This Memory

This memory is a memory of a memory. And that memory itself, is nothing but a memory of another one. Each memory is an experience in and of itself and each experience becames less sharp and less heavy until the feeling and effect of the original tangible experience is nothing but an abstract narrative of our own tendency towards self gratification and the strange channels that our brains grow to prefer resulting from thier environmental inputs. But you know that. And I know that. And I know that you know that I know that.

My Trailer

I in Box

I live my life inside. I live inside myself and I keep myself inside. And I will never ever stop this. There will never be an out of doors for me. Becuase in order for there to be an out of doors, there must be a door to go out of. And the closing of that door only begins the search for another door, to know what is on the other side of that door, and to shut myself inside it. Born in a door jam. That is why for me the weather is a diversion. That is why rain and sun and wind are all of the same novelty, not actually effecting my daily life in any way. The weather can no longer make me sick or influence my mood. It is only a detail, an interesting feature of a day that is defined by the steady beat of work, play, sleep. The balance is so perfect and so infallable that even mother natures punishing sluice from the sky cannot dissuade me from my lazer like focus on the quickest possible passage of time in the first part of my day, the maximum possible enjoyment of the second part of my day, and the total oblivion to the meaning and cause of the third part of my day. There is no weather inside an ant colony, so that is where this must be. That is where I am living. An ant colony without a Queen. Because I am she, she is I. And when I die they will put me in a box and bury me inside, under the dirt.

Penguins

A Scenario, Brainwise (A Highly Fancy Screenplay)

Sticklebell- I pose this question to you, what if you were to not take a trip to the toilet daily and deposit a big load of poop inside?

Trickleberg - Hohoho, Sticklebell, what a ball tickler of a question you have posed to me! And indeed, my balls are tingling right now, at this very moment. Well, my silly little goose dog, let me answer your question in the most thorough and forceful way possible. I shall answer thusly, Sticklebell, I have thought of this question on many an occasion, perhaps whilst sipping on a daquire or some other such fruitcake drink. And I thought to myself 'I need to drop a pooper in the toilet, but I thinks I should rather not.' And you know what ultimatley caused me to unclench my buttocks and let loose the caboose juice? The question that ultimately has stumped even god himself. When one is constipated, where does the poop go? Back up and out? Eventually sure, but where is it now? It is both in my tummy, yet not going out the poop shoot and into the toilet. Are you in my tummy poop? No, because even the constipated love to eat and everybody knows that eating is motivated by the emptiness of the tummy area.

Sticklebell - Hardy har har Trickleberg, this is laughter coming out of my mouth and kissing your ears. The questions you claim to have posed to yourself is nothing but a childs fancy ice cream cone dropped on the ground. And the crying that the child bequethes unto his mother and her friends, all watching now. What an evil, horrible little child to cry like this for he causes his dear mother to example the old 5 second rule. Wherein she gets down on her knees and laps up from the concrete all the gritty little ice cream droplets for the appeasement of her childs temper. While it may seem grotesque to a plebe like yourself, the basis for this eating is in direct contradiction to your flabby hypothesis. For this mother, like you, eats out of heart motivations. Now look at your paunchy fingers. You eat for emotional reasons

Trickleberg - Oh Lord, oh god I do, boohoohoohoo

Sticklebell - Good, good, yes Trickleberg let it all out for daddy. That is a good little piggy, cry your alligator tears for the world to see. This has been a big day for both of us. I have beaten leukemia with prayer and you have admitted, for the first time in your little piggy life that you eat out of emotion. Let us libate!

Trickleberg - A big day indeed.

Sticklebell - A toast, to my best friend in the world!

Both - Cheers

People say mind over matter, well I've always been of the opinion that its all about the spine over bladder. You do. What if Rick Ross was capable of putting together a story rap? The sound of Seattle is hip hop? Fuck outta here. Seattle has a sound already, and if it died it wasn't to be replaced by the sound of another place and time. The BX in the 70's, a place I've never been, I will never be. The past, very very long time ago.

Soft Skull Pudding Head

This is the place where I put down my thoughts. The thought box. The place the think outside of the tabs and margins, where there are no errors. Rhymes inside of rhymes. A triple bypass, having it on your heart. All these thoughts and all this time. The idea that even though things are ok the way they are now they would be ok if they were not this way in the future. But knowing the way things are now, knowing that things are a certain and specific way is what makes the now now and what scares us. What makes us edgy when thinking about the future is all the blank space between now and then that we must live in order to reach the place where things would be ok even if they weren't they way they are now. That is the passage of time, the life, markers on a log or rock or some such trifle. The good times always come at the end of the long hot sticky times that you thought were supposed to be good. In the cycle of time I am constantly misplacing and misappropriating the things that I recall as happy. I am lowering my expectations constantly in an ever escalating battle to find true happiness in the mundane routines and underappreciated overlooked banality of a self indlugent and self admittely uninspiring unimportant individual. This is fueled by drugs, the drug of sugar. And I do know about addiction. My grandparents were addicted to drinking alcohol, my father is addicted to work, myself, I am constantly in delivery.

Burrrrrrr

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Sweet Poop or A Beautiful Night Poop

Where to begin, and wher not to begin. Long stringy thoughts with dental floss in them. There is no begining, there will be no end. Whats in store for me? Is there such a thing as wrong number? How can this be, if there is a wrong number then it undermines the nobility of the entire system of counting. No, there are combinations that are unintentional. Wow! That was hard to say, I'm impressed. Good job me. But no, we cant go down this road. The only route to freedom is suppression of the ego. Oh the infinite blessings of low expectations! Infinite I say! To hell with happiness and its inherent fleeting nature. No, I never yearned for that, burned, turned or learned that. I made my way through the streets, through the life by expecting nothing. And what a blessing it is to be int he game, to even be in the discussion. To have a surplus, to maybe even be able to house my friends, help the strangers in the world. Thank you god! Thank you big baby jesus! I dont want anything more. I could stop now and spend the rest of my mortal coil unwinding on the blessings alreayd bestowed upon me! Is anyone reading this? If they were would they treat me so poorly? Pull on my thong. I dont need to live anywhere in relation to anyone, all things are relative except my only friends, those in my head, who are not related even to each other, much less to me, blasphemer.

Oil Admins