Visiting fam.

wow
what an
irritable
mood I am
in today
seems to
go hand
in glove
when visiting
the fam.
having to
endure
the senile
guilt trips
rapid fire

why even visit
if when I do
I’m made to
feel guilty
for not
visiting
enough?

“they hardly even
make it out for xmas
there isn’t much hope
they’ll come here for
the holidays
all the way
from Houston…”

ugh!

I’m out
of there

but feeling
a little
overwhelmed

obscene
rebellious
enraged

thanks
for the
fucked up
imprints!

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I’m in here looking out. Looking out at the grass fields. This could almost be a golf course, this campus. C. is downstairs or somewhere in this building watching an old silent film for a class assignment. I would have joined her, but I felt like doing my own thing for a little bit, as I have plenty of stuff to read these days, comics, and new books that have come in from my birthday gift certificate spree.

I plan to dig deeper into this Seven Soldiers thing. We are all “geeks” about one thing or another. It’s all fine with me. Comic geek. Web browsing geek. Tivo geek. Geek at the mailbox. Corner store geek. Enthusiasts, show me your geek cards. I’m card carrying, it is Saturday, and… I’m intrigued by the Sheedas, the small mosquito warriors that are popping in and out of the Seven Soldiers saga, the bad guys who will bring all realities down into darkness and annihilation. Maybe they are responsible for the Marburg virus.

Later
C. trips me out. Said she fast forwarded through most of the movie since it was silent. Some parts she went x4. This symbolizes her entire span. She just blazes through with honors and I wonder how she does it. I’ve always been the slow kid. Well, slower. She’s the rembrandt. I sometimes envy it but at the same time recognize my own strengths. We round each other out.

It is cold today, will be cold tomorrow and the next. If I could send a letter, I would. Dear Weather, please get your shit together. This is not consistent. Oh well. I suppose I can be patient. I realize you have a lot on your plate with us humans causing the destruction of the planet and all.

Wow, this blog thing is strange. I was doing zines back in the day and I guess I never suspected writing for the common folk would blow up like this and become so easy. Now that it has, I find I have a bunch of journals to juggle through and don’t always get to them all. It’s almost information overload. I have mixed emotions like… why would someone be interested in reading such small notes about nothing? (Maybe for the same reason we’re interested in, I don’t know, Seinfeld?) My argument is… hey, this is my journal, this is what I’m trying to do with my life; if you’re interested, come on in. I’m trying to increase the quality of my thoughts, the quality of life, and ernestly feel compassion for people. Which brings to mind: anyone who is interested in politics should begin with compassion. Think beyond yourself. See how you connect with other people, with animals, with other things. Activists, be philosophers. Everyone, rise up, become philosophers.

Headache whipping in the air like a flag. My friend shows me photographs from this bike race down in Georgia. On his way back stops off in Ashville, NC, same size as this town, he says, but much cooler. In about five weeks, we will finally be moving to Houston.

From Hollins:
While the coffee shop in town has easily become a second living room to us, I suppose the library at Hollins has become a third (for me, anyway). I drop off C. and skip about campus and take advantage of the wi-fi. There are times when I realize I’ve not gotten enough sleep. My body starts to slouch in the chair. My mind says get up, write something down, notice the wasps about to sting you, a girl at an easel, spy a headline, jump to a url, anything. When I come out of the building, C. says I look like I’ve been sleeping. No, I say. I’ve been reading the newspaper, an article about the spread of the Marburg virus, how it comes and goes, hard to determine exactly where the hell it’s coming from.

From the comic store:
Yes, the next issue of Seven Soldiers. Put it in my sweet little hands. Let me devour this.

From the library in town:
I’m here with C. looking for silent films for a school project. No luck. A man who looks homeless, is having problems, limping along slowly, pants soiled. We talk about how we feel bad for him.

Black coffee blues:
The sun comes into this one window, and I’m on the side it hits direct, so I have to move over to the other. The girl there, even though I say hello to her, keeps quiet and buried deep in her studies. Cell rings and she is flustered with boy troubles and instantly smoking on the sidewalk. I guess she didn’t respond because I was so soft spoken. Damn my shyness. Other people stomp around and kick doors in, socially speaking. I’m just not like that in the beginning. Later on I’m more at home with people, more myself. But anyway, I haven’t felt myself lately, this year. Haven’t felt myself for a long while.

I enjoy the atmosphere here, but often wish to absorb myself in writing, thoughts, and whatever it is I brought down here to read, and all is good. Which is why when people come stomping around asking me how I’m doing over and over I get a little testy. There are a couple of kids here that do this. They test my patience, let’s say. And here they come now, in fucking hordes. The window seats are the main hang out spots and to the side is a table of newspapers. Everyone flocks over to the headlines about the Pope and to say what’s up. Oh, nothing, nada, not much, please go away, leave me be, I’m not here, I don’t know you, I wish to keep it that way, pretend you’ve never seen me before and take your swift leave.

Here I am, bloggishly taking notes. A small day, rainy. The rain kinda pisses people off. Went out to the Hollins library, chilled out, headed back into town and stopped at the co-op, then came home and slept. And slept. Woke up around 8:30pm, headed down here to the coffee shop around 9. Here I sit. Two scraggly men were causing some craziness. The one kept repeating over and over, “I’m from Boston.” The other, banging on a bell, demanding service. “Get out!” they yelled at him. Outside, he walked past my window, licked his finger and drew an X on the window in front of me and flipped me the bird. No big deal. Still, they called the cops—who came in 20 minutes late. “Bad timing,” someone yelled. Some friends are standing out in the rain, talking. I’m quiet, experiencing some depression. It’s quite possible the weather is the culprit. Rudra put a good slice down my cuticle; it looks like a red pen mark.

I have notes flying around in my head. The mind is powerful, more than we know. Beyond that, I have very little to say. I’m looking into it. I’ve ordered various birthday books for myself. More and more resources are becoming available to us, but that drive, motivation, that inspiration, is needed. This alone can go out and get those resources if need be. One of my understandings of CM is that it is entirely outside the realm of any sort of religious belief system (B.S.). Yet beliefs and ritual play a big part in the mind’s creation of external events and even the conjuring of entities out of thin air. That is, belief in someone who did not exist even five minutes ago. I’ve read that you can create such a being so that it does your bidding, and if it ever turns on you in any sort of way, you can erase it. A few years ago I would have thought this a lot of silliness, but I’m quite curious of it all now.

I mention this sort of thing in my new book I’m working on. The past is in the past. A big part of putting the past down and moving on is to verbalize it. C. and I talk a lot about how we spent so much time in the KC movement, perhaps too much time, and what it has done to our psyche. It’s pissed us off, for one thing. And there’s some of it that makes us laugh. (Laugh to keep from crying…) “I feel disappointed in myself for having been a part of all that.”

Woke up from my nap thinking: these titles we have for ourselves should be fun. If anything, you wanna hear more from me my ideas than … “I’m a writer, I’m an anarchist, I’m an avid comic book reader.” You’d much rather have a plot thrown at you.

Received my second bird of the evening. Out he goes, again!

So, where is my concentration going? Meditation. Patience. Quantum physics. Motion. Sunlight. Magic of/in being. Mung bean. Pub. Publication. I have adopted “maybe logic” as of yesterday, though it’s been in my blood. In the night, I had, or started to have, an out of body experience (OBE). It’s the strangest fucking feeling in the world. Whatever it is, it’s scary. It’s like this feeling that you’re being pulled up and out, and this time I was thinking, “Just go with it.” Couldn’t remember what happened next. It happened right before I went into full sleep and it felt like it didn’t completely kick in. Perhaps this is just something that happens right before you go into one of the levels of deep sleep.

Was reading about how you can directly induce this by sexual arousal, but avoiding the physical climax. Something about that sexual charge while at the same time being drowsy and then falling asleep is supposed to stimulate OBE.

Now I’m wrapping up my time here. Warping it.

he puts a spear through a fish
she puts a fish on her bumper
reminds her of something else
we shall have
fun with our symbols
all through a life
bounce bounce
king of the ring tones
classic rock
slow cops
cyclops
uncomfortable cots
small tots
and so on

the coffee could be
better

lamb bleats

Writing has been sorta blocked these days, at least with writing entries here. Writing in general has been… something else. Something of a flow, then something… else. When I don’t write, I read, or walk, or stare out the window. Writing, probably, is all about adopting certain mind states. One falls down on you and you roll with it. Today I’m reading Neil Gaiman’s Smoke & Mirrors. Interesting short stories. This one about a writer from England who is transported to LA to develop a screenplay, what happened to the kids of Charles Manson.

And OS X Tiger was announced, will be out in two weeks.

Incredible weather today—nice and sunny, temperatures up, a fragrant spring breeze. So goes a wi-fi coffee shop entry flipping around in the wind like a plastic bag. And the next release of Seven Soldiers is out, a plus. Flower pedals fall down around us, and there are babies, small children being led along by their Easter parents, deciding which shop to enter next. See, this is the market square during lunch time. Busy cops circling and ticketing cars and scoping women.

I’m becoming a teacher so I can hate children.

Better that than getting your fingers cut off in machinery.

I don’t say anything. Piano fingers type the blog, put it down, get the thoughts down. There. Sent. Sent to ether. Return to sender. A scribbler’s flow. His sense of things. His feel. His take on the world around him. Radio from College Park to Laurel.

He leaves his body because he falls off the wall. But nevermind all that. That’s old hat. Or is it. Um, 3-2-1, when he returned was startled to find he could shoot lasers from his fingertips. Bored, shot up his old high school. I used to go here, you bitches.

Cthulhu loathes you


symbol
Originally uploaded by bgk.

Oh, notes: Finally beginning to study Chaos Magick. It’s interesting how these various ideas tie in with other ideas out there. Much of it is not new to me, I guess is what I’m trying to say. The mind is so powerful. So many things are being discovered, whatever label you put on it should not really obstruct its potential. It is a mystical thing. We are mystics, mystical beings. With belief you can transfer ability from one place right to your front doorstep. Thoughts. Intention. Sigils created, set loose. Wait and see what comes through in the “mail.” We can knock down our limitations the more we hack away at them.