Nowhere Fast

A Repository of Wasted Knowledge

A Step Up

A desk in the living room (or nearby it, a carpeted area off the entrance and a step down from the kitchen, my mother’s desk and half the living room furniture) is a step up, but Alone really is the best place.  I spent too much time distracting myself from myself, bitching and moaning anxiously about other people and other things when called upon to write or explain myself.

Realizing my own incapacity and failure when I am in places that affect me so has always been my undoing.  I have never understood the ability to “take it” and too often sink into it, becoming acutely conscious of it but distracting myself to pretend that I am not affected or becoming increasingly unable to keep up whatever appearances.

On the other hand, it is this inability that has driven me to strive towards creating my own experiences, or opening to things which are at the core liberating and pleasurable.  I have known myself in ways, Ways that, upon their discovery, I know.  I know regardless of what I present and describe and defend.  And I want to defend them, and keep them forever, but primarily Need them selfishly to continue to live happily.  Defending myself is altogether draining, explaining and showing constantly.  I would rather be alone, and happy, and feeling, but how could I possibly be alone?

What I am lacking is a place that is open.  The open atrocities of Pittsburgh were a change, the death and mortal peril, an enlightenment of sorts and another scene for sure, but those fears and feelings were perhaps less trying than the closed doors and quiet castes of the suburbs are.  People were wary and mean and resistant there, but here they maintain such a close guard on themselves that I find it impossible to penetrate or extremely undesirable.  And become more violent, in ways!  I am angry if I am watched and not accosted, judged and only secretly punished.  I fulfill all of the failures of myself, and act as I am judged, belligerently.  In Pittsburgh this was somewhat advantageous; this sort of self-expression was far less uncommon and occurred in frequent and sometimes in violent and alarming ways.  Here, though, people strive to be normal and appear as they should so furiously that they lose all meaning and never know themselves.  And, in their interactions with others, project their ideas of normal onto them.

Bitching and moaning.  Should I envy the people who can resist it by ignoring?  They are not called to stare into the abyss, are they more successful?  I don’t, generally I scorn them.  Called to run away to it, agonizing over the present standstill – spell of boredom, anxiety, unhappiness – and planning my escape.  I have been stuck in a place, lately, and need better plans!  Immediate future plans have been waylaid by a spell of short-term bad luck, and I am being urged to make long-term plans based upon this inability to escape to a better place.  Long-term success, by what means?  If I am so cold and grossly unhappy and stuck in one place?  I’m not dead yet, I have to keep moving.


still can’t get over (postmodern return)

writing for an audience what audience and how does it alter my text my speech my actions my body.  writing for a new audience, a selective audience, a single person, a global audience what.  reading text and processing, feedback and response, comments, views, press, feedback. processing thinking letting go or holding back thoughts engagement feelings.  every time I emote or act consciously or unconsciously I am subject to the feedback of others and it affects me, affects how I am permitted or encouraged or prevented or restricted in my actions and my emotions.  Oh, too much!  I tell myself all the time to let it go, but it is easier said than done.  I have found the most solace in some sort of journey (sometimes stalled out) into my own third eye, through which I have found the most freedom and meaning.

Boredom Is Not An Excuse

I need an altered state of mind. Basement dwelling is getting tiresome, trying sell my way out of here with useless crap on the internet. Sold: 1 Sally Hansen Facial Waxing Kit, 4.95. Pending sale: 1 Power Sentry Wallplate Surge Protector 4-Pack, 19.95. Soon I’ll be rich, soon we’ll all be rich!  Our glorious return to the high life.

Fight club Lisle / Domestic disturbance

Violent mommy replay of a dyke fight I picked with my roommate just a couple of months ago. Drunk drawing in the kitchen at midnight, I got told for waking my mother with my smoker coughing. “Leave me the fuck alone” was a request that was not to be honored, and she sat there stroking her thighs and asking why was I destroying myself.  I was never one to concede my own failure so easily, so an escalation of “leave me the fuck alone” was my only.  And then trying to leave the situation myself, but being followed.  There is nowhere I can be in this house where she cannot follow me.  As a kid I used to have a nightmare: I was running away from a woman who had taken care of me, every time I turned around she was frozen behind me and I was defensive and terrified.  Then I was cornered at the entrance to the basement kicking a table screaming “leave me alone” grabbed around the neck I lash out punching and she runs away to call the police on me.  In the end, no one wins, as always.  This fight will never be resolved, no matter how many self-help books pills binge cleanings therapists.  Get far away and let it go.  I go to bed jacked up, high on fighting is almost as good as the real thing.  We pretend the next day that it didn’t happen and everything is just as nice as always.

Feed Off Me

And In The End

I saw a sister of some disorder preaching God to the commute
We are all just trying / to get to work
sit down / and stop being disruptive
She was dying, she said.
We could pray for you / but you need to sit down
nobody wants to hear that
She was dying, she said, but she was not dying anymore.
One more / crazy bitch
Call me crazy and I’ll call the police
She got off cursing and the rest of us went downtown.

Wednesday Night PBRX6

Heard metal  Ate tongue.

Maximum groove & minimum gore / ‘No slam dancing’ posted at the door / FUCK FINE I forgot to wear a bra anyways.


Regaled at length with the heartfelt joys of busting shoplifters of <insert corporate retail chain here>.  Skinny leering blond acquaintance, high school depressive, wants to be a cop now.  Smokes cigars, walks with a swagger, lives at the far edge of the city.  Wants to become a decent policeman, not an asshole, he says.  I’d rather an asshole and no police, thank you kindly, and as much indecency as I can afford.

Living in My Mother’s House / No One Shits in the Suburbs

Do not play too hard or too openly.  Do not express too loudly what goes on inside your body and your mind.  Do not speak about  sex  death  pain  your drug experiences  anger  passion  these things are not nice.    

These are the restraints and the bondage of this particular place, this particular love.  Easier, maybe, than the killer tensions of the place I ran away from, than bracing myself against the steel reality and heartbreak pains of a city consumed by the free fall of its own shit.  Staying or leaving, did I retreat from my own?  Good news is I’m still not buying contrived crap.  I’m broke after all, and still broken open sometimes.