Originally uploaded here by Famewhore
Geologic. Huge plates must shift and grind in my head, slowly but surely building up unseen tension capable of ending lives and ruining cities. The stress of it all driving to an uncertain point, when all that potential energy spews forth in a single, prolongued, cataclysmic moment. And, when it does, with the certainty and predictibility of earthquakes, hell with all its fire, brimstone, and lava, pours through my consciousness. It's a disease, but it feels like the end of the world when it happens.
I'm tired, worn thin, by the rain and the rust that follows. The problem with our civilisation is also my personal one. How very daoist. I want to green my riveted leaves of chromed steel gone brown. Green follows brown, it should work, if the metaphor holds. But I'm gazing at not a far away pasture in distance but a theory. The eden I yearn for is a creation, a trick of the light of my brain attempting to construct reality from fragments. It is fiction. And in my fiction, I worry that the earth beneath those trees of lush green do not drive deep past layers of generational decay and puissant biomass, but instead into a hydroponic nightmare that is powered by the same monstrous entropic oil-driven skeleton that drives my life today. I worry that the tenders of this garden don't till not out of some permaculturist zeal, but instead out of a deep seated hypocrisy. I'm afraid that I am not welcome, that truth is not welcome. But if I get there, I'm bringing my pick-axe with me.
I'm proud of it, my humble little frankenstein. I'm using three computers right now, and I'm only touching one. My brother in arms would be proud, for all the incest that that term springs to mind. I ended up with some extra pieces, and some of them I can't use at all and I had to scavenge up some new ones. But it works. I can't wait to take it over to her house.
I want to grab ahold wings of steel and flap them unnaturally, pulling myself with brutal force across the atlantic. I'm starting to feel the pull to get the fuck out of dodge, but not because I don't like it here. I'm no whiner, bemoaning my presence here and how terrible it is, or some hogwash. I'm market sensitive, and will maximise my enjoyment based on where I am and what's going strong and pass on the weaker trends. And, damnit, I'm coming back. But I want the buzz, the madness, the away, the global fury of activity that the place conjures, its name sung upon wistful tunes. (And I'm taking you with me when I go)
I swear I'm getting a mechanical dishwasher eventually.
Written On: Home Computer
Currently Listening: TV On The Radio - Return to Cookie Mountain (album d/l)
