a different type of perfect

What would you be if you were not what you are now?

Wrap your head tightly in gauze, the gauze around the headphones. On the outside. And put this song on repeat. And enjoy that subtle change in melody or key or theme, that subtle drop from the first line of lyric to the second. Notice that first. Then the rest. Let it fill your potato-sac body. Engorging your brain basically all the way to encephalitis. Want encephalitis, desire it. Forget about that. Don't be an idiot. Focus on the song. Think about how it might actually be changing your life just then for an instant. Just that one instant. Stand upright but stare down at your shoes. Do not get caught listening to this in front of people who respect your current state. People at work, say. Do not listen to this and expect productivity. Appreciate that. Do...not...be an idiot. Consider for a moment the total number of times that you will probably listen to this song. Hundreds? Thousands? Is there any song that you have actually listened to one thousand times? Recall Gagging Order. And know that for this one each and every one of those hundreds will be alone. Alone you will listen to this. By yourself. This is not a song or an album to ever share with anyone else. Nod in acknowledgement when someone says how good they think it is. And let them know that you like it too. But know that it sounds different to them and impacts them differently - even your boys, they feel it differently. A different type of perfect, so to speak.

On Codex.

the de

his boy was standing face to face with the father of a girl. but staring past the father's face and actually at the daughter's behind who was some yards behind the father. and instead of nodding politely and in line with the dialogue that was supposedly happening with the father he was nodding satisfactorily with pursed lips and in line with his own vocalizations of "mmm mmm."

the father's face reddened as he looked over his shoulder behind him to see his daughter (or more specifically, his daughter's behind) as the object of the misaligned-with-dialogue-but-satisfactory nodding. and so his boy sort of begins to shift his gaze back to the father's red face and says "hey boo-boo, is that a pic-a-nic basket?" and then looking right at the father, "d'you know what I mean?" and flicks the father's ballsac with the back of his hand.

- the dick experiment

strangers

they sat in silence, the two of them. him and her. and they were doing 'strangers' by the kinks on the record player, loud enough for them to actually be inside davies' vocal.

so they both had this love. and there was enough of this love that they wanted, no needed, to share it. pick it up and put it into something else. like squat the legs, wrap the arms and interlock the fingers on the other side and physically lift the love up and drop it into something else. just so that the something else knew what it was to feel it, the love. but alas, it was not very easy for them to find this something else. in fact, it was proving to be a virtual Jobian obstacle course. like a fucking cancan dancer whose legs have been shattered or something. but at least there were the two of them.

anyway, it was perfect, the song, well at least the refrain...

"strangers on this road we are on. we are not two, we are one..."

and so he got up from the silence and grabbed a shovel. he dug a hole in the garden soil and just climbed in and never came out.

"...and my mind is proud but it aches with rage..."

the dick experiment

oh, oh. and so his boy had come up with this real-life social experiment which is based on the fact that the majority of the american public is scared of nothing more than a good old fashioned confrontation and that when faced with a pending actual confrontation, 90% will go out of their way to exude niceties in hopeful avoidance of the confrontation. and whether he, his boy, heard about it or came up with the idea from the Intro Psych adult-education courses he was taking or whether he was taking the adult-ed courses as a fuel to keep his effed up, as you'll see, mind fresh, is a different story. and so for example, stepping in front of another person in line, is rarely something that is challenged and is usually extremely easy to get away with, so long as one can overcome the initial misgivings about doing so. his boy wanted to take it to "a-whole-nuthah" level and dubbed his social test the dick experiment.

and there are demographic considerations of course: for example, conducting this type of experiment in a locale such as "Southie" is unsafe and will skew results from hypothesis. the american south (nee confederate states) and other pride- or irishman-heavy regions are also poor for observation.

and so back in high school, this same boy in the backyard of a crowded house party screamed to him "Hey, watch this!" just before jumping off the top of an old rotting chevy to dunk a basketball. the hoop came crashing down on top him and amid all the "oh shits" his boy proudly wails, "DID YOU SEE ME SHAQ THAT HOOP?" and went down on one knee, head straight back to pour a can of beer into his asoph. they finished off that night ripping license plates off of police cruisers.

and also this same boy, when they were younger even than high school would hide in trees to beckon down to whomever passed under "Hey, Boo-boo, is that a pic-a-nic basket?"...in an optimally annoying Yogi Bear voice.

this boy has a look best described as 'howling lab rat' by the way.

anyway, they're at the gym, our hero and his boy. working back to normalcy and adonisesque states of mind. his boy had just spotted him on the military but now is by the cardio machines telling the girl on the elliptical that she is very attractive but that it is a good thing that she is getting some cardio in and that he appreciates her doing that because there are just so many girls that balloon up around her age - he used that term, balloon up - and that she appears to be on the cusp of a very dangerous time in her life, a time when her body could just balloon up at any minute...he can just see it in her facial structure, that she could balloon up, he said...so keep at the cardio, walking away. this was the boy that he used to work out with back in high school and afterwards too; each of them bags of bones, soft skin just sort of laying on top of a skeleton, just four pointy straight arms jutting out of baggy T-shirts walking down the street, each of them with two thumb knuckles for ankles, body and shoulder structures like upright canoes...picture it, body-to-head ratios like someone drew a tether to the moon, standup oscillating fans the two of them. over in the corner his boy is caressing the sweaty forehead of a helpless balding man that is doing chest presses and at the same time pointing to the gentleman's shorts with his other hand, saying "Hey, Boo-boo, is that a pic-a-nic basket?"

-the dick experiment

hd's and m&c

there was also this time, the adjective string in the prior post reminds me, when he was at college and would receive e-mails that read like this from his younger brother and sister who were still at home, at their parent's house, using their parent's aging computer and sticky keyboard:

hey.how.are.you.doing?nothing.new.around.here.just.eating.hot.dogs.and.mac.and.cheese.

and so on, so-annoyingly-on and not a single space to be seen in the entire correspondence because someone had used the bottom middle of the keyboard, i.e., where the space bar resides, to mix a hawaiian punch and vodka or some shit.

considerations ad infinitum

It had always been tough for him to do anything without a second and sometimes third guess. Paralysis by analysis - some tool at work used to call it...and in many cases, he blamed this, his higher order thinking - as he called it, for his failings in life. There were times, now, as a married man that he sat in silence with his wife, whom he loved conversing with, because he did not want to say something that could be interpreted as incorrect under any light. Only truths and so on. And so he would sit, not talking, which means not responding to whatever she had said, question or not, and think carefully about the appropriate and most accurate next thing to say (e.g., like a mathematician) and by the time he actually had that next thing in the back of mouth ready to be uttered, it’d be over and just an afterthought and not worth saying at all. His entire life was slowing down, like this, and because of this and he notices it and watches it wash all over him and does nothing, except think about it of course...and the cycle continues because now his thoughts are not just contained within the realm of insecure justification of his next best thing to say but also are, the thoughts, considerations now of the fact that he is actually spending time considering whether he should say certain things in certain ways or not and this is a time consuming mental activity in and of itself. And efficiency is not so much just lost but eviscerated. And so faced with an opportunity to engage in conversation, he instead first, he turns the crank at the front of his brain to get it started but also considers carefully the very fact that he is actually turning the crank at the front of his brain in the first place which leads to a consideration of the question, “why must I turn this crank?” but also whether or not "crank" is the correct term to use in this context and then more broadly whether the analogical connection between automobile and brain is appropriate, etc. All the while his wife has by this time left the room, saying something like “I love talking to myself.”

Some catastrophic-,-oh-god-take-his-clothes-off-and-just-put-him-in-the-shower, retention failure during toilet training, we're sure of that at this point at least.