why I love you and why it hurts, why I feel it all the time

and how. i watched ren and stimpy and stimpy is so nice to ren, so nice and squeals with delight, but nothings good, nothings going on, nothings good and going on, nothing much has been good and going on, nothing I can provide for you in this way that we provide for one another, only my love that is gone, that you'll never give me, never ever give me- take it right now away from me, take it away and sit on it like a hunk of cheese, like a movie that nobody will watch fast enough to say anything about, only a few pages into this love that I should have, this one which I was trying to be- holding and holding and expired, expired, minutes left, minutes and smiles with screw on caps, jawbones and eyedice, takes it right outa me, takes everything away,
leaves me without dead leaves to lie in, not even wet, but the smell,
you can't argue with grain, and as much as you dream, the flavor is
discontinuous, even the sweep of your arm could break off, even the sugar in your blood will jingle in the moan of busfare, but who said anything about what to go on and centerfold, centerfold before the gap of god, marionetted, below and perpenticular, away from vertical, eyes and mouth on one hook.
at least there wasn't any clear evidence, i would add

come dimensia aid the night in its progress and searching yes within the mind of another descending but unsure of destination spelunking within the earth the fathoms of heat and mass below us and forever once not yes spherical is forever as far as proximity of objects in the infinitudesof two dimensions in the infinitueds of 5 dimensionsand the sad car even sees companion ship beyond its page this is a novel the mementum of direction third thurd dimension through penetrated in the moment of the word annihilated what delights just colored lips another powder keg displaces the center by trapeze oh the victory of language over man which is the form of grand sublime force the great in the division of myself in myself is evident in the patterns of manness belonging to certainty I will illustrate in the mindling of this writing and your mind these patterns illustrating connected ideas are conjerd by the profit are only the offering of a mystic the volume in the passing of voices only this I can write forgive me and forgive yourself and from a glitter in the memory which I attempt to conjure or struct two etemologies with the tangle and sting of the whole athe numbness and clarity oh is my clarity only in my removal my invested disection the smoothinging along the damp tires wrapping through the space that annihilates me maybe this is the theme to the story the annihilation of myself and the victory of insects below men and above men I'm glad I can finally pick a team in this book don't you hate it when you hate everything in something you try to pretent to want to read I mean you're like jesus christ I must be a fucking numbskull picking a team is so much more practical in the practise of spelling and grammar I'm so ambitious I'm looking back I'm running a race and you're the book I read so I'm an alien in their radar a blip a moon I'm not quite been annihilated by the sunlight quite yet by the brightness of disappearance the cunjunction between existing and nothing is bright is light light before darkness light is the incessant demand and misfortune of the seen of the patterns moving in the shapes of our thoughts fierceness int eh battle through ourselves without the spectacle of violence the spectacle of violence the spectacle of violence even in our distance from other organismization this is the battle against my visual existence even in the air without origin yes to whom do I owe this air? The hounting of the spectacle the moving image yes destroyed impossible reconstructed existense and a teaspoon of intention best arrayed within the always outside of the image the always inside of the sound the third dimunsion of penetration of annihilation between them of course the forth no fifth dimension the line along the lines ok and the the patterns everyday in the morning in the afternoon in the booznin in the quilt of fuck

god bless another exhibition

Between this and thelast page was 24 hours of sleep, sex, motion, digestion, spectation, the final silence in the great abundance of the world no wordlessness, sipping bitterness, pulling way, away and also a piano, why not, earlier a drum set that hovers between desire and reality and here also the tenuous balance of this silence- the measurements analyzed in silence, in silence and appearing a piano- now, mr Satie- the silence perhaps which I should announce, between these soft movement of spiderlike agility, this scratching into a plane of distances, of accuracy, and each target becomes purpose.
What raggin’ tangly temptation, what if a voice is greater than itself? And the balance to this attentive texture would Shepard, the great harvester of animals, by the cooperation, of multiple movements operated in syncopated opposition, were this elegance advocated unto each operative of the physical plane, what fantasy which provides itself selection, what rhythm now the footsteps would affirm, in the great volumes of breaths, how thoughts through this balance may equip, to which every story is always and already within itself- now could one accept such mystification? what, tell me, escapes such triviality? and you may ask whether one must not respond to the control, would any other image not also presuppose reflection of distance insufficient, scale and my love of great scale- before where fish in medium, in uniform space, in not this space which my honesty provides the tissue structure liquefies my mind too much- just these wearied notes, this movement of intensified nonmovement in the quiet of a vibration, if those can offer an oppositional inevitability- to live once beyond the external, yes, - in what dangerous acts shall I scandalize my sister, where such inevitabilities must exist,

How much can I hold onto the past, is what I’m asking, where the distribution of yourself must indicate value, if not among the exchange of consciousnesses, than within the great untouchability in the voided dimension in physical deconstruction, to this that which exist without oneself, the great intricacy affirming all intentionality, skating between heartbeats in abundance, blue eyed just as wordless as anything- like a silent cry in the cheerful familiarity of TARGET, the banner above which recognizes itself in your own, to return again to the waters of mystification, but only at the onset
Or in the moment of your copelessness, the movement in my mind more and more just also meditated into that which cannot, where also must I disenchant myself in that absence in adjacent realities.

Mankind, I must intervene in this way,

into the excited scientist

the novel never reads itself.

notes on soap-tops will formalize the reflections which are inside and only without death. And they come in comfortable quads (quad beats tri) to attain the sanctity only available at thirteen dollars a pop and with proper introduction and cohesion along the strict parallelism with within which the moral weight flutters: in the stretch-ing ocsilla-tion engineer-ing away from the blunt smokelessness of mis-exist-tential utilitiz-ing. They're only wings, they're only feathers, they're only fibers because the buffered compression of era permits and elicits flight, species, ecology zippered within organismization in conjunction and stepping determinated pace.

Meanwhile the daily struggle of the American people, absorbing the resultsof the power abuses by the rich, powerful and corporate, continues outsidethis inbred force field of insipid coverage and commentary.

human beings are human beings being human beings being, interested continuous be, a be that does continuously, earning itself the suffix. the human stays strong before the being, the human doesn't need nuthin to prove to nobody this side of needing to be, nosireee. human cuts down the ground with the guitar gut shot and tough guys the heeman concussion. humans doesn't isn't wasn't couldn't hasn't ya got it and leave it be not being at all alone. not interested! IN BEING!!!!! Not interested human! Human not interested, human leave me alone, human stop typing human what do you think you do human? YOU:RE DOING HUMAN WHAT? HUMAN WHY?? WHY?

a salty slap to the nuts ( or eluding consistency)

so I got my friend's car towed this morning, the result of the Stevens Neighborhood's fluctuating parking schedule and my absentmindedness- or, as was just articulated by the owner of the car: the "pile of irresponsibility" that I and others recognize as Ryan.

I don't disagree with this characterization, as I've often discribed my life as: Piles on top of other piles- intermingling collections of unorganization on a dusty floor reflecting the mis-interest of the things that come to me in the mail, that I reach out for at the library, the remnants of the pseudo-endevors of my education lingering within reach and out of sight (thank god), or the various periodical publications that I don't ever really want to take the time to sift through.

And this anxiety I have for periodicals, for any type of text that is produced at some sort of consistent, typically daily rate- now this is a hard nut to crack. It's connected to how people watch baseball, I've now learned, this comfort of consistency that eludes me, or that I am eluding, yes that's it. The anxiety is of being talked over- DO OVER! of people talking over themselves, before they finish what they were initially trying to say- which is how I exist anyway, especially when I'm writing while stoned, where flashes of flavor connect allong themselves, alright, amidst the effort of disavowing, of abandoning these thoughts even as they meet permanence- your sentences can really take some hard turns but that's what I like anyway, in literature, characters who make swift, momentous stabs at their own definition and deconstruction. They expand across the pages in my mind, instead of being absorbed more and more into the titles and headlines, leaving less to be uncovered, leaving less- just breaths before the next concussion of darker, grosser letters.

I just don't know what to read.

Oh, don't get me started on the word "just," pitting the entirity of existense against a single contingency, an inescapably convenient condition of need. Face the dictionary like a goodboy:
Main Entry:
1just
Pronunciation:
\ˈjəst, ˈjüst\archaic variant of joust

eh?

Function:
adjective
Etymology:
Middle English, from Anglo-French & Latin; Anglo-French juste, from Latin justus, from jus right, law; akin to Sanskrit yos welfare
Date:
14th century

a little better... but it's the adverb I'm after:

1 a: exactly, precisely b: very recently 2 a: by a very small margin : barely b: immediately, directly 3 a: only, simply b: quite, very

Nothing to back it up with... oh I have to work now, but before I also wrote this, which no longer belongs, the blog is lying!

This sort of connected to the idea of the car getting towed in this idea that people are responsible for the things that belong to them, to the extent that the threat of consequence shadows over the value of the things themselves- in where they are kept, in the condition that they are left in, in the ease of their re-emergence from a catalog. Bills and Paystubs are objects of some of my worst neglect, right after the various hakneyed efforts to either continue my education, figure out how to move to Germany, or even just secure some sort of rewarding/longstanding/tolerably lucrative employment.

write

Dan:

These words are for you, they contain the significance of our mutual desires....beeevvvaaarrrre!

you "should" have written 10 pages or more, you were distracted by tasks preventing your in-habitation of "the zone."
I responded: "Just do it, man."
you responded "that's not an answer, Ryan" - a paternal gesture, authorizing your reprimanding my response.

Now, as I was leaving, I began (to write this):

I do not mean to give you an answer, but only a command- that you expect an answer to emerge, that you worship (returning over and over again to) a perpetually hypothetical existence of yourself - this is an insult to the agency of your consciousness and your force as a thinker, reader, and most importantly your capabilities as a writer (which is one-who-WRITES, not one-who-has-written). The perpetuation of the intangibility of your existence is the silence, the non-thing, which demands from you a ceaseless and unrestrained attack. This is, for instance, why I suggested that you run. The process of running is perhaps the most immediate and tangible way to devastate one's physical homeostasis in the sense that when you run, you approach directly the limitations of your body- you need air, rest, reprieve, to relent against yourself- but it is also of course similarly effective and direct in destroying intangibility and the confusing distances of one's imagination- being lost within the mundane endlessness of oneself. I compare it to the sensation I used to achieve when vacuuming the dinning area of coffman memorial union. The cacophonous whining buzz of inextricable, unisolatable frequencies, overdrive without melody, encouraged meditation and focus through the elimination of the distances of one's imagination and silence- it destroyed the distance of the aural atmosphere.

That which offers resistance to articulation is necessarily (always and already) endowed with an element of mysticism, in that it eludes the materiality of language/signification by hearkening back to metaphysical concepts of permanence, time, and ceaseless meaning-
of that-which-remains-yet-to-be-seen
of divine tautology
of a future
of not.yet.
of beyond
of UseLessNess.

sometimes people sometimes i will hear; i will experience a guitar workout so utterly rapturous that rather than performing anything resembling serviceable air-guitar playing, i in cabal with my bodily parts, brainwaves, nerves, and emotions render something generously called "convulsing." No i don't nor can't just pantomime a simple repeated downstroke and attendant head-banging: instead, an imagined audience gets extremely convincing epilepsy. Also

Have you ever achieved this feat or rockn'roll-athletic fusion: While engaged in previously detailed guitar antics, other body parts of mine were doing this strangely possible thing--my feet, that is, were launching me into the air while, while, simultaneously now, pushing back against the ground, stompin' on it, as it were? Wow!

[good song to achieve said experience to: Menomena's "Trigga Hiccups"]