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| 10:55pm 06/01/2008 |
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Ensnared by dangling mossy tendrils, thick green fuzzy like 50s horror sci fi camp props, we are the most desperate of humans. We take long flights to unfamiliar places, all by ourselves, and we arrive and serve as the spectators who give the beaming welcome committees something in which to hunt for a loved one. The tendrils swing unpredictably as we jerk and struggle - not to escape, but to bring ourselves closer to each other. We can feel city-tinged moonlight, crawling through a taxi's back window to make our skin look dead. Success is contact; the brush of one or two fingertips; a stretched forearm, woven into infinite appendages, long enough for the hand at the end of it to cradle a head. We are up before the dawn, putting on our shoes, driving from dark until dark, our weary eyes held open by snakes of cigarette smoke. As moss turns to ash, green to grey, thick to emaciated, we are brought into whole successful contact, lowered near the base of the enormous dying plant to freedom from desperation.
I miss you already. |
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| The Sprawling Skeleton of Dee Little |
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| 12:22am 27/11/2007 |
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| Ovens are |
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| 03:12am 23/11/2007 |
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terrifying monsters of creation. |
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| 01:39pm 15/09/2007 |
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All of the shit that I drew in Poland is here |
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| 08:15am 05/08/2007 |
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After having breakfast, I found, semi-hidden in my domain's directories, some songs that I recorded 2-4 years ago.
All (not really) singing quietly, because somebody was usually home and damn was I self-conscious; all majority of lyrics there just so I can record something; all musical aspect being as clever as I could possibly be.
I'm still pretty pleased by the whole thing, and I'm glad my self-deprecating self didn't go on a deleting spree.
Here it all is, anyway.
I've recorded so much more than that, I even put together a finished tape, but I can't find the damned thing. Regardless, it's so satisfying that there is evidence such that my growth could even be quantitatively charted. So motivating. |
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| Hoarding Cycles |
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| 10:36pm 14/07/2007 |
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Walls corners columns are all beneath my feet, crumbled and distributed; they fell across the beach.
Wrapped in the rebar that I've seen in sadist's dreams, suspended in clusters dangling over the sea.
I've got to get across it and I don't know why, and I'm always being taunted by the seagulls in the sky;
they say, "Try to take a look at what you're climbing on; try to respect the dead, man, and just get gone."
Whose grave am I leaping from?
Whose bones am I landing in?
Who built the walls I'm hanging from?
Whose blood are my hands soaking in?
Hands palms knuckles shaking; I'm losing my control, and with no grip I'm sure to slip and maybe I'll let go,
And fall into this ocean that I've kept to left of me, and wash out in the current and become infinity.
I'll have finally surrendered all the freedom that I had, and be at mercy to the storms that come and never seem to pass.
I'll scream until my lungs are full of salty oxygen, and then evaporate -> precipitate -> and start my life again.
Who ruined the ruins I was climbing on?
Who filled the sea I'm rising from?
Who put air inside of me?
Whose idea was it that I should breathe?
Whose blood is still in my palms?
Pooled and dried; still in my palms.
When I fall in it will be gone.
I've fallen in now yes it is gone |
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| An absurd distribution of agitation |
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| 11:30pm 13/07/2007 |
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Soles of shoes pressed into held by dirt some three-hundred-and-eighty-four thousand kilometres from the core of the moon, hands knuckles fingers taking turns holding each other a distance insignificantly closer to the moon than that of his feet, plane of face approaching ninety degrees in relation to average line of best fit formed by the curve of his spine; he was watching the moon, the moon that had stopped in mathematically remarkable form (when the Earth was used as a point of reference, of course).
He had stopped walking because he had observed, during a casual glance at the most noticable source of light, a few examples of disregarded matter trapped in the orbit possessed by the lunar body; somebody's trash had managed to insert itself between him and his beloved moon. Prepared to leave the experience within the realm of acceptance-and-forgiveness, he placed a cigarette between his lips; as he searched his jacket pockets for matches, he allowed his gaze to be fixed on the moon again, and discovered that myriad, thick streams of garbage were now clearly visible, all locked in the orbit of precious moon. He removed the poorly-packed stick so that it no longer restricted the movement of his mouth, which gaped open, propped to a greater degree by his head tilt neck curve to watch, through a filter of denying horror, the discarded masses barelling down arbitrary, self-destructive courses; their shadows across beautiful moon possessed their very same repulsive stink.
When his composure was such that he could reunite his quivering lips, his eyebrows fell to be closer to them, and his head turned neck straightened to a forward that was just below perfect forward; he locked his angle in a frustrated, betrayed nod.
"Fuck you, bitch," he tried to mutter, words made unintelligible by the cigarette that had just been reintroduced to obstruct their exit. "Fuck you." |
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| Part two |
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| 06:14pm 29/06/2007 |
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When the moonlight in which her fingers were drenched was snatched by a passing cloud, she pulled her hands from the dashboard and cupped them together to cradle his head. Within seconds, his distraction from the road ceased, but he had been distracted.
"I can't move my head with your hands there."
"You don't need to move your head. There are seventeen miles between where we are now and the next turn off of this road. The turn you're taking is two miles after that one."
Maintained in the center of his headlights' grip on the road, his gaze only jumped away when passed leaves captured and reflected the car's beams, which had achieved status as only visible light, with the moon tucked behind sky. The only event capable of drawing his attention away from the dirt over which he moved was the occasional venturing of her fingers into his hair. He kept the change in interest a secret.
"It's 12:34," she declared. "Make a wish."
"I wish for better skin."
She felt her entire face overwhelmed by warmth when she smiled in response.
"That's the most selfish wish I've ever heard."
"It's not as selfish as just wishing for all the women I'll have access to when I have better skin." |
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| 02:48am 14/06/2007 |
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I finally managed to complete a page on which I will display the things I create in 2007. It only took me 6 months. You should be proud, not ashamed. Proud is how you will feel now.
http://jacek.xepher.net/07
It's actually pretty bitching and I totally deserve all of the praise you're about to generously donate to me. Don't even hold back, just give me so much love.
Also: Shayne, I really deeply apologize for my lack of activity as far as our project is concerned. Projectwise, I am worthless, and I am ready to accept any fierce berating you have prepared for me. |
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| 09:02pm 10/05/2007 |
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For twenty years, I have been a human who, through the combined efforts of various instructors, has awarded both bagels and veggieburgers the distinguished privilege of "things that are round." However, during the same twenty years, I have failed to bring two said items within any variety of proximity of each other. That all ended tonight. Tonight, the thought, "I would really like a bagel," occurred simultaneously with the thought, "I would enjoy a 'real' dinner."
I have now been allowed access to a new world. Tonight, it is a world of the fresh-baked onion-and-garlic flavor that is the combination bagel, entwined ever-so-gracefully with the barely-more-than-lentils Texas style Amy's veggie burger placed between its halved and toasted body.
All romanticism of man-home-alone-and-crafting-meals food aside, I played the final moments of Half-Life 2 the other night, and, able to momentarily observe my own reactions, I realized that I had become quite Yellow-Wigglish.
 The dark metal of the Citadel, various wires strewn across the chasm, and the twisted pipes and rebar that once ran through the ground destroyed by the Combine to make way for the monstrosity that is their operating center, surrounded on all sides by the pillars that march outward like spider legs and destroy City 17. I get overwhelmed by every detail of this game.
It's hard not to feel like it exists to please me.
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| 04:22am 03/05/2007 |
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The rolling resistance of my bicycle's front tire on the saturated street sprayed upward a solution of rainwater, sediment, and the filth that became, via moisture and friction, unbound from the spaces between the treads and cracks of rubber. My eyes were narrowed to more efficiently gather the information that was available among the deep black abyss of unlit road and the contrasting streams of shimmering brilliance cast by streetlights, and to hopefully reduce the surface area targeted by the simultaneously water- and air-borne debris.
At times I would catch a glimpse of my arm glistening in the headlights of passing traffic, and the skin looked stretched tight around the concealed tissues, reminding me that my ancestry is within the sea. Provoked by the imagery of an environment exponentially harsher than a bathed-in-rain night road, I pedalled harder.
I felt the desire to justify the value of my survival, a value stripped in degree by every structure in place to make vitality less necessary, by every predator replaced by another human's incompetence or hostility, by every automated procedure. Overwhelmed by testosterone, I've tamed fire in my backyard to prepare a meal, I've reacted irrationally and defensively about that which I have interpreted as a threat, and I pedalled until my skin was perforated by rain and my body flooded with lactic acid.
Still blind with androgens, I crossed a church entrance road, and failed to observe that the sidewalk resumed significantly closer to the church than the pavement on which I had just so vigorously been riding. Before my bicycle and I, the perimeter of shadow contained in the grass divider appeared as any other, and as such offered no discernable measure of depth. But pulled into downward pitch, transverse plane now perpendicular to the ground, I discovered that the shadow occupied a considerable volume, much of it attributed to depth. Conducted by fresh lust for survival, my shoulder turned to absorb the stabbing shock my bicycle's stem had planned to deliver to my ribs, effectively pulling my face away from impact with the suddenly omnipresent land in the process. My bicycle's collision with the ground was accompanied by a violent twist askew of the handlebars, and the call of bicycle parts rattling was issued a response of my slamming into the rockbound earth and grunting.
Adrenaline seeping into testosterone, senses probing the air for signs of predators drawn to one made recentely vulnerable, taut pulse invading my ears as if to scream, "feel pain and die."
I realligned the handlebars and continued homeward, utilizing the surge of primal satisfaction as an excuse to herald a lack of observation an epiphany. |
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| 02:50pm 27/03/2005 |
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mood:  contemplative
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I don't know if this'll do anything, but I have a new site design up.
If anyone reads this still (I don't?), take a look. |
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| 01:20am 07/08/2004 |
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Anyone who has been planning on visiting me at work (yeah right), don't. I got fired a few days ago. Just so you know, so don't go there. |
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| Bob Dylan |
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| 02:25am 30/07/2004 |
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mood:  tired
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Yes that's who this is. Okay so long. |
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| 12:23am 02/07/2004 |
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Shayne, I'm glad you've decided to switch back to amusing comics that don't follow a plot-line. I mean, man, I really enjoy the plots you come up with, but I love how free this type feels. I'm also happy that you're putting out stuff again.
Also, where is everybody? I haven't hung out with any of my friends for a solid few months. I would invite you guys to do something with me, but there's nothing really to invite you to, so somebody do something. |
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mesahomie's journal
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