X-Mas + Fever = bad writing and a lot of it


Why do you hate everyone when your sick? It could be that you’re simply jealous of their health. Or maybe it’s their unsympathetic possessiveness of your symptoms and solutions to such. You often hear of another’s plight under the same ailment, only how much worse it was or is going to get. There’s also the blatant fact that your life has been suspended with the accoutre ma of discomfort. It’s a whirl wind of social aggregates that you’re unprepared to reckon with.

I began feeling like shit Sunday afternoon while on the way up to the local mountains with my family. It’d been a chaotic past two weeks of rallying and the holidays first familial obligation woke me up in the form of a text while I was face down on Robby’s couch (for the second night in a row). “Mom and Dad want you home soon so we can go shoot bow and arrows.” My sister always mitigates these things, for better or for worse, and my time had come. I arose with heavy head, poured out the empties, and pushed the furniture around a bit. En route I smoked my second to last cigarette. We quarreled then laughed, deciding exercise and long drives weren’t in order. So Blue Jay it would be. From home we drove 30 miles of the way to realize we couldn’t make it there on our tank. Reverse, drive, faster. On the road again with flaming hot Cheetos and Arnold Palmer in hand. This is where nausea sets in. The windy roads with the obtuseness of family sunk me deep into my seat as I awaited release into the woods. Once there we ate, drank, and walked. I smoked one last cigarette with jess on a bald lookout. All of it was emotional and some of it even torturous. I visited good old Frank Cruze’s memorial placard up a hill with my sister and mother puffing behind me. I always wondered what kind of man he was to deserve such immortalization. On our way back to the car I picked some sage for some smudges, and it’d be the last time I felt normal enough. A pain developed in my ear as my right tonsil swelled up. A fever took hold and the aches of any sickness followed suit. It was a barrage, a good old fashioned blitz krieg of body against pompous mind. Once home I wobbled my way up the stairs, burrito’ed myself in three blankets and sulked until morning.

It eventually came but first I must tell you of the night. I watched a movie on Netflix titled IP Man which dealt with honorable Chinese resistance amidst the Japanese invasion of WWII + shit tons of unrealistic kung fu. It kinda sucked and subtitles were a bad choice. In any case, I attempted to sleep off what I hoped was a one night fever to find myself immersed in a full blown, waking hallucination. It primarily dealt with how pant production plummeted in wartime and how a man in need of good pants was at a loss on either side of the conflict. What the fuck, right? I wake up in cold sweats to midday sun and beckon my sister to make an appointment with the doctor. I’ve also come to find that my sister’s anti-consumer secret santa plan has crashed and burned. This leaves me literally no time to remedy my scroogness and I am still having trouble eating anything. To top off the less than 20 hour debacle another symptom occurs: bright red, elevated, and circular rashes have formed on my right bicep. Im still in pain, I have but one present, cant swallow without cringing, and now think I have the plague.

Kaiser gets me in, pokes around for 2 minutes, and after 35 minutes of waiting the doctor re-enters to tell me the test was positive for strep throat with the red dots potentially being a sign of rheumatic fever, and that my heart could be at risk if I don’t feel better in three days. Get pills, go home, burrito.

I write this on Christmas night, the third day of the amoxicillin. Right tonsil has shrunk but the left has porked up. I just took a bath and saw light/color traces of everything that I moved (imagine me naked as a baby waving three fingers in front of my face). My four best friends from high school are getting drunk and avoiding contact to my disease. My sister is driving the shit out of my car, no doubt the pay off for nursing me the last four days. My parents asleep and brother with his new family. And I cant even smoke cigarettes. Boy does this suck.

I hated Christmas long before this one. It’s a consumerist, material frenzy painted in hypocritical religious meaning that only further disperses the feuding classes against one another. It’s inaccurate in its claim, creates obligations people dread, and is set in a context of universality that is incongruous with most of the world. It propels poverty, miserable conditions across all modes of production, and sweeps such suffering under the rugs of nation’s who know not what X-Mas is. Despite it all, it’s a time for family, friendship, and comradeship. And although I’m stuck at home, sweating, writing a hate piece on my current condition and perspective of the world I recognize this. So merry Christmas. Enjoy the time with your loved ones. You don’t know how much you’ll miss them until you get strep throat. 🙂

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Anarkos = “Without Rulers”

Anarchy has been sparking my interest in political theory and non-fiction as of late. I’m currently reading Living My Life by Emma Goldman which was suggested to me by this old man in an Oakland bookstore who was surprised by my question “I’m trying to get into anarchist literature, what would you suggest?” He delightedly showed me to what seemed his favorite section and pulled out volume one. In it she begins telling her story of immigrating to the US from Russia and simultaneously discovering it not as the land of the free but as another hierarchical system of oppression and greed. Her story is filled with notorious characters and historic events only to be matched by her own progressive anarchism. Anyhoot, I’d recommend it, especially if you like the above documentary. I really hope it gets the funding to follow its scheduled plan of release, perhaps a smidgin is in order.

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I’m alive! and instead of giving you some of the weird shit I wrote in the woods I’ll share with you this:

“Rationing is a vital part of your country’s war effort. Any attempt to violate the rules is an effort to deny someone his share and will create hardship and help the enemy.

This book is your government’s assurance of your right to buy your fair share of certain goods made scarce by war. Price ceilings have also been established for your protection. Dealers must post these prices conspicuously. Don’t pay more.

Give your whole support to rationing and thereby conserve our vital goods. Be guided by the rule: “”If you don’t need it, DON’T BU IT.”

-U.S. Government Printing Office: 1943″


Found this on the back of Wilson H. Masters War Ration Book No. 3 along with the rest of his family’s164735


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Lighting his cigarette, the man rolled down his window letting the vacuous night  fill the cab. Swerving minutely, the vehicle’s jerk reminded him he was drunk. It also broke his reveled, yet tangential thoughts of things came and gone. Following the white and yellow lines without much involvement, the road’s past busied his mind. The pavement rolled over mounds to big to want to move as incandescent light pocketed portions of the adjacent sidewalk. The truck’s movement was determined by this crust of civil society. Road and vehicle bound together by purpose with all the infrastructure in place: wires, sewage, and pipes placed methodically to service the people’s more banal bodily functions. And despite his need to adhere to it’s qualities, as it could easily destroy him, he knew the road was not invincible. In fact, it was likely younger than he with an awkwardly simple composition. Rock, sand, tar, and water mashed together to make his and many other’s way home. Some guy, it didn’t matter who, put these few things together for the benefit of his self righteous epiphany of need, society, and matter. The shame would come from his annoyance at losing the buzzed idea to fear of harm. It was his pussy footed character to claim such insight and loose it once faced with his more banal emotions. He was incapable of connecting these ideas with the arrogant entitlement of the modern driver. Such irony would, of course, be left to someone who thought the ordeal beautiful and, consequently, noteworthy. The story, truly told, depicted a time where things were separated; man and earth, beginning and end, action and thought.
With the cigarette snubbed out amongst those of the past, the window went up taking with it the last few shreds of smoke that lingered. Now both hands on the wheel and mind off the road, he put his attention to getting home without the risk of spacing off. Calculating how he might appear to a cop, he sat up and managed the pedals with the grace of a composer. Complete stops, blinkers blinking, he now maneuvered the road as if it didn’t have a past. It’s function was bare and boring in comparison to his goal or life for that matter. It’s strange existence, temporal and implicative, was replaced by his own. In this way, the road was used anew. With an altered import, it fell in line with the tactile world of things immediately observable. Serving the masses humbly, the road had to await it’s eventual replacement not knowing if it would again be looked upon with true admiration. It sadly endured it’s even more melancholy commuters.
He pulled up in front of his house and released a sigh of anxiety riddled relief. Having completed his tumultuous journey of intoxicated reactions, he hurriedly gathered his things, stepped out onto the street, walked up his driveway, and lastly, locked the doors with his keychain. The truck gave out two unfitting chirps and fell silent save for the cooling crackles of the engine. The road and truck, left as separate devices, also relaxed and enjoyed the company of one another. At least until the morning, the two could remain outside their creators realm of rage and reason.

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I got the job

It begins April 21st and probably a week or so before I will have put this blog on pause. It will be tough, but I believe it’s perfect for me. I will be writing, the old school way, while up there and will be maintaining correspondence with anyone who’s interested so send me your address. Watch this slightly tongue in cheek video to see what it’s all about:

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Profitable Thought

Arguably, foresight and premeditation impede efficiency. For example, setting out your clothes or preparing a lunch for the next work day. These activities themselves take the time to commit and adding the time spent recognizing them subtracts from time spent considering other things, possibly more relevant or noteworthy. If instead, say, we relied heavily on instinct, intuition, and time-spatial pressures we might be able to more efficiently use our hours contemplating that which truly deserves contemplation. An example of this follows; suppose instead of worrying all week about what day to do your laundry, you’d wait until the necessity forced itself into action. In the meantime, you could focus on complex/abstract topics such as interpersonal relationships, the implications of subconscious twitches, dreams, or desires. The content of these ulterior subjects need only be segregated from superficial thought. Useless thought of the sort could even be matched with common conversational criticisms: having an opinion just to be opinionated, over concerned for the sake of appearing so, method above purpose, etc. These things plague, what I believe to be the case, the majorities waking conscious. And a shame it is too, thinking of the prolonged implications of the theory. What would a community look like if it truly analyzed the quality of it’s intra-actions? How would self worth grow with a fertilized confidence? In an industrial age where efficiency is coveted, it seems weird that we’ve failed to apply the same equation to our own image. It is possible that there lacks a consensus; the bottom line of happiness. Even so, there is a steadfast material standard which can be used to gauge comfortability. It would seem sensical to see a relation. If the relevance was admittable, I think we should consider very seriously how, and how long, we use our brains and for what.

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Cosmic Tetris

The pieces were all traveling, with a cool quickness, in the same general direction. Unique in shape and size, they reorganized with controlled, mathematical acceleration. Their goal was unity, and though they we’re slowly bound, their undeniable movement made this difficult. One benefit of this order was that between each congruence time could be chopped up even smaller. So this left the pieces within states of inanimate wonder. From one perspective, it could be thought they were still. The rules remained though and from either complete synthesis or prior entropy their movement could be realized. Unfortunately for the pieces, even neighboring conglomerates knew not of these ends. It was rumor of things about things from things. Such a state of affairs was obviously confusing. Fortunately for the pieces, confusion did not interrupt their pace. They proceeded under mandatory command. The specifics of the laws being the final assumption just as assumed laws lead to specifics. Notably, one piece did not even necessarily fit with another under any duration of observation. It was merely a safe assumption that a fitting match would be found. In addition, no pieces desired deconstruction and with precise movement they mostly avoided such. There was concession that a piece might only ever find a partner if another bond was broken and this was observable. So yet another perspective could yield the view that these pieces were in fact falling apart rather than coming together. Regardless of these positioned points of view, the rules remained just as the pieces and their multitude.  What the pieces were was not known as they did not know themselves. Aside each other, they were all there ever was.

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the harmless ode (not really)

Harmonized, the three began to climb the notes of their song. The choreography of the woods was their inspiration as they themselves went round. Ever faster, the three went on and up, high but with lows. A gesture designed to show. They were there not to perform, instead, to partake. Absorption conceded, they had tired of keystrokes and loaded questions poised by greed. It was the worlds turn to say something and theirs to respond. And so their irresistible dimples remained as inspirational shivers translated into movement in their arms and legs. They were able to forget the two toned dichotomy that argues with itself in more sane moments. Although not free, they at least had each other to forget that with. It was an homage to their absence, a time before themselves. And they were proud they could, for if not, sadness would truly be their creation.

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Cigarette Etiquette Suggestion

When asking someone to join you for a cigarette you would be obliged to offer them one of yours. By doing so you would not only cut back your own smoking via a check and balance relationship with other smokers but also introduce a deserved appreciation for the act itself. Arguably, smoking has become an even more intimate gesture than that of our parents’ generation. The unanticipated result of the direct ostracization of smokers. Regarded assumingly as walking carcinogens, the contemporary smoker is relocated outdoors if not also away. Ironically, such conditions strengthen camaraderie and form a solidarity for the shunned. It may even be asked if such segregation does do so to a degree against it’s motive. As cigarettes have/are/will be endorsed by counter culture, they will be part of any such identities. Noting their current client base despite neutered advertising, association is all that their influence needs. And rules which create time and space for one to interact with others while rebelliously taking a break seem asinine. Which leads to the possible conclusion that anti-smoking sentiment can not suffocate smokers and in actuality harbors their existence. This is not to say no non-smoking common rule would work better, only that the efforts thus far to suppress smoking and it’s wheezing side effects might be sustaining a market niche. Or perhaps anti-smoking signage is merely the latest expression of the public’s disdain for the habit, confirming many a smokers near paranoid self-awareness. Alas, amicably exclusive, smoking provides alone time in a time where we never are. So I say if we’re to be pragmatically cast away, let us take pride in it and act with the dignity of negligent antiquity!

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The swirling of catastrophic headlines supports our blessed self opinions. Walking tall on presumptuous scaffolds of progress, we exist contentedly, without acknowledging our ineptness. Creation not wholly shared, clouds of pride curl over friction caused by superficial clawing. Marks left on the earth that it too does not notice. Enough time and much less attention, we’ve even taken to the chaos of our inevitable demise. Beauty established as a circumstance of sense.

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