Monday, February 27, 2017
Sunday, February 26, 2017
Saturday, February 25, 2017
Friday, February 24, 2017
Wednesday, February 22, 2017
Tuesday, February 21, 2017
The Terminator: The Skynet Funding Bill is passed. The system goes on-line August 4th, 1997. Human decisions are removed from strategic defense. Skynet begins to learn at a geometric rate. It becomes self-aware at 2:14 a.m. Eastern time, August 29th. In a panic, they try to pull the plug.
Monday, February 20, 2017
Saturday, February 18, 2017
Friday, February 17, 2017
There are times when it must be easier to have faith in this god or that one and that there is a rhyme and a reason for every last thing under the sun. It must be nice to believe with all one's heart that there is an eternal reward.
Having spent a good part of my life fearing that there really was a god and that he had a shit list with my name on it made my original lapse of faith a relief. It did create a vacuum though, into which a giant sense of pointlessness came with a horrible wet sucking sound. That pointlessness is what remained and some days there aren't enough shards of beauty pile on the big scale and balance it.
The Crocodiles say it's about surrender. Apparently surrender is different and preferable to saying fuck it and giving up. Time shall tell.
Or not. Just looking for answers has worn me out.
Thursday, February 16, 2017
Pondering my last missive... was I ever? Just once was I so that I took the chance and carved initials into the fresh paint of a brand new train station somewhere far up the line.
MSR + ...
Then a year later, after the sobbing, gagging tears and the pain still feeling fresh though the affair had gone belly up 11 months prior, I was looking at my artwork and promising that I would never fall that hard again. Never one to keep promises to myself the next one was even harder, and the next harder still. Then more promises and broken promises and eventually I got a handle on what love was and wasn't and what was just burning loneliness and fear.
I've forgotten that once or twice since, life circumstances being what they are and coming as they will.
Then I would remember again and forget again, and then just come to accept that loneliness doesn't have to burn.
And so on.
And so we beat on, boats against the current, born back ceaselessly into the past... thanks Mr. Fitzgerald.
That new train station became old quickly and my souvenir painted over, and then the building was torn down and replaced. That's how things work.
A man hung upside down (an idiot friend
holding his legs?) with spray paint
to write the words on a girder fifty feet above
a highway. And his beloved,
the next morning driving to work…?
His words are not (meant to be) so unique.
Does she recognize his handwriting?
Did he hint to her at her doorstep the night before
of “something special, darling, tomorrow”?
And did he call her at work
expecting her to faint with delight
at his celebration of her, his passion, his risk?
She will know I love her now,
the world will know my love for her!
A man risked his life to write the world.
Love is like this at the bone, we hope, love
is like this, Sweatheart, all sore and dumb
and dangerous, ignited, blessed–always,
regardless, no exceptions,
always in blazing matters like these: blessed.
Thursday, February 09, 2017
It bends me backwards, to the point where each of us in this physical world is an animator. We build a world around everything and everybody we see. We write their stories. We give them motivation that may or may not parallel the reality that each character has created for himself. We may catch a glimpse of the other person's reality when versions clash, and we rewrite our own narrative. Or we may never see and we go on in our own immersive reality, untouched. We each animate our own world so maybe it's not such a stretch that we can suspend disbelief when confronted with the depth of detail, or the immersive experience of animation.