The café was expansive and constrictive at the same time. We were huddled around a table that seemed like it flowed into the table behind us and to the table in front of us and to all sides without break, though zároveň we were in our own pine box, the five of us. I think we were five. Shane, Raun, two others, and I sat at this table that flowed into other tables yet was at the same time separated from other tables by yawning precipices. A group of strangers, all women, sat secretly eavesdropping on us from either the yawning distance of the table behind us or from the table behind us that flowed effortlessly into our own table. These creatures - and I believe they were all women - had youthful bodies topped with ancient faces. Well, not all of them were ancient, but they were all more mature than warranted. They all bore the marks that age performs upon us all as we gradually move from youthfulness to decrepitude, though in differing degrees. Some faces were even ghastly - hags’ heads atop nubile torsos.

Raun - and by this point in the morning I am pretty sure it was Raun - announced to the rest of us that we were to create our own community from scratch - from the schematic of the bucket, as it were, or from the bare and splintered wooden planks of the pine box - because it was the assured method that our unique identity as a collection could stamp itself upon the wax that seals the scroll of our age, or at least upon the wax that seals the pine box of our togetherness. I came back with yes, even bands sometimes have their own communities or somesuch in the insipid manner that I sometimes don’t catch myself at in enough time to stop myself from doing it. Shane then commented yeah - some undeservingly so in the weary, sort of jaded way that many of us viewed the world around us during the bright, fecund, creative yet at times emotionally bleak epoch of College Station.

The group of youthful crones then suddenly turned to us and remarked on how it would be impossible for them to communicate with us since they could not relate to what we were speaking about. But why would this be? Their pine box was surely the same sort of pine box that our togetherness resided in. Were the wax seals on each of them simply too thick to be broken, or even to let a flow of thoughts and ideologies inwards and outwards?

The next day, or perhaps the next epoch, we returned to the café. We were only two and we passed the group of eavesdroppers on the way. They were joined by a few male counterparts and situated in an observation bunker similar to those that were on the Berlin Wall back in the “good ol days”. Immediately upon entering the café, a waiter-thing bid us sit at a table. This table was at the most 30 centimeters in diameter. He (or it) sat a pot of coffee directly onto the table.

I was in a vast library with Loyal. We were wandering through the stacks within oubliette flavored spaces full of colorful and colorless cafés. Faceless people stood, sat and milled everywhere. He informed me that apparently the building was also a prison. A new gaggle of inmates had been brought in who were worth taking a look at. I suppose a portion of the library’s entertainment section was a human zoo. And, as every entity knows, when a new gaggle is brought into a zoo, it is certainly celebration time. So we set out in search of the section in which we could do just that. Celebration == observing humans locked in cages, apparently, according to whatever module was in charge of my subconscious at the time.

At some point during our circuitous journey, I lost Loyal. I was alone in the vast. I was also nowhere near any zoo-like edifice. I descended a staircase or it may have been an escalator or doorless lift. Music was coursing over tables, chairs, and patrons poised statically with coffee and teacups in their statuesque, fingered appendages. It was music I knew. In fact, it was Seasons End by Marillion, but sung by a strange female voice in a modified register, warped and vocoded. The remnants of the instrumentation were reduced to muzak.

I finally found Loyal. He was walking out of a ballroom to my right with his head tilted and a smirk on his face. His hair was tied into the copek he often wore. He encouraged me once more to find the new gaggle of inmates - to go view them. I followed his advice and wandered once again into the vast. Perhaps like Black House, this library in my mind was practically infinite.

Finally, I was in a long corridor that had cage upon cage on its right side, all housing different animals. No human was in sight, however, besides perhaps myself, much less a gaggle of them. I had assumed that the gaggle of new inmates would be of the human variety. Was I incorrect? I kept walking.

Structures on my left had formed into fences connected at right angles covered with vines, much like the grape vines that grew behind the house during my youth or those that grew behind my grandfather (on my father’s side)’s house. A creature then leaped up from the right on to the top of these vineyards, apparently either to attack or to play with another creature atop the structure. I realized then that the prisoners were loose and I had to flee. So that I did. I retreated along the same path whence I’d come. The only notable encounter on the way “out” was with a youthful black bear who pawed at me playfully.

Christian Michael “Huggable” Newman sent me a photo this morning along with a text description:

A rubber gudgeon is a female, socket-like metal fitting attached to a boat’s transom that pairs with a male pintle pin to form a pivoting steering hinge.

Obviously Christian is planning some sort of boat trip. Or, alternatively, he is gathering a collection of rubber gudgeons and pintle pins to the delight of his sparsely decorated workroom.

He hammers the rubber gudgeons to the wall of said workroom with rusted railway spikes (the kind that, as I child, I’d find littered near the train tracks in Fort Stockton). They extend across the walls and ceiling like metamorphic clouds across the dome of the sky. He then takes the pintle pins and connects the rubber gudgeons to one another after establishing exactly which pintle pin fits, to the femtometer, between which two rubber gudgeons. He finds that there is a specific pintle pin for each space between any of two arbitrary rubber gudgeons. This delights him.

After what may be epochs, the result is a fantastic web of connections between rubber gudgeons using pintle pins. He perceives the arrangement as his default conception of beauty, and therefore he fashions a cushion in the center of his workroom so that he can lie comfortably gazing up and around at his creation, at the network of rubber gudgeons connected by pintle pins. He spends more and more hours each day and more and more hours each night (because naturally, he creates several light-emmitting apparati and places them at strategic points along the flooring of the workroom) comfortably gazing up and around at his creation.

After what may be epochs, he one day or night awakens from dozing and finds himself affixed to the cushion. He has become sessile. Momentarily, he thinks of Shambal Brambel and his peculiar fate, but since he is convinced that he is not living on Sao (the moon of Neptune, not the ever so popular tourist spot somewhere near Oceania or the Azores), he quickly dismisses the thought. He then, with less surprise than he might have otherwise thought, realizes that during his doze, tubes were attached to his nether-orifi and so he no longer has to concern himself with his nigh-lifelong toilet attendance preoccupation. This delights him.

He returns to gazing at the beauteous splay of rubber gudgeons and pintle pins patterned across his ceiling and walls, which are incidentally now the dome of his sky. He crawls into and recedes out of various states of dozing. After what may be epochs, he hears a trundling mechanism approaching from a direction he cannot determine. His hearing has lost the ability to ascertain direction since the culminated force of his senses have long been concentrated towards marveling at the dome of his personal sky. The sound comes in and out of focus like distant, dissonant wind chimes.

At one point of crawling into then receding out of drowsing, he detects another presence in the workroom, a workroom that is now his entire universe. A wheeled and spindly armed gadget is immobile beside the cushion. In its spindly arms, it holds a plate of victuals. They steam and pop. Obviously, somewhere beyond Christian’s personal universe, a fully functional kitchen is operational. He muses for a moment about the possibility that beyond his personal universe that other personal universes may exist with other entities lying sessile on cushions marveling up at their own personal creations slathered across the domes of their skies. However, he quickly discards the thought and tucks into the victuals.

I sit on the granite-lined couch bed on the top floor of Ivanečka’ sister’s řadový dům. Ivanečka herself is around yonder corner at Gianni’s defunct work-at-home desk. She is giving a lesson to a German female by the name of Tina. Tina often tries her hand at writing poems in Czech. I’m reminded of my younger self. Actually, I’ve written a few at least Haiku lately in Czech. I’ll have to find them and disperse them into Jeremy’s void so that new universes form from each of their fragments, because a few words, isolated from all context, can after moments or even epochs accrue phraseology and semantics from the quantum poetic void.

Yesterday, we took a road trip from the prosaic Winterthur to Vaduz. Having not purchased a pass to let us legally stride upon the dálnice system of Switzerland, we wound through every possible village that the Swiss countryside could conjure for us. And, in fact, Switzerland, I’m told by the great mystics of our age, is but a collection of villages. Or, at least “they” want us to think that way, even if we are occasionally in the heart of Zürich’s minute metropolitan sterility. The country certainly feels as if the village mind descended in ancient times from the abstract bedding the colossal, vestigial testicle left beside one of its celestial campfires. That being declared, the road trip was particularly pleasant. We arrived in Vaduz (a village itself) after two and a half hours of winding. Parking and then springing from our vehicle, we enjoyed the environs as well as any two curious humans with an open ended appetite for new experiences, no matter how subtle, could. I was a fan of the structure and square constructed entirely of dustily reddish bricks and of a hřbitov we found that was so immaculately clean that one could perform surgery - removing one’s own putrescent liver, for example, and then transplanting the liver stolen from the pig farmer down the road into one’s abdomen - directly atop one of the graves.

Besides a few anecdotes, however, nothing much else is worth noting about Vaduz itself. As I’ve always written in the hallways of my youth, foyers of my adolescence and gutted hovels of my manhood, the journey is much more important than the destination. Now that I think about it, however, the word destination implies cessation of movement. So, in fact, even though we were in Vaduz, loitering about the hřbitov and traipsing around the dustily red-bricked platz were portions of the journey. We never ceased journeying. The winding trip backwards in space though relatively not in time was equally enjoyable and our conversation ranged from discussions concerning family dynamics that are contained within a cauldron cracking in fractal patterns on every conceivable point on its rumpled and warped sphere to Czech, German and English grammar and to the composition of ostensibly naturally grassy louky.

Here is the form. I will crush it. Now it is a different form. This is the interesting thing.

There is a “novel” that I began writing years ago that I should one day get back to. In fact, it has been on my mind often lately, if only in the periphery. There is a “scene” within it where the protagonist (I laughingly call myself a protagonist) relates a story from his childhood. It is about a friend of his parents named Pat who talks to the child protagonist about the “meaning” of the universe and specifically about dimensions, commenting that the fifth dimension could even be a colossal animal and our four dimensions could be bobbing in its stomach, floating in its digestive fluids.

This was heady stuff for the protagonist at the time - a time before he grew into a cynical man for whom surprise was a stranger.

How do digestive fluids of a colossal, universe swallowing animal relate to the opening quote? Well, they forced that young “protagonist” to torsion his thought patterns. Those patterns of thought were undone and redone again with perhaps a few strands still frayed in the wake of the redoing. The form of his psyche, analogous to a Platonic solid made of paper - a simple origami - was crushed into something less perfect, into something more of this world and not of imaginary realms. Sudden floods of unexpected knowledge or insight can do that to a child and I’m of the hopped-up opinion that the experience is unequivocally positive. Even if that sudden flood of unexpected knowledge or insight concerns goat worship, sibling crib death or overcooked pasta, the end result is positive.

What am I hopped-up on? I’m hopped-up on garlic, honeybuničko.

Were an extended hallway to trace the life of the protagonist from when he was vomited from the vagina to having his corpse unceremoniously dumped into the nearest river, that hallway would contain parallel forms that mirror the protagonist’s psyche. Upon being vomited from the vagina, a pure shape akin to a Platonic solid - a simple origami - sits at one end of the extended hallway. Time passes and eventually an infant protagonist receives trickles of unexpected knowledge or insight. In the hallway, the Platonic form becomes ever more slightly rumpled during the durations of the trickles of unexpected knowledge or insight. At four years of age, a young protagonist witnesses the family křeček unearthing his mother’s eye from its socket. This sudden flood of unexpected knowledge and insight causes the rumpled Platonic solid to warp and crumple. A teenage protagonist watches the dawn for the first time with a few friends after they escape the nightly prisons of their patently comfortable suburban households on a rise overlooking a slope peppered with beer cans growing astride weedy abominations and a sinewy collage of stochastic plastic bag art. In the hallway paralleling his life, the form contorts even further, mangling itself until its original Platonic purity can barely be beheld. All trickles and all floods of unexpected knowledge or insight distort the parallel “form”. Prejudice concerning whether the unexpected knowledge or insight is positive or negative or somewhere on the five dimensional axis in between does not exist. There is no reversal or backtracking to Platonic purity.

I’m sure she would love to see you one last time before merging with the void. - Jeremy Croteau

The heat death of the universe, in this case, is a (very) slow digestive process during which churning (or placid!) fluids within the colossal stomach break down “reality” into states of gradually higher entropy. And, of course, the inevitable cosmic burp at the end of the process births a new universe. Excellent! Everything is explained now.

Jeremy’s void is not only our own deaths but the final digestion of the universe itself. And if the universe can be reborn by a burp, perhaps our tentatively unctuous souls are also reborn once they fully dissolve and disperse into the waters of the river into which we are unceremoniously dumped. Reincarnation by quantum burp.

The barnacle’s ambition is to reach the harbor without having built the boat.

In a way, I have also been carried by a boat throughout my life, but not in the way that the Swiss people I am staying with at the moment have been. They are the recipients of luck in a way that I really never have been. They either haphazardly married into or were haphazardly born into an ancient Italian family that was somehow displaced to Winterthur a generation or two ago. This is not a complaint, though my cynical nature defies that it not be. They are the family of my Ivanečka, after all, the person I plan to spend the remainder of my existence with. It is simply their lot in life. They take their lot in life for granted and perhaps this is where we could possibly come into philosophical conflict.

When my fetid friend, Christian Michal Newman, was living in Zürich a few decades ago, he relayed to me an unending sequence of negative emotions about the place. It made quite an impression on me and my opinion of the ostensibly pristine city has been tainted since that time. I know Christian quite a bit better now, as many epochs of both of our lives (possibly more of my life than his own) have passed and I know better now. At times, when he rants, he rants wholly about the negative aspects of sections of his life - to spit out the poison, as it were. So realistically, I should by this time take his past ideas of Zürich with a pinch of cesium salt. But feelings, emotions and those fickle chemicals splashing around in our brains are what they are and thus the impression remains to this day, though filtered through my current experience.

I’m sitting at a table on the terrace overlooking a small garden at Lenta’s řadový dům in Winterthur. Ivanečka and Lenta chat in the kitchen behind me and across the obyvák. Christian told me that when he worked here the Swiss people treated the foreigners working at the opera like bugs. He would possibly say that there is more nuance to it than that, but that’s what he always says about every experience, so fuck um. I detect the insect angle now since I am sitting directly within the environs of Swiss life, though it is not as outright obvious like it may have been to him. The behavior is subtle, but I get the distinct impression that Lenta and to a lesser extent her daughter looks down her nose at me. Or perhaps they don’t look down their nose at me specifically, but at the idea of my existence. The family’s reactions to the things that I want to do with Ivanečka (say, the Nik Bärtsch gig we went to the other night in a fabulously tiny club) are telling as they are wholly negative. I am interested in what the reaction will be to my wish to go to the island on Bodensee in Konstanz today. Given Ivanečka’s influence over my psyche of late, I shall stay positive! On one facet of the dodecahedron, I understand Luki’s and Alessi’s disinterest in some of the things I’d like to do because of the so-called generation gap. They both appeared incredibly bored during our extensive (though conservative in my view) walking excursion through Zürich. Of course, I could be misreading them and I do admit that at times I misread Luki. He seems to have a very rich interior life that he doesn’t show to everyone, and especially not to me.

I have just been corrected by Ivanečka. She believes that it may instead be Jessi that kind of looks down her nose and not Alessi. In fact, it could be that Alessi is like Luki. She may have quite the interior life, as well. Jessi has a bit of that Mediterranean aspect that appeals so much to the lowest common denominator. She is openly very friendly and does her best to create a positive first impression. What lurks underneath, as I found with the majority of the denizens of Spain, could be something either more sinister or vacuous or more likely within the infinite graduated void between the two.

Ivanečka also just related to me the attachment that Alessi had to her during the latter’s childhood. She was even jealous after Ivanečka birthed Luki. The warring emotions within the family dynamic here have evolved over many years and I am a stranger to them still, so some of their attitude may be warranted. Plus, I’m a fucking weirdo as well as an extreme introvert and my so-called social skills have followed a path that have been far from mainstream. Certainly, I am quite pleased with my own development as a human but that doesn’t mean that anyone else is going to be immediately attracted to it. In fact it means that the majority will find me initially extremely bizarre once I actually begin speaking my mind. And that’s even before the absurd humor begins to surface. So, on the other facet of the dodecahedron, fuck um.

But weren’t we speaking of barnacles? The barnacle is a formidable, crusty creature that attaches itself at an early age to spacecraft that hover too close to our planet. They become, much like Shambal Brambel, sessile on their chosen spacecraft. They are then taken to other worlds and are used as palate cleansers after various extraterrestrials have consumed particularly acidic meals. This is their purpose. This is why the exist. This is why the Great Mamba expelled their essence from its essentially infinite vestigial testicle. So it has been written. So it will be passed on generation to generation until the fluttering moths of time can no longer find a source of illumination to flutter around.

The boat the barnacle of my soul has been attached to can possibly be named luck. I, however, don’t particularly believe in luck as a mystical concept, so I’ll go with probability instead. No - better would be to say the probability of a mystically loaded dodecahedral die. So I don’t believe in luck as a mystical concept, but I believe in this particular loaded dodecahedral die. Indeed, I do, for its essence was also expelled from the Great Mamba’s essentially infinite vestigial testicle. Herr Christopher Bender told me many a time during our essentially infinitely durational friendship that my life is somehow charmed. Christian would accredit this to his fuzzy friend the Koala, but either he mistakes his fuzzy friend for the Great Mamba itself or they are essentially the same thing and even share an essentially infinite vestigial testicle.

So, if the probability of a mystically loaded docedahedral die has directed my life, I am quite grateful, essentially for simply being alive and essentially for being able to type these words into my laptop which is essentially named Lajdacky and sits essentially on this table in this essential terrace facing a small, essential garden in Winterthur, which is a particularly droll and uninteresting tract of land that could essentially be bulldozed and replaced with a pristine spaceport so that the aforementioned barnacles could more easily queue up for their intersellar journeys and eventual destinies within the intestines of various extraterrestrials.

We speed under a bridge on the highway between Praha and München, though our destination is not München. I glance back in time a few days to yester-monday, otherwise known as the thirteenth of July of this year.

Wheels turn beneath us as we glide between Praha and Berlin vlakem. I awakened at four twenty and decided that waiting until the alarm sounded the song by Eskaton ten minutes later was pointless so I remained awake after switching the budík off. Peiločja, on the other hand, chose to remain asleep, regardless of how much I taunted her with the “stick”.

The goals of the morning were simple. I had to make a shot for Ivanečka. I had to shave. I had to shower. I had to “pack”. What does it mean to “pack”, exactly? “Packing” (a very silly word) involves placing a few t-shirts into the backpack. Oh, and I also placed my toiletries in the backpack. Toiletries include things such as tooth brushes, tooth pastes and a weevil. Weevils are useful on trips because they bore into your skin and tunnel through your bones until they reach the essence of your being, granting you an eternity of robustness.

As I was stating - wheels are turning beneath us. Ivanečka just slurped down her “shot”, which contained an orange, a lime, a hunk of ginger and a few hunks of kurkuma. These four ingredients were placed into my juicer. In fact, it is part of my regular morning routine to make such a “shot” for my Ivanečka. She’s my love. What exactly is Ivanečka doing at this very moment? She is chewing on leaves of romaine lettuce. She is, of course, beautiful as she does this.

We shall arrive in Berlin an approximately one hour. Our plans, except for seeing Marillion tomorrow evening, are vague, and we pretty much like it that way. Across a landscape littered with high rises, apartment blocks, monuments and milling humans we shall stroll to arrive at Motel One, a place she found for us a few days ago. She was enamored by its design. I’m not that picky. It’s a place to connect, make love, sleep, rest, eat and shit. I guess comfort is somewhat essential, as well. Now that I think about it, we may not actually stroll across a landscape littered with high rises, apartment blocks, monuments and milling humans. We may take public transport, meaning the U-Bahn. In fact, in just a few fleeting moments, I’m going to look up exactly which U-Bahn we shall be taking.

Since walking for over an hour with our burdens would be less pleasant than having our limbs lopped of by a mechanical primate, we have, indeed, decided to take the U-Bahn (and possibly the S-Bahn) to our hotel. Though we’ll most likely not be able to enter our room until afternoon (it is now merely ten in the morning), I am partially confident that the hotel will retain our burdens in a semi-safe alcove until then whilst we meander about the landscape littered with high rises, apartment blocks, monuments and milling humans in search of wurst and hranolky. Stáhl jsem si aplikaci veřejné dopravy Berlína a koupil jsem naše jízdenky.

We pass through Nürnberg, Heilbronn and Stuttgart na cestě to Winterthur where Ivanečka’s sister “eagerly” awaits my irreverent humor. We are four in this metal box that speeds along an autobahn towards this day’s destiny. At one of our “pit” stops an hour or so ago, Ivanečka’s mother purchased a párek v rohlíku. It was a sublime moment.

Now to tumble fitfully back to yester-tuesday.

We’re sitting in bed in Motel-One in Berlin as the day slowly encroaches upon us. Not that we are in any sort of hurry. I always take a look at my home “security” cams to find out how Peiločja is. I feel quite bad leaving her alone. I’ll feel even worse next week when we are in Winterthur for seven days. When I think to deeply about her alone in the apartment, slumbering, stalking mouchy, bounding from place to place with clumsy grace, and possibly pacing, uttering feeble meows, wondering where I am, I feel something akin to a physical sensation of pain. I never thought in my past dappled with questionable empathy that I could love a creature so deeply. But I do. The connection is profound.

Yesterday, we spent many hours with Janek, otherwise known as Jayrope. He and I met online in 2019 during the late quarter of the year after I had completed my second full Noisevember album. He was impressed by the piece A Serbian Princess. Listening back to it recently, I was not certain why he was so enamored, but I shall not be so gobsmacked to not be appreciative, samozřejmě. The fact that his job is mixing and mastering other peoples’ work, from Hollywood-type soundtracks to underground punk, is telling of the hypercriticism I give my own mixing and mastering jobs and indeed my overall creative process.

We met at Hackescher Markt in a sort of biergarten that wasn’t exactly a biergarten but instead simply outside seating for a restaurant that insisted on calling itself Restauration. I consumed wurst and Ivanečka consumed veggies and hummus as we waited for Janek to arrive on his bicycle. Berlin and especially Munich are overly friendly to bicyclists. The cities actually seem to encourage the use of such contraptions as opposed to the use of jittering, clamoring, petrol guzzling hulks that drag themselves along roadways as they sputter inky clouds. Personally, I was always impressed by the “rules” in Seattle during my time there. Legally, a human navigating a jittering, clamoring, petrol guzzling hulk dragging itself along a roadway could “take out” one bicyclist a day. I saw it as a “thinning out of the hipsters”. Consequently, I am thinking of acquiring a bicycle when we move to Mnichov.

I’m reminded of a “scene” in my life riding in a jittering, clamoring, petrol guzzling hulk that was dragging itself along a roadway whilst sputtering black clouds. We had just listened, collectively, to Too Much Rope by Roger Waters and were discussing its lyrical theme. Jeff came to the conclusion that the human race would be better off if there existed some proto-mythical force that simply indiscriminately eliminated some percentage of the population every so often. As I mull over it a moment, I conclude that perhaps there already is.

Každopadně, Janek arrived on his bicycle. We drank beers and talked. He related a time he was in Texas, in fact, near Big Bend, living in a hovel with another musician. He lived in Austin, purchased an accordion and played with anyone or any group who needed an accordion player. There were many more anecdotes. They all sounded splendid. I let him talk. Ivanečka let him talk. It was pleasant. He went deeper into his life for us, relating finding a daughter from a fling he had in the 90s and how, after her mother committed suicide, they found each other. They keep tenuous communication and arrange times to spend together even though he said that at times they remind each other of traits we dislike most about ourselves. His point was there was an overreaching reason to keep coming back to each other and that overreaching reason was genetics. I’m not sure if he questions whether genetics itself is reason enough to hold two people together, especially two people who have nearly nothing in common experience-wise, but he did mention this latter point several times. My opinion on such matters is clear from multitudinous other blog posts.

I very much enjoyed simply letting him talk. I enjoyed absorbing his experiences of the world. I enjoyed that they sometimes aligned with my own but mostly were tales that had absolutely nothing to do with my life. I used to be tempted, especially during my 20s and 30s, to start sharing comparable stories from my own life during these sorts of discussions. Now I find my previous behavior abominable. It’s an act of humility to listen to someone else’s stories without having absurd struggles with ones’s own ego in the process. Perhaps the lack of humility (or the lack of ability to suppress the ego that snatches away such humility) is a symptom of a greater disease that infects Western (and especially American) culture. It can be a type of competition. And if it is a spawn of competition, it is repellent. Christian mentioned the other day whilst I was walking through Folimanka gabbing with him telephonically via Telegram that various people who tend to butt in, as it well, to storytelling in the egoistic manner that I just described also could be doing so because they can relate to the story and so they can feel a part of the discussion, conversation, back-n-forth, whathaveyou. I agree with him, but also believe that in this case, the butting in has its source in insecurity, low self-esteem, withered sense of worth, whathaveyou. Každopadně, I find it also slightly repellent, especially since I did it during my 20s & 30s partially from a withered sense of self worth. Fuck um.

Ivanečka just tasted Genmaicha for the first time in her life. Unfortunately, I adulterated the flavour with lime juice. She commented that the taste is extremely strong. Perhaps I did let it steep too long. I was probably distracted by Peiločja during the steeping process. Or I was showering. Or I was staggering around the flat arbitrarily in search of my tenuous early morning destiny.

I shall share okurky with my love as we continue our drive. The bluegrey mottled sky and thin mist draped along the autobahn beckon us onwards.

Sometime during January of 2025, I wrote a list of resolutions. It’s not something I do often because I am aware that I will follow them for only a short period of time before falling into other more, for lack of a better word, comfortable routines. I feel now that I should go over them to see if they pertain to my current situation in life.

1. No more than 1700 calories a day until February.

This can be easily modified, of course, to read No more than 1700 calories a day until August or somesuch. It’s most probably not doable, however. Several factors point towards failure. We’ll certainly be traveling in July, at least twice. We go to Berlin to see Marillion and possibly to hang with Jayrope. Traveling is the antithesis of discipline in a dietary sense, especially when said diet tends towards ketosis. The sheer proliferation of sacharidy in foodstuffs distributed to shops small, large and everything in between is staggering. In fact, I shall stand up and stagger now in honor of how staggering the fact truly is. I suspect that humanity is addicted to sacharidy.

A few days ago, I met with a fellow denizen of Mastodon appropriately named Lee. I also met with his woman (I believe it to have been his woman, but one can never be sure and I did not ask any specific questions concerning their relationship). We sat just outside the café along the street on an uneven wooden table of the sort one sometimes sees in public parks. A portion of our conversation centered on contrasts between hunter-gatherer “cultures” as opposed to those imprisoned in rigid hierarchies birthed from the dawn of agriculture. He seemed to agree with my tenet about the consequences of the agricultural revolution. It was the step that humanity never should have taken - at least on the scale that it did. It signaled the death of cooperative cultures (the hunter-gatherers) who lived in small, intelligent, mobile groups, and prompted the rise of despots who snatched at any opportunity for power. A hierarchical system arose from the stagnation of a culture being rooted.

Lee did inform me, however, that there still exist, especially in southeast Asia, multitudinous disparate hunter-gatherer clans peppered through the mountainscapes. I was surprised and somewhat gladdened. Therefore our Ouky Douky rendezvous ended on a positive note and not in a circular discussion about how humanity is a seething morass of cancer engulfing itself and the planet. Not that it isn’t, of course.

What was the purpose of this detour in my writing? Ah! The hunter-gatherers, as opposed to the ones rotting on an echelon loosely bound to an arbitrary branch of the festering weed of agriculture, certainly had an easier time avoiding sacharidy. It was just part of the lifestyle, volečku, or perhaps still is part of the lifestyle for those peppered amongst the mountainscapes of southeast Asia.

2. Write something every day

I currently do not have a problem following this resolution. I have been semi-consistent about Daily Notes in Obsidian, plus I scribe from time to time directly to my Nostr account which is tied directly to my personal Nostr node which is a part of the infinite branching structure that glistens through the cosmos unlike the drooping, pestilent weed of agriculture.

Of course, without the drooping, pestilent weed of agriculture, I wouldn’t be sipping on my delicious ranní napoj. Or, rather, my delicious Ajran from Hamakom. Also, had the drooping, pestilent weed of agriculture never sprouted from the kind earth that was never keen to birth it in the first place, I’d’ve never existed at all! How delightful!

(Ajran from Hamakom)

3. Practise or improvise something every day

There is a distinction between working on a piece of music - a process that may include learning and then repeating a guitar part twenty seven million four hundred eight thousand two hundred and eighteen times in order to play it correctly into the virtual tape machine - and actually placing oneself into beta state and practising the guitar. I must admit that today I have not (yet) placed myself into beta state and practised the guitar. However, I intend to do so, and even before this abomination of a blog entry is complete! In fact, I’ll do it now!

(Two days later - of practising constantly - no food - no sleep - naturally!)

4. No new equipment for at least six months unless it is to replace something vital

The question that is begged in number four is what equipment exactly is vital? I lately found that my tone is most probably the most vital thing of all and since I do not use an amp, I have to have a certain collection of pedals in a certain order to maintain the tone that is important to me for the timbrel thurk of my compositions. Currently, and all of these are absolutely vital, the pedal chain that creates my tone is thus: Basic Audio Scarab -> Spaceman Redstone -> Fairfield Circuitry Shallow Water -> Zen Drive -> Empress Compressor. I’m sure multitudinous other pedals in my vast array are also vital, come to think of it. El Capistan, Red Panda Particle, to conjure two from the void of my mind.

All that being stated in a ponderous paragraph, I should do my best to heed my past self’s advice. I recently purchased a Bass Guitar that I’ve yet to give a name to and a Hydrasynth, also still without a moniker. I have a persistent mental itch to just say fuck um and also buy an Isla Electronics S2400. I have however so far resisted raking my ragged fingernails along that itch.

5. Speak my mind to my parents always

This is moot, as my mother kicked it last July and my father a month ago. Honestly, it was a resolution that was very difficult to keep during my time in the eternal cleft anus that is Seminole, Texas. My childhood and teenage years weighed heavily on me during the eight months I was “stranded” there. I suppose that in a way, my childhood and teenage years will always weigh heavily on me. One can never wholly escape from a time in life when one was constantly berated, perpetually castigated for being nothing but who one truly was - a soul searching for its own direction in the universe within the context of an environment that was dreadfully hostile to creativity, intellect, and any behavior that made one stand apart from the flock.

My parents never wanted me to speak my mind. My parents wanted me to speak what they expect to hear. They never cared for me. They cared for an eidolon of me that they constructed when I was very young, far before my early teens. That was the Bob they loved and certainly not the man that Bob evolved into.

6. Have a concrete plan for the next step in life by March. Remember this is a fresh beginning

When I first wrote these resolutions, I was waking up at five (approximately) every morning and immediately studying Japanese. It was fun. I was happy. I was in Seminole, yes, but during those dark early hours, I was happy memorizing Katakana, Japanese vocabulary and even a few Kanji. It was my pytel. I lay in bed with my neck skewed at an angle that Ivanečka would surely (rightly) criticize now. I studied. I was happy.

My next step in life was to the north-west. I was saving money, slowly but surely. My goal was Sitka, Alaska and then eventually across the Pacific to Japan. What were my concrete plans? I know some sort of boat was involved. I had even begun learning the basics of sailing, at least theoretically. I planned to take a course in Seattle before heading to Alaska late one evening to watch the reddening twilight never quite end for the second time in all of my accursed years. I imagined myself in Sitka. I imagined myself setting up a rudimentary studio there and eventually having a primitive studio on a sailboat. I’m still not sure how realistic that would be were I to actually use the sailboat to spend time on the open ocean. Salt could play hell with electronics over time.

None of this ever came to pass.

I was still thorax deep in my relationship with Martin and the work we were doing together. Oh! The Sperm Bank. I still have the code sitting around somewhere. Amusingly enough, they have since gone bankrupt. It doesn’t really surprise me given their disorganization and general ineptness with technology. Idiots. “Business men” with no technical training or know how or, better yet, no direct programming experience have no business telling people who actually know what they are doing what to do. It’s been the same story since I began my career as a developer in the 90s. The idiots who managed to talk some other semi-rich idiot into investing in their idea have dragged a troupe of developers along to carve a swath of their own failure through the decades. Idiots.

I was still thorax deep in my relationship with Martin and “work” we were doing together. We talked every day, in fact. I called him my friend back then. I’m not sure what he is now. Who knows? Most people in life simply come and go. The few that stick around through one’s torturous mood-swings, ups, downs, sideways sprints and dark downward spirals are the only ones in the end worth their gristle. Their thoraces smile back to you no matter the shambles of the situation.

I was still thorax deep in my relationship with Martin and the Sperm Bank. Somehow, he convinced me (or I partially convinced myself) that the correct direction for my life was to return to Praha - or, rather, for him it was move to Praha, as I don’t know how aware he was of the years I spent previously decades ago in this city. And so, slowly, I abandoned my Sitka and ultimately Japanese plans. I began replacing my morning studies with Czech. I found a Czech teacher online on a site called Preply. Her name was Ivana. We’re getting married next week.

7. Remember I have the right to be happy

Since childhood, I was told by my church and my parents (who were informed by my church) that I was meant to suffer, that my happiness was not a priority in anyone else’s point of view. The fact that it was important from my point of view just proved to everyone (especially to my parents) that I was a selfish, Godless wretch. It’s an awful way to grow up, but I think it is more common than people here (in the Czech Republic) might realize. The contrast is stark. I know that it does happen in the United States, too, but I believe it is a rarer phenomenon. Parents here openly encourage their children to pursue the goals in life that make them happy. They aren’t insistent on the old traditionalist ways of Son follows in the footsteps of Father or Son (or Daughter!) must go into a profession that is financially successful with the emphasis on exactly that: financial success. Though money is still relevant under the oppression of capitalism, it is not the driving force behind practically everything like it is in the hunk of pestilence that is the United States of “America”.

It’s directly against the tenets of my upbringing to be happy, or more specifically, to place my own happiness first. I realize there are compromises all humans must make to their own happiness so that other humans living with them, in their vicinity or on the other side of the goat-yard from them are also in some equalized state of happiness. But even in such cases, unless one insists on surrounding oneself with humans who amass misery and distribute it to themselves and upon all those living with them, in their vicinity or on the other side of the goat-yard from them, mostly mutual happinesses can be easily maintained.

So fuck you, Mom, and fuck you, Dad. I have the right to be happy.

8. Less TV series. More books. Two novels a month minimum sounds good

My reading style of late is one of creeping examination. I enjoy going over sentences and paragraphs again and again to taste the words and especially to taste the syntax and morphology of the expression. I don’t think I’m actually capable of reading two novels a month in this manner unless they are both particularly short novels. I just started something new, in fact. It’s by the Japanese author Kawakami and its name is Heaven. Or, rather, that is the translation of its name into my mother tongue. I began this novel two days ago and have only read perhaps six pages as I am tasting the syntax. I realize that the syntax I’m tasting is possibly more the translator’s syntax than the author’s syntax, but I’m still finding it delectable. I’m certainly gargling both of their semantics. It is a short novel. The other one I have by the same author (Breasts and Eggs) is also short. Let’s see if they both get read by the end of July.

I’ve begun a number of series over the last month and a half, but I’ve not finished them, excepting one German one whose name I refuse to reveal. The raw, reeking fact that I usually do not finish a series points blatantly towards what this resolution itself commands: read books instead of having some story thrown at you at the pace it dictates.

9. Be ruthless, even if it means at times being heartless

I created this resolution in the context of living with my parents. This ties intimately back to remember I have the right to be happy. During that period, which, as I’ve stated before, lasted eight months, I spent quite a bit of my energy every day maintaining patience. It was grueling. And yes, I did lose it a few times, but only a few. Mostly, on the outside, at least when I was with them, I maintained tranquility whilst fury raged in my mother’s chemically imbalanced brain.

A phrase I began using in my early 20s (or even earlier?) that described my mother’s treatment of other people (including my brother, my father, and me) was assassinating their personality. She spent more energy than I thought she had in her tiny body doing that very thing. She assassinated the personalities of pretty much everyone she came into contact with. Of course, she didn’t assassinate their personalities in front of them (unless the subject of the assassination was my father, my brother or me), but instead slandered them behind their backs. She even had stock phrases for people that she used to write off what they said or did. Doing such things is a logical fallacy - one of labeling - the act of dismissing the entirety of what a person says because they can be labeled a certain thing, regardless of the actual validity of what they state or represent. For example, my friend Acy was (and still is, I assume) big on researching events, situations, ideas, etc in depth and then drawing conclusions from that research. So, whenever my mother and I were having a discussion on anything, be it a rule at university, a traffic law, the way to prepare a meal or the more modern method of doing taxes (or paying bills) online and if I EVER brought up what my good friend Acy thought, she’d immediately follow up with a quip about Lawyer Acy. And that was that. It was as if saying Lawyer Acy completely dismissed anything Acy had to say, no matter its relevance.

At least I encountered this behavior early in life. That way I could suffer for a longer time under its oppression. Also, I instantly recognize it in other people, which can be a further source of suffering, especially when the labeling fallacy comes directly from someone I care about. When this happens, I further perpetuate my own suffering by flaying the perpetrator. I suffer whilst performing this act because I care about, or even love the perpetrator. After flaying this human whom I love alive, I place the jerking, quivering, and still mostly living body into a sarcophagus filled with photographs of various goats that I fancy. I seal the sarcophagus and then sit down in the vast cemetery to read a few pages of whatever novel I’m in the middle of.

10. No alcohol unless it’s an aperitif, and those only rarely. Especially no beer

This is genuinely amusing since yesterday, the day of my wedding, I drank between seven and nine (inclusive) beers with Michal whilst Ivanečka and Mirka enjoyed our company. It was thrilling! I had that amazing feeling I used to have back in the good ol days when I was in a semi-daze as I walked the infinite trudge between our place of residence in the “restaurant” and the toilet to empty my swollen bladder. Oh, nostalgia! But that was only a minor detail. That Ivanečka can coexist with mine and Michal’s ever joking state of tipsy mind for so long and honestly enjoy it amazes me. Looks like I found the best woman in the extant universe.

As for aparitifs, I really don’t do them and I am unsure why I even included that word in my resolutions a year and a half ago. It’s actually a filthy word used by wanna be tyrants to attract wanna-be apostles of tyrants. I shall do my very best to never use it again in my existence within the extant universe. My take on beer these days is that having a few during the day (probably not between seven to nine inclusive) is not particularly damaging (except to the general creative productivity of the day), but one must cease before evening and not fall to slumber before the alcohol has completely worn off

11. Less coffee. More tea

Yesterday I imbibed Lapsang Souchung. This morning I imbibed Genmaicha. I have not let the putrescence that is coffee pass between my lips since mid July last year.

I have noticed during my meandering existence that many of my friends, acquaintances, goat-buddies and parasitic hangers-on have quite the “time of it” letting go of their daily culinary luxury items. Yes, I dub coffee a luxury item. It is certainly not required for physical or mental survival in any meaningful sense. Of course, one can become addicted to caffeine (and become addicted quite easily, it seems, for some) and then coffee (or an adequate substitute such as cocaine or strychnine) seems to the addicted “individual” to become a necessity. Yes Ja Ano. But in my burbling opinion, it is still only a luxury. Addiction is best broken by abstinence unless the addicted one will stuff it by not continuing. If that’s the case, well, then the “addicted one” is in the hands of The Great Mamba, the ceramic goat sitting on the night table or the clairvoyant neighbour’s effigy of Ba’al. Said addicted varmint may choose from the three deity-ish entities.

Každopadně, many humans have a “time of it” letting go of their daily culinary luxuries. For example, I am greatly amused when a human walks into the exquisite dining hall of The Great Mamba, the ceramic goat sitting on the night table or the clairvoyant neighbour’s effigy of Ba’al and declares to all seated there the beginnings of, say, a ketogenic diet. Well, actually that is not the part that amuses me. I’m all for humans declaring any number of things in the exquisite dining hall of The Great Mamba, the ceramic goat sitting on the night table or the clairvoyant neighbour’s effigy of Ba’al. The amusing part is what comes afterwards. Many of these humans spend chunks of their day searching for or preparing foodstuffs that closely resemble or in some-way imitate non-ketogenic foodstuffs. An obvious example is anything of the sweet variety: sugared chowders, flapjacks, candied hamster kidneys, or any beverage that “requires” a “sweetener”. For myself, it seems much more simple to, for the duration of the diet, just eat meats, eggs, cheeses, lilek, cuketa, zelí and a hromada hnoje of greens and oils. The willpower of the masses seems to be a shallow splatter of liquid on the sunken floor of the public lavatory around the corner.

12. Patient, but ruthless

Living with my parents for eight months was always a balance between these two seeming extremes. I never wanted to openly fight with them about what I wanted in life and what my future would be, but it came to that a few times, as I mentioned. Mostly I had to insert into random conversations details about what I was about to do with my life. Absurdly, this even included when Bender-boy was visiting the “neighbourhood”. Our trip to Carlsbad Caverns nearly gave my mother an embolism. Or, rather, the idea of us driving for a few hours in highly dangerous West Texas and Southeastern New Mexico nearly gave her an embolism. According to her, the roads were swarming with drunk Mennonites. We would be lucky to get past Hobbs without being crushed by a pickup crossing the soil, weed and gravel space that divided the highway at an unmanageable velocity. I decided to just not mention that we were taking a road trip to Marfa, four and a half hours (or more?) distant from Seminole. The family drama it would have caused would not have been worth it.

In the end, I had to choose my own happiness. I was drowning from the moment I stuck the disfigured “index” toe of my right foot into the red, dusty gusts of West Texas on whatever day it was mid-October 2024. I am not a nurse, though I had to act like one more and more the longer I was with them. They came to expect it. By the time I departed for Praha on 15 June last year, the situation was dire and one could cut a rill through the tension in the air with a comatose yak.

13. Lakife

I have not done anything at all concerning Lakife since last spring. This is unfortunate and must be remedied at some point soon. The most direct solution to the problem is to just write some lyrics in Lakife or translate something into Lakife such as A Fool Fancying Cliches, an old song I want to recreate.

That brings me to the problem of current musicking. MUSICKING. That’s the way I spell it, vole. The Dissolving Pool album seems to be stuck. I am reorganizing my thoughts concerning how exactly to finish it. My conclusion is to excise a few pieces and use them for another album, leaving only the following ones:

• The Fen
• Hela Strolls Through the Botanical Gardens in St. Johns
• Řeka
• Molju Fekli Tzikon Xaj Mapu
• Gibbet

All of them are in some state of completion or at least progress. Their structures exist and most of the composition has been done. I just have to sit down with my more putrescent self and concoct a sound and / or timbrel idea for the album as a whole, then replay, perform the parts that need to be completed to that end. I’m sure I’ll end up abandoning the original TR-808 idea, except perhaps on parts of Gibbet where the bass drum timbre itself is essential.

The excised pieces of music will reside on the new album. New album, you say? Oh! What a surprise! I have spent monolithic chunks of my time “perfecting” Dobbs but as it seems like Christian is having a very difficult time completing his own parts, I shall pause my efforts, though there is not much to pause. The only piece that really needs anymore work is A Continual Undermining… and Christian has no part on that one. I’ve mused to myself time and again about possibly finding another vocalist, but without Christian, the album loses some of its identity in my mind. I just wish he would get to it. His desire to make music may not have waned, but his impetus has, for sure.

Každopadně, the excised pieces of music will reside on the new album. New album, you gawk? Oh! What a malodorous event! Many new pieces (some based on old ideas) have flowed easily from my hara of late and I have been quickly sketching and in some cases practically finishing them. It will therefore be:

• Protivný Pták nad Bouřičím Oceanem
• Sandra (excised from the aforementioned album)
• Sketch #1 (based on something I began writing at the beginning of 2019)
• Qat (excised from the aforementioned album)
• Shambal Drained of Fluids
• Tundra
• Encima de Gallarza (excised from the aforementioned album)
• Song for Ivanečka

14. Physics

I had a university textbook out and I was going through it like a klíště in a fat woman’s underpants. I wanted to relearn everything I had forgotten. Sadly, I shall not be getting back to this. Life requires narrowing. Hobbies require being consigned to the pit. One only has so much time for one’s passions. I choose the few that are the most important and everything else falls away. Fuck um.

I am so tired that I am sweating somnolent tears.

Trips of the length of the one I am currently on are extremely unpleasant. Hopefully I shall only have to go to Seminole at the most one more time in my life. From my point of view, living in a distant city with clear and easy connections (travel wise) to most other non po-dunk habitable zones, my father chose one of the worst possible places on earth to live. From his erstwhile point of view, of course, and existing in a tiny bubble, his life in Seminole was perhaps everything he ever wanted. I recall him telling me once that he regretted ever taking Ben or me on any trips at all because those trips put in our heads the desire to explore the “outer reaches”. He would’ve had to shield us from all media and literature, as well, however. But - naturally - there are people who do desire to remain in the shithole where they grew up or in another shithole that resembles the shithole where they grew up.

I’ll possibly be ill again once I’m back in Praha. I need rest. I’ve been awake for 21 hours. I miss Ivanečka. I miss Peiločja.

• Sleep
• Slumber
• Restfulness
• Inactivity that doesn’t involve sitting na letišti nebo v letadle.

Scratch my sticky brow / with maladroit pinkish paws / squinting stickily

My brain is clouded from lack of substantial sleep over the last two weeks - not just from the last 21 hours - so I am aware that making any decisions, and especially decisions of the variety that affect my immediate or even not too distant future in drastic ways is not advisable. However, the thought of moving to Munich at this moment seems both absurd and a little stupid, especially after being in Praha for less than a year. I know it is important to Ivanečka to be close to Luki during his initial stint at university (not everyone is like me - able to relocate and adapt within a few days to a wholly foreign environment), but uprooting myself again after all my careful considerations involving (finally) a semblance of stability feels almost physically painful. I’ll mention once again that my mind is a bit clouded by sleeplessness.

Over the endless epochs since my arrival on the planet, I have grown quite tired of a concept that many humans feel is somehow absolutely necessary. This concept is consistency.

Christian and I have talked over the years about a concept we call mental modules. Our mind is made of myriad modules that take turns as the protagonist in our consciousness. Some are more extroverted than others. Some are so introverted that they only carry out their meanderings backstage. But they all have influence on our so-called personality. I have mentioned the idea several times before, including here, tady and femole.

(here)
(tady)
(femole)

Given this idea, we consist of multitudinous selves that may or may not interact with one another. It sounds scrumptiously colloquially schizoid! My module with a touch of obsessive compulsive disorder is getting all sweaty as I type this, even if it is not the protago-module at the moment. The key is that the module that is mostly in the forefront should be able to keep competing (read - contradictory) modules at bay. One doesn’t want to never be able to make a clear decision, of course. Or, rather, I don’t want to never be able to make a clear decision. I can’t speak for all humans, all of which have within myriad modules swimming in their subconscious soup. Some may be just fine not being able to ever make a clear decision. But I find myself at least to an extent drawn towards the atrocious word I mentioned earlier: consistency.

The problem which really isn’t a problem because it is the way humans’ consciousness works is multiplicity and the impossibility of unity. I consider the “science” (I laughingly call it it a science) of psychology an abomination for the following reason: psychologists seek to draw forth from all the modules the, um, “true” module (read - true self) and consign all other modules to the pit. They do this with emotional manipulation and drugs. Hooray for them! The result is a person who perhaps fits into society like a lubed up amoeba into a stagnant pond, diluted and filed down, devoid of the tang and pointy edges that gave that person’s personality a unique character. Psychologists need to die. It’s the only solution.

Multiplicity is the natural state. This “demand” for unity of “self” is basically a type of social violence. The answer isn’t subduing the majority of modules out whilst letting one reign almighty, barely allowing the rest to get an idea across. Awareness and co-habitation are the way to go. A community of modules! A culture or society of modules, even! Right there swimming around in the soup of your personality. Imagine that! Imagine that.

I read somewhere recently that a good credo in life is Supress it, but don’t deny it. Note it. Name it. Laugh at it. Continue. In fact, I think some other version of myself actually wrote this credo in a slightly altered form. And, subsequently, it is a credo that I have mostly lived by since I was in my mid-teens. Well, perhaps I wanted to live by it in my mid-teens, but was unable to because my emotions ran rampant and flatulated upon any attempt to put the credo to practice. So, truthfully, what I did with said credo is that, initially, I walked at its side until it was sort of a familiar and I understood its ways enough to mimic them. It then became more of a constant companion, merging fleshily with my bodily presence so that its ways were more intimately my ways. When finally epochs had passed and its essence was itself my mind and I grew into decrepitude, I could finally say that I was the credo. Oh yes, on the way, there were setbacks, as with all credae. Sometimes our mental models refused to mesh. Sometimes our fleshy substrates violently rejected one another. But, at last I feel I am content sitting inside the same mind as the credo. May its benevolent spirit fester in me evermore.

The membrane

Better known as the bubble. It is the permeable, semi-permeable or impermeable tissue that separates communities from their outside. These bubbles are sometimes overlapping. They lurch to engulf and retract to expel. They can also be personal, or, rather, individual. They enclose certain communities of thoughts and ideas and accumulate like minded thoughts and ideas from their outside over time. Personal bubbles tend to be self-reinforcing.

The membrane implies enclosure and isolation. The degree of a membrane’s permeability defines its evolutionary form. Those that “breathe” normally flourish from their outside’s influence but simultaneously maintain an “identity”. Hyperventilating membranal communities (as I type this, I realize how fond I am of that juxtaposition of words) over time become diluted by their outside while their protějšek are locked in feedback loops of questionable health.

The cost for an individual to be a part of a membranal community (I know this is a redundency, but the juxtaposition of words is delicious) is different depending on where that individual is on the axis:

nonpermeable <----- semi-permeable ------> tattered

One must always point themselves towards certain courtesies, ranges of thought patterns, behaviors, formalities (or lack thereof), foodstuffs, posture, belief systems, hygiene and goat worshiping practices when part of a membranal community, to some extent or other, or perhaps to no extent at all. As the plumpest humorist of our time sometimes tells me: There are RULES, vole.

The archive

Record keeping! Imagine that! Christian told me once, epochs prior to this moment that I sit on this couch scribing these words, around 2006 or so, that the only reason he owned the small, cheap, greasy digital camera that he held perpetually in his grubby paw was because he needed something to record the sequence of moments we were living through because otherwise he’d forget. The fact that we were sucking down cubic meters of beer every evening that wiped myriad details from our collective memory probably justified the camera, as well.

I wonder if he still has it. I suppose I could ask!

I’m not sure if I ever directly told him that it was something I could relate to deeply. Perhaps at that point he knew about my quotebook and about the extensive writing I did myself - an analogue to his camera. If I didn’t back then, I should have told him, yes, directly. In those dark days of Polo and evenings of jellied, pliable atmosphere sometimes chances to be earnest were skipped over.

In fact, that is what The Archive is, and, I should add, I’ve been reading through The Archive extensively during the last few days. It consists of the Martenblog. It consists of many other journal-like writings that have not been “published” on the internet. There are also reams of poems - far more than I have displayed on flavigula.net. I have emails and chat logs with people dating back to 1992, and not just of casual hey, let’s meet at Zarape’s and plan the deboning of the latest herd of goat-children sort of communications. Extended conversations about living deeply both intellectually and emotionally and ethical concerns of doing or not doing one, the other, both or neither are contained therein.

(flavigula.net)

The Archive is an enlightening place to hang out and a portion of the last days during which I was, as I said, perusing the whole mostly unorganized heap of writing, I was considering an important question:

What shall I do with The Archive?

I think that the act itself of “faithful” (I laughingly call it faithful) record keeping is a form of ethical seriousness concerning the value of individual and collective existence. This may seem like an evident “truth”, but to do so as an individual about a single life that has been patterned by every interaction with another being that single life has encountered is not a small “feat”. It is momentous.

Displacement

I’ve tagged more martenblog posts than you or your stumpy uncle can shake an obelisk at with the word displacement than with any other term. It’s a concept that has both haunted and intrigued me since my early teens. There were a certain few turning points in those early adolescent years that gave me the impression and then convinced me completely that the mental or physical act of being unloosed from a fixed point (again, mentally or physically) that one could refer to as home base is preferable to the contrary. I’ll probably go into some of these turning points in the future, or I may already have done so to an extent. Who knows? Certainly not me, the writer of this filthy hadr.

Another way to look at this concept that I apparently hold so sacred is that what I call displacement is the state of permanent non-arrival. Yes, permanent. It is not a temporary condition at all. It is not a transition between two points of “stability”. It’s a perpetual cognitive, existential state that creates a distinct form of perception.

What kind of perception?, you ask.

Well, the kind of perception that I have, of course!

Can you please describe this so-called “distinct” perception?

No! I shall not! I’ve already elaborated multitudinous times. You are, at this moment, reading the collection of documents that contains these elaborations. Were I to choose a specific blog post, however, this blog post would be a good start, especially the arrow / blunt object contrast.

(this blog post)