Maybe the sentries could come out of hiding maybe there could be a purple sky and stupid little diamonds falling out of it into a golod sea. Anything is possible if you use your imagination, right? Anything at all? What about a giant duckbill platypus with swords for arms and heat vision. How would that play out?

Thirty feet tall its stands, the giant heat vision duck bill platypus looked amusedly at things and then destroyed them with his swords for arms. Do platypus’ even have fucking arms. Are they webbed? Why would a mammal lay an egg. All interesting things, but would mega-platypus need to lay an egg? Stupid quesion: mega platypus is a dude.

Anything else? Anything kicking around in that wide open imagination up there? Anything that could just be pulled completely out of my ass? Or what about a complete rip off some thing, isn’t that where ideas pretty much come from anyway? Ok, how about this: sci fi where mick jagger isn’t ugly and boring.

No, not really much you can do with that, it wouldn’t even be interesting if it were true, methinks.

Ok, how about cliches:
A pirate rides a narwhal into a wall of ninja, the ninja say “hey, bacon up my chocolate rain!

Nope, dont like that either.

What about a tv show where instead of being funny it was just a bunch of hackenyed cliches. What about a tv show about a doctor who solves mysteries. I’d call it dr. scooby. He could have a smelly bum friend who shows up stoned with his mangy dog, some dyke ass nurse and an airhead who i think is supposed to be pretty but too boring for it to be believable. That would be pretty good.

–
Cart for horse, horse for cart, but which came first? I have anecdotal evidence that the cart was actually around with the dinosaurs and that they could keep pushing carts into the tar pits to build dino bridges. Something like that. Those dinosaurs were pretty organized, i dont think they ever thought that they could be taken out by something as simple as a giant asteroid that completely fucked up the planet and then choked them all to death. What seems more strange is that there aren’t more of these giants in our time. Why is it that for so many millions of years there were so many giant species, most of them not ever sharing an eon together, but all of a sudden we are left with a few blue whales and some fucking elephants? That seems like an historical ripoff, something my fellow chums at the society would be quite unhappy with, i dare say my good chum. I think its most important to try to keep pushing this idea of living dinosaurs down peoples throat. Or maybe i should just feign ignorance and keep trying to spread the word of dinosaur love across the land. Though how do dinosaurs love. That seems a little fucked up if you ask me. Where else would the little retardos come from. I might have it on good authority that dinosaurs are only splendid in the moonlight, that they are terrifying by day and not at all the cuddly cartoon creatures that we all fell in love with in the land before time iii. Also, fuck ferngully, lets kill the shit out of that last rainforest and make room for more giant dinosaurs.

Nonplussed even by that, it became a simple matter of creating leeches to stick on the dinosaurs which were then wrung out (wearing rubber gloves, of course!) in to  a bucket. The dinosaur blood is then left to curdle in the sun where its magic dinosaur power actually makes them stronger. It also is some sort of mental illness or something caused by it. Nothing too much to worry about, its not contagious unless you are near them or also consume dinosaur blood products. Mostly, though its safe. I think the rest can just be described as acceptible losses and we can just move on with our goddamn lives people.

Ok, so now that we have covered the manufacture of raw dinosaur blood, we should consider some of its many applications.

For example, you can mix lye and dinosaur blood and make a handy bleaching clothing dye. The same thing also works well to give people chemical burns in their eyes, but you should only do that if those people are chasing you and its not a football game or something like that where they should be chasing you.

Also, dinosaur blood is really good on sandwiches, and is the right kind of way to make a sports drink: its already plenty salty, but has that sweet refreshing twist of dinosaur blood.

–
OK, seriously, fuck this shit. time is running out, and i think i am running, i cant tell, i might be in a hallway or a freaking warehouse, its almost impossible to tell, i think i can’t hear either, i can still feel though, thats something. theres gotta be some other sign, there has got to be something, i can feel my body lurching in to motion pushing forward, i can feel my eyes open, but its so dark its like i can only see the back of my head. Maybe thats exactly what im seeing. no light, no motion, i can tell where my hands should be but not where they are, and i cant hear so i have no idea what it is that i am running from. how the fuck did i get in this situation, should i look back, i can’t sense any light behind me, or maybe i am just running in one big fucking circle, maybe im just dreaming, it can’t be that. it can’t be a dream because dreams aren’t this sweaty and painful, its like all that is left is motion and feeling, but i dont have any other senses, am… am i even wearing clothes it just feels like my whole body is flapping, but my feet keep hitting the ground and i dont want to stop there is no way to stop, the inertia just keep s pushing forward

more and more and more

i can feel my head go numb, im getting dizzy, running out of breath and there is still no way to stop, nothing to see, the ground below is firm, but still seems to give slightly, like a firm marshmallow, i can feel different muscles in my feet working through running with snowshoes, but is it up hill or down hill? how come i am never getting anywhere.

im out of breath and dizzy, i can’t think anymore, but i can keep running, i have to keep running, the only way to fall would be to quit, would be to trip, but trip on what? i can’t see anything and my feet always seem to hit the ground in the right stride, just enough of an angle to push me forward again, and again and again.

this is madness, a catacomb of activity, i catch a second wind, i get some sanity back, the thundering in my head subsides to just a steady hum punctured by each step landing, pushing closer to the next step and nothing else.

the running is stressful, it keeps forcing my mind clear, and just in simple thoughts, not enough to be able to remember how i got here, or how long its been, or what is chasing me, i just know that i have to keep going, one more step, one more step, one more step

i can still feel my feet but it is different, the motion and activity, the shortness of breath have left me a different kind of numb, some sort of overworked shock, i can still feel a dull pain as i push forward, but still nothing else, still nothing to smell or taste or hear,

i keep running, the pain keeps subsiding, and thoughts seem to come back , i have been running so long that the entirity of the experience collapses into a minor shreiking, sort of a distant memory, that is unconnected to the rest of the thoughts. what am i doing here, what is supposed to be happening to me, how did i get here…

a light starts to shine in, but not at all, actually, the pitch blackness remains, but it seems to be a warming light from the inside of my head, my eyes having been in the dark so long they have effectively started sleeping from lack of stimulus, and then the images comes. I can’t be dreaming now, what was i doing before?

this is real, it must be real, but now my mind thinks that i am asleep? how the fuck can i be asleep if i can’t stop running, how come im never caught, how come i dont fall off a cliff or run into a wall, or get hungry or just collapse?

The light continues, a small little green bugger with weird ears shaped like trumpets hovers into focus in the middle of the vision. He is still not making any noise, or maybe i still can’t hear anything, but it seems like he is gesturing me to follow him. thats all in vain, though since i can’t follow him, in fact its taking a lot of will power just to focus on this particular vision, especially while runnign,

it seems the man wants to interact, but i have no idea how to evevn do that, im too exhausted to speak, i can’t hear or stop looking directly straight ahead, so i just keep focusing.

The little man sputters around in the vision, and then bounces off one end of my line of sight, and it seems like he split in two. How the hell does that happen, the second one was moving on a free trajectory, not flying at all, and fell to the bottom, bouncing up again and splitting off another little man. They did this until there were about 20 of them and then they held hands in a circle and started making shapes out of their sizes, first it was the suits of a deck of cards, finishing with the hearts, the bottom dropped off and split again, a few more let go, and again they were bouncing effortlessly in my line of sight, while i, of course, was still running.

In short order the plane was stuffed with them, they couldn’t bounce around freely and multiply, and they were so crammed in that they were beginning to look unhappy. One in the center looked right at me and made an alien gesture, but nodding directly at me, as though i somehow had a solution to whatever their problem was. i didn’t, i tried to mouth a question, but they all quickly turned their heads towards me wide-eyed and scurried away, looking terrified, leaving just the one in the center again.

he waved, again looking right at me, i tried to mouth some words, but was choked by my own sweat. I was getting dizzy again, and the concerntrating was giving me a headache, the blur  was beginning to fade at the corners, and the last little man stood there shaking nervously, as my breathing got more labored and my head felt like it was on a balloon and floating away.

Finally, i broke, the image split across my eyes and seemed like an out of joined interlace, the man looked very sad, but not pained as the light dimmed again and i was left running in blackness.

–
Another piece was placed in the puzzle.

“At last you have arrived, good sir.”

The man had shocked white hair sticking almost straight up but just enough product to make it face behind him. Tufts of bright white hair also stuck out of his ears and were somehow just as diginified, and seemed to face the same gravity of the rest of his hair. In an effort to accentuate his pale skin and white hair, he also wore a white sport coat and white overalls, with a tie. He did not wear a shirt, just the overalls and sport jacket. He was clearly a genius.

“My genius, has been waiting for you, consider me to be at your service.” He said, with his face staring a cold gaze at a chessboard in mid game. His eyes slightly cast to the corner to verify the identity of the figure in the doorway.

“Then again, you knew that, and you know why i expected you, and i know why you’re here.”

He pulled open a drawer located beneath the chess set and pulled out a small revolver, never shifting his gaze from the chess board. His left hand deftly popped out the chamber, his steely eyes shifted away for a second just to verify it was fully loaded. With a fluid motion he snapped it, shut, tossed it to his right hand and pointed it towards the doorway. At last his face turned to face the figure and lit up with a maniacal menace.

“I know exactly why you are here…”

–
It was earlier in the year, autumn, possibly fall, maybe close to the third season for you north hemisphere people, like me. And like any other fall it was fucking cold. cold enough to kill off the dinosaurs. Yeah, im still talking about dinosaurs because id ont have any more fucking ideas and i want to go to sleep even though it is only seven thirty. I could really go for one of those “hand carved” sandwiches, covered with anything delicious, like blood lettuce, bloody pickles (pickled in dinosaur blood), or maybe just a nice bloody brussels sprout, no one is blanming you for anything except buurning down your goddamn mamas atrailier again. didn’t i tell you not to plat  with mat ches/ didn’t i wahat the fuck are you even thiinking you lilttel shit bastard, i think i could probably huff down a whole big carload of dinosarshit before i could understand any of your motication for the sigularly terrible things that you seem to think that you are capable of, but not really. What is it that you want from me, what is happeneing, why are you pointing a gun for me. it seems like you are talking, but i dont hear any words, i want to move forward, but my feet are stuck in concreete, or maybe just foam, shit i dont know i cant tell whats going on any more, i look at my hands and they seem scaly, scary, i dont know whats happening, dammit! please stop moving your lips stop looking at me sidesways like that, you dont really think that i could be here to cause you any harm, do you old man, i like old men, like matlock, he solved crimes, he was always stepping up for the good in people and protecting the innocent. I don’t have ears anymore, and my neck feels thick and muscular. my hands have shrunk to some kind of talon, and i really just want to keep drinking dinosaur blood. I dont know whwere that feeling came from, i think i dont even know what dinosaur blood tastes like, but here i am in another room, inj another fantasy no less, how could i possibly be turning in to a carniverious reptile, maybe i have just completely lost my mind. I dont think so, it still feels so completely real, but i dont know where to begin. gWhy is this guy still moving his lips, is time running slow? yes, that must be it. i think time is running so slow be cause i am turning into some kind of beast that has not existed for thousands or even millions of years, but how is that possible, how is any of this suppsed to strike me as anything but some rediculous farce.

Another breaeth, another deep breath and i think i am pulled out of there again, i feel my brain fall backwards into darkness, but my neck stil feels stiff and overgrown, i can’t see my hands, and i can’t feel my fingers, i try wiggling them and nothing. nothing really at all, i think i might actually … is it possible? It is! I am simply a floating brain, some fucked up freakish accident of nature, a travesty something that i dont think i have the will to live through, but how does a floating brain end something, i apparently have no limbs, no understanding of the physical world, i have no nerve endings to connect to to use most of this infrastructure that has been built through. now that i think of it i am having a hard time even rationalizing my inner monologue, why am i thinking in english, why should i be doing that when the last thing i was was a bloodthirsty dinosaur in the wrong time! Well, this is certainly a wacky adventure, but how can i put off the impending madness, where is this sensation coming from, where have i felt this before, i still can’t feel anything, but it seems as though there is a distinct absesce of feeling, as though im wired up to do something, but i just can’t quite figure out how it works.

Ok, the hands are starting to come back, i can feel a tingle in the tip of my fingers, and maybe something a little closer to me, i think i might be wiggling a toe now, but still there seems to be a vast expanse of feeling that is missing, just a big whole in the middle of whatever my body should be telling me, except i am feeling that craving again. that i want something, but it is not fresh dinosaur meat, and in this blackness, i strt to feel something ominous, or maybe my stomach does. My stomach! i am really coming back, my stomach is tied in knots, it feels awful, i think i could puke,d i wont though, im going to hold it in and keep trying to push myself. Now i feel a breeze at my back, i cant see, but it is a strong breeze. a cold breeze, i feel my body going numb again and dont want to slip in to unconsciousness. My knees are back, and the knot in my stomach is at least spreading some kind of internal pain to the rest of the body, something is pushing me up again. I can’t just sit here and freeze to death, i have to stay warm, i have to keep myself moving and stay alive, i have to get as far as possible from whatever this feeling is, this freezing cold, and the sickness i feel.

So im getting up now, i can’t see anything, i can’t even hear the wind, but i feel it, its blowing straight on my back, its pushing me forward, i stumble up, my legs still all pins and needles, but i stumble forward, one step, then another, then another, my feet find their way quickly, and i shift my full weight forward pushing my legs and fast as i can move them, pushing forward. One foot, then the next, then the next, my back warms up, and i can’t feel the wind any more, i am just running blindly forward.

–
It was an ice cream social, the first of the year, all the fat townfolk came out and brandished their filthy bibs, which they never washed, calling them the town legacy. They came to have their hands bound behind their fat bodies, and their filthy bibs tucked in the shirts, to lie face down in the ice cream social. It was a party for everyone, they came from miles around, and all the folks they cried. Ice cream social. Its not really a thing you can sit out, they are known for stoning you, there is not a false obligation of morality. Ice cream social. Its not an allegory for pro life, its not a wind of change. Its nothing that will make you smarter. Ice cream social. And the kids ate until their teeth hurt, until they all cried, but they were never allowed to be untied. Ice cream social. Its the way of the townsfolk, the things that they do, the one social of the whole year. Ice cream social.

–
You have seven minutes to get out of the bag. Right, i know what you’re thinking, words that i would never like to hear without a trusty jack knife. Well, there are other options, you can always try to keep one nail long, but not worry about it, i mean what the hell is the worry about keeping any of it alive? Right? I mean, you could be kept in a bag, but really when we are thinking about the statisstics, about the way these things really work, i think we can manage to keep it within an acceptible margin. Why not, really? You can’t say taht it will never actually happen, but its rare enough that you can make it sound scary and sell insurance for it. Youknow, you can bundle it up with some other plans, stoning, ritualistic murder, satanic child killing circles, all the things that washington DC is known for. Those damn fat cats. Me? Oh i dont see how it matters, i just spent 7 years in a closet running, im not even sure what i was living on. I think i was just scared, apparently some asshole had me pumped full of some kind of lizard hormone and i think the rest of me just ran on some kind of nutrient chemicals. Yeah, a  cat tried to rescue me once, now that you mention it, but this is hardly the time or place for it.

–
ok, fuck it free type take a deep breath and just start typing what the fuck ever iis coming into your head until you are just typing continuoaly  there is no reooom for hitting backspace or sworrying if i have the right word or colour, which syhouldnt have a u, but there should still be some kind of rule against just free form stuff, why then do i sit here, night haftyer night reading this wretched filth, and eating these foul, grisly sandwihsches made of some shit that is obviously not spam, no matter how much i request it dfrom the nurses. i think if i could get some tang, id’ like that, they say its bad for you, too much sugar, but i dont have any goddamn teeth left, why dshould i be worried about the sugar. maybe ill ddie faster, what  a tragedy, i couldn’t live out the end of my days stuck on this fucking machine, covered with tire tracks, almost completely useless, toothless and filled with iv scars, just things to give me ground up flintstones vitamins, just to give me fucking nonsense. it wasn’t always like this kids, did i ever tell you about the wards, it wasn’t like the shit you see on tv, i think it … for me, at least it was an old sil ver mirror i had.

whats that? no im not just a rambling fucking idiot, i did have the mirror, well nothere wasn’t anything interesting about it, just another goddamn mirror, i think you might be able to override it with new silver if its broken, i cant tell any more, it used to hang on the wall, it used to be so lovely, before the war, before the war….

It was really a slaughterhouse, where i grew up, i mean, i grew up at an actual slaughter house, fnot one of those big fancy ones with all the machines, but actually a slaughter house that was just a little mom and pop kindq thing, people would bring us their cute little animals, and we would kill the shit out of it, and keep the organ meat. The owner would get all the good stuff, but we could get by making our own heart and blood sausage. Kind of like what the british have, but heartier, if you get it.

People dont actually talk like this, there isn’t a story i am trying to tell, the mirror is something dfrom an old ray bradbury book. the slaughter house is from a well known sci-fi horror commentary track. But mostly it was just jokes about animals, about war, about the horror of old age, about the inhumnanity of machinery, about the inhumanity of our own device, our own inventions.

Hypnosis, pretty much does this, it could make us think that we had done the war, or sbeen raised somewhere. The problem is that hypnosis is bullshit, its people looking to act out and have something to blame it on. Remember, you might be the highly suggestigble type. These are the people who end up having wax poured on their genitals to have the hair ripped out painfully, these are seven chatterin skulls in five screaming heads, this is the sheltering pain, the needless abyss, this is the end product of the world, this is the cause of traffic, murder, infidelity, lawyesrs, taxes, insurance, and the crushing pain of this modern life.

–

i actually just need another six hundred seven words until the next checkpoint, and so i think ill just take a break and free type here. its nice, its like a bird or a butterfly, or some other thing thats nice fluttering in a spring breezer out in the balmy sun, there is no such thing as writers block to a butterfly, because the only thing they know about books is that they will probably end up pressed in one or die from some abnormal fungus. Thats the way life is really, it might actually just be better to be eaten by a fucking lion sometimes, than to know that you will just be left out to dry, or procreate and make a big family tree of worse problems than what ever the shit you had to go through. Not that thats a cynical way of looking at it, you could have a kid who actually was way better than you at everything, but still a complete failure, worse yet, you could have a staggeringly successful kid and just be reminded of your own shortcomings. OR you could just be pressed in a book and forgotten until the library catches on fire. Really a joy thinking these things through with you, doc.

“Thats ok, go on”

Well, i guess im just thinking about butterflies because there was this one time that i caught a butterfly in a jar, but i was supwposed to poke holes in it so it could breather, weill i tried to do that and ended up skewering the wind of the butterfly, who was floating near the lid. Is that messed up? I just wanted to keep it for a little bit to look at it, but i crippled it, so it just flew in mad circles for a little while with a big hole in its wing, before it floated to the bottom. Its stayed alive a little while, but i really didn’t know what to do, i mean what does a kid feed a butterfly? More butterflies? Well, i took it outside, and emptied it out the jar, but it didn’t want to move, it just stayed on the ground. Its antennae still flapped a little bit, but it seemed like it just gave up. I went back inside after watching it for a while, but fwhen i came out again, it was gone. I mean, either it managed to fly in a bit spiral upwards somewhere, or my dog ate it. Or maybe both. Im just not sure what kind of message is in there, but the whole thing kind of bugs me.

“It was an accident, you were a child”

but i still think about it. should i feel guilty? I mean there was a pretty good chance something was going to eat it, but at the same time i dont have any problem having a nice juice steak, i dont think the farmers would be too bothered if they accidentally killed a cow when they were inspecting it, they’d probably just  certify it and pass it to the jerky rack. So, why a butterfly, its just a nasty fucking caterpiller with wings, kills trees, and i’ve seen a lot of them in the books.

“Maybe because you killed it when you were really just curious?”

So are you calling me a killer, doc? Then why do i feel bad. Or… maybe I shouldn’t. Thanks doc, this has been very informative. Maybe i should take my research out of the lab and out of the glass jars and try some of these things on people, maybe they are the key to understanding why butterflies making me feel this way. But where to get the right sized jars….

ps: there is no doc!

–
Some thoughts on roadhouse. i have seen the movie before and thought it was weird, i had an old boss who used to tell me about her aunt who would rent it and then close the blinds as though she was watching something filthy. as the last thing the bad guy says right in the end: “i used to fuck guys like you in prison”, well, that kind of affirms it, its sort of some kind of bad man softcore, but not really being dare enough to be as gay as a vin diesel movie. Indeed, its mostly just a bit bad eighties pastiche, and the whole decade was actually pretty gay, what with the reaganomics and stuff. Doesnt matter, he still is basically just an enraged redneck who is out to stomp whatever crackers get in his way, but he’s also got a degree in philosophy, so he understands that when he is smashing some dudes head in with a two by four that its actually a refutation of old wittgenstein (and by that i mean the older theories of wittgenstein, when he was the young wittgenstein), because obviously he can speak and use symbols without language. I might also just be making that shit up because i cant quite remember what that shit is and i dont care enough to look it up on wikipedia, a long time ago i went to an applebees, i dont think i have ever been back, or maybe just as an accident, not because they were terrible, but because there was no reason for it to exist, it was utterly unremarkable, what is the difference between going to a shithole in the wall that pours a bunch of cheese sticks into a fryer or a chain restaurant with a consistent theme of other restaurants no where near it that pour cheese sticks in to a fryer, i mean what the fuck is up with that.

Thats pretty much like a track teacher trying to tell fat add nerds they should go running, he’s right but there is no reason to listen to him. Fuckin dickhead. There are other things you can do, of course, set fire to some shit, piss out of the back of a fast moving van, enjoy some delivious “hand carved” sandwiches, or maybe just have a nice wine cooler. There are actually breeds of crazy redneck that can turn their brain to sausage just for the familiarity of the smell, so they can seek it out, the same way bloodhounds can sprout wings and artillery defense just in case they need to go and destroy some scuffles with country guitars. This is in the ramblings section for a reason. Tehre is something about a dude who just ran, and ran and ran in the dark that was some pretty good stuff, not space wasting drivel at all, even though istill can’t quite understand how this shit is all supposed to end, or what the hell that storm had to do with anything. god knows, i have taken a bunch of notes, but not taken the time to actually read any of those notes. Its a good thing its not the 80’s because then i would feel lucky to have a fucking typewriter. actually i do remember that, and i tried typing a story, and everyone just kept telling me how good it was, but i really didn’t like writing in it because then i just found out that everyone was reading it when i wasn’t looking, and i didn’t see any reason for them to actually think it was better than what i hadc ever done other than the fact that they simply didn’t do it. I dunno, maybe it will all come full circle. There is nothing wrong with having a pair of attitudes. I dont think there is anything they should try to do, 20 bucks, you can try to kiss them. No digniity, none, people i think we are officially through the looking glass, this is actually the point where they try to kiss them, and oh shit ts a bar brawl. Yeah, thats right, im still watching roadhouse, and thats probably gonna be whats pulls me through to the next major flagpoint: road house, yes, in memory of the late patrick swaze who died for some reason, recently, i am watching roadhouse again with commentary.

Yes, i care this much about the plot of my wonderful novel. So anyway the thing about bar brawls is that i think they could never really be as charming as the movies, like roadhouse make them out to be. Having been accidentally kicked in the face several times, i dont think that its a really good thing that people are breaking bottles over each others head. They just made a comment about how big his balls were, except he didnt fight, because he has a degree in philosophy. There are also a bunch of alcoholic puffy faced assholes who are playing the ancillary characters, but doesnt seem to matter, plue the radios are running the theme song to the patty duke show, which im pretty sure was in black and white in the forties or so. Also, there are some pretty sweet trans ams or some fucked up shit. I dont know how that worked, all i know is that the junkyard near where i grew up was some pretty fucked up shit. Anyway, now there is an old man with a hook for a hand, or maybe a hook for a glove, but no jokes about farmers daughters because i think its not really that kind of market.

“Calling me sir is like puttin an elevator in an outhouse” some old dude said that, i think the hook guy. Doesnt matter. There is a rich asshole neighbor with a helicopter who flys low overhead constantly, which i can surprisingly relate to, my mom lives next to a large ranch with a guy who had a helicopter and flew overhead pretty frequently. he was also an asshole, sent a bunch of contaminated beef to the troops in the first desert storm because it was too crappy for fda approval to sell in his food services, including public schools and prisons. “My way or the highway” in case you are trying to keep up. But you probably shouldn’t be. In fact, i think the rambling chapter of the typed commentary of Road House is not going to be published prominently, probably actually buried in the back of it. Most of them can’t hadnle the fights, but road house will tell them the difference. Always take it outside unless its absolutely necessary. “What if someone calls my mama a whore?”, yep, it just keeps going. God damn it, this movie is actually worse than the “novel” that has this commentary. Maybe its actually something, its the same damn house band, and there is too many cat posters in the world of the credit card, they are just bringing in trouble, its possible that you could have a leaded hair cut, fuck the mother fucking coffee man. Why should someone just drop out of the site, its making shit too rowdy, this isn’t coyote ugly. And always shaking off the mullet. And offering a free blooming onion. Its no entirely possible that the goddamn dinosaur blood isnt going to get with the dalton express. “And you have a strange, meaningless tattoo.”

Witty, pretty an unrambling, not the film, not the book, not even the murder of butterflies, i think each walking scene should have its own theme music, made from cymbals falling from the sky . If everyone hated the sky, would they protest it, would it be possible to actually force people into the warthog dome of cyrus, if they were to give in to the beguiling shirtless vomitorium, would there still be running near the pool in heaven? what is the most degenerate of the degernerate poodles? dolphins? i think not, i might simplpy be a fool, but i have never slam danced a crappy novel recreation, let alone a civil war one, of course its heritage, of course its history, of course its a lessone of interest good god, why the asscrack. It was an important piece of history. In a most righteous turn of events the bartender actually was an angerlizard speaking mostly of anger froth with nowhere but out to channel his hatred identity and the problem of recursive wife beaters, which might be the property of a dead man.

I feel at this point i have to keep going, if for no other reason that to just keep typing through the wonderful sound track of this in depth fucking roadhouse, good god this is actually going to go down in history as my failed inspiration to just keep moving forward. You can’t fucking stop me now, really. There isn’t a point that i am going to give up with this one, no funny asides, no angry fucking midgets with knives, swords and bees, just this strict commentary that you can reply by listening in your head while you are watching the goddamn movies, you just have to read really really slow. There are some3 ugly people in the world who wouldn’t appreciate a fucking hardware tutorial and a big loud fucking car with napalm for arms and an inbred poodle for a lawnmower engine a lot like the difference between an angry mother fucker and no difference between this and the last time i typed difference, its good to pour money in to cars, and maybe its just time to burn down the fucking hardward store, its going to be a problem driving a mercedez, a benz, full of nazi stew and impregnable field lands.

Tai chi is probably a good diversion, but it still means a lot of jack shit if you aren’t the karate kid, i mean how the fuck are you going to do that swan kick covered in tanning oil which only turns your skin in to blisters and makes you smell like pork. what the fuck is wrong with people who are actually midgets, but instead spend their entire lives just trying to make it in the real world, why is this section still going, why is the same goddamn house band  playing who the fuck is going to  buy that guys cd, dont you just need some time to separate the wheat from the chaff, the funk from the graff, the tillman from the repository. or was it depository. thats my urine sample. “Im stayin” the guy says, and calls h im chicken dick. Poultry or something, scared of  some shit, but mostly they just want to kiss and make up . There is a big fat guy that looks like artie lange, but i looked it up on imdb and it isn’t. fuck fuck fuck fuck. i think that the guy in suspenders is probably just going to keep fighting, and the commetary points out the irony of him keeping his jacket on for fights as opposed to every other fucked up scene. Blargh, this is still going, got a little ways to go before i can take a break, but its all good. “Natural Causes” talking about his knife wound, but i still think that there is nothing yet to say that he’s got a degree in philosophy, which is why he can kick so much ass in the mother fucking road house.

“Do you enjoy pain”

“Pain dont hurt”

Yep. Thats pretty much what the whole thing is about, also redneck bar fighting. Oh shit, actually they just mentioned philosophy, the nurse wanted to know while fixing his broken pelvis or some shit.

The guy just said he bleeds too much, i was told that once, by a guy who had given me a few bloody noses, on accident. He was a muay thai fighter part time, something like that. he got the nickname brutal after a while. It was kind of funny.

I dont get the mystique of hot rods, but apparently everyone else in this movie does. the only car that i could actually say was mine for a while was a shit brown eighty four thunderbird that had originally come from new jersey and been beat to shit for about 12 years before it came to me. It wasn’t actually my car, though i think it was willed to me, but there is not a thing that shit can really described, or maybe i am just still typing furiously to get to the end of the chowderheaded rambo style crap commie strippers.

Quick Question: Why are you still typing, do you really want to end everything this way?
Answer: It doesnt actually matter, it would be great if i could hit the word limit with this and then actually just end with a one sentence chapter about everyone dying. Something like that. Anywaym the last chapter isn’t completely closed and i suppose i can always write more about dinosaur blood or “hand carved” sandwiches, but right now i can just keep writing and i have no intentention of stopping regardless of coherence, competence or … what ever the fuck else.

Right now some chick is coming on to patrick swayze, but he isn’t buying it because its mostly about 80’s dudes with bad hair cuts just trying to flirty with each other. or maybe its just the womens accessories that they use to compete with each other, pretty screwy, but basically its just the same shitty band playing and a bunch of dudes staring each other down. actually, given the popularity of wrestling i am surprised that gay shit like this isn’t more popular in the heartland or something. but i think they are all doing kung fu and stopping all of it, there was some jokes about bikes running off ramps and not being too stupid to build ramps or some other crazy shit, but it, like everything else, doesn’t really matter.

This is a marathon typing session if you are just joining us, i am trying to ride out the end of my nanorwrimo quota by typing through the rifftrax version of road house, what i have found it is that is a less than subtle man calendar for old people that mostly features a lot of eighties hair cuts, domestic sports cars and pointless conversations, most of the time they try not to fight, but most of the time the fights are actually pretty short, bhut i think that its because patrick swayze is a king fu master, which he figured out from his philosophy degree, right now he is on a diner dinner date with some vetrinarian who he went to for treatment because i think he lives a double life as a nutria. His hair is proof, basically, we are going to start a new refinery based on patrick swayzes corposes sucking the oil out of the infinite repository of grime on his still growing hair. As soon as he becomes a zombie, it might be more prudent to put a treadmill in, and get a few cycles out of him i think we could probably find a nice balance of fresh brains which will give him enough power from the treadmill to power the system to harvest the oil from his mullet. The only question is, where to get the fresh brains. Well, thanks to stem cell colonies, we can actually engineer an efficient system to supply just enough stem cells to keep zombie swayze satisfied.

The bad guy just said that he’s bringing mother fucking jc penny to the road house town. I think he really is the enemy. He also has some dirt about memphis, a place i have never been and think that i should never actually want to be there. but he is an honest man, zombie swayze, he only drinks bloody marys made with bacon grease. too many fucking ethics, too many fucking morals, thats the way we roll in this particular facet of indian corn town. we call it ‘maize’ and still there is a filthy fudging of the role of nuclear scientists in their statistical measurements, the order of reality called back and still wanted their mediocrity, i think it was the possibility of being run out of business, was the emo goth subterfuge that kept the baby rolling. its possible that zorro was there, in the audience, of the kill, in the kill. or else he was too afriad to cop to his insane fear of the charles grodin flavor of boones farm, but still they need a truck load of booze, there is some other guy in the town who can bring booze in, but its in stark start contrast to the stitching of time and the way that the pudding flaps against the wind, its a hard time, what with all the meat farts, this is really a great fucking narrative, isnt it? but still it doesnt have anything to do with boat jeep and flying in a mountain of illegal drugs, instead, its a rather short story about a fat man on a vespa and a bunch of incoherent rambling shit, but that doesnt actually matter because i am still typing and will keep fucking typing until i get to the goddamn end.

oh shit, they are playhing  some shitty rock out of an ancient radion and some horribly aryan woman in white is trying to seduce him by running away, but they were noth sure about the time that their parents died, and now she is a vetrinarien, which is why she words on zombie swayze hair, but maybe he might actually be the right guy, but then why isn’t he just slanging her in the rocksalt den of pleasure?

Back from a little break. I’m not giving up and neither is the movie. Fuck it, fuck the mother fucking media, and the big corporations, and anythinng that thinks that the fact that i can type so god damn much aint worth nothing. We’ll show them, me and zombie swayze, on his stem cell treadmill. We’ll make it through. Just heard the phrase “ruttin like deer” right now we are in the scene where they are apparently some chick being seduced by him because she normally only neuters dogs, so dealing with sir patrick is proabably something good, or at least the script forced it upon it, i guess it would seem too gay otherwise. commentary about rather seeing fat guys punch each other makes sense, qand now there is something about the crank case.

ladies and gentleman, im not re what i am typing any more, but i am very sure that i am still typing, there are a lot of unexplained things in the world, but none of them have involved robert stack lately, but still there must be some kind of bouncer code, it must be difficult, if you dont have an older buddy in the business, but its really not a charming profession, there might be something else to look forward to other than a lounging job in a photo mat, not that there is anything wrong, im not sure what the hell that figure means, but what the fuck i can’t actually stop to thin ka about any of the implications of actually shuddering through this crap ass movie, but still there are even more angry rednecks, but they aren’t on a rampage, so apparently this is some kind of plot device. I think if i actually keep typing i dont have to do anything at all for another elevent fucki ng months. now i get it that epople dont have the time or inclination to do this, but i think that they havn’t tried, as much as patrick swayze has been spending too much time with elizabeth clay, lot sof photo mats, lots of injured animals, if i had more time i might be vetrinarian, but i would actually have to forge all of  my paperwork just to know that i was actually facing a real committee of beef, not just some structure of satan that was trying to fight the good fight, but also just a bunch of crazy fish fuckers, also fighting motherfuckers for their suspenders. Also, apparently when you are a bouncer you have to spend most of your days fighting enraged rednecks rather thank porking vetrinarians.

Its a tough choice, a false dichotomy, a brain dump in desert country and a bunch of dick fighting angry peckerwoods (its different from redneck, i swear), and loads and loads of beef jerky. its possible that the thug fighting muight actually make you a world class bouncer, but being a street fighter doesnt meant that you are heartless, just that there are a lot of the people in the world who dont have eyes or arms, yet the rednecks still want to be in a big end of the movies street fight type situation.

this is just typing for desert bus, i hope you are all still cool with that.

there is a place out in the desert, where you can fight scorpions, naturally they dont put uyp muych fight out for a desert boot, but you can still find them and get some free scars from the awkward plain, also you might make time with an attractive vetrinarian and learn how to operate on a sick albatross with too much trash in its stomach. Or maybe thats laying it on a little thick like you were a baby fucking penguin. its like that one movie about the fucking arm wrestler with his little spoiled kid, and teaching him the basics of staring a mother fucker down. I am actually interested in seeing the word histogram of this document, the ratio of mothers to fuckers, and whatnot.

Memphis dont mean nothing.

“That dog won’t hunt”

Apparently that means something in the bouncer code. I think that it has something to do with some fucking cu – girl. Guns, fighting, i dont know. i dont think it actually matters. If any one has actually made it this far, i must give my sincered apologies, but i am basically running on empty and trying to fill this fucking thing by any means necessary, and that actually means just forcing myself to continue typing while i am watching roadhouse. anything that i type that is coherent is just me trying to divert my attention from the heinous fucking reality of what i am watching and just forcing me to continue, so does it matter that twenty percent of this book will just be a single chapter, written under the duress of road house? i would argue no, and my evidence would be the fact that i am still writing, and the my word count is getting closer and closer to the final limit every time my hands touch the keyboard. I am fried and done, and tired, and frayed and frazzled and even more words that i cant think of right now, but i can’t do anything other than just keep typing.

right now in the movie i think the evil guy is trying to get the hooker to go after mr patrick, but its not working because its not in the plot. i dont know, apparently its a strip club, and this is some kind of allegory for trying to run him out of time. i think its kinda funny, all these big fat dudes move in menacingly, but they can keep going, but actually its the bad guy making his girlfriend strip for the guy, but she’s like the second chick in this fucking movie and still some kind of barganing chip. its not how they run it out in red neck town, home boy has a degree in philosophy, she might also be a hookoer. but its still just a bunch of dudes not seeing some chicks tits. its not really that enticing.

Anyway, welcomes can be hard to judge, but there is some kind of disembodied head trying to follow my every though, what the fuck am i thinking, better have anotehr bite of the sandwich and another slog of the liquor. its hard to go by, but it must really be frustrating, what with me be some kind of horrible slag creature, and the horrible hair beast on the screen actually being some kind of prototype for a zombie factory.

yeah, that zombie shit is probably the most creative thing that will come out of this rearded lump of literary diarheea, but i still dont care, i would be terribly surprised if i even make this far through any kind of slagged together crap heap that i am trying to write. buffalo is a state famout for wings, and street fighting, of course there are legendary bouncers, but i think wardrobe went tofar in trying to make them a hollywood version of enraged rednecks. of course that would be why i keep trying to fight the good fight, have the good dinosaur blood sandwiches, nothing is working out. there always fhas to be an end even if the begnning is kind of sacrosanct, at least i have avoided the verb shuffling for a good long gtime since i avoided mocking the mediocrity of the mediocre because i realized it would be like one retarded kid making fun of another retarded kid, but that is pretty much all of human society, but there is nothing more mediorcre than not even being able to try to type some shit, at least you have to try to be able to give up, its better to just crap shit out and try to be a little bit better, or at least, not too much worse, it can’t always be different and original, but if it was always different the people who liked the originality wouldn’t actually like any of the crap that you would be trying to turn shit out. fuck it, still typing, still going. the movie is still going, my brain is still here, and my fingers are still working. there isn’t anything that can stop me at this point other than just completely being knocked out for like 3 or 4 days , im really very very close to completions.

its a weird thing to even think about taht, and if its an issue that i might be cheating, i dont think it is still because it still took hours and hours and thousands of charcters.

at this point all the fat guys got up on the walls and there is nothing about the fact the there is nothing wrong with there is nothing in all of these fucking sentences i typed, along with a historgram, it would be nice to see a lexical analysis of it, but i think patrick duffy is about to see his best buddy get killed and have to go on a major vengence streak. he’s not dead yeat though which i can tell because there is still way too much fucking time on the scrubber or timelilne or what ever the fuck this shit is called.

so right now his buddy is getting all menacing trying to romance him out of doing the final fight, but it is actually pretty damn gay, i think his buydddy just took off because he didn’t want to be in the final battle, but i think that will be his demise, he will probably die, and that will just throw redneck chan into hyper enraged mode, and now its back to soap opera dom with the vetrinarian, and they will kick a bunch of fucking ass. Swayze has actually explained now about how the bad guy is there and bhow much ass he is going to kick, but apparently its not a fucking  thing because all the horsees just exploded and then he takes off running. the good thing about grass in movie studios is that its all fake and by default it is a controlled explosion. And in nature, there is no such thing as an unnecessary firebombing.

Do you ever think that the old people will get some kind of power armor and destroy all of the dreams of the working young? Is it any surprise that we can’t all get along, that we can’t make characters, that there is always going to be a fight at what ever the fuck. it might be in missiissippi, i dont get it, its all america, and some of it i sympathize with, but fuuuuck, im glad i live in a city far away. shit is crazy, i dont think i can even describe it, but i think that their hair is basically setting up forts and shooting baldness at each other. also, they are ensuring that eye safety weeks get scheduled when ever they needed. and also the final fucking line, what the fuck was that all about, pretty bad, also, because its just going to kill you in the mother fucking end. He kills the bad guym but really he is just the bad guy that was guarding the real bad guy. i think pretty much all of them are bad guys. its fucked up like that. One two three four five six seven eight.

And this is yet another sentence of unneeded filler, everybody is fighting, and the vet is working on lassie, and the bad guy is dead, and patrick swayze, in this alternate ’80s’ universe is still alive. Time makes fools of us all.

END RAMBLINGS