Have you ever heard the theory that at one point in our evolutionary process we came out of the trees and began to eat carrion for what ever reason?
That the sudden infusion of protien rich vittles, having no where to go due to our streamlined Darwinistic physical perfection, that our brains began to develop in mass? Could we really just be the equivelent of a global cleansing reaction frrom mother nature? Amonkey with a brain that has become a tumor?
Whoa, too much coffee today.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Monday, July 23, 2007
It Is Hot in My Head
It is hot, Humid and stifling in my head today.
The day that I realized that my conciousness is all I really know, this is all I can say is true, seemed to lock me in here. Peeping out every now and then at a more and more predictable modern Hollywood feature film.
A film intending to maximize their production dollars by including the two minute long, perfectly positioned love scene emphasized in their marketing trailers. A scene meant to entice that 18-35 year old female demographic into the action packed, globe trotting, fortune chasing, traditionally male genre of super powered character driven, global catastrophe saving, aggressive unwanted cerebral copulation of if you don’t have a 10 dollar combination of popcorn and soda combo you are really not enjoying this film mess.
Fuck. My frontal lobe seems to be throbbing in rebellion.
When I was a kid I went thru a one month stage of inhalant propelled self medication.
Krylon gold or silver was rumored to be the connoisseur choice of my juvenile delinquent, foster home bouncing colleagues.
I preferred liquid paper. You could huff it directly out of the stealthy, palm sized, half
fluid ounce container with a 2 inch snip off of one of those half coffee stirrer, half straw things that they keep next to the slurpee straws in 7-11.
It wasn’t till somebody told me that the high I seemed to so enjoy from this bell ringing, it don’t fucking matter no more endeavor was really just the direct result of the demise of my frontal lobe. I saw the result portrayed be Mr. Nicholson of having his scrambled by the powers that be in cuckoos nest. I decided to give it up.
When my brain gets too hot I write. When I write I liken the result to the pressure valve on my steam cooker. No, better yet to a psychological equivalent to a physical trepan procedure. Have you ever heard of trepanning? I saw a disturbing video once about a woman that believed in this procedure as a way to expand consciousness. It is when you drill a hole into your forehead to relieve brain swelling. The ancient Hawaiians used to practice it as treatment for head contusions.
Well, it is cool enough to get back to my emails now.
The day that I realized that my conciousness is all I really know, this is all I can say is true, seemed to lock me in here. Peeping out every now and then at a more and more predictable modern Hollywood feature film.
A film intending to maximize their production dollars by including the two minute long, perfectly positioned love scene emphasized in their marketing trailers. A scene meant to entice that 18-35 year old female demographic into the action packed, globe trotting, fortune chasing, traditionally male genre of super powered character driven, global catastrophe saving, aggressive unwanted cerebral copulation of if you don’t have a 10 dollar combination of popcorn and soda combo you are really not enjoying this film mess.
Fuck. My frontal lobe seems to be throbbing in rebellion.
When I was a kid I went thru a one month stage of inhalant propelled self medication.
Krylon gold or silver was rumored to be the connoisseur choice of my juvenile delinquent, foster home bouncing colleagues.
I preferred liquid paper. You could huff it directly out of the stealthy, palm sized, half
fluid ounce container with a 2 inch snip off of one of those half coffee stirrer, half straw things that they keep next to the slurpee straws in 7-11.
It wasn’t till somebody told me that the high I seemed to so enjoy from this bell ringing, it don’t fucking matter no more endeavor was really just the direct result of the demise of my frontal lobe. I saw the result portrayed be Mr. Nicholson of having his scrambled by the powers that be in cuckoos nest. I decided to give it up.
When my brain gets too hot I write. When I write I liken the result to the pressure valve on my steam cooker. No, better yet to a psychological equivalent to a physical trepan procedure. Have you ever heard of trepanning? I saw a disturbing video once about a woman that believed in this procedure as a way to expand consciousness. It is when you drill a hole into your forehead to relieve brain swelling. The ancient Hawaiians used to practice it as treatment for head contusions.
Well, it is cool enough to get back to my emails now.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
A toilet for my steaming cerebral fecal deposits.
It is 5:10 am Sunday July 22nd 2007. I have been feeling deliciously manic lately.
Just the right amount to where I dont beat myself down that manic depressive ladder because even I know I have become a
freak of t shirt rolling, color code storing, bottom drawer reorganizing insomniac mess. This moment is why I refuse to look
into brain pills, why I chose to not self medicate. In this moment the world is my oyster.
So now I am one of those people that can say check out my blog.
I think it is good. Hello internet, glad to meet cha.
Just the right amount to where I dont beat myself down that manic depressive ladder because even I know I have become a
freak of t shirt rolling, color code storing, bottom drawer reorganizing insomniac mess. This moment is why I refuse to look
into brain pills, why I chose to not self medicate. In this moment the world is my oyster.
So now I am one of those people that can say check out my blog.
I think it is good. Hello internet, glad to meet cha.
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