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19 August 2018

Spyro the Spirals, till Sunday

by Andrew

The spiral-like movement, I still can't bring myself to read these css, html, and JavaScript books, as childish and simple as they are, even. They sit on the floor, staring at me, reminding me. Which had me feeling anxious. No more! And I stare back at them, now, with a smirk. "I am the master here."

Saw a tweet by Mircea, that if you must force yourself, then you probably shouldn't be doing it. Touché. And all I feel now is an urge to write, an old familiar friend, comfortable and relaxed in its presence. The desire to continue my coding pursuits will return, I know. But I must let it. Bits and pieces perhaps till then, drip, drip, drip...fuck! That damn sink in Oregon, for like 4 months, the pipe busted in the cold. It was like negative 4 degrees Celsius, nothing, and it's there, hidden in the lease you sign,—they must make you aware however—that you're liable if you let the pipes freeze and burst, you should be running the water otherwise. So, I left that busted pipe just how it was, did the dishes still, a bowl underneath to collect the water, and poured it down the shower drain. Then I dipped-out on the lease,—and had even re-signed for another year, after the current expired not for another 3 months—because it's there in the lease too, that early termination is only a month-and-a-half of rent—so, times 2, then, for me, the 2 leases—and they had $100 less of that from me already, the security deposit I had to pay, and I left for Europe. Try to catch me for that $100 if you can, you fuckers. Which some of that security deposit they had to use to fix that pipe too—their own hourly maintenance people, though, than the plumber I'd have had to pay, or the tools I'd have had to buy, in order to do it myself, which I had under control anyway, the bowl and the shower drain thing.

The only people who like Oregon are those who were born there, who never left, and those who've just arrived, perhaps. Else that place will shun you and try to take you for all you're worth, an outsider. So liberal they pretend to be, yet completely hostile to outsiders—from Portland to Eugene, I've stories.

Still regret not walking down the coast while I was there, though. Or down the I-5 into California, camping as I go at my leisure. Before it's washed away. But I'll get there, I know. I feel it. Let me just cover my tiny lifestyle here,—my cost-of-living per month is almost embarrassingly low—then stash only a bit more. The site will be configurable by phone alone by that time—even faster than I expect, it seems to appear. Walk down to San Francisco, then take the train back home. The train there to Portland. Then down to Eugene, a few days there perhaps, kicking round the remnants of my crumbled life there. Back again, like everywhere I been, the spiral-like movements. Some scratch in my pockets this time. And now, a big bag of weed, thank y'. A place of my own to always return, safe in the middle of the country. Or, safer at least. The winds and tornadoes, and the electric storms here. But that sea is much more powerful. And she likes me. Would take me for her own if she can. It's Zeus who's god of the bolts. Throw them at me as he please, I have the aegis too.

Was feeling off earlier, all day. Had a "nap" at about 20:00. Slept till midnight. Which I needed I think. Feeling much better now. I was so depressed and sad of a sudden, even here, happy, eventhough alone, it was that loneliness exactly that was heavy, if not creating, which you can only do so much. And I ate too, filled the belly finally. Funny, and then I slept, like a big baby. But, like I said, I needed it, I think. I feel much, much better, though still taste those sour fumes a touch, their after-taste, that noxious melancholy. But they'll dissipate as they come, suddenly. Which I recognize it now, don't fight it, the melancholy, let it run its course, and let it fade gently back away. Though was able to stay it for like 5 months before, from winter till just about a month before I left for here. And then for about 2 or 3 weeks it came, it wouldn't leave. Was, however, impatient, because I was so unused to it again, foolishly believing I might have conquered it completely, perhaps. And then here it was again, the old friend, so recently returned. But writing helps. I woke from that nap with new eyes, more serious. And so, my heart feels lighter because, too. Good nature, you must just release the venom sometimes, you're draining the reservoir.

And it was that exactly. The nasty tone of my tweets I noticed. When of late they've been so...I don't know...happy maybe, or brighter and more cheery. For whatever reason, I'd decided I needed to spit some venom,—because I was feeling so lonely, perhaps—not pre-conceived, just freely letting myself go, like I've been doing lately, my tweets, just waking and unloading the mind, or else inspired some other time, doing the same. And I felt bad because of it, like guilty. You just can't please everyone, and your stupidity is clear, is embarrassing. Like cracking the shell, your good nature. But, to do harm does harm, to yourself, most importantly. And I know, but still. And it was that that had me down, I think. Or else that was just along it, a symptom.

More water! I haven't been drinking so much, and the beers too, they dehydrate you further, I always seem to forget, and must willfully remind myself. Water is life. Though I can't even wax-poetically about it, no crazy mystical beliefs come immediately to mind, no obscure thoughts. Water is just water. And water is life. Hearing the waves crash on the beach, and the seaguls above, it will re-program your mind, get it spinning again more naturally. Like the cicadas and crickets at night. Like the cars passing down the street all day, Jim Morrison, the nut case, he was right, I hear them now like slow, steady waves. All day, all day. Zoom, zoom. Need to get a glass pitcher somewhere too, to remind myself, putting it into writing, making it manifest. So I can boil water. When I go back up by the mall.

***

I slept again, round the sunrise, I heard the first birds begin to chirp before I was out. Only about 3 hours, till about 8:00. Now, that was a wild dream! I can't even explain. At the cousin's job, like some mega warehouse complex hotel, he's the 2nd in charge, his boss. And everyone is there, friends, family. And we try to kill the boss. He was evil. Or else he was going to kill us. Now we must escape this labyrinth. I let everyone else go before me, realizing now, writing. I had no fear anyway. I'd helped try to destroy this boss too,—he was only injured temporarily, we found out, the panic to escape his vengeance when he'd recover—but I felt like we wronged the guy completely, eventhough it was true, he did appear evil. Anyway, most escape now. Some don't. I catch-up to the laggards finally. And the boss is recovered. He invites us to stay, has a party, is weak from the ordeal, recovering still. It's a trap. He'll let us leave afterwards, he has assassins waiting outside the door, I catch wind. A bit scared, we exit. All is well. We catch-up to the rest—or, wait...I let everyone go ahead of me, but I still escaped first, I was looking for transportation out of the complex, or whatever it was, like a massive industrial park in the middle of nowhere, like that concrete slab of a theme park, or whatever it was, in France, a little plot of hell, a vast parking lot of nothing nestled in the middle of nowhere, among the country. Then I went back inside to push along the laggards, or whoever, when I found them. Who were impressed by this guy's hospitality, who we'd just tried to kill. He was actually thankful, it'd given him strength, in the end, a bolt knocked loose, no doubt, at least. He did indeed have assassins waiting. But he must have changed his mind, talking with us at the party he'd invited us—kind of forced us. Don't remember me being particulary persuasive, or anything at all, trying to seduce him to compassion, to let us leave. But had zero fear, whatever would happen, just let it play-out—till actually did have to walk through the door of assassins.

So, we escape, into the vast parking lot of nothing. And there're the others huddled in the trees, waiting with doubt now for the laggards, still pondering how to escape. My cousin at the helm. I say that there's a transport coming round, like a bus, I'd already talked to the driver. Trucker talk, you know. And then it comes out. Cousin knew his boss would try to kill us. Invited us anyway. To persuade us, on the contrary, to kill the boss instead. "What, how can you even be mad at that?" he was completely remorseless. The cousin is the evil one! We all leave him there to his evil plans—though think he might have wanted to stay anyway, to continue playing his power games. Transport to a train station, take train to a new reality, far, far away. Colorado, but like a distant shore and huge crag of rock, a cliff into the sea, we're at the harbor, like in the future everything is. Train must have traveled underwater, else changed into a boat or something. "Well, Andrew," they all look at me, "what do we do now?" What? "This is your family now. You're in charge." Crazy dream. I wake sweating, but had the sleeping bag covering me, and it's hot in here anyway.

Then I tried to tweet. And I just feel so silly anymore, I have no idea. No idea what angle to take, I suppose I can describe it. It all feels so futile. Twitter is not even so serious, it's just like a game, lots of chirping heads and no action. And then to say so, you're just participating anyway. I'm not here to give advice either. What am I doing? I lost it somewhere. Just make observations. No judgements, that's the practice, like Naval said, non-judgmental awareness. I'm trying to gain followers, but I don't even want. Just a strong group of a few. It's this tight circle I want to form, relationships, and don't want to lose above all, tweeting, nevermind followers. It's genuine connection I crave. Which is difficult digitally. An avatar just goes silent, for example. Tragedy in the digital world, when an avatar does indeed go silent, however, is never so intense as a loss in reality. There! there's a tweet now.

So, the phone sits silent. And here I am, alone, nothing to do but create, it seems so depressing. And that's what was getting to me yesterday. So, I barrade the digital world because my reality is lacking. Something like that maybe. I don't know.

***

Spent most of the afternoon on Twitter, doing nothing, watching in real-time, for like at least 3 hours. I feel so unproductive. Usually, I pop-in for 10 minutes or so, scroll, scroll, scroll, quick tweet if inspired, then back out, next hour or 2 or 3 check again, 10 minutes, same thing, all day. But, it's Sunday anyway. And that was new. Like you're online with certain folks, tweeting, commenting, sub-tweeting, using eachother for inspiration. Kind of cool. But, 3 hours? Though I do feel completely burnt-out on it for the day. It's only just about 18:00, for example, and I'll be hard-pressed to even do my 10 minute or so scrolls the rest of the day. Buy in bulk, maybe.

Took a walk round campus, I'm actually writing this before I do, about to, so that I don't back-out now, something I need to do, something. I'll go down to the cemetary. Probably a good hour, then back, another 40 on the way home. It's Sunday.


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