Ommm~

I hear a faint hum in the middle of the night and wake up in search of this little noise that I think I'm hearing or that is possibly just inside my head. At this point I'm not really sure since my sleep patterns reflects a scatter plot that lacks any plot and is all scatter--hyphenated sleep followed by commas, brackets, obeli, ellipsis, asterims, and full stop periods.

Here is a close typographic resemblance:
--  zz,,,,.[      Z!]*    ÷   ...   ⁂. ©

In any case, the pattern (or lack thereof) keeps me from sleep, and I haven't had a good night's rest the whole week. This fact increases my distrust and uncertainty; how can I trust the things I am hearing, or imagining, when I haven't had a sound night of sleep in a week? I can't imagine (the fact of imagining anything at all astounds me: the only true reflection is that of a completely stupid fool taking his paranoia too seriously as though it mattered); this must be hell, no..., more accurately, an exaggeration.

mellow-drama: Te-le-vele-no-ve-L.A.

I go over to the fridge and for some ice cold water.

The fridge emits a noise itself as though it has a little lawnmower underneath; this is not the source. The fridge sound buzzes and sometimes clanks; it doesn't hum.

I go out to the deck and sip on the water to cool down in the hot summer night. I continue to hear the hum coming from behind me somewhere.

William Lee said once said that being paranoid is simply having the right information.
I'm not paranoid. 
I'm just lacking a bit of sleep.

These past few weeks have been difficult on my body; lack of nutrition has made me lose 10 pounds. I eat oatmeal for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I sip on coffee to drink something other than water. I feel dizzy spells and grow faint, nearly passing out every now and then. My rent's due; the check comes and disappears, I then work a whole month toward performing my next magic trick. Dizzy spells. Magic trix. Hokus-Bogus-Pocus, lack of focus.

There it goes again: that vibrating sound. I finish the water and pour a glass of whine.

There was another shooting in the news today, but these things have become so routine that they have have entered a narrative of indifference because of being accustomed to everything that nothing really matters, or self-preservation.

This narrative occurs at work, and the magic tricks, or illusions, expose the reality of a circumstance that draws me nearer to the source of the humming noise. Somebody behind the curtain pulls the invisible strings that highlight the sideshows, and we applaud and shout hooray! Above our heads someone shines a light and we are handed a script. Everyone totally focused on the magic tricks.

The AC at work hums above our heads while we collectively configure splintered sentences.

The languid movements of my performances at work illustrate my feeble attempt to break the spell that hypnotizes...to break the depression that hysterically mocks and attempts to invade my body and soul like a virus looking for a clean and healthy host (or so I think)...to break away from the constant battering of mind and spirit in dealing with all types of energies every thirty minutes. After a while it's best to shut down and run on cruise-control until I arrive at my destination: taking you on a tour, my dear voyeur.

At night when I do not sleep, I read the Bible. I suppose that I'm trying to understand the Word and utilize the frequencies that can be emitted by the Word in order to heal. This is perhaps another magic trick illusion. Illusion layered upon illusion: ommm~

INCA.NTATIONL.AMEN.TATION: OM~

This past week, I was reading about the hippocampus, the pineal gland, the cerebrum, and the cherubim. The term cherubim comes from the Assyrian word Kiribu, from Karåbu, "to be near."

I am attempting, perhaps subconsciously, to "be near" or to at least re-cognize G-d through the brain's plumbing. The reconfiguration stems from a deep desire to want to believe in something more than the destructive forces of uniforms, metals, and punch-cards. But this attempt merely reflects a further derangement of my already disordered nervous system, and the weaving of dots and plot points fabricate into my own theory of faith.

Indeed, the obsession illustrates my derangement, yet I tend to persist in these spaces that yield no benefit whatsoever. I consistently tell myself that I should pursue practical things, and become someone, like a teacher, a garbageman, a priest, an anarchist, a human...or something like that. But those things often feel foreign, and there's nothing that makes me squirm more than a poorly, indifferently executed performance (much like this writing thing, I'm trying, but I'm not really good at it: the prose lacks cohesion; the wording turns all of it...into comedy, not the good kind, the type that makes you uncomfortable, these pieces of text lack plot and structure, and all of it reflects baboon buffonery ornery boober or a babo...so, whatever)
  It seems that I am addicted to filling the creeping dullness of routine with paranoia, which often reflects the sanity I chip away at (indeed, I at least have some sanity to begin with) in contrast to the useless, pointless knowledge that holds me with just enough buoyancy. But perhaps I secretly desire to sink and suffocate, yet I can not achieve that, still bubbling and gurgling in the intestines like a fart that eventually floats, liberating itself, and contaminating the oxygen with a foul smell, for it declares it's (neglected) presence, and brings to light the refuse in, amid, and throughout the historical neglect, reminding of the few hiccups here an there and disturbing the order in civility and properties.

Perhaps that's where the sound is coming from?

A Fool

It tended to be cold out most of the days, like the breeze one feels from opening a freezer--that sudden gust of condensing vapor: the instant, brief hint of fog.

frigid aire


No one was home, and there wasn't muchpasteto eat. He toasted some wheat bread and warmed some coffee. He sat on the warmly lit kitchen table. Dimming the light, he took a minute to look down at supper for that evening. Clasping his hands together over the dish of warm bread, he prayed, even though he wasn't very religious. He prayed to nothing, for nothing, grateful for nothing, for the nada in and of everything. He supposed it funny to be hunched over those crumbs, but it just felt right. He lit a candle and dimmed the light some more. 

Sometimes right lighting can make all the difference. 

He repeated many thanks, but most of them were directionless.

A loud knocking woke him from concentration. Tok, tok, tok! he went over to open the door. It was an old friend. 

“yo-yo, what’s up?”

“Hey!...Come in"

“Nada nada limonada..just trying to eat. Want some coffee or something?”

“Come in, close the door”
They both ate toast and drank coffee.

They talked a little about a recent LACMA exhibit: the Olmec heads—a bunch of concrete heads on display all over the museum. He recalled it being a nasty thing. He talked about how they must have been an innovative people to be able to fashion all that rock into shape, but his friend thought it a shame that the history testified to a dark past. His friend said heads are severed through policy nowadays. He stopped paying attention and wandered off in thought when his friend got into nostalgic and political words. He didn’t want to hear any of it; It was tinkling brass and phraseology to him--a speechifier and too much pomp.

“Listen, I’m going out”
“Where to?”
“I’m going to meet Hope by Dockweiler”
“oh...bad timing eh? ok, well, I came over to see what you were up to. Hey, what are they doing to the streets over there?”

Outside, the jackhammer played a symphony to a tow truck that kept rhythm.

“I don’t know...repairs”
“Well, if ain’t broke don't fix it, I always say” His friend took paranoia seriously.

“wise words there”
“You bet! next thing you know taxes will be going up! well, that being said, take care! See you later”

“...take care. goodbye”
And like that his friend, as suddenly as he appeared, quickly disappeared. 



He called twice and there was no answer. Maybe she got caught up in some sort of business, he thought. It’s always some sort of entanglement. Last time she told him she was held up by a conversation. There’s something dreadful about carrying on a conversation whilst another needs to go. Seems there is rarely any time to “stop and chat,” and sometimes many see it better to carry conversations over into some sort of a digital interface. There is something weird about the human condition when devices used to communicate isolate in some fashion—fragments, a message here, an e-mail, a picture, a disembodied voice (voicemail) there. nowhere and virtually everywhere He sent a text message: “headed out, take warm clothes, see you there,” and grabbed his jacket and car keys.

He started daydreaming about something; he didn’t even recall what though. He’d lost his wallet the prior night and was calling the bank to cancel the credit card. A recording that notified him about all the tellers being busy would occasionally interrupt the muzack. It was nice, at least, to hear that voice. It was human, even though it was recorded; there was some history there, in the tone that said, "thank you for calling." He hung up and decided to cancel online upon return; he was heading out. Driving down the 105, passing LAX, the metal machines took off and dragged clouds behind them over the blue canvas.  The days were filled with this type of useless daydreaming. The fog thickened as he neared closer to the Pacific down Imperial toward Vista Del Mar. 

He arrived a little early, or just on time, depending on purpose, which is never quite clear yet opaque as air. He parked on Vista; it was happy hour. He entered a pub and, thus, shifted the atmosphere. 

“Young mm-man,” said an older gentleman.
“Don’t listen to, -sten to him, he’s drunk” said another over his shoulder.

The young man laughed, a bit drunk, not really to humor them; his drunkenness had reached a level of looseness whereby one could forget about themselves. On the brim of Dionysian forgetfulness. 

His (e)very cell(s) was doused in alcohol. 

He checked his cellphone: nothing. There actually was a sense of relief since his clouded, intoxicated thoughts would be furthered obscured by the weak signal on his cell. 

“LL--Listen to what, to what...I am telling you! you see..see that woman over there”
“yeah, she's beautiful”
“right you are, there...lover boy! gg-go over, and ask her, if she’d like to have sex. What’s the worst that can happen? She slaps you or she says yes”

He was starting to sober up, or he needed another drink.

“1 in 99 that it might work; I even doubt that...that figure, maybe it's more like 0 in 100”
"0 in 100! see, that's what's wrong with you young man, take a risk! 1 in 99? now that zounds likepretty good, purrety good, odds, wouldn’t you say? Feeling lucky?”

“I’m not a gambling man”
“Well then you ain’t living! It feels good to live!”
“excuse me, I’ve got to take this call”
"bah!"

He stepped aside. 

“Buuuueno?”
“Hey! How are you?”
“hey-ello! as good as the next man suppose”
“you ok? hey listen, I won’t be able to make it, I’ve got to finish up some work and I'm feeling soooo so tired. I’m so sorry”
“oh? um-hm..well,"

He sighed

"No worries, no big deal. Something came up..."

He cleared his throat.

"...then something came up...I’ll see you tomorrow?” he inquired.

“definitely”

“Guess I’ll head home”
“Again, I’m sorry about this!"

“Don’t worry, we’ve nothing but time on our side. We’ll meet some other time”
“Ok, love you, goodbye”
“Take care”

Inside the bar an argument broke out and the older man was nowhere to be found. He ordered a shot of tequila, drank it without company, and headed toward the shore.

He had always enjoyed the ocean. He loved feeling the sand grains on his face and the smell of a salty breeze that is so strong one can taste it. One can get a clump of wet sand and hurl it into the ocean and imagine it breaking down into several pieces. The oil-rigs in the distance seem to float out there in space because at night the horizon blurs in with the dark, and if you squint, the faint light can imitate a star. The occasional bon-fire’s attract occasional kumbaya folk and spiritual testimonies. He didn't like it; the zeal can make you lose focus of the sand, the moonlight shimmer bouncing of the water, the breeze, and the gentle crashing of waves sending salty mist into the air.

He had all sorts of questions in his my mind. At work, the teens were reading Siddhartha, and he thought about how much in that novel he didn't understand. Out of suffering came love for the Buddah. For him, pain and suffering: it was life. But connection through such baseless feelings while some love and others despise with words like love and hate meant nothing against the names of oceans, neighborhoods, galaxies, hunger, and people.

His liver was hurting; he often, absentmindedly, mixed  painkillers and alcohol against reason, and he was paying the price for it out there. He wasn’t waiting for an answer, really. He didn’t wait to hear anything. The shore’s salty breeze fizzed in the air like fizz.

The horizon melded with the ocean in a vast canvas of darkness, and the oil-rigs in the distance flickered like a stars. All of the medicine in the world could not fix the dis-ease he felt that night; his eyes burned against the breeze.

He took off his clothes and walked into the Pacific, deciding on a swim. The shore waves hypnotized his vision with an ebb and flow of stillness. The water, he figured, was sure to set him straight. The ocean hissed ~shhhh~ and smoothed the sands; no other sound could be heard but that of a cricket, chirping somewhere in the twilight.

No, everything is not Permitted, even if there is no G-d.

t     h     e     v     a     s     t     c     a     n     v     a     s     o     f     b     l     u     e     s     k     i     e     s
       .  .-.-=-.                                      _.-.-=-. .-=.'"=.-=.               ~                              !  

  ( OPPRESS   )   .'    \&/     'suffocate-=_=-'    with reminders of               BEING   tossed

to~          )) )

     a'nd       )                                                     :above:

            ~fro)                                         B              from the
   '-"-=="                                    ~            l           . consecraitons .         .                                           u               into

                       ~                                                                                                 hu                   transforms                                                
                                              blazon                   twilight                          signals                     of

                 sensational  @@@@@@@@@  entrance             bla           that

      ^^       ^^              @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@ ~              gluh!              o           Nada! nadada!
                              @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@              ^^              h
   ~  in  the                @@@@@@@@@@Ω@@@@@@@@@                            c
 ~~~~ ~~ ~~~~~ ~~~"and the giver of golden coats relinquishes its orange flares"~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~                                           E                              
 ~    undercurrent  ~~ ~ ~    vacuous   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~       ~~     ~~ ~                             a
   ~      ~~      ~~ ~~ ~~  ~~~~~~~~ ~~~~  ~     ~~~    ~ ~~~ resound~ ~~
   ~  ~~     ~         ~      ~~~~~~  ~~ ~~~       ~~ ~ ~~  ~'nd\o/~ ~
 ~  ~       ~ ~      ~           ~~ ~~~~~~  ~      ~~  ~rise     ~~~     ~~
       ~             ~        ~      ~      ~~ Prayers           

 of   a    g r e a t o c e a n i c w a v e~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~~ ~~~  ~

The vast canvas of blue skies oppress and suffocate with reminders of being tossed to and fro in the undercurrent of a great oceanic wave. Prayers rise and resound a vacuous echo that transform into consecrations from the above: Blubhublagluh! and the giver of golden coats relinquishes its orange flares, a sensational blazon signaling the entrance of the twilight. The name of things ring hollow next to the chaotic monuments of geometry--in the puffy coil of a cloud and in the seeming randomness of a curl in a wave. Nada! nada! can be heard faintly from some unknown place.

The universe tends to communicate whatever message you'd like to extract from its leaves, trees, and automobiles. Things tends to get muffled in between; the act of translation and decoding has always been a delicate matter, and I tread softly over the relics of the past seemingly alive in the present.

I reflected on this matter over some coffee at a local shop. I froze my gaze upon a palm tree swaying in the breeze. The prelude was set, and the silence accentuated an intense emotion behind my composure:

I felt like crying. My eye's filled to the brim with moisture. I felt tired and weak and stupid and frail and like the biggest fool in the world. I beat myself up over and over that I feel ashamed to tell you about it here, none of it was healthy for my mind or the universe. It was absurd, the existence of humanity--a comedic reflection of defiance against the indifference of a vast multiverse.

For a brief moment, the wonder of a young man--an embodiment of power, rationale, and passion (or lack thereof)--realized that at any moment he is easily thrown about like a rag doll torn to pieces in a social whirlwind that invade and overwhelm the fibers of his consciousness on a day to day basis, and like the majesty of movement in a lion's pounce and bite, his mind is ripped to shreds.


I felt at that instant like a fanatic and wanted to jump up and down like a jack-in-the box. In fact, the very fact of me feeling in that manner illustrated the mechanical nature in my existence. I was a mere object under the illusion of a conscious subjectivity that had been set in motion ever since man sat around fire and planted crops. This thought heightened my melancholia into laughter and stupidity. My tears subsided and I felt like part of the crowd, sipping my iced coffee at a kaffeklatsch where no one was invited and the only guest was myself and my foolishness.

"If God does not exists, everything is permitted" -a popular translation of Dostoevsky's line in The Brother's Karamazov