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as a child, i had a difficulty not talking. it persists to this day, though not all the time. the thing is, i can't talk and look at the same time. each needs it's own moment. seeing takes a lot longer than speaking, and a lot more concentration. which is probably why social interaction and i aren't on the best of terms. there is a lot of joy in my life that no one ever knows because they are looking through the wrong eyes. the angles of the things currently in front of me complement each other when i look from a particular posture. earlier this week i looked at a just reopened scab on my leg and contemplated a sweet story more similar to a fantasy version of Osmosis Jones than Innerspace that only now do i cringe at. It began with a spiral staircase that, to our protagonists, whose spacesuits are fucking awesome, is enormous and takes days to walk down, but is, in fact, made up of that dry skin that remains around the edge after a scab is picked and winds down a tunnel of gross inside-of-leg.
i enjoyed myself a lot.
and i couldn't tell anyone about it, which made me not ruin it.
somehow this is different. i communicated it correctly because i could go back and fix phrasing and word choice. i have a hard time speaking slowly enough to choose correctly, or i can't speak quickly enough to stay focused. if i could not speak, and only look, my life would be better. but no, i am often compelled to speak, if not by the world, than by some inner masochist, who prays on my vanity and my desire to connect with others, and brings me to speak.
inevitably leading to disaster.

james kolchaka blows my mind again.

O;j;O

i'm on my buddy handlebars's couch after work, watching blue planet and listening to him snore on the floor. i'll be sleeping here tonight under a blanket with a tiger on it. earlier i broke up a chick fight, had beer thrown and spit in my face, and couldn't manage to drink more than a sip of a beer. but, in an interesting upside, i listened to some just twenty-one dudes talk about the band they're starting and it made me feel good about myself.

i am by no means a musician. i have never claimed to be and have actively denied it. this is not being humble. there is not a single instrument in the world out of which i can make music. i've been known to, sometimes, make some good noises on my computer, but beyond that, nothin. (which reminds me, i want to make music that kills people: http://www.guardian.co.uk/medicine/story/0,,2154289,00.html )

right, so, the young gentleman were discussing what they wanted the band to sound like. they had jammed, let's say, twice, and were ready to make some decisions. and all they talked about were other bands. i can't remember any of them. i wish i could say they brought up silverchair, but it was mostly respectable music, so i forgot.

it's just never really made sense to me to actually want to sound/look/be like my heroes. they're my heroes, not me. and the thing that makes them awesome enough to be heroes? (or, at least, my concept of heroes.) it's that they did their own thing. that's what made them important in the first fucking place. it someone's already done it, why the fuck do you want to?

this, i think, also relates to my confusion about who opens diners.

right, well, i've already broken my promise to myself about turning this blog into a diary of any sort. when i see this tomorrow (i check my blog like some sort of wierdo. really. totally.) i'll probably take it down, so read it while you can.

oh, and the subject of this is an elephant.

i made a thing.

here's some pictures john strange took of the thing i made.

.,_,.

the title of this entry is a tarantula, ya dig?

i've been thinking about my growing anti-capitalist leanings of late. not to say i'm gonna turn into a dumpster-diving freegan, i'm no total asshole, and i'm not beginning a career as a +5 dexterity thief. i just want another way. i would rather not interact with money. or work. the real problem isn't me. i would stop making money and let my life go to shit if their weren't people who would be sad about it. and that maybe one day some girl will let me grow some smaller me's in her belly, and if that time comes how am i gonna feed, clothe, and educate those two foot piles of hair? but anytime i can get around the normal systems of money, i'm pleased. anytime those in power are willing to circumvent business as government. awesome. i would be a communist if i wasn't such a pussy.

i've also been amazed how how marijuana brings out all my worst qualities and yet i love it so. just reread this entry with that in mind.

haven't been home or near a computer in days. things are good. all in all pretty awesome.

more stupid shit soon.

it's 7/7/7.
you know what that means.
that's right.
the bevel is gonna get you.

watch out.

(this morning i woke up to what i can only assume was a crazy person outside. he was yelling about the end of the world. it's gonna be a weird day.)

listening to "A Collection of Classic Mutants" a fake comp of Zappa-y post punk by Morgan Fisher. it's pretty incredible.