I am slowly learning to disregard the insatiable desire to be special. I think it began, the soft piano ballad of epiphanic freedom that danced in my head, when you mentioned that “Van Gogh was her thing” while I stood there in my overall dress, admiring his sunflowers at the art museum. And then again on South Street, while we thumbed through old records and I picked up Morrissey and you mentioned her name like it was stuck in your teeth. Each time, I felt a paintbrush on my cheeks, covering my skin in grey and fading me into a quiet, concealed background that hummed “everything you’ve ever loved has been loved before, and everything you are has already been,” on an endless loop. It echoed in your wrists that I stared at, walking (home) in the middle of the street, and I felt like a ghost moving forward in an eternal line, waiting to haunt anyone who thought I was worth it. But no one keeps my name folded in their wallet. Only girls who are able to carve their names into paintings and vinyl live in pockets and dust bunnies and bathroom mirrors. And so be it, that I am grey and humming in the background. I am forgotten Sundays and chipped fingernail polish and borrowed sheets. I’m the song you’ll get stuck in your head, but it will remind you of someone else. I am 2 in the afternoon, I am the last day of winter, I am a face on the sidewalk that won’t show up in your dreams. And I am everywhere, and I am nothing at all.
—  m.k. Kathleen

Richard Armitage as Epiphanes in Cleopatra 1999

Disclaimer: I own nothing. This video has been made only for entertainment.

Sorry for the subtitles but I have only two options: really bad quality movie and no subtitles or a rather good quality and subtitles… I choose to see a little better Richard’s amazing face ^^

I have trouble with self-confidence. Every time I try to talk to a girl, in hopes of rolling a conversation with her, I usually fail. I feel that I become inexistent to her if I couldn’t sell myself within 2 minutes of speaking. This is why I am in a constant battle of “I’m an engineer, I don’t need a girlfriend,” and “I could probably get a girlfriend if I try.” I always look for a reason to justify for why I’m single. I need an epiphanic moment to give me solutions to my problems. That or I need advice from people.

on death, on piss

Contained herein: oh you know, just a musty corner a swift cleave of a chisel nicked-off of a freshly excavated block of Abraham’s holy cryogenic fossilized piss; light as a film of wax and canary yellow it floats, a flake fabled to have been described at a parent-teacher conference as being ‘a quaint little flittering chip of a cud being chewed’, by its homeroom teacher, ‘a rumination supervised by a muse with a punch’, by the vice principal whose perspective will be discarded due to the difficulty of discerning between his enthusiasm and his sarcasm, and ‘a primordially epiphanic froth overbrimming with some real chutzpah but in need of a good salting paired with regular appointments with a pH-strip’ scribbled by a substitute teacher whose competence has been in question as of late so it would be prudent until further notice to disregard her evaluation as blabber; and thus after critical examination of the above sentiments as well as many others, carried out by a troop of umpires specializing in excellence and refinement the fruit finally derived consisted of (however reliant it may have been on a ‘bent-rules skirmish’—as it’s considered officially—which resulted in a kidnapped child yet to be returned and a double compound-fracture of the knees of a mother of one of the members of the board - evidence of links between the crimes and the squabble are, granted, lacking) an anticlimactic ‘Hmmm…’ and that was, well, that… until… in swooped good fortune - incarnated allegedly as a fellatious prod delivered with authentic enough affection by a minion of the gazette in a handicap stall after the press-conference - but alas, rekindling the dismay felt pre-‘suck of the sacrificial cock’, as was so eloquently bestowed on the act by a local humorist, what was further divulged was nothing more than an elaborate paraphrasing of what was already known, rendering vain the one taken for the team, the valiant slurp&gulp&gulp&gulp&burp of the martyr (who here will remain anonymous) - a bitterness lingering in his mouth and down his throat, and now, his glory ripped away, nothing to show for it except for the empty sham of a clarification handed over by the swindler who got his doorknob polished: “The little piss shaving has gotten mixed reviews, okay? The only possible alternative to settling on neutrality is selecting a side by means of a coinflip, or maybe slightly less arbitrary, a rock-paper-scissors match - HA! by the way, those lips of yours make for some sensual embroidery oo-ee! around that cock-pocket you call a mouth, sucker! And just for that I guess I’ll add: if you go with the latter strategy I suggest the safest bet is to stick with the standard of best two out of three!”

Bullied and taunted throughout its schooling experience nearly exclusively by the put-down “peepee-peel” the poor little piss developed an infection of its dignity which petered out with the panicky haste of a stinging bladder’s sloshy contents after being consciously pinched for three hours in order to avoid missing any key plot points in a flick set near Niagra Falls, already seen by a date that therefore had no qualms with retrieving multiple refills of coke on your behalf. The sad little tinkle didn’t grow up to be robust enough of a specimen to trickle into the natural flow that the rest of the Urination seemed to achieve so effortlessly. The stinky little splinter was passive, never pissed; all the other squirts seemed to be so full of piss and vinegar compared to him. There was a blockage, a gallstone that refused to be expelled. He longed to cut through toilet water like a solid, to patter against the porcelain beneath, to produce a foam so rich, so dense, it would fill dishsoap detergent with envy and awe. To join the ranks of the discharge elite was his dream: to become a legendary pee, the thought of it made him perspire—his sweat turning cold upon pondering his deficiency, his inability to reach the heights. He felt he wasn’t even worthy of being called pee, even by the splatters of carcasses sprinkled on the bathroom floor that had ricocheted off the seat and dried and hadn’t even made it into the bowl, those worthless flecks. What kept him from seeking a hot environment and intentionally evaporating himself was his self-perception that he’s totally misunderstood boohoo but he knew the truth, and that that wasn’t it - that it was only a lie that soothed.

One critic spat the rather barbed remark: that “‘unfiddled with’ it [the chipped block of piss] really, really should’ve stayed” and in truth, among all other moans bitched about the piss in question, that one cut the deepest; from then on a melancholic aura followed his downward spiral toward the ground; he cursed the chisel and the callous hand that clutched it - the hand of his father; what could impel one to commit such a heinous act, he couldn’t not wonder - chained was he, possessed by an obsession to grope, to grope, to grope - to snatch, plopping into the basket anything that isn’t nothing, anything, anything; plunging both arms to the shoulder through thorns, and batting and batting: a basketful of answers so packed some tumble out and are left without a look back. But it’s night. Eager at dawn, an inspection. Each answer all the way to the bottom, a rationalization bug-eaten or rotten, poisonous and sour. Back to the bushes: Only a cruel, deranged sculptor tricked by wickedness would so carelessly sever an innocent flake of piss from his home; was it anticipated, the suffering that was unleashed? was it carried out with conscience intact, with deliberation, a smirk - in another’s torment can one bask? can such closure be obtained, and if not, will it accord with the truth and cease to be sought? mercilessly plucked from the One and flung asunder forlorn—and for what? just to be thrown? no, that couldn’t be, for to be thrown entails being caught. and to be caught entails being thrown again. is all this tension, all this apathy this dread this coercive concern that never rests, is it but the playing of catch? what is a goal when all there is is pole to pole to pole to pole? is this holy, this to and fro? is there a gift that’s somehow missed amidst this to to to from to to fro?

O marvelous obelisk of piss how I pine so zealously to reunite with thee! Forgive me for the grievances aired by my core O beatific shaft of crystallized piss: the plan that you have for me so graciously engraven shalt not be transgressed a drop, an inch—I know this to be a certainy in my heart of hearts, I do, but the biting doubts fail to abate - O sweet secretion of the kidneys, your immaculancy is my sole aspiration, O golden beam of noble pee, the sacred code that you have so bounteously piddled transcends the faculties of my little pee-brain; To fathom your nature is an infinite task that I dedicate my ephemeral life to feebly undertake—mournful and tumultuous is this journey that I have endured, and so far all I have surmised is that at least one of your constituents is asparagus or very asparagus-like—and if I have imposed on your greatness by positing thus - this blooper of an egoic hunch that it in all likelihood is - I brace myself to face your wrath, for if it is such it is warranted by virtue of that alone: may eternal damnation befall me for I and I alone have wholly earned it.

and maybe it’s true but it’s too late it’s a former stone unturned, a monster shaggy with moss untamed & rabid, bitter that its destiny to stream from a peehole through a urethra in a cultivated arc scheduled to rendezvous with a toilet’s water—on impact splashing, continuing delicately in a burble of white noise harmonious - a muffled waterfall’s roar, tailed not by mist but by a grunt and a genital flex felt snip snip pushed shook then flushed like God intended

a misguided case of the measels type of a missle diagnosed impotent but fired nonethless and what do you know it was futile it clicked but didn’t pewww its tip just slid out like constipated stool without a cause a dud a quack: woo-hoo oh yeah whuh-hoa propped-up halfhearted a brauny facade was all it was ba-bam spin-n-fizzle point-blank in the face in the right in the kisser schl-APP nope, none of that happened and anyone hapless enough to happen upon its all-bark bawk no-bite bawking buhks not a walk-the-walk stepped the whole gotdamn—what a gotdayum—all-for-show talk-the-talk all-for-tell smoke and mirror show; as a nail’s screechy scuff eeeeek on a chalkboard splinter’d-off skittery across tile, stepped on before coming to a rest; uncircumcised on-purpose, just gibberish. It’s just gibberish. It’s wanna-be jagged. It’s exaggeratedly jarring specifically low-brow bred to incite a reaction - any perceived insight is a masquerade a fiction and in fact if transpire does said whif you can buhlee dat in dis kool-aid suttin nefarious was slipped - the flavor was whipped up by a jester all-the-way dead-inside long-gone demonic like Mr. Hyde the exception being it’s hopeless&full of wish thinking it’s just a disguise that can be exorcised there’s something amiss if it is destitute transcribed icky icky poo oodles of the ostentatious boogie-woogie-oogie no-loogie all-spittle off-putting PUDDINHEADEDLY unprofound burnt-out unfounded quills of humility aglimmer—but wait—poison-tipped so don’t poke ‘em they’re pretty but they’re a little on the too-hard side like unjiggly goodies made of silicone, innocuously nippled with a dull crayola penciled-in sickening freckled with zits ripe for the poppin’ but kept au natural for any feel intended to a-cop fuck agape let’s get real and prick all that’s swollen and let it run involving fewer backspaces than could be counted on a peace-sign&pinky maim firecracker’d-off blush of a hand bound seamless without a glint by cells and Elmer’s glue and two months’ rent to a bipedal log of dog shit stooped over to recover her toupee but caught in flouderin’ you see it’s just a drug-induced trance, patently. Truce?

What is known as “is” and what is known as “it” is a game of billiards between I. Whim and B. Listlessness, both of whom mistake each other spot-on sure as the rising sun consistently for whoever they believe themselves to be in any given circumstance, despite the name-tags sewn on their trousers and dress, respectively. Such personalities, it goes without saying, are not conducive to your garden-variety interpersonal dialogue, and therefore if there bloomed an incredulity in your bosom sharp and visceral upon hearing this it is understandable, my child, as, the notion of eccentrics of the calibre thus described—assuming their names have any bearing on their characters—going toe to toe is stupid and fantastical at best. But if you so choose to endure your doubt, a caveat will be added and that is that they are, to a biologically-unincestuous Siamese-twinesque extent, spouses (pockmark polka-dotted by a plethora of cheek-pecks noted to be ‘the wettest of the wet’ presumably enviably by Time Magazine’s widow critic slash rap master flexaloflix The Wecked Witch of the Wist) eh-heh eh-hem, excuse me: where was I?—spow… spool, no, the… spontaneity? of Blind’s gesticulation? Oh, spouses, yes, Indecisive and Blind are spouses, come to find out, ceremony in all—rumor has it it was held somewhere esoteric down-south, ya’ll—though there is an infamous lack of footage—and so scholars, cuckoo for empirical proof as they are, prefer to refer to the relationship—note that this is pending: found was a telling lacey shawl—as ‘just friends’, albeit, ‘just’ in the sense that they consider each other each other, according, anyway, to a whisky-induced interview, uncited, with a digsite being the source and an escavater of a palaeontological bent being the gold star sticker on the teacher’s chart recipient of the Holy Grail award ten years running and anticipated to keep going and going, despite the pursed-lip carven scowl of that prominent scientist (whose name will be omitted here for Illuminati-linked past assassination-attempt reasons) deeming the unearthed tape recorder artifact a dire blunder, sheer depravity, and a curse, all during the same luncheon.

This isn’t the conundrum that it may appear to be upon first-glance - in fact, if I’m accurate in assuming that it can be wrung out atall, what is paradoxical is that such an unambiguous fact can be believed to be a paradox from even the most backwards vantage point of a blind-folded genetic gimpy son-of-a-bitch blooper mishap of a miscarriage of a cross-eyed post-quadrupedal Neanderthal buffoon’s puss-oozing wound confirmed by a geographer to roughly resemble the shape of Florida if also counted is a quarter of Georgia.

There is no such thing as a deviation unless there is such thing as a script, and there isn’t, and to subscribe to a train of thought that so much as implicitly hints at what is manifestly the result of a stressed-out primitive twit’s pitiful throes to stick out amidst a tribe that tacitly acknowledged his or her output to be equivalent to a yellowed jar of charred belly-button lint is a knuckle-dragger of a too-similar stature who was born with and who will die in a liquidy-shit-pants’d wince cluthing to his or her breast whatever’s left of his or her dignity ensnared in his or her left hand’s grip

(which apparently shattered to dust while being unhinged by a blood-rusted crow-bar of a rags-to-rags grave-robber looking for a way out or at least his next meal or even a fix [the crumbling of the corpse’s fist triggered a guffaw from the bum’s rancid yap and due to his lack thereof of self-esteem incurred by the ever-since-he-can-remember parentlessness that preoccupies his thoughts—literally dusk till dawn—from the early morn uninterruptedly onward, through noon, to 1 to 2 to 3 to 4 to 5 to 6 to 7 to 8 to 9 to 10 and right about then drowsiness’s reliable assistance in escaping through sleep sets in and the recurrent nightmares which, if it weren’t for the fact that they, just prior to his day’s bleary initial blinks, in their entirety were forgotten or unwittingly revised {allll except for one he can’t seem to shake that involves a troubling identification with bile}, facilitate a sturdy-enough denial that in a nutshell ends up as a salvage via a solace artifically-contrived {a fissured-crescent of beautified doodoo, spawned by and large by a hefty serving of a self-deceptive self-help salve, to be construed as a turnip: a fruit-of-the-ground so fresh ‘tis still pepper-shakenly dusty with dried garden soil afterbirth ‘twas once goo and so bulbous, so juicy—but not too—it’s judged ‘squishy’ by a quivery dead-crow’s claw of an arthritic hand attached to a C-sectioned premature infant still new, snowing puke-green skinflakes due to congenital gangrene to boot}, delegated to God, whose vapid audacity was, as a grief-stricken hiss, insinuated by a reclusive-loneliness-induced schizophrenic split which incited in the ground of His Being to curl-up akin to a fallen leaf into a nihilistic ball self-smited—along with the development of a cutting problem he’s still wont to overcome despite His self-proclaimed designation of himself as a “new man” several centuries ago—which entropically a la Allah’s own Laws, like glass crushed and ground brashly by a steel-toe boot into a punchingbag which is actually just a cylindrical diamond dangling from a wire, diced & minced by a knife fashioned by scotch-tape and three Quarks until aboard the cutting board there was not even dust. But like a bottled genie He rocked and rocked and rocked, and legend has it that that big pruny thumb of His, that with reverent dedication He had for so long been confessedly caressingly suckle suckly suckling—was paranormally lopped-off, and so, expecting it to be the typical spit, he swallowed, and choked and choked; His face bloated a-purple he writhed praying to inhale even a thimble of air, and abruptly as if quelled by a fake magic fit to be damned, the thumb-bone inhibiting His breath shifted from its horizontal dam, and, condensing a mighty ball of spit in His throat, He gulped, and the thorn of a thumb went down (as a thumbs-up allege mythical x-rays of yore!). His feathers unruffling, His fluster fading to a thing of the past, He shook His head and sighed, pondering whether He survived out of chance or by virtue of His prayer for a thimble of air. Eyes squinted, rapt, He raspily blew with nonchalance a clump of beard that in His desperation He had torn out. The wind in whirligigs led it by its skin glob hands perched still wet atop the ends of each folicle, the wires now bereft of God’s warmth and sure chin swirled away, returning like dust from whence they were divulged, where they in truth never left, and after the threadesque silhouettes danced away into specks, mistily dissipating at last, God, albeit dorkily reminiscent of a Santa splotched & patchy post-chemotherapy - sloppily-clad in castaway fashion, an unfigurative cannibal with a trace of purple hue still coloring his cheeks, made a wish.

West of the Avenida Caracas

West of the Avenida Caracas

Recently I had the good fortune of interviewing someone for my weekly radio show who was bold enough to write the statement on her blog page about the stark reality that most websites: “sugarcoat life in Colombia and, from young traveller’s perspectives, it can seem like 24/7 sun, salsa, parties and attractive women.”Reading this phrase was as good as an epiphanic moment and it was no more…

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Outskirts 3

And on the fourth day of an undeterred sense of centralized inner contentment, I opened A Princeton Review account, signed up for two free practice tests (GRE & LSAT) and sketched out the next, and necessarily most progressive year of my life so far.

It’s in pencil at best, but the trajectory is as firmly in place for me as it’s been since the winter I got into college.* I really feel like I’m taking all the loose pieces of experience, interest, ability and feasibility I’ve compiled (get it?) over the last six years and constructing something rather than merely choosing, picking up, dropping, choosing again, dropping, and then rushing in an existential panic to hoist and tout the first piece for a second (or third) time.

To ride the construction metaphor a little further, once this structural trajectory is set, the other things I want in life, the love, the friendships, the location, the disparate pursuits, will find their niches; the decorations that give the foundation a more nuanced purpose than merely survival and basic personal comfort.

Maybe this is just what feeling driven and self-assured is like. I could’ve been doing this for years! 

Well, not literally.

This whole epiphanic macro-calm started Thursday afternoon after a pretty horrific, crisis-ridden few hours. I was stuck on the 101-South, regretting brief, objectively inconsequential relationships from college and feeling the brunt of every dubious call I’ve ever made (literal and figurative). I had just printed out 10 resumes at a FedEx and aimlessly wandered around Amoeba for ten minutes. Traffic wasn’t making things worse exactly, but I couldn’t listen to anything without switching every few seconds and the world inside my head was very much out to get me.

Then I got home. And I thought of a stanza. And I wrote that down. Then fleshed it out. Then decided to record it live, just one track. Then, on the same track, I chopped out a new version of an song I’d done in Oakland. And once that was all uploaded to whomever the 15 Unbearably Sad Soundcloud followers are, the sunset was pressing up against my curtain, the room was a perfect warm dry dark, and I didn’t regret a thing. Everything was focused. 

The right place at the right time generally seems a bit out of reach to me. But, for the second time I can remember, I really felt (feel) like I was in it. I couldn’t have had this unique moment of floating, relax clarity without the last two years of upheaval, uncertainty, and shaken sense of self and place. Go back a little further and maybe it could’ve been avoided, but for the sake of this supposed personal progression, let’s leave the true beginning rooted in the winter of 2013.

*And maybe at some point during, but that was such a volatile blur of social and personal airings that no one could ever really claim I had any sort of longterm goal beyond graduating, and even that, for the ingrained inevitability of that achievement alone, it’s a stretch