more random curds

this is the ideology of beginnings. to make everything compact and cool and be prepared... bullshit.

in the fray... it becomes a matter of expedience... and you start focusing on little goals to get you a breather, a breathing space... a moment alone to nurse your tired little desires, to pretend that a part of you is still alive beneath all of the daily routines... and the struggle to prove that you can live up to all the promises you had in the beginning... the struggle to be a stereotype... and the struggle to shirk the stereotype all at the same time... and how no one sees this, and they only see you as being silly on the one hand, or irresistably boring on the other... no one sees people as people... feeling beings.

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people will not mourn when you pass, and then they will give passing curiosity to your words, words you wrote while alive, but only when you are dead and safely gone will they read them, because you suddenly become like the oldies station, and all your scandals are cutesy, because you can no longer stalk their living daughters... it’s funny, it’s silly, really. people are constantly trying to scream their being into the universe. and by the time we hear them, the sound is all muted, and all we see of their supernova is a star which we might happen to notice if we had our telescopic lenses focused on our obscure corner of the universe... mute mute mute...

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and the centipede that was so angry at being caught in a jar, and oscillating threateningly all the way up to the lip of the jar, trying to find a handhold to bite me... so angry. so frightening even in the jar... and how i could feel all of those needle like legs tapping hammering into the glass... vibrations of a life i could never understand, and would ultimately destroy in disgust... unrelating to the unsympathetic to its struggle. it’s you or me...

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and thinking of creating craters in the mud... trying to get mud to be the right consistency, to match the pictures in the book. i wanted to experience book adventures, i wanted to live a life that was defined by clean cut boys from the 50’s when everything seemed contained, and right, and explainable... and how you could sit and watch sci fi movies that only pretended to be scary, and were actually a joy to watch, with special effects that almost made you laugh... and nights where you could dance with people to the monster mash... that kind of funny. i wanted that... even ghost stories from that age, with pictures in black and white. with pictures that didn’t look out at you, and want to eat you up, and disembowel you... i was trying to conquer ghosts, by making them ancient and 2 dimensional... no horror in my life... no surprises please... i will master fear by looking at old fears... and how they were done away with... they were written about... they were drawn up. and quartered...

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and thinking of sad one million dollar mansions from the last few decades, and how having a house decked out in all the latest accoutrements will only succeed in being an investment in poor taste eventually... the dim lights... the soft 60’s music blaring over the outdated honky speakers... the light as seen through stained glass...