THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 23 "Maximum Security"

Fuck everything, skip everything, do nothing, complete nothing, do no work. And then get infected with ache. With pain in the temples. With eyes half closed, squinting at the light, mostly blind. -- Slept till 3 -- twelve hours -- Sometimes you just want to abandon. -- Sync. -- Write, read, eat, touch yourself, work, write, die. -- Sync -- Write, read, eat, touch yourself, work, write, die, sleep, drink, awake, sleep, eat, die. -- Sync -- Sitting at the edge, high up on the second floor, looking down. The urge is so tempting. A voice whispers endlessly about it and there's not a thing one can say to shut it up. Temptation so tempting to fall into. Or fall down, into, rather. -- Prison's a dead metaphor, deader than a crucifix nail. -- When you're sitting next to the edge it's hard not to throw the laptop over it. Sitting next to a large window, it's hard not to throw a chair through it and flying out to receive it. Standing atop a tall building it's hard not to jump. -- Apolitics dont pay respects to Apollo in the temple of sodomy. Understanding is for the weak. To be obscure is to be deep, too deep to properly deep. Why do you need to understand when Im not too sure I understand? If the words speak what does it matter. -- Sometimes words are just sounds. -- Hi Keaton. Sorry about appropriating your commenting style for this shit. I do it out of admiration. I swear. -- 

-- 'Your words dont word.'

[O?] 

'Not at all.

[Well damn.] -- (Prison's a dead metaphor.) -- 

Im listening to Manic Street Preacher's Journal for Plague Lovers and I feel 17. Im back sophomore year High school, when I was really into this album. --

-- 'What happened to the Stein repetitive shit?' 

[Fuck off stop clinging to the past.] 

'But-' 

[I said, fuck off.] -- 

-- I can see the lines that lead to me now as I listen to JfPL. The sample of Hubert Selby Jr. which lead to finding Last Exit to Brooklyn, and then there's reading that at the beach with family, and J. was young then and still something to really love, then I find his other books, especially The Room which leads to list of "fucked-up" novel's which leads to Bret Easton Ellis, Joyce Carol Oates, Kathy Acker, too many others, and Dennis Cooper, and Dennis lead to finding My Loose Thread and then to never being the same, eventually leading to Dennis' blog and an admiration-love that borders on the obsessive which leads to more and more and more writers artist poets films porn everything, and finally to the Trill's birth and then finally this shit. Listening gives birth to seeing everything. 

-- 'Where's the porn-self-loathing-masturbatory-ego-fuck-love-making? The readers will hate this new stuff.' 

[Fuck 'em, they dont deserve my cock in their slutty magpie pussies. Now open wide and take it like you should.] -- ART ART ART -- Look at me, look at me, [O for the love of god, Cal, cut the shit. Sorry.]. 'Talking to yourself again?' [Yeah...sorry] 'It's ok.' [Do you love me?] 'I am you.' [So? DO you love me??] 'I'll get back to you on that. -- Arent I pretty? -- Async --

I finished this earlier today -- Look mom, paragraphs! Am I proper writer now? -- and then accidentally deleted most of what I had done. So Im re-writing all of it right now, and then all this new madness came in. I like it, tho it make come off as amateurish or something. In all honesty, I've written stuff like this before, so now this experiment, this affront to my typical style has fallen into the old ruts. -- Write, read, eat, touch yourself,-- work, write, die, -- Do I feel bad about that? -- sleep, drink, -- Not really. Fuck everything, as god, I'll do as I want. -- awake, -- Deal with it. --sleep, eat, die -- Sync.

____________

Quick Note: Hey there, Readers, if you're there (Blogger says you are, so). I apologize for the general inconsistency on when the Daily Assignations go out. This is my first time doing anything blog-y, really, so that is a factor, but no excuse. Tomorrow should have all of that worked out, but I cant 100% grantee that. Be sure to check it out, it's gonna be a bit special. Any way, I wanted to tell all yall that for the next few weekends the DA will stop and then pick back up on the respective Mondays. That may or may not become a normal thing from now on, it really depends on what the future holds. I also wanted to thanks you guys for coming and reading this when yall do. It's nice to have an audience. Anyways.

Sincerely, 

Cal.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 22 "Heartland"

A visit. -- My family came buy, we went for a meal, atleast a part a section of us did. -- Things dont stay the same -- The bottle only gets emptier and emptier which each use abuse -- We ate -- is it a crime to wish for things to never change? -- not much to it. -- or is it simply foolish? -- My family left and friends came by. -- Could have conjured a lay, easily, from the air. -- They stayed over night in a room much more fit than for her (and she was raised in it). -- Which each passing glance of the lance, with each rattle of the blade between your ribs, something is lost. It takes chunks from you. -- At one time we took a relative to the hospital. I remember reading as if there was nothing around and then a boy, my age, limped out on crutches. In his underwear, pajamas. I wanted to take him home. -- When my friends left, I found a few things of theirs that they had forgotten. And they, accidentally, took something of mine as well. -- The bottle is a dark translucent purple in his bed room. He takes it into the bathroom and it becomes lighter and the liquid  inside appears clearer in spite of never really changing yet changing altogether. -- We agreed on another visit.

The FOER Programme by FOER: An Album Review by Dieter Klo

The FOER Progamme (Cover)

Today, music will never be the same. It is rare to see the birth of a new genre in this day and age, but I am proud, nay, I am honored to present to you: FOER and its self made sound: Font. Four MIT drop outs have gathered their collective skills and diverse taste, along with a healthy/unhealthy obsession with music, to create the newest, greatest mechanism to be introduce into the confines of music. The most life-changing thing that has ever... thinged in the music industry. FOER, a computer program that is all at once the band in of itself and the instrument has been born. FOER uses tech jargon and computer shit to create the compositions based solely off words plugged into the program. Genius! FOER has millions of reference points within its data bases, such as: sound bites, pre-recorded sounds, never-before-recorded music, sheet music, critical reviews ranging from the highest music review, such as the New Yorker and Encyclopedia Britannica, to the lowest, dark trenches of internet reviews such as Pitchfork, Sputnikmusic, and, the horror, Youtube Reviewers. But that is the glory of the FOER Program! it takes even the plebian's non-opinions into account for its work. Genius! 

So what racket does the music sound? you ask. Well, Each track is an experimentation with the FOER machine -- a new type of instrument? it's only natural. The program itself only requires a selection of words from its human aspect to produce the music, the Humans, they being Fred Almis, Ols Vår, Ellen Ztar, and Paul "Rice" Janes -- or so the linear notes and billing says they're called ("Rice", really? Really?) -- plug in words for the program. These form the titles of the songs. Most of them taking the shape of actual thought out phrases but then divulging into what are in essence nonsensical lacks-of-sensicallity. Let us sojourn through them all, track-by-track.

1. "The First Track by the First Man-Made Music Maker"

A lyrical beginning to a landmark album, which is ironic: this track is instrumental. Minimal piano sing-songs played over a building Fincher/Ross/Reznor soundtrack death drone that feels like Nirvana (the Buddhist concept not the 90s concept of "good" music).

2. "What's that Sound?"
Distorted post-punk guitar, female vocals a la Nico. Arrhythmic drum spikes with no discernible beat or scheme with an indifferent synth plopping in and out. It creates Foreign atmospheric xenoscapes with the textured cacophony of death.

3. "Austin, Texas. Dallas."
Hypno-repetitive banjo riffs with ultradramatic electronic BRRAAAAAAMM spikes like it's Inception or some shit. A mid-castration punk screams in an echo chamber made of bone flutes, about random locations in Austin, TX. Mostly talking about what horrific things happened there. The BRAAAAMMMMS turn into a Phil Spector wall of sound for like 3 minutes. I think that's the 'Dallas' part.

4. "Math Heavy Gypsy Tango"
Bongos. And Balkan sax.

5. "Minute Static"
A voice whispers wordlessly, with tiny static twists, a la Coil (Moonmusick era) -- three parts each a minute long. The Programme took the word 'minute' to mean small and a duration of time, but felt the need to create three different versions that are basically the samething. Yet totally different.

6. "Post-post-post-post-post-post-post Music"
I have absolutely no idea what is even going on right now, you just have to listen to it. They dont have words for whatever this...thing is. The closest we have are "sound", "nihilism", and "fishsticks". *shudders*

7. "The Time Skip Disco Forger's Hi-Fi Hip-Hop Zydeco Goth Routine"

The longest of all the tracks, clocking in at 17 hours. It's one of the disgusting prog-revival songs. Brooding esoteric guitar with a bootle neck pic, with a bass that sounds like time is slammimg against it. The drums come from Mars and feel just as dead and the random flute solos sounds like the flutist is gasping for air. FOER goes through each of the listen genres in the title at thripple speed and then sort of forgets that they're there. The concept of the song (cuz there has to be a fucking concept) is about Buddha and John Travolta going through a wormhole or something, I wasnt really listening.

8. "Eowoqye dopw ei (Wg7s Susso)"
Post-industrial meets Industrial with...you ever hear the sound of a banjo makes while raped? Picture the opposite of that.

9. "The Penultimate Tract"
A quiet track about the existential decay of man, know as Father Pastor, incapacitated by the echelons of age, observes the dejected rejection of a happy man's life. This pious man weeps at the fate of his poor ucalegon. The lyrics are moving, in spite of their unintelligible cohesion. What saves this downfall is the timbre of the words and the laconic, lilting guitar (which plays like piano off the vinyl). A beautiful song. One truly feels for the Baptist Bishop, tract in hand, as he watches tragedy unfold before him, but incapable to assist. Arresting.

10.
The track is left untitled. It's almost like a hidden track -- hailing back to the good ol' days of proper CD music. The silent build, the teasing of the wait. It's beautiful. They make you wait so long, so long I couldn't take it. I had waited an hour for that next track, but it was only silence. Stronger Listeners than I will find that track. Hidden at the end of that silence that seemed to go on...forever. Genius!

Verdict: 9.863/10 

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 21 "Ace"

The weather's got it all wrong. Licking wind in the low-light morning only to have the sun shine everything too vibrant  by noon. It's spring. The dead leaves are still on the ground. Instead of falling in fall as they should, they detached  from the branches in winter, and even too late in winter for all of the leaves to depart. There was not one barren branch for all the chill of the year end. Now, spring came and the brown autumn leaves where strewn about. The pollen has popped and the fine dust of it is everywhere. It's not as bad as yesterday, the powder has dissipated so now there's  only a dull hue's hint to everything. Everything was slightly yellow. -- Jamie's cum got on the carpet, missing his intended  target. "Damn." The rent boy smiled, licking the lube landed cock. "How did I miss?"; "What does it matter?" said the kid, he looked underage (which was part of his appeal), and he was too high to know much of what was happening when it was happening. Half way thru sex the boy realize that that's  what was being done to him. "Get on the bed," the boy obeyed. Jamie lifted the whore's legs up exposing the already-loose mussy. He tried to remember the rent boy's name as he stared into the hole. His face held the same expression as if he were looking at a bus schedule. -- Spring brings out the crazies. -- It's freak season. -- News Flash: It's now been declared open season in this great state of ours. Open season, that is, for Diddlers, Heathens and All Around Degenerates. -- A gaggle of Flashers/Diddlers stand about in a forest, cocks out, of course, shaking a bi in fear. Then comes the sound that all people fear: A ford f 150 with a dixie horn blaring AC/DC coming through the trees. Hicks dressed to the nines for a hunting occasion, woo that way that hicks woo. The Flashers/Diddlers scatter, cocks limply flopping about, making their clucking sounds. As they flee the hicks fire off their shotgun rounds and the forest is filled with the sounds of boom extravagance. Today was a fine spring day in America. -- Everything has a little tint of yellow. Like fading phosphorus. But the world smelt fresh, As if it wasnt dying. -- The crazies were coming out. 

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 20 "Secret"

Yellow. -- Another day, another sexy english lecturer. And this one recognized me. Which was such a turn-on/panic-attack-trigger. -- Yellow. -- Let us go then, you know the rest; -- His name is Matt. -- T.S. Elliot, or Toilets as he is know as, or Exaggerated Yap-Yap Fist Fuggler as he likes to be called while Erza Pound eats his ass than fucks him like a brothel bottom bitch, wrote poetry so now people proclaim him as The High Grand Almighty Inventor of English and the Spanish Flu. -- Yellow. -- He kept making eye contact with me. Not too sure if that’s b/c he was interested or from the fact that he and I had some form of loose relationship. On top of that I was one of the few who spoke in that class, atleast for today. Normally that gathering of disillusioned college-somethings is made out of major highgrade awkward. -- Orgies are logistical a nightmare -- Matt had a thick wallet that made his ass look bigger than it was on one side. I saw little of the other. -- the best of sexual multi-person adventure are those with rooms full of copious couples copulating -- Yellow. -- then all you need do is ask to "cut in" like ballroom dance. -- What's Jamie up to? Well, Reader, let's see: Not much. Still sexually (repressed, suppressed,  or repressed). -- She has a secret, he wont tell her. -- He has secrets he doesnt tell him, but those come out quick. He still keeps secrets from her. She finds out. Shit hits the fan. -- Nothing amounts. -- 'O I have a secret, that no one should know that I should tell-e-ll.' -- 'If I wanted you to understand, I would make it so you could understand.' -- The pollen has popped around campus. Everything is covered in it. Everything is covered in Yellow.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 19 "Pinch"

TIMELY WARNING TIMELY WARNING TIMELY -- Jamie calls Stewie: Hey. 'Hey.' Im all alone over here. 'What do you wanna do?' Yeah. Do you? 'Cant right now.' Ok. -- Do you know what it is like to be ugly in your prime? -- TIMELY-WARNING. TIMELYWARNING. TIMEWARNING. TIMARNING. -- In my honest opinion, having tits must blow. They just seem so impractical, an added worry to routine day-to-day everyday actions. -- Media blackout. All communication cut. Train technician: 'We've lost contract.' -- It's not like having a dick, or testicles, is practical or anything. They seem to cause the same amount of discomfort and problems. But we can tuck those away easily. Not-to-mention, most dont want to fondle balls. . . .but quite a few want them fondled. -- TIME WARNING. -- Mark Wahlberg: "With whom?" --  Jamie: How about later? 'no.' -- Technician: "With everyone." -- TIMELY WARNING. -- Happening happening. What's happening happening happening. -- Jamie: Rejected. By my booty call. Fuck. -- Pinch fetish must be a thing, right? -- how do i fetish w/o tumblr, r u insane. -- Fuck. Fuck! FUCK. fuck. -- An unidentifiable pain, in any region, is annoyingly worrying, for me at least, and I guess everyone I guess. -- Jamie took a nap. While he slept his phone blew up. When he awoke: Stewie refused to do anything, people on-line seemed to ignore him, and his texts go unanswered. -- Fuck. -- 'Pinch' is about a woman who feels something hurting in her tit, goes to the doctor's, gets some x-rays and examined, and her tits hurt from the x-ray ray gun tit clamp and then they have to do it again. Im pretty sure the doc was going a little harder at her boob than he needed to, kneading it, that is. The narration isnt malicious and I have no idea what is done to one's breasts in examination, so. -- Jamie calls Cal: Hey. 'Hey' What's up? 'Do you wanna...?' Im already with someone, sorry. -- Responsibility kills the -- 'ok then.' Sorry. 'Later then?' Maybe. -- Responsibility kills the -- TIMELY WARNING: 15.30 yesterday, White male, local park: Caught with his pants down, figuratively, with his cock out and fondling it, literally, while looking at. . . .One must assume the people in the park. No shirt. Faded blue jeans. Witness says: white medium build male 50-something with clothes and a face and hair and a cock, obviously. Wonder what kind? Big fat and floppy? limp as a biscuit? long like a noodle loodle? no description, total bs. How am I s'pose to know if this is the right guy, if I dont know his cock shape and size? -- TIMELY WARNING: Few days back, at some apartments at 18.13 white male thin male late-30s to 40s, with glasses blue t-shirt and black gym shorts with a black baseball cap. He came at some girl coming in to her apartment. She saw him with his shorts done, rubbing dat meat. Still no description of the actual cock. Boooooo, Jamie thinks. He gets these emails, he reads these reports and they are always a disappointment/hilarity. -- Jamie: I wonder what stange I can find online. . . . .-- Responsibility kills the -- the cure for loneliness is be served with a knife to the left kidney, otherwise the pay-off wouldnt be worth it. Only bleeding out till near dead does the rescue get any (a)credibility -- TIMELY WARNING: white male (of course) in his something-50s caught again with his cock out at some local apartments near here @ 8.00. Believed to be the same guy as before, but different from that other one. -- Nothing comes up, nothing materializes. No apparitions today, none at all. -- Still no description of cock. -- 'Is this what you do in your free time?'

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 18 "The Quarrel"

Im depressed. Woooo. Like that's a shocker. -- Cute, he’s into english, has a job -- Elderly gay men, that's who occupies the story today. Which is good, they dont receive that much representation, unless as a joke. -- Break my habits and I die. Break my habits and I die. Break m- -- Looks like a guy in some music video I was subjected to a while back. Also about gay men, Lots o' gay today. -- Depression's sticky, like malleable candy full of filling. -- and a listenable voice, sweet, like candy, with a timbre of sfumato, dark, charred but with out the grit, more like black burnt pages that crumble slightly at the faintest touch. I think Im in love. -- Break my habits, Break my habits, People have major alterations, changes you cant come back from, and they move on, cope. My daily schedule is fucked for a week, the days on the clander slip out of the grid, minute problems arise and I lose my fucking shit. Break my habits and I die. Break break break br- -- Im fucked, Im gone, I cant eve cry, everything's crushing down, I can feel it in my chest -- The two gay men, the partners, in the story are falling away a bit, or rather their relationship is getting a little stale. At fifty and fifty-five, respectively, that's not too outlandish. They're almost robbed -- And a nice ass, not the greatest but a pretty nice one. I'd love to -- And then go to the police, they describe the attacker quiet differently, and then -- get a tongue in between those cheeks. For the rest of class I disrobed him, pinched a nipple, heard him moan, red his ass with slaps whips paddles, topping it all off with an ass-eating worthy of legend. I wonder what his screams sound like. -- get in a fight about it. Actually, not a fight, a quarrel, about it. It's a bit venomous, then calms as days years go by. They never speak of it. -- After safely tucking the cute english guy's image into my fantasy zone, and after class ends and we students gtfo, I discover I feel better. Thinking about sex made my depression lesson. Am I that sex obsessed? I've heard/read so much about depression killing the libido and now my libido cures my depression, or atleast lessened it or fought it off. What the fuck. Ugh. I cry into a novel and feel even better. Maybe fantasy is what cures, not sex itself. I've busted a load in whomever when riddled with black dog and felt worse afterwards, whether from shame or guilt Im not sure. It seems more that anything you might have built up inside to combat that day's hour's night's hazey fog of dread and it shoots out of you when orgasm hits. Like reverse orgone. Anyway, I, just....huh. Whatever. -- Break break break, break my habits break my habits, -- Anyways. -- Break break break -- he was still really cute. -- and I die. 

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 17 "Anecdote"

It is an ultimate betrayal when a normal body function becomes a source of pain. When breathe becomes more deadly than it already is, when it burns and torments and cinders in your chest like a soul in hell. When taking a piss sends a spike of orange agony up you. (A pain so foreign that it doesnt fit with the color scheme). When taking a shit becomes homicidal childbirth. When childbirth becomes a prolonged surgical removal of a gripping tumor by way of pushing extra hard or with the edge of some hyper sharp knife. -- Conundrum: do I jack off and then go get McDonald's? or do i go get McDonald's and then jack off after i eat? which degrading pleasure do I indulge first? -- Only tell story if your a fuck up, only tell the if you fuck up, every anecdote starts somewhere where someone's fucked up somehow. -- Out a sync -- Out of -- Our -- Everything's gone to shit. Cant even get the basics done. People survive change all the time, live thru intense alterations. I fall apart at breaks in rutine. Pathetic. I fucking hate this. 

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 16 "Bad Habits"

They must put something in the water. They must put something in the water. There must be something in the water. They must put something in the water. -- Asses are nice up here. -- "Bad Habits" -- Seen so much magic, seen so much magic. -- They must put something in the water: the asses up here are nice, round fat delicious, smackable fuckable eatable squeezable. -- Jamie and Stew are high as fuck at a show. Going in-fucking-sane. They keep to themselves in here. Other's might hear. -- They must put something in the water. I. I. I. -- (There'll never be a day 15, deal with it, move on). -- It's hard not to get hard, It's hard not to get hard while looking at these asses. They just need to have cock shoved in them over and over. Doughy. Needs to be kneaded. They must put something in the water. I want to rip them open and know them inside. -- Jamie cant keep his hands off, Stew's too high to stop him, 'Want to..?' 'No' 'We'll just slip off into the bathroom, no one'll come in-' 'I want to watch the magic show.' the magicianing Illusionist on stage makes some hot piece disappear. 'I can make something disappear,' Jamie whispered in Stew's ear. -- They must put something in -- Ass is delectable, ass is collectible, they -- They must -- They they must -- Bad habits, bad bad habits, got an ass addiction. -- Jamie's hand rubs Stew's thigh, he really needed it. The illusionist disappeared, the dull box he was in opens and there's nothing but fire. He runs up past Jamie and Stew, in the middle aisle. Scared the living shit out of them. -- They must put something in the water.  They must put something in that ass, they must have something shoved up in there, what a waste if they dont. 

THE DAILY ASSIGANTION: Day 14 "Romance"

I hope I can fix this. -- I hope I fix the unfixed. -- I hope I can fix the unfixable. -- FLAW. -- States apart. -- Romance is a dead junk draw, is an affixed obsession, again, with the unattainable. Loneliness is only really a problem for people who've fallen too in love or for those who just cant cope with existing or those sorry few who fall with no friends to catch them and that idea is something they cant handle, cant handle anymore, cant handle. -- Fixed, never will will I -- States apart, trapped in repeating states, trapped in our fixed place in this divine comedy. -- Drink me sexy. -- What will I become? what will be come? -- Jamie stands in an empty room, tho he doesnt know it. There's nothing, nothing, nothing but dark; pupils dilated and still nothing comes in. Jamie shakes from it, shakes from the hands of fear tickling him head to toe. A noise, beastly, guttural, horrific; Jamie pisses himself. -- What will you become? what will be come? -- Light! Jamie is saved, taken away from the darkness, brought returned to the world of light only slightly blind. Interviews, questions queries, a task force of support to get over the horror of the dark. Safe. Safe, he's safe now, the endless night is far from him forever. -- What will we become? what will-? -- Jamie is shaking, head to toe, head to fucking toe. He spent too long in the dark, adjusted to it too well. Now he was outside. And he's afraid. -- I invent someone new to love, it's not too dull. Keep him around, still havent fucked -- No. He's not afraid of being out in the light again. In the darkness there was the sound, the horrific terrible sound. But only the sound. In the darkness, the total pitch, there was darkness on all side and everywhere. But only the darkness. The sound would stop, sometimes, and return. But it's maker would never harm, never strike. And the darkness was always. -- We'll see how things play out -- There was always the expected. Now, in the light, there was none. And it scared the living shit out of Jamie. -- "Romance", the title's ironic. There's little romance between today's boy and girl (only ever boy and girl, when it comes to the genital shuffle). -- I have this weird relationship -- She tries to seduce -- I have this -- the guy, and he rejects her many attempts, which is good, and surprises him. He then -- I hav- -- goes by her place, one twice thrice few times a week or so, just drives by and looks. -- I have this weird weird weird, this weird this this this -- He sees a man, or guy or dude or kid or person with a penis about the age of the woman, the dame the chick the broad and the guy is theoretically hot. -- I have this weird relationship with zoos. On one hand: they're something I always try to hit up, and I enjoy them, to a degree. On the other: They cause slight storms of distress and pity for the animals cooped up in the cages. Sometimes it puts me in an utterly foul mood and I despise the place entirely. Yet still I go by any time I have the money and/or excuse to. The one we hit up today was odd. The town is crazy religious and this zoo escaped none of that: Strewn about were these sign with random quotes from the bible printed on them. Nailed to trees, next to whatever exhibit. It was odd. The quotes didnt even have somesort of connection to the animal. If you're going to do something like that, why not have the quotes printed have some connection? Like have one about the lions daniel was thrown to next to the lions or something. It was weird. But, really, that was the only difference from any of them. All zoos are the same, when you get down to it. Look in a see them napping, oblivious to those watching; eating the chunks of meat, pieces of veggies; the bits or feed that one buys and throw at the animal (if you're one of the little shit who were at this particular zoo today). And they dont really take notice of the people that arent in the cage, that arent really a part of their closed environment, sure people enter or come close to them and they of course take notice and befriend a few but nothing really inters in their sphere of self, unless they're poliamorous, but even then it's just adding one more person to the exhibit and excluding anything/one else -- Watch the animals fuck. And you might get of from that but you arent a part, you're removed, dislocated, which might be hot for some but -- It does nothing, it's all the same. Even the ones you find cute. You might 'aww' or you might talk about how cute they were but it never really impacts you. It does change you forever to go to a zoo. Not unless you're a kid, but you dont really understand anything about it. You just think the animals are nice, and that you one day want that, that one day you could have what they have, what the people on the screens have that fairy tale wedding that some sort of -- You might find the animals in their cages cute but you're never permanently affected by one, you go home to the empty place and you've got nothing but yourself and the place and you dont feel bad that there isnt any boa constrictors or baby wolves or cougars or leopards or a fox or a kamodo dragon or a ferocious tiger. Everything is just kind of cool and you're cool with that. And if you arent you get a cat or dog and everything's cool. You feel no need to have anything extravagant. But then people, other people, say 'why dont you have snake pit?' 'why dont you have a polar bear grizly bear black bear?' 'why dont you have [insert animal here] like me or us or them or him or her' and then you shrug, and then you go home and now your cat/dog isnt enough, you want something you hadnt wanted before so you go to zoos to find someone go out into the jungle out into the wild out somewhere to find an animal to occupy the new hole in your life. You try bars, coffee shops, shindigs, set ups from friends, online. You look everywhere to find something you hadnt wanted, but now you do, now you wanted what before you saw in the zoo and only though 'cool'; now it's something you cant live without. Cant survive without. So you try a Zebra but it kicks out the windows. You try the ocelot but it shits on everything. So you try the panther and it just ruins everything. And you try and you try and you try to find someone who will fill a hole you didnt have before and cant cover up or repair or reverse once it's been made so you're fucked, you're fucking fucked. Maybe eventually you find something that works, some round peg that fits in that round hole in your heart punched in there because other people think it ought to be there. Maybe you dont. And you might be happy, it might make things worse. And in all honesty, there's nothing wrong with it all, if you think that way, you dont regret much of it and you may every well be content. But others just go to the zoo with their friends and they're cool. They laugh, the love, in a friendly way, and they fuck some random person in the bathroom and they're happy. They just look into the cages. They only look in on the exhibits. Only look in on the others. And go home. To their cat, or dog, or fish, or to no pet at all. And they're happy too. 

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 13 "In Traction"

Suspension. Suspended. Bookstores are open graves. Magic seeps out there, as if the words come to unravel, yet everything opens up -- welcome arms -- the city, the town -- Boat. -- Suspended. -- There is no read to understand. -- Suspended. -- Like welcome arms -- crushing, crushing all around, -- this place has no place, this place is far from every place, this place this. -- The whole town is a tourist trap. The streets are line with giant attractions, eye-grabbers, unnecessary bombast. -- Metal rods hold up a broken girl, shattered by her choices, in the story. -- There's mini golf that looks like an entire theme park shoved between a giant replica of the front half of the Titanic and a multi-storied go-cart track. The rocks and dying/leafless tress have been replaced with urban decay and buildings meant to suck cash from wondering strangers like mountain mosquitoes. -- the books are old, very old, most of them paper backs or hard covers that have lost most of the vibrancy from their covers from too much sun or too much time or too much time in the sun. -- This is the first real story told in 3rd person in the book, which is interesting I guess, I really dont fucking care. Liquor has dulled anything that could assemble in my jangling mind, clinking and clanking around my gray matter has become ice in a glass waiting whorishly for cheap ass whisky and knock-off 7-Up. -- Could fine nothing, must return, I will return, to get something, have to get something, -- Suspension. -- Another story about sadness, in a way, this is very direct in this one with one of the characters actually being depressed and this being stated in essence but the other characters, by other characters directly, by other characters. So there's that, so. -- something from this place where the books are wedged in the shelves side was and they reach up to the ceiling yet still there are piles on tables and stacks one the ground, under your feet, and then there'll be spaces where there's practically nothing on the shelves, as if they place needed breathing room and there're only a few books on the maybe two out of all of the ceiling high pile of rows. Have to come back, have to get something -- Suspension. Something. Welcome arms. Something. -- Have to come back have to come back have to come back have to... -- 

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 12 "The Abduction"

Occasionally, the trees'll thin and behind the green you'll see houses, defrocked land, a space wide and devoid of growth, where people live. You see where people have decided to plant themselves. You see this in the road as well. We've taken what we need or want and (seemingly) left everything else to be as it be. Swamps. Swamps with clear vodka water, blue shinning like tinfoil with trees poking up like the hair of a dead god, water-logged drowned. Checking out cute boys in (Jasper) a small town where one probably shouldnt check out the cute boys. There was a guy at the table across form us at the shitty slow dull cold cheap(ish) burger bar where we stopped for lunch. Seemed to play ball, would have slipped somwhere secret with him. Ozarks. There's a little place in most town, full of junk and memories, or more junk as some would call the latter. In there they hid so many things by selling them to anyone ho walked by, came inside, and waste their money. Boxes of vinyls (Gershwin, random classical, opera boxes, old pop, christian whatever, Gregorian chants) that are washed flimsy with water and time, a basket of wine corks (mostly from cheap yellow tail wine), Buddhist postcards, books from some local about ghosts, horror vhs tapes, tucked away, junk, a nook were books are hid, junk. In the book's nook there's an assortment, some of which clearly from a collection owned by someone not of the same cloth of the shop owner's. Hesse's Steppenwolf, b&w book about Pop Art, old art academy yearbooks, old old decay, mixed in with a ton of vaguely christian things and bibles. got a copy of The Poet Assassinated there. It was weird. Weird. Someone cool came by and hocked their stuff. A bucket of tiny hand charms on the counter. 'Look at this,' she's flipping thru it, does she even know what it is? i doubt she cares too much, 'this'll be interesting.' She fiddles with faddel. Get's a bag 'I bought a bunch of weird books off some odd lady.' I wish I'd met her. 'Do you really need a bag?' she said it jokingly, her tone was light, happy, she didnt have a negative reaction to the all weirdness of whomever she bought it off of. 'No.' I need to see some cute boys. Cant fuck any, Im sure, but it's nice to see them around. I had never heard of Apollinaire a few days before. Dennis fixed that. Thanks Dennis. Road. Back towards the. The rocks on the side of the road, the boulders, showed their heads like whales breaking through the top of the ocean. Standing on the side of the highway showing their gray white brown orange shade to the sun, water seeps from the cracks. Like they're crying. Stop. Rest stop. Gas. In side we piss, get whatever whatever -- Strawberry cheese muffins: red like a well spanked ass cheek. Some chick gets abducted, in the story, it turns out noce for her, dhe gets away and lives. We find ourselves where we're meant to be.

THE DAILY ASSIGANTION: Day 11 "Eleuthéria

I wonder how much exists. I wonder how much exists beyond the. I wonder how much exists beyond the frame of the text? How. How far. How far back. How far back does this character go back in the catalogue of oevre? or how far back and beyond what is said about him? (Cut this Gertrude Stein shit), Look all Im saying is how much of the character is created by the author beyond what's said. Did he have passions be side the Eleuthéria? (which is a boat) did he have past loves, old hatreds? He states having dead enemies so.? We going thru Arkansas. The road, the highway seems so out of place it's slipping out of time. The trees look like toothpicks with tuffs of hair on the top. Pine needles coat the forest floor. Your mind cant stay in one place when you're a passenger on a long ride. It's piratically impossible. A daydream, or maybe a srory...: Trucker, big, gruff, thick cock with a flimsy, skinny boytoy boyfriend, spindly like the trees and the trucker fucks rough. Start the day out in a huge truck stop of big hall 18 wheelers. They're in the shower together when the first fuck passes. Hard fast harsh loud, then the trucker takes a floppy leather paddle and works the ass over, he’s pissed, he needs to let some shot out. After, while the boytoy dries, his ass still sore, the trucker fucks him again, hard harsh loud, little lube. Throughout the rest of the day the boytoy sits without any pants on and the trucker fingering him. Eventually, he manages to get his pants on and as the sun starts to sink lower and lower, he feels more tense and tense. The big rig is pulled to the side of the road and parked: the trucker tears off the boytoy's clothes and they fuck on the long bench seat. He cums inside. Laying on top of the boytoy, he looks up, raises his face, and then the trucker kisses his boytoy and the latter knows that they're done for the day.

THE DAILY ASSIGANTION: Day 10 "Holiday"

I leave tonight, to leave tomorrow. I'll keep this up as best I can. Read Acker in the sun. The weather is better, the weather is nice. I mention the weather to create harmony between myself and the environment, or incongruity between myself and the environment. So I was told to, in class. Am I pretty now? Am I a writer now? Have I met the requirements? Can I do as I please now? Sure fucking hope so. She, in the story, is about a day or two before leaving with "her lover" and "his son" to Jamaica. I wonder if it annoys you, Reader, if you're even there, what I do in this on going thing. Does its Prose-Poetry-Essay style perplex? piss-off? Does it, hopefully seeming, seeming madness and lack of rigid structure titillate you? or turn you off? I know a few people who'd avoid this. I like to think Im writing this for them. Im going to Missouri. For spring break. Woo. Text can carry how deadpan and lifeless that woo was, sadly. Maybe one day. Im going to Missouri. To some town that people recognize when I mention it to them. I never even fucking heard of the place but I guess it's known in these parts. It's country, apparently. Woo. Fucking great. I'll try to keep this up (I say that a lot) while Im there, but no guarantees. They're leaving, in the story. The kid's a little twelve-y/o shit head. Every time tennis is mentioned in a boo I think of Infinite Jest and Lolita. I need to finish those. One day. Some day. Read Acker in the sun. At the coffee shop there's a barista with shorts so short it's hard to concentrate knowing he's there. The kid almost gets her to drink piss, little shit. Another current arising is motherhood, or the adult-child/parent-child relationship. Oates os crafting something. Im going with my family. Got sick new beats. Whatever. God today sucks, Im sorry, try tomorrow. Try tomorrow,  it'll get better.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 9 "A Touch of the Flu"

Don't fuck when you have chest pains, doesn't end well. Life advise. In between my first coffee and two solid hours of boredom a thought came to mind: Warhol's art, especially the cans, has been so assimilated into current culture that it no longer carries any meaning. Which is so ironic I could die. It's weird. Very weird. Random Art Advise. The weather turned warm. The day's sluggish, going by like slowly unstuck syrup. All day walkin' like there was nothing flashing behind the eyes; my mouth stayed open, yawnin'. And every slack shuffle towards my destinations was tinted with flashback to when I lost my virginity. While I read, while I ate lunch, while I tried to watch tv, jut kept having bits and bobs of that nightmare tip back into my everyday thought. It's decrepit to remember. Whatever cortex spiral of regret that holds memory in the brain stinks like grave yard fumes, like the house of commons shitter, like wards for the insane that've been abandoned since forever. Or that town in Connecticut that's got a gateway to hell. What's that place called? Thorn? Hill something? Herd? something with an H. The story today, "A Touch of the Flu", was brief, breifer than the last three (it's roughly about one page front-&-back). It's about a woman who, obsessed with having a kid, leaves her husband and uses some unnamed guy to conceive one; she has it, lives at her family's beach house for a week or two three four, and for one, she falls to depression/Post-Natal Depression and she has it for like a week then get's over it; and her and her mother never speak of it again. Apparently. The post-natal is some thing I've projected onto to it, she'd just laid up in bed and rejects her kid when offered it and she sees herself in the child and loathes it for that fact but only for a week and the mother says that it was a touch of the flue then they never speak of it again. So I just project depression on that cos fuckit. Either Oates is having depression/cope/loss the theme(s) of the book or I cant stop reading that into the words because Im all fucking smiles over here. Just kept having flashbacks. While I tried to read while I -- I kept coming up with hindsight quips to toss at the guy: 'Push that ass out' If you'd stop fucking me so rough, I might not try to escape. Geez. I'd be sitting there trying to watch SVU and that fuck's face would pop up in my head -- I'd never seen an episode of Law & Order, in my entire life, before today; that show goes fucking hard. What started off as a possible kidnapping of a UN Agents kid turned into an episode on just sort of dropping off your adopted kid to some random people and somehow that was actually magically legal and then it turned into a manhunt for child pornographers where one of them was some asshole who faked being crippled and is in some band, I swear to god he's in some band or other. Fucking weird. I missed most of it due to the fact I was rubbing on out up stairs. I would like to point out I was rubbing one out up stairs because I had to take a shit, and I dont shit in the downstairs bathroom, and I became horribly bored so I just jacked it to some video of a guy getting fucked so hard I felt slightly bad for him yet I kept wanting hims to scream more and more which made me feel slightly worser and hornier which made things worserer. So, um. Yeah.  

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 8 "Mule"

Tied up. Tied up. -- Getting sick of getting attracted to people. Getting getting caught up in them, -- Enlace. -- only for them to fall into naught, fall out fall out, fall -- Rope. Rope. there's an undercurrent arising in the text, in the, in the text -- from whatever grace you raise them to, what ever level you allow them to ascend -- an undercurrent of loss, of -- Quick wit. -- you allow them to, to be come, become something beyond their skin -- having something taken or broken. Coping seems to be of great importance to this -- they just, just just -- True Love. -- they just just just, -- this collection. Tying into the themes thus far -- Let us look, at the text. -- They've stopped being people, their just statues, statutes of beauty that wonder around unknown they're adorned -- 'causal suicidal' -- You give them what you can, you try, you try to be with them in some way and they just stop, they just stop talking to you, cos you fucked up or they fucked up and nothing said matters when they've stopped listening. -- seems to be a recurring theme. -- A mother is tempted -- Im summoned like a carrier pigeon. -- A mother is tempted to end it -- There's no speaking, -- A mother is tempted to end it because of a person from her past -- or if there is it's not anything other -- A mother is tempted to end it because of a person from her past, cut him off, and in -- than quick instructions or demands. -- Synchronize. -- A mother is tempted to end it, call it quits with a lover, and does so, and in doing so drives herself to suicide. The child goes off and eats breakfast on the day it happens. She doesnt seem to care. This is the Mule. The Mule might be the mother ( the title is in reference to a story her lover (Buddy) tells (poorly) about a mule caucus he drives through and destroys.), it's not improbable. The Mule might be the Daughter -- SINS OF THE -- , it's not unlikely. -- FATHER. MOTHER. -- What do I want? -- Tied up. -- There are constant references to a rope, that the mother will probably use -- Getting caught, getting caught up -- Im obsessed with anal -- to hang herself, tho if she does it's off-screen, as it were -- Enlace. -- though I have an addiction to ass -- we never 'see' it, we never -- Getting caught up, caught up, up up, -- that's getting pretty creepy. . . -- What do I want? -- Rope. Rope. There's an undercurrent rising in the text. -- Perhaps this isnt too prose-y -- Quick wit. -- We dont talk, just get it done. -- Getting caught up, getting, getting caught up up, -- There is no: -- It's almost dehumanizing, no idea what __________. -- Censorship. Synchronize. -- I've stopped. Stopped this that is. Not the blog, this. . .self-loathing shtick, atleast for tonight. Im unbelievably horny and no one on earth could possibly satisfy, slate it. That's not meant to be some mucho macho man ultra-libido crap. Fuck that shit. Im a man because I am, not from what conceptual bullshit that's being flushed down us. Fuck that shit. No one will be able to fix my horniness my hunger because it extends from somewhere outside by cock but still with me. Sex isnt what I want. Sex is just something I feel like I understand. Walking around town this late at night there's always a discrete feeling like something terrible might happen, if not to you then someone close to you, emotionally or physically. Flecked through out the ground around here are piles of dog shit that owners are too....lazy or..apathetic to pick up. Image. Fuck the shit Im told to write. Fuck plot, fuck story fuck everything that might be expected. This is non-image story. This is non-plot. There's someone who works for the apartments whose only duty it seems is to go around every so often and pick them up, toss them in an old bucket and dispose of them. Poetry is nothing but pretty words so why cant prose be nothing but pretty words. Prose and Poetry and exactly the same as they are exactly different. I dont know how to end this one. He's hot. Somehow it feels almost ironic to have the guy who picks up the dog shit to be some crazy hot college dude that looks like he's tried cocaine atleast once. I watch him sometimes as he makes his rounds, they typically send him out once a week though there's an inconsistency of when. The lamp posts look like spot lights at night, shinning down on your shame. Enlace. Tied up.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 7 "Accident"

Holy fuck did this thing get intense in the last paragraph, in the story I mean, in the book, that story, it got insanely intense. Like it vibrated, man. It moved. There's a slow tension that mounts into something that never seems to explode, just hangs over the events the ending. Like a jumpy photo, smeared, clear, only the face, only the face comes out clear, the face of some wistful woman as she walks in a (graveyard?) (park?) (underpass?); black dress that runs like water-logged ink over smooth fresh paper, in a green, green area around her that looks like its hiding its deathface well; no, it's not a dress, it's an overcoat, what's underneath?, nothing it seems; she's got something in her hand, something obscured from by her hip, you'll never know what it is; violently red lips, she has a look on her face like perplexity, like surprise, like someone just called her name and its a voice of someone she hadnt expected to be there, and she's not a afraid, she wont be afraid for a long time not after everything not after everything; and everything's shook, the photo, slick digi printed, looks so odd in your hand, it wont stop shaking, in spite of the steadiness with which it's held, there's the fuzz of movement, the blur of taking away something from the world, taking an image of the world, quick fast fast fast, taking it before the world could shy away and now she's there, the woman's there, she's there; her heels are sharp against the earth, like tent spikes. That's what the tension's like in "Accident". That's what its tension feels like, like you'll never really know, you'll never really get inside it without eviscerating it. 

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 6 "Photographer's Model"

I want a sloppy cock to suck and a round ass to fuck rough. I dissolve in coffee, stir stir stir stir. My beauty is so great that I cant believe it, I cant I cant believe it, Believe it. My beauty is so great I cry because it stuns me. I cant believe it I cant I cry I cant I cant believe it, I cry because of my, I cry I cry, I dissolve in coffee stir stir stir stir stir me. Sincerely no memory, no memory (Is my Brother ok? I should text him) -- I only own two watches, one of which is broken. I AM FUCK, I AM LITERAL FUCK -- i am every butt plug as i am no butt plug -- Cant -- Swans swoon in my ears as the words pour out like magma, like jive jazz magma gibberish -- My gods are dead, My gods are dead -- I am literal fuck -- I am I am I am -- I cant I cant I cant -- I could cry -- Faces churn up in the coffin dark brew -- fuck fuck fuck -- Cant -- fuck fuck fuck -- I dissolve in coffee, stir -- lacking in symbols he clutches at what. at what's at hand. -- stir stir stir. -- There arent any words, There arent any words -- This is the new The Sigh, this is the this is the -- in the book anymore, there arent -- Cant -- Cant -- Cant -- i am every. as i am no. -- His socks are soggy with the mud falling from heaven, his socks are soggy from the filth that rains from heaven, his socks his socks are soggy from the filth raining down. The worms are meal, we are worms made for meal, take it, take it. -- 'I want to writhe, writhe under your toes. Make me worm.' -- I dissolve -- 'Make me worm, make me squirm' -- Im so beautiful I could I could I could -- 'I am worm.' -- I dissolve in coffee, stir me stir -- in the mud in the filth -- me stir me, stir, I dissolve -- Every man as no man. Every Man as no Man. I cant stand it I cant I cant -- Autopsy Report. -- Paradigm shift towards the real. -- Manic Manic Manic means -- Words lack any true substance, everything in them is perceived. Define a word without using words. -- In the river Styx, in the river Styx -- All concept disappears, there are no true concepts, only perception. -- I am a shade, in the river -- The post-modern is simply Plato's Forms taken to extremes and they called it new -- Autopsy Report: --  And Im drowning, drowning without lungs, drowning without without without with out Love, Love, the Love, love without -- Cant -- fuck fuck fuck -- I want a sloppy cock -- If everything isnt real, if the real is perception why cant we alter the fabric of reality? Collectively we should be able to wish the dead back to living. -- Cant -- Cant -- Why cant we become our own immortal? -- I AM LITERAL -- Swans swoon -- Fucking suck my dick and shut yer fucking mouth -- cant hear a lisp when they're choking -- No one hears no one here No one hears -- "I am no man as I am every" ME THAT's ME, THAT WAS ME, "I am no man as I am every man"  -- Autopsy Report: Repeat Repeat Actions Repeat Action. -- I AM LIT -- He dissolves in coffee, stir stir stir. -- There are so many symbols not to get over. There are so many people not to get over. -- (I should text my brother). -- My beauty is such a burden, it weighs down my face makes me old makes me ugly makes me more and more beautiful. -- 'Hey there hottie' 'Hey' 'Well, I really need to get off, like hard.' -- fuck fuck fuck -- Cant -- 'What are you top, bottom?' -- Cant -- Only SalesBot ever call, only -- Mania Mania Mania means -- Phases -- Autopsy Report -- Phases begin: Hot. Cool. Horny. Work Work Work. He can get so much done if he tires. Try. Work Work Work. -- I dissolve in coffee stir stir -- Dismal, -- He dissolves in coffee, stir. -- rain rain, wet it seeps into his socks soaking them like nothing else, unbelievably wet. In the restroom he tries not to cry while some (hot?) piece of ass next-stall is pinching one -- I am a shade in the river Styx, I am a shade in the much of Gluttony, I am a shade that will never fade from -- I dissolve, I dis -- and he's about to cry he cant stop it, he needs to cry -- Dont breathe, dont think, react respond -- 'Here (link). That's me, you like??' 'Maybe. Can I see a bit more?' 'How about this.' -- Nothing ever changes, everything has stopped, nothing ever moves, only repeats, in frozen, frozen doesnt move only repeats its frozen form. -- fuck fuck fuck -- 'We can turn on our web cams and watch eachother jack off.' 'Mine's busted.' -- Autopsy Report: (Repeat Repeat Actions Repeat Action.) Inaction No-action -- I am every -- I dissolve in -- Mania Manic Mania Manic Mania Manic -- 'Here go here and sign up (Link).' 'I'd rather not. . . .' '(EXXXCUSES BULLSHIT BULLSHIT) I dont want to send dick pics t someone underage.' -- fuck fuck fuck -- dissolve in -- 'Not interested.' 'u can just watch me if u want, or we can both get on ;) make sure u sign up, then it should connect you to my cam, here have another pic' THE LINK CAME FIRST, DEVIL DEVIL, ROBOT DEVIL -- fuck fuck fuck ufck fuck fuckfcukfuck fuck fuck fuckf ufkc ufkc fuck fuc kffuc fkuckf uckfufk ffufkcufck fuckf uckfukc fuckf ufkc fuck ufck -- dis -- 'Don't take too long, i already pulled my cock out lol' -- 'ur probably a virgin anyway' -- Surfer dude, hot muscly. He wasn't even blonde but he (I) saw him blonde, made him blonde, he is blonde. Didnt even look like a urfer dude wasnt a surfer dude made him mine made him. Out side the weather is worse worse worse I cant fucking stand it anymore, I mean he cant stand it any more any more anymore. Fuck. God, please god...pls. -- he made him his -- 'Not really interested, sorry' -- He wants to punch his face in, He wants to make hims scream, -- Pigs have corkscrew penises, corkscrew, cork cork. -- He wants to To to string him up on a cross and fix him fix him fix him, wants him to beg forget his name -- Fuck you, I fucking hate all of you. -- Succinct succession of frail failures, frailty, flame quick wick out. -- Never make sense, making sense is for the fools. Find sense, find sense, find find find -- 'Ok, see u there, hurry!'

 (Link) (Links) (Unlike) (Link).
he made him his

He dissolves in coffee. They dissolve in coffee. 

The place is empty, the cafe: barren. There's no one there, only the lingering image of the kid on his phone as he sits sipping, sipping. As I sit sipping, sipping the cheap coffee. 

And I try to dissolve.

he made him his.

'Ok, see u there, hurry!'

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 5 "Tick"

The Tick represents depression. Or loneliness. Or sadness. Or loss. Or perceived loss. -- Someone stole my copy of Pedigree at Whataburger -- Or Proto-Post-Natal Depression (based off the last line of the story based off the ending). -- I have a watch, my father's watch, it tickticktickticktickticks, never tocks. --  Or lingering. Or gripping cope. Or an idea that consumes you like a disease like dis-ease like misease. -- I pace like pastors pray, I pace like desperate peoples, like desperate peoples who make pacts with the Buddha, the Torah, Kabbalah witchcraft book of mormon book of the law tantric yoga untantric yoga tv theistic satanism other books drugs alco alcohol tar pits sex. I pace to get the demons out. -- The story, like all the others, is easy: woman and her old man split and she thinks she's fine but maybe not an she finds a tick -- casual suicidal -- on her head and loses it loses it loosens something inside but not the tick, loses it, not the tick. She's infused with something not too full-of-light. She's casual suicidal. She's got black dog. She scratches till she sees blood. The thing wont come out wont come out wont come out. Her old man calls, she picks up, he's been calling all before, before -- casual suicidal -- I have a watch that only ever tickticktickticktickticks -- He keeps calling -- it's maddening -- and she finally answers at the end, I think, I dont think, I dont think it says, no Im sure that Im not sure. I dont think she actually answers. She thinks about answering. I try to buy a new copy of Pedigree. -- tickticktickticktickticks -- I find one -- She never answers. -- at the same place I found the other one,, same edition, same cover, same little red dot on the bottom, I has the old bookmark that I was using. But it cant be the same it cant be the same But it cant be the same. She's gonna have a baby (none of these women have names, none of these women have names, reverse sexism, self-misogyny). I buy the copy of the book for $5.50, ten-point-ten twenty thousand times more expensive than the original buck I spent on my now-stolen copy. I begin where I left off. She begins where she left off. I have a watch that only ever tickticktickticktickticks -- casual sicidal -- only ever tickticktickticktickticks, Never tocks. I put on the watch, wear everwhere, hold it to my ear. And listen.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 4 "Sharpshooting"

I want to die from a coffee overdose. I want to reach a point where my heart head asshole colon explodes from the excessive amount of caffeine. Woke up. Got out of bed at 2. Felt like shit. Got a phone call. Felt more like shit. Watched something meaningless and short. Went for a walk. -- The story is driving me mad. It has to have some meaning beyond the page and I cant figure it out. I must have missed something, some piece must have slipped past and made understanding impossible. The guns have to mean something, the air rifles have to mean something. The last line ("She sees that, once you begin, you wouldn't ever want to stop.") has too many implications. Nothing's accidental, nothing is accidental. Im not even writing this the same day, it's the next day the next day the next day. A diary, a day-by-day, implies so much time, implies time, creates a structure of accurate time yet the very process of writing it, creating it, is a denial of time. What does this -- What does all of this mean? What does the setting create? What does her outfit say? What does her intellect imply? What do the guns means? Addiction? Sex? Moral something or other? Who cares, you havent even read this, I wouldnt be surprised if you skipped this day, I'd be surpirsed if anyone read this at all. Hm. Stay, please stay, It'll get better I swear it will get better I promise promise promise promise it'll get better it'll be better better. Look, look:

I went out to the tree by the train tracks. It's dead. Or atleast its outside is, I wouldnt be surprised that it's core was still kicking. Either way, I've never seen anything grow on it for almost a year now. It's beautiful. Unlike all the other dead plants around here (and there are practically none left alive) who seem so manicured in their death; this tree was wild, ferocious in its corpse. There's an old picnic bench-table under it. It looks like a coffin laid out for a funeral or the place you'd go after a funeral for a mourning picnic or a place to have a picnic-funeral. Everything around the tree is dead. The fallen leaves are all pale gray and ashen, the ground is a patch of slowly drying mud. There's another tree just a little ways away from the great big old one. It's skinny and young. It grows up in an impossible way, it was much too thin to manage standing on its own. It writhed and twisted like a thick-neck snake. Rising up it the long out stretched branches of the old-dead tree. It looked like the arm of a child that reached up to its mobile and grew and grew and grew until its fingers reached the dangling toys. You couldnt tell which branches belonged to which tree no matter how hard you tried. A train came by. Loud loud loud. It rattled. The sound of the wheels on the razor tracks was not too dissimilar from the sound of a blade sharpening. The trains were always loud, always very loud. When it left the beams shook, vibrating the stones that surrounded them. Distant screams. Painful? Playful? Birds were chirping. I dont think they noticed or cared. I walked on. A dog barked. I thought of a poem I needed to write. I quoted someone or other to myself in my head and found that fact to be repugnant. I crossed the street. I looked over at the side I had just been on, a few blocks down, and saw a rose bush. We didnt have rose bushes here. It must be the only one. It was in bloom. It was beautiful. The red was so vibrant so vital so bright. I was transfixed by it. I went to it. As I got closer the buds lost their sheen. They were not the same red as they had been from so far away. But still I was drawn in. Their brightness, their beauty was not what I first thought but there was still something there still something there. As I got close I was proven wrong. The petals were in my hand and they had none of the color I once saw. They're pale red. They're almost ugly. Their color was no different than the polka-dots of chick-pox. But their thorns were still sharp.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 3 "The Boy"

It's still cold out. Yet the sun is shining unperturbed. It's cold and hot at the same time. The sun is burning like the the sun and the temperature is somewhere on the shy side of the moon. It's hot burning burning burning like the sun and it's pluto-surface cold at the same time.  The story's called "The Boy". 9 am is a terrible time to wait for the bus. 'Bout a Boy, obviously, who tries to get it on with a teacher. They go to a cabin to fuck -- they're building outside this eatery I frequent; they have been for months -- and the Boy cant get it up. It's cold, too cold, and hot. They've been building for months months months, they're fixing a fraction section large area of the road, have been for months months months.The Boy uses used flattery to get what he wants -- his technique calling card so he says. The Teacher's never gendered, there's only a clue that. It's much too cold they've been building for months if not here than. But the Boy is the Boy is Boy is Boy is Boy is boy is boy is boy is. You cant hear the construction from the inside, but you know it's there. The story is confused. My mind is clearer now. It's cold. It's Hot. It's too hot inside, with all my layers; I take some off, now Im too cold. When they've finished building the street finish fixin' the street, no one will notice the change. I've been there a thousand times, I'll be there a thousand more and I wont notice, wont notice at all. The boy cant get it up, and the Teacher's upset. It's cold. The Boy cant get it up -- he isnt hard the Boy isnt hard the Boy isnt the Boy isnt the boy isnt isnt isnt. It's hot. The Boy cant get it up. There was a hot piece on the bus. He stood right in front of me. I stared at his great cute little beautiful delicious ass. He had to move back, farther back down the aisle when more people got on. He was right next to me. Rubbed up next to me accidentally on occasion. But I was sad. I missed the view. Missed watching an ass I'll forget eventually. I finish eating. I go outside. I watch listen observe the construction -- there isnt a part of this city that isnt under construction. Never once has this city been seen without something being built or fixed. I sit and watch. It's hot. It's cold. It's much too.

THE DAILY ASSIGNATION: Day 2 "Slow"

My internet connection is slow. Almost not there. I know saying that is like saying "I've lost contact with god" but still. It's everything. It's nothing. It's fucking freezing in here. Saying I've lost the internet is like saying you've lost the fiction of words the friction of language the nothing of everything, like saying you've fallen out of the Post-Modern No-Structure Structure. I could freeze to death, I could be caught up in ice, frozen forever in a block of chill. It's nothing, it's meaningless it's nothingness it's scribbles and code and endless looping gifs if it goes gone forever it will leave no trace of itself on the world except for the miles and miles and miles of useless tools we've created to interplay. Dead laptops yawning like tombstones and our great great great great grand children's children will stare at them, confused perplexed, then shrug off our ghost and make out in the crematorium to the sound of post-goth music. The vast vast vast vats of death plague poison pollution that's been pumped into the everything of everything of everything that is our everything everything everything Earth will still linger as time goes by and the future of us will find a cure or abandon the unabandoned. I havent left my room. Yet, it is everything. It is all that is and was and will and wont and knowledge power art scheme death sex money, it's everything. It's the forever pipe that feeds up the goulash of being-alive in the ultimate non-life simulacra. We exist in the machine, we are the machine, we are the matrices of the machine, the cogs the bolts the construction the power. I've left my room, but not my house. The story was slow to day -- Literally. It's called "Slow". It's premovement, the wind up to but none of the pitch. All foreplay. I havent left the house today, I keep wanting to keeping too, there's so much to be done. A woman stares down from a window, watching as he pulls up and has an epiphany as she goes to him; that's the plot. I cant hold a thought as well as I use to. Outside there is something to be done but in here I've gotten so much work done. She sees him crying thru the window and knows knows, that's the story, not even a page, knows knows she knows. It's written like a sentence -- I've written, this that and other, I've completed so much. I've succeeded but still not gone outside -- it's one long paragraph sentence that unfolds the entire existence of the Antemoment, of the Antemovement, of the Anteplot-point. I think of Molly, of Erza, and The-3rd-One-Who-Hasn't-Been-Named-But-Will-Be-Beautiful-&-Who-Suffers-from-the-Same-Fate. I think of the I shouldnt be telling you this, this ruins the story, telling the tale defiles the tale, Im thinking of the I shouldnt be talking about things that I shouldnt be talking about that would defeat their naem purpose being. They're all symbols they're all people things thoughts characters. I've been told all my life that this isnt real, that the things I simulacra arent real the things i feel as I read watch listen consume media isnt real that isnt real what you feel isnt real. No it's there is no real, you create all of this every person is a perception. So nothing is real nothing is nothing is nothing nothing nothing. All of nothing is real. All of real is nothing. and everything spins spins spins around round round the ideas the concepts the words the pictures the expressions of expression experience of real which is nothing. I still havent left my house today. I still havent been outside. I watch whatever through my window, I watch the movements the sky. I watch watch watch and I toil endlessly at the Unending Toil. Spiraling. Toiling. This is the way to start things off, this story should have been first, it would have been much much much more interesting to start with the Ante moment the Ante movement the Ante plot-point the Antechoice. It would have been so much more interesting. Or would it?

DAILY ASSIGNATION: Preface/Day 1

Preface.  So there's this writer named Joyce Carol Oates. She's pretty good, for the most part. I mean, she's published 52, 53 novels in her long life/career so there have to be some really shitty ones in there somewhere. There's also an ungodly large back catalog of short stories, novellas, plays, and poems. Oates' got a lot of stuff out there is all Im sayin'. I've, thus far, only read (some of) her shorter works, which is the form I prefer her in -- just the description of her novels bore me. But I find her short stories and novellas to be interesting and entertaining, as an added bonus they're short.

Which brings us to this . . . thing. I have acquired a copy of Oates' collection The Assignation: a collection of mostly short-short stories or regular short stories that barely meet that description (the longest is 10 pages, you guys). So I've created this experiment/novel/short-story/diary/essay/critique thing: each day I will read only one of the stories and write some sort of response based around each story. Im writing this before hand so I have no idea what it is was will become. I do know that this Preface has little or nothing to do with the tone or general scheme I have in mind for the whole, it's simply here to explain things. It should be viewed as if some one completely different has written it. 

This story is not me. I've given my name to the character. But nonetheless, he is a character. 

To steal a phrase from Georges Simenon: "Everything is true but nothing is accurate."

∆

Day 1.  Found out today that my brother was talking about killing himself. Dont know the context. Dont know if it was a joke just talk hyperbole. Im freaking out. I cant lose him he cant go. O god o god god god . Im freaking out. I'll call him. Hold on. O god I fucked that. Shit. O god, I cant do these things. Shit. I'll see him soon, I will I will. I'll talk to him then and it'll be better, o god. Do over. Do over. Do over. Jesus. The story today was "One Flesh". It's like it wasnt even there. It wasnt even a page long -- a single paragraph too. It carried nothing. Not a punch not a whimper not a quiver of its lip not a flutter of its eyelids. Which sucks, a short-short-short story is always nice but this one was fucked. HP5 is on. Its just there. I keep glancing over. It's like watching an autopsy, like watching something being dissected, something old past gone, something lost or something not so long gone. I was thinking about a ghost today, then he appeared, walked by. We talked (sortof). Something about something. O yeah, we talked about DC's book (Wrong). I think the ghost may read it. I read three or four stories out of Wrong too. "He Cried" and the self-tilted out of that book. Cant get an image from that last one out of me: dead kid, George, watching some guy take a shit. The wind's howling outside, I can hear the gusts pressing up against the window. You're in the after-after-here and the first thing you do is watch someone take a shit? Did my brother listen? Did I do fucking anything? God, o god. I hope he's fine, I hope he's safe, I hope I helped I hope I hope I hope. Jesus. Still the movie's on -- the sound's off. Im watching something completely different. Everything's flashing flashing flashing. Im tired, confused, o god, confused confused confused. All these different images -- THE WIND, JESUS, LOUD HARD HARSH -- the movie is falling apart, like bloody chunks, not the actual movie how I see the movie how I perceive the movie how I post-structuralism the movie. It's falling bloody chunks -- god I hope -- bloody murder, bloody bloody murder stories books movies comics porn, all of it all all all of it, bloody bloody murder -- I cant even remember -- He'll be fine Im sure -- Will I meet the ghost again? I hope so -- I miss -- the movie is still playing -- why the wind, the wind the wind the wind -- I miss him, so much, I'll -- I cant even remember what went down in the short story (the Oates one) (what's it called. . . "One Flesh") -- The wind wont die, it just howls and howls and howls and -- bloody fucking howling howling howling, as it bleeds bleeds bleeds -- howls howls howls -- I watch the movie die slowly from excessive dissection. And it lies there, unmoving in its movements. Flashing endlessly like a cop's bright red blue purple red blue sirens before me, on my mind. Flashing flashing yet no sound, just flashing. I hope he'll be ok, I hope to see the ghost again. No call could reassure, arrange, conjure either. I'll just have to wait and see and see him soon. Soon. Jesus. I cant even really remember what the first story was about. I do remember that there was a resonance is its prose. Something about a couple? or just a single person? There were bugs for some reason, definitely bugs, but for only like a sentence. So, whatever. Goddamnit. It was so not there. I've written twice as much here, and about a  billion times more in that whatever that exists insdie outside below beyond behind text. O god, what a terrible way to start things off. . . .