Gratitude-claimer: I directly Thank You Sammy, Helene, Emily [Tong], Leonardo, Ryan, Matias, Dan for responding to the last publishing; I never not notice or take it for granted. That said, at the time of putting it up I was feeling the most futility-resignation to being a nobody posting nowhere to no one, so it mattered to me that anyone [you 6] got anything from what I’m defiantly forfeiting myself to. Basically please just say your name at the entrance of venues if it ever becomes safe again and you’ll get into all C.A.C. events / screenings no charge. To everyone else specifically anyone who has the repressed hots for me, Yes I am very popular and your time has just about ran out. Also no more all-access passes.
I awoke from a 1.5-week-long soul-death to find myself driving a full-speed Blue Hyundai Accent on the Metropolitan West highway towards the Decarie North interchange. Deathconsciousness is playing from A Quick One and by the time I reach the wasteland The Big Gloom will have finished. Quite likely those tracks along with the middle Bloodhail form my quintessential LP back-to-back track sequence. Notwithstanding the momentary over-meta-analysis of the moment due to overhype, I existentially zoned back to life almost as you-know-nothing as Han in the F9 trailer. This was the first drive driven in service of my own drive [goals].
If someone drives overly emotionally, they’re more likely to flip off the freeway.
You think I’m joking but this is sincerely the most amazing / hilarious news report I’ve ever witnessed.
He did it to himself and he didn’t die, my conscious is clear.
If someone drives overly emotionally, they’re more likely to flip off [silentviolentsnickers] the freeway. If someone drives with overcompensated pragmatism, they’re probably a perfectionist, which means they might as well be numb inside. Whenever I drive my family, by obligation I’m smoke-detector-focused on keeping them alive, even if I secretly wanna cry my face off cause I’m going through whatever stuff. The only other situation where I went transcendence mode driving was when one time Matias and I were stuck in heatstroke highway traffic for an hour and a half and the only reason I didn’t succumb to science followed by physics followed by death was to keep humanity’s last hope sitting in the passenger seat alive. Otherwise one of my powers is the ability to feel everything through the super cinematic emo-conduit of a drive, all while being uncompromised in my practical focus to not engage a grown-adult tree.
I declare myself a 200-percent-powered punk. What I’m getting at, this 200% optimization—100 practical 100 soulful—encapsulates how I hope to live as maxed out as possible. It’s not ideal to work at a crisis hotline while raw-embracing a crisis of one’s own. It’s also messed up if you work at a crisis hotline but you go about everything like a windows 98. It’s the disconnect between a waitress who can’t serve tables with tears streaming down her face and a grown manchild who shouldn’t lead a country full of people if he feels negative empathy.
I can’t fathom what it’s like to live without emotion. Ever since I was first deathconscious [conscious]—at least as far back as my memory ever goes—at the age of 5, from the get-go I was just prone to being a sad lil fucker. As if I’m to be some prodigal son of melancholy. Like I was Created to FeEl. And before you think I’m actually theologizing myself and have become egomaniacal just cause I got emotional driving a class 5 vehicle, no I’m sharing how I’ve been messed up since ever not long after Batman Forever. came out [nothing to do with my condition]
I’m serious it’s so weird to me how much I feel to a point that I sometimes think I’m reverse-sociopathic. I will legit ponder why a jerk could be unfeeling about a way they act or don’t react to a situation that should demand empathy towards others. It could perturb me to a point that it just makes me more emo and bloodthirsty—because if my adversaries don’t seem to feel, they must be too dangerous to be allowed to live. No one call the authorities, remember you’re reading a blog [largely] consisting of performance art.
What I ironically fail to empathize with is the fact that many people actively repress their ability to feel. I think it’s some broken norm where you’re deemed a successful person if you’re practical over emotional. Practical is what gets bills paid, tables fooded, romantic partners hhrrRRhhHappy.. Emo gets you something closer to a Linkin Park song but THE CATCH—they had to actually produce the song, not just sit around and be emo. Which, I guess if we’re gonna live in a world where the economy runs on action, then at least I wanna thrive in the version of it where I Can Do So Being In Asian Max Payne.
I won’t last in the Practical world. Everyone has a role. I don’t want mine to be an office worker or a CEO. When I was a kid I didn’t picture either as a life where I could at the same time make how-did-I-just-do-that Jackie Chan fighting expressions. And if the tradeoff for my subjective life of wanting a life where I don’t have to give myself up just to survive—run-on sentence—if the tradeoff is constantly wondering how much more borrowed time I have left before I end up a crack addict in an alleyway humming the jurassic park theme like a colinostalgic idiot, then I can only hope my spirit will outlast my vessel. Or some bougie person conveniently offers to ensure my financial survival to full-time publicly express how upsetting I am. I mean I’m already doing it minus the retirement plan. Whatever I just gotta stay alive long enough for my brother to do just a few more successful things so my parents can forget they made the dreadful error of going through with my conception / long enough to finish ODC AH RIGHT! Open Doom that’s what I’m writing towards.
Well look..sorry Mat, I know you connect more with the prose poetry writing. Maybe they’re just annual special equivalents, I have by nature the brain of a paper shredder—turning back to you Mysterious Reader, I know there’s something fundamentally broken inside me, and trust me I know it’s not attractive. I wouldn’t be writing to a digital haunted house full of passing ghosts if the way I go about life was deemed attractive to well-adjusted people, or people who’d rather associate with well-adjustedness. That’s maybe why I could never separate who I am with what I want to do with myself.
I’m suddenly thinking about Kid Terry. I’m standing in an abstract room, say a blank page on wordpress, and he’s standing in front of me, looking up, not that high up cause I didn’t really grow at all since ~12 years old. He looks up at his ghastly future and goes:
<< Are you also gonna leave? >>
I had watched this kid get smaller and smaller in the background. He was walking, full of fermenting hate and wallowing sadness. He thinks he knows who to blame. His adversaries. So of course that means—so long as he defeats all his bad guys—whether through laid-out-planned revenge or shoots-them-in-the-face revenge—he’ll be all right. There’s nothing fundamentally broken about that.
Is that why I watched him go? Because I thought he’d be all right?
I watch Kid Terry from a distance. He gets them all back. He hurts others. Those who must’ve deserved it. Those of whom it wasn’t certain. But it’s him or them. He doesn’t hide his good riddance attitude when bad things happen to the people he hates. He doesn’t hide how much he makes it about himself when he wants to get close to others. He doesn’t mince words when he needs others to know how wrong they are.
He only learns humility when he loses what good he did have. He only learns to love when there’s no one left who’ll stay to love him back.
And as this asshole gets older and closer-looking to my present, his figure re-emerges from the distance. The closer he gets, the more it sinks in how empty he looks, despite whatever accomplishments or victories he secured.
He stands in front of me. We’re back in the blank wordpress page room. Same scenario, except this time it’s not a kid looking a few inches up to me and just present-equivalent me but emptier-looking. And covered in the blood of all his past enemies.
TERRY: Wait dood where’s your wraith
EMPTERRY: You watched it go
It was always in my hands. How I felt and went about the existence I was handed. And if I’m by nature a devil whose given power is to channel fire through his hands, then I’ve willingly set shit and people [figure of speech] on fire throughout this life. And I do genuinely believe if I was instead bestowed an angel’s power of handing out light, I’d be way worse. I’d feign my way through insidious conniving goodness only to blind people with my light then burn them away anyway. At least as a devil I have nothing to hide. What with being all sun-tanned and my general cantankerous demeanor.
Can these hands do more?
Like reach with immunity through the flames of a burning building and evacuate those trapped inside? Set actual pure-crud-nasty-evil people aflame? These are all metaphors.
And I don’t think I can do these things literally or metaphorically without concurrently feeling everything. And this all synchs up to driving with equal pragmatism and emotion.
My emotionality is my given powercurse.
But it’s my hands that will aim them as either power or curse, regardless the trips and stumbles on the way.
So if I were to transcend space, time, the universe, and existence itself and find myself in Blank Abstract Room standing in front of Kid Terry—say he goes
<< Are you gonna leave? >>
[This is just as applicable to having watched him go in a past existence]
I would go
Not this time. >>
TERRY: I really screwed this up didn’t I?
KID TERRY: Yes I did.
EMPTERRY: Yyaa…*Single-stroke-wipes others’ blood*
[Rubbing forehead therapeutically] I didn’t think I’d go that far, but hey, it’s me.
It’s 5:29 a.m. exactly at this not-yet-grammar-checked live writing. 5:30. I don’t think it’s gonna be an issue waking up early to shoot.