Straight from the edge of ruin.

See, morey is not, as is, some who are. Not at all. morey is what is as morey, and not at all restrained by what is, or protruded by what is, or confined by what is, human. The morey bothers humans because he shows no respect to them, and no respect to the things they respect, and all humans have that one thing they respect which, if one should disrespect, a little button is depressed in that person's head and they go into anger mode, like when you're a kid at school and somebody disses your mom and you have to fight them for it. You don't know why and you're getting mad, but you're building that anger, it isn't exactly there but you have to put it there because somebody just insulted the woman you love and you know not how to react... Like when morey disrespected Hemingway. That could have bothered me because Hemingway understands what it means to have light shine through leaves outside quiet cafes, he understands the drink and the insanity and the smoke, the gun and the fist and the horn; Hemingway knows the silent moments in which man is imperfection incarnate and is dipped in a selfish solitude that makes God grasp at him with a curiousity akin to the God in Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions who just had to know what his human once in a world of robots would say when he came sliding down the mountain to wade below in the river spring. But the disrespect is not grounded! He doesn't know Hemingway, but morey knows know and is of not knowing that which is unknowable, so that he can paint and ride bikes and smile queerly to the derelicts of worldly 'burbs. Anywhere, anyone, any time, morey can drink in a character and like it without ground. See, he respects nothing. No value or tradition or religion or constitution, but if morey likes you it is for something as simple as a chemical cocktail and a series of events, an acid flashback and a circadian mistep, sugar you didn't want in a coffee you can't return because you're already at work, but it turns out being the best coffee you've ever had. And on that groundless ground in the wake of uncertainty, morey, that flittering thing likes and dislikes without reason, just passion, dividing heaven and hell on a cunt hair decision and riding insanity to divine inspiration that is the lohan. Be so enlightened as to see without seeing, to take texture from afar the way you take colour, the way your eye extracts it from a distance that could only be spoken of in a paranormal tongue by the born blind that hasn't the concept to take colour from distance. Live and let live. Do not understand morey, but hear him, the way you walk out of a hairdresser with the same haggard trot after she guessed your sign and that of your friends, told you how you fuck up and why and when, things nobody could have known, and nod to astronomy but pass it by, take and absorb and move on, like what you must do to the teachers and cops and faculty if you know who you are, and accept the morey as a commodity. Cause I've thought it over and that mother fucker ain't human. Nightrious Sat, 09/06/2008 - 09
Sep 27
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Life in the County Flat on my back on top of a dark brown heavy-metal bunk bed inside a pale yellow cinder block box. The design elements are retro public lavatory but its 2009 and I’m in a jail cell. An acoustic tiled ceiling presses down, there are some dings in it, from feet or fists I can’t tell, like someone tried to penetrate it, or more likely was releasing some aggression. I’m scanning the space for potential escape routes. The room is small, about 6x8, so this doesn’t take long. Seems like prisoners frequently escape thru vents (on TV anyway) and there is a slim vent up above. I stick my fingers in, and they stop at the second row of knuckles. I doubt a rat could even slip through. The bunk takes up one wall and a steel door takes up part of the wall opposite Dim light enters through a slit window reinforced with fishnet wire. I imagine that I’m in a Saw/Hostel style shrinking room, the heavy walls inching closer and closer, intent on slowly crushing me to death. I wonder if the bunk bed would hold them back at all. It is made of iron or whatever, like the door. Still it would probably crumple like an accordion, with me inside. It’s irrelevant; the door is never locked anyway. On the other side of it is a communal room furnished with stacked plastic chairs, a couple of tables and a small TV, which I don’t watch. I’m not a fan of sports, televised arrests, Fox News, or animals eating each other. So I read instead. The jail Chaplin brings a book cart around once a week stocked with mysteries, gay-ass westerns by Louie Lamoure, spy novels, and other bestseller-style reads. I just finished a five hundred page Jackie Collins novel and don’t remember any of it. This kind of negates the theory that reading is good exercise for the brain. It’s also possible that my brain-cell reservoir has been seriously depleted. The circumstances resulting in my incarceration indicate this is a strong possibility.

Life in the County

Flat on my back on top of a dark brown heavy-metal bunk bed inside a pale yellow cinder block box. The design elements are retro public lavatory but its 2009 and I’m in a jail cell. An acoustic tiled ceiling presses down, there are some dings in it, from feet or fists I can’t tell, like someone tried to penetrate it, or more likely was releasing some aggression. I’m scanning the space for potential escape routes. The room is small, about 6x8, so this doesn’t take long. Seems like prisoners frequently escape thru vents (on TV anyway) and there is a slim vent up above. I stick my fingers in, and they stop at the second row of knuckles. I doubt a rat could even slip through. The bunk takes up one wall and a steel door takes up part of the wall opposite Dim light enters through a slit window reinforced with fishnet wire. I imagine that I’m in a Saw/Hostel style shrinking room, the heavy walls inching closer and closer, intent on slowly crushing me to death. I wonder if the bunk bed would hold them back at all. It is made of iron or whatever, like the door. Still it would probably crumple like an accordion, with me inside. It’s irrelevant; the door is never locked anyway. On the other side of it is a communal room furnished with stacked plastic chairs, a couple of tables and a small TV, which I don’t watch. I’m not a fan of sports, televised arrests, Fox News, or animals eating each other. So I read instead. The jail Chaplin brings a book cart around once a week stocked with mysteries, gay-ass westerns by Louie Lamoure, spy novels, and other bestseller-style reads. I just finished a five hundred page Jackie Collins novel and don’t remember any of it. This kind of negates the theory that reading is good exercise for the brain. It’s also possible that my brain-cell reservoir has been seriously depleted. The circumstances resulting in my incarceration indicate this is a strong possibility.