I'll be your best friend...

Who says Caligula isn't a date movie? I don't. I don't at all.

I wrote an entire post and then I deleted it because it was bad.

I don't much know where my life is heading right now. The wheels are in motion. So many of them, in fact. And they are moving on their own. That is the way I like it. It relieves the pressure of decision making. But I think some trouble is brewing under the surface. Eh. I don't really care.

This post isn't much better than the one I deleted.

Work gets me down.

Anyway, check out my other blog. That story is going somewhere. I don't know where. But somewhere. And that's the point, isn't it.

Fuck.

Oh, well.

***

"…At least he was a bum. A lush we found in the park wrapped in newspaper and dog shit."

- Isaac Aronson, 3,000 Days of Sun

Happy Thursday!

this is the story of a boy who cared only for himself. Who could say why? If you asked him, he would mumble something incoherent. Or he would speak really loudly without making much of a point, just so that you knew he was serious. Intellectually, he would say that he was an egoist and that ultimately all actions are selfish (for the most part, he doesn't think much of absolutes). But as to the practicalities of the situation, it was an older tale, a much longer and more difficult road. It would take you back many years. And you would see his soul slowly crumble under the abuse and betrayal of friends and others. Of life that never turned out the way he wanted, but always the way he expected. And slowly a desperate cynic stopped hating the world because he found the exercise too draining altogether. He stopped caring instead; stopped feeling at all. Lament. Some would tell you that he still cares, deep down. And, deep down, he probably does. But I haven't seen evidence of it recently. I don't know many who have. He would tell you there is no reason for him to care. No reason for him not to be selfish. But he has been lying to everyone else for so long, he can't tell when he is lying to himself anymore. So it all becomes part of the show, which must go on. A farce really. With only one character and a lot of walk on parts with no names. In the end ...

these are the times that try men's souls

"You're nothing more than a two-bit whore selling someone else's body. They aren't your words and this isn't your soul."

I suppose it is true.

it's emblamatic; of me trying to free myself from my own debilitating mediocrity.

It goes nowhere, really. More's the pity. For he was a good man, and thorough. But all for naught it would seem. Not that he's dead. Just useless; now. I knew him once, before. But that was it.

The Maestro must die!

***
"His name was Napoleon V. He was a dwarf."

you are acursed before gods and men

***
"So, because you are lukewarm—neither hot nor cold—I am about to spit you out of my mouth."
- God, The Book, "Rev 3:16"
***

It would seem (at least to me, I don't really ask around for opinions (and not just because I dont really value the opinions of the dumb fuck bastards I spend most of my time with)) that the majority of my problems stem from this very issue: being lukewarm. I realize that it is slightly off the original and I clearly am misapplying the bible in this issue. Yet I feel that it rings true. First of all, I am almost entirely lacking in passion. I care about very few things and for very few people. I have never really done anything that I truly enjoyed. I have never truly enjoyed anything. It isn't simply a matter of doing what I have to, &c. so that I can do what I want later (I am not "working for the weekend" as it were). Because there isn't really anything there. For fun I used to drink and attempt to "rage." Despite my overwhelming proficiency at drinking and making an ass of myself, however, it really isn't my thing, either. I am not a great person. I do fucked up shit. But I am not really all that bad either. I am not the good guy that girls eventually come to their senses and wake up in love with. Nor am I the asshole bad boy that girls futily hope to reform. I am not the hero you cheer for or the villain you love to hate. It's something else entirely.

Lukewarm. I don't really think that there is a much better way to put it. I suffer the suburban curse (Kierkegaard would have labeled my an aethetic personality and a long way from ideal) of having as my sole goal in life staving off impending boredom. Things could get better. Things could get worse. But they won't get better and they won't get worse. And that is precisely the problem. The problem with me. The problem with my life. The problem with my future. And I have no idea how to change it.

I am far to deep in debt to quit my job and live on the street. And I am simply in no way inclined to actually put my degree to use and "work" for a living in some damn office or some such. I could make my life "better" or "worse" but not without negatively impacting those that I care about (and few though they are, I cause them to worry enough as it is). Other than that, I don't know what I can do. It's not like I really can change my personality and make myself more passionate or some fucked up shit like that. You can't make yourself care. It doesn't work like that. I tried.

Well, that was pointless. Rambling, almost completely useless, and not even funny. Clearly I have to dedicate this post to Jakob Stephano Krol. Because he will appreciate it the least, but read it because he has nothing better to do.

***
Four cheers for the end of the post.
***

Give an old man his due...

Left to consider all on his own, a young man developed the opinion not only that the world was flat, but that he was the center of the universe. His at least. You see, as far as he was concerned (and as far as I am concerned his concerns are the only valid concerns of this short tale) nothing much mattered if it didn't matter to him. That was much the way of things. And things continued as such and in said vein for quite some time. Life doesn't change much and it happens to be much the same all over. In the vernacular, the phrase runs: same old shit. Or something very similar. So as he was continuing his life in much the same way as he always did, something happened that changed something, and thus (following the much touted elusive butterfly effect) he dumped his girlfriend (she wasn't that big of a prize anyway), quit his job (which he was quite certain he hated) and moved. After all, why not? Life is and was and ever shall be much and more so of the same. But this young man no longer was. In fact, he was quite different. At least, he was now. But new habits form quickly. And soon he had another girlfriend who was no prize and another job that was shit and more shit and lived in another place that was really no different than the one he left. Turns out that is the way of things. Anyone care for a drink?

I'm not afraid of anything. But that doesn't mean much anymore.

***
"&c."
- Usko, On his better Days.

"I dig music."
- Russell from Stillwater, Almost Famous Tour '73

Celebrating the death of a moderately important person

To say that I am sick of this shit would be something of an understatement. But then, I knew that getting in. I knew before I started that I would hate it. I was coming home to Vegas (if you could call it coming home, I never thought of Vegas as home) and I have hated living in Vegas as long as I have lived here and been able to hate doing so. So it isn't like this is a surprise or anything. That doesn't make it any easier. I still hate it here. I think I am going to move. Who has a couch I can "borrow" for a month or two?

Misa, call me back.

Recently I have often found myself contemplating the future, my future, what come next, what I am going to do next, how I am going to get the fuck out of "here" and over to "there" where everything is so much better (I know it is, it has to be). Turns out I don't much know what I want to do next. Or where I want to do it. Living alone has taught me a few fucking things. I don't want to live in a city where I don't know anyone, where my nearest friends are hours away. (I never want to live in the suburbs again, at all, ever.) As to anything else, I don't much care. I could go a lot of ways. I don't think I would mind a legit artist presence in the community (though I find that most "artist" types and their hangers-on are pretentious bastards who mostly don't have a fucking clue, don't know how to have a fun time, and are balls out annoying). And I like working-class heroes (so long as they aren't going to treat me as if I think I am better than them (which I do, but still, it's no way to be treated and it's another reason for why I am indeed better than them)). I could go on, but what would be the point? All that would happen would be more nested parentheses full of snide and witty comments about shit I am just barely qualified to comment on and besides, I am pretty sure I will hate almost everywhere the same. I would hate your city more if I could, but I have to be fair to everyone, and I don't really care enough to hate. It just isn't in me to devote that much attention to anything. Hate really takes it out of you.

I wrote this thing yesterday about me being something of a parasite, of needing a host to feed off of, of me needing to manufacture discontent so that I could understand myself and my life because I was never meant to be content or at least not yet and it went on and on diverging all over the place because it was something of an unedited piece with few constraints placed upon it, but it wasn't that good so I am not going to put it in here; rather I am replacing it with a run-on sentence.

I just got my bass amp in today. I can finally get that thumping shit up loud now. Rattle the windows, wake the neighbors, &c. Good times are sure to follow. I also got myself a tuner. I have some trouble with tuning and not much patience for it either. So as I was tuning up Genevieve I realized that she was almost completely detuned (my e-string was playing like my a-string should have, &c.) Michiko was closer to in tune, but she needed a good bit of adjustment too. For those of you that do not know (and I am pretty sure none of you do) Genevieve and Michiko are my bass guitars. Genevive is a lovely little thing, all shiny and black. Michiko is a dirty street whore. But the ladies get my by. You know how it is. Or you should. The Prophet was born to rock. Just ask BigCat, he knows. We're starting up a band tentatively called either Sound Financial Planning or Burnt Sienna and the Broken Crayon.

It isn't much good. But, hey, it's the best we got...

***
"I fought the law and the law won."
- Bobby Fuller

"I fought the law and I won."
- Jello Biafra

The Laughing Mountain

In the darkness of the night,
So the Prophet rides to fight
And as he spreads his blackened wings
It is of blood and glory that he sings.

Ask me not the way
For I walk alone.

My fair Ophelia, I loved her well.

Marked and marked by Ravens black
One looks forward
The Other’s looking back

Even the jackals want to dance with the wolves. My crows just eat the dead.

Give us fire. Give us death. Give us Barabbas.

And the seas will run red with the blood of the multitudes.

The vision is over.

no Stranger to absurdity

It's hard, you see. And that's about all I can say to the point. Conflict is just somewhat absent from my life. I don't care enough. Shit don't faze a fucker. Mostly the way of it, you see. When you don't care enough to send the very best. Not too much happens when it doesn't matter. And conflict is the basis of all drama. It is the spice of life, as a bitch would say. That's the fuck of it - my life is bland and stagnant. Who ever heard of a hero being ambivalent and aloof? Protagonists gotta care about the little people, they gotta care about life and the world and changing shit for the better. I don't care bout shit. And as for change; I normally end up changing shit for the worse (just to see what would happen). It's all about amusement after all.

Turns out I am a horrible person.

Well, that was a waste of my damn time.

My inspiration has run dry; my weekend must be over. And now to another week of dull lifestyle maintainance. I don't even know why I do it anymore. Is eating really this important?

***
"I'd do anything to get away from this."
- some guy

a footnote on form; one more for

Barrelling headfirst down the snowy climbs
I lost myself in my worthless rhymes.

You see it doesn't get any better
on the other side.
The grass is greener, sure
but that's because it's plastic.
and you can never do better but always more and worse
keep looking round the bend and eventually
you'll find you missed not only that
but everything else.

I guess what you would wonder
and at the end of it all
what I am trying to say
is this:
when they hang me,
I hope I am greeted
with cries of hate.

***
In the end I find that I lose everything. The sense of what I am doing here. The drive to do anything else. Ambition. Talent. Inspiration. It all simply fades into the background radiation of the what else was there. And then, and then there is nothing. Nothing more. Nothing except a lifeless maintainance of the dreary same. Work. Sleep. TV. And maybe an occasional party to draw attention to the fact that event the things I do for fun, aren't any fucking fun. And that's just it. That's the point. There's the rub. For when I shuffle off this mortal coil I don't want to remember that I wasted what little time I had. I am better than this. And I need to do something anything to show it to prove it to let the world see me shining atop the mountains. I was made for great things.

Now that that is done and out of the system...

***
"I am the Bringer of the Sunless Dawn."
- Isaac Aronson, in one of his better, more coherent moments

Hey, look what's happening over there!

In addition to whatever it is that I am doing on this horrendous blog, I am now working on a long form prose blog. 3,000 Days of Sun. There's a link over on the left. Anyway, I encourage everyone to check it out and leave comments, criticisms, what not. What with the long form prose being the writing I am trying to get down to actually doing. You know, as a job and shit. So, that would be nice of you and all.

In case you are worried that my work on that page will somehow curtail my work on this one, though, fear not. I will maintain them both. I indeed have your interests placed firmly last in my priority box, faithful reader, and I will not forget them just because I don't give a shit about you or what you think.

And on that note, I am still not getting enough comments. You know who you are. You have the power to end this.

The Lost Post

So I posted some of this earlier and then it never showed up on the page. I can't much explain it. I tell you, I don't much trust these internets. Good thing the fad will be over in a year or two.

So, since most of the post was lost and I don't much remember what I had here before, mourn for what was lost. Flashes of brilliance in the vast well of mediocrity. Cry, oh son of man, cry.

That's right, it was a Hanzō sword.

Kramer: Levels.

To be honest, it was just because I had a bit of time off from work. Damn, but is work ever stifling to the wells of creativity.

Hugin is silent and stoic. Lost in contemplation, the future, and what will be should can be comes. Mugin is screaming. Memory remembers. Memory regrets. Marked for eternity. Standing on his shoulders, whispering the secrets of the world.

Love is the only thing that can truly take us beyond ourselves; that can overcome our own inate human selfishness. Amanzing thing, that love. Can you tell what's still missing with this self-centered fuck?

Rage, oh rage, petty monster for the light dims and our fires will soon out. The Dawn of Man has passed. The Day is fading. Dusk is upon us; where the shadows roam. Let not the Night Stalker have a chance to feast.

I know things. Not important things. Or useful things. But none the less, they are things. And I do know them. Like it or fucking not. And it goes from there. As do all things. In time, and time, again.

Fuck it, I can't remember any more. Suffice it to say, it was good; damn good.

One of my bass guitars is a Busker's Original.

***
"Alas, poor Yorick ... I knew him well."
- The Hamlet, The Hamlet

“The only way to remain relevant is to be ahead of the changes.”
- A daring missive brought to you by The Hepkat Fönne Brigade, a division of the 4Propheteers, part of the Foundation for the Absent Tomorrow.

The Prophecy will be fulfilled. First, it must be found.

As far as darkness goes, I mostly just read books. Usually I like the dark. The dim anyway; firelight, candlelight, a lone lamp in a desolate room. When the lights are low all manner of creatures may dance in the shadows. Ah, but we already sang that song. And we all know where that road ends. Don't we? Ha ha ha. But, don't we.

In seeking, there are many choices a body must make. It would seem, then, unfortunate, that I, as a rule, no longer make decisions. (I had a bad experience once. Or something. The rules and results are fading, foggy. You know how that shit goes. Or pehaps you do not. Perhaps it is just I and I who knows the ways and means of the darkest of nights in the deepest of fogs in the rightest of wrongs.) Sing deeply to my soul, for nothing else there is: to be.

Deepest regrets, so full when you have them, so un-fucking-avoidable when they happen. Can you remember, back when ... I fucked up the show, I ruined the day, I pissed you off, I made you hate me, and then you wouldn't fuck me. Which is what it all comes back to. That or something like it. Lies have a way of compounding.

Keep lying to everyone long enough and you start lying to yourself.
Lie to yourself long enough and nothing is real anymore.

Because fuck damn it means for shit. It's just that nothing and so unrelievedly so. Beget and began and ... and then ... For what and why? Wherefore, indeed. Scrambled messes and garbled eggs. I go on because there is not else. Left to my own devices - it's mostly just sleep. By myself it's rarely even the booze. Myself. By myself it rarely matters. And yet. And yet I can't won't get over myself. The only thing that matters. All lies. It is all lies. And they are all true. Or true enough. In the grand scheme of things. As part of the bigger pictures. I am just someone else's idea of a bad joke. And now we pause for a punch line that will never come.

***
"Time ticks forward and time ticks back, but so long as it ticks..."
- Anonymous, The Lost Fragments

Heads I win, Tales you lose.

I will not sacrifice myself to the greater good.

It's sort of a personal thing. But like that stoner kid from Road Trip, I have a feeling that the world is going to need me. And by that I mean, I am not done yet. With life and accomplishing shit and all that. Not that I ever plan on doing anything "for" anyone (it is only ever for myself, as if you couldn't tell), most especailly for the "world". After all, the "world", like the "universe" has rarely been on my side. I stole Atropos' scissors and ever since she and her sisters have been just short of sending the Furies after me. Everything is eventual, unless you get on the bad side of the Moirae.

On similar lines, I believe it was the Norns who decided to exile me to Suburbia. Not even Prophets are immune to the absurdities of Fate.

Now that Good Sir Krol is good and bored (he does not take to well to the less relevant aspects of my glorious prose) I will venture into less restrictive territory.

Ever get the feeling that you want to destroy ... something anything
especially if you could (something beautiful) get away with it?
because that would mean
that you are better than them (the others) and the system. Which
is always good. not that it is usually true and it mostly
won't matter; reckless and regardless of what you could do (you won't do it anyway).
I don't trust myself. How could I trust you? Game to the
end of the reality and then I said, "..."
Useless is the way, but nothing else and it goes nowhere from there.
And the rest is noise. (the signal 2 ratio must be off)

So it would seem that the Right Honorable J. Garrett Morris, 14th Earl of Westerbridgeshirebergmanstein, has recently felt compelled to take up the position of Prophet. However, since I am already the Prophet of the group, and this being my forum, he will have to take on a slightly differnt title. He has yet to accept a new name and location, as I, Prophet of Saxony, and all others like me have. However, in the running are Lester Alan Nateworthy, Yellow Emperor of Transitional E-Space, and Aslan Lionheart, Bringer of Blanket Inevitability. Leave your ideas in the suggestion box. "He" will "choose" one of them at my discretion.

The other things I have to say, I will say later. But I will say this:

(sometimes, life is deafening).

***
"Cubs win! Cubs win!"
- Harry Caray