04 December 1997

(Light Green Journal Excerpt 2 - "Doorways and Paintings")

It's hard when you don't understand the world around you, but it's even harder when you don't understand yourself. It's not that you don't know yourself, but you can't demarcate the internal and external: not understanding whether it's your spectrum that is making everything black, or whether it just is anyway, and you need to find light somewhere else. But, why keep searching for light somewhere else? Why keep leaving what you think is darkness instead of trying to find the potential for light inherent in that environment? It is more than potential most of the time, but you are wearing these blockers. You are giving into emotion. You are giving into yourself: the id, the self that runs away from things and that always wants to be happy. It's this same self that you run to that you should be running from.

It's that part of you that clouds everything you see due to its expectations. If it ain't sunny, like Steve Reich's record, "It's Gonna Rain" over and over again. You gotta stop that tape loop.
It's so odd how you'll be so happy with things, and the next moment you are in a depressed state. You can't seem to rationalize things in either state- it plays into your idea of the lack of absolute truth or objective anything. You always say that. There has to be some sort of constant, but there's not with you. You'll be happy, and every door is open, and within those doors you see corridors with millions of doors, and in those halls there are lots of people all smiling at you. They are happy. When you are sad, there are two doors: the future and the past. You are in a tiny, dark hallway alone. If you think of people you know, it's as if you had died and were remembering how things were when you were alive. Then, you think of real death. You see the cars on the street as the hallway becomes transparent, and you want one of them to come crashing into you. You see a person walking behind you, and as you look at the sidewalk- as things all become props on the movie set of your life and incipient death- as trash blows past and away from you in the cold wind, you want that shadow behind you to blow your blood all over that sidewalk, and you see it happen.

But, you still have the doors. The future is closed: there is no point in opening it because nothing there will make you happy. Everything seems pointless. Your art, your loves, your dreams, your life seems so petty. You are nothing, alone in a tiny space, trapped. You turn to the other door and the hallway walls become opaque with memory- your internal dimension has enveloped you. Inside of that door is what you think will make you happy. In fact, a lot of it can. You can think of what you had. You can see your friends at home, see old loves and remember how things were. You can even go through that door but, by the time you walk inside, things will have changed. The door is an illusion: the past is memory and, although sometimes you feel you can enter it, it is unreal, a painting of viscera. It is everything that composed you- it is you. But, as you are in this state, you are separate from it. You are separate from the future, separate from yourself, and placed in this hallway to look at what you have had, what you have, and what you can have.

It is not until you learn how to get out of this space that all these things become clear. You can get out, and you have, but you have escaped each time. Each subsequent time you are encapsulated in that hallway, it becomes smaller and smaller, crushing you. You become more alone, more upset. Why? Cause you've been there before and you didn't face it. You need to face that space and learn how to expand it, see the doors in the walls that you are blind to because of your emotions. You need to break those walls and learn the lesson that keeps coming back around to slap you in the face. Most importantly, you can not allow yourself to be so malleable. No- you cannot allow everything outside of yourself to be so malleable to how you feel. The world is colorless glass, an enormous transparent structure. It is you who imbues it with hues and molds it through color to how you feel. This is done unconsciously, but can and should be done consciously as well. Once you realize you can do this, you can choose different color slides to shine on this structure, or at least know which ones not to use and which ones are better. Or, get used to some colors and see through them, rendering the colors themselves invisible and the world as opaque as the colors once were.

You spend too much time alone. You are lonely. You also need to stop bringing [omitted] into the picture- she has nothing to do with you right now. She won't have anything to do with you in the future. She is in the past, a brush stroke on that painting you keep looking at when you are afraid to look forward, the painting you think you can enter again. No, you can't. The painting has captured shapes and colors you have seen before and, although you might see similar shapes you can now alter through your spectrum, you can not change the past- you can't change that picture. It is already hanging in front of you, yet you keep wanting to paint. If you paint over it, you see each coat through the last if you look hard enough. Or, you can see it without trying. Sometimes, it wants to be seen. It's all ongoing. Don't dwell on what is behind you and what you think will be the same. It is ever changing.

I need to stop writing.

You need to see a psychologist.

22 November 1997

(Light Green Journal Excerpt 1 - "The Scientist")

I feel myself sinking into emotional and mental quicksand and becoming engulfed in my psyche. I can shut things out as if I extricated myself from reality and entered through my skull's door to sit in my brain couch, just watching the blood of time flow in vein clocks along the walls of intertwined grey octopus legs. I notice that the memory or association movie is becoming a lot clearer or the screen. I can walk down the street invisible to the clones walking next to me, walking behind me, and through me. I can't tell if they are ghosts or holograms. There could be an evil scientist at the top of an abandoned building, laughing in a glass labyrinth of tubes and vats each filled with bubbling chemical rainbows. In the center of the room is an enormous generator with metal insect antennae tearing through the ceiling like skin, and on it is a computer screen with physical dimensions of millions of citizens. You can take any view of them by pressing "x" or "y"; you can even zoom in or out. The scientist sits at the computer and drags the cursor across the screen, contorting these electronic images into fat to skinny, tall and short bodies like taffy in the hands of a child, and he is transmitting them onto the streets of New York City. I am not a hologram! That is important to remember. It could be that New York is filled with aliens and they have shaped their physical energy into recognizable forms- namely, the human body. Or, they exist as pure energy and slide through me like blood. Maybe one remains inside and sits inside my skull like I seem to; more likely, we sit together watching life like television.

In either case, I want to ride on their spaceship, even if just for a while. I know there was one in the sky that night, that opaque sky that held a thick orange glow above the horizon- or at least above the building. I could hear it humming through the crystallized snares and cymbals exploding over deep bass in my ears. I want to ride just to get away from this for a while, then I'll be able to find the location of the mad scientist's transmitter beam and liquify it with powerful laser artillery... I carry my own raygun and I will shoot if I need to. Aboard the spaceship, there is one much more powerful than anything I can carry by hand. It is capable of melting the moon into silver drops of lava which would rain on the earth and coat the mountains and trees in a metallic blanket of stone. It would fossilize everyone around, embedding their skeletons into its walls. I haven't had to use this laser yet; it's getting there, though.


I can walk down the moving walkway and stare at the lights above my head, people passing me by with their luggage. There are families with little children screaming, or laughing, or crying; there are couples holding hands, or fighting, or kissing, or fucking; and there are individuals like me who are walking- or being walked- along this conveyorbelt. It's like a fucking airport or train station. I like going into stations and seeing all these people float by, the illuminated names of cities and numbers flashing on enormous billboards. Where is everyone going? I wish I was leaving, too. I have to. I can't stay inside of my head for too long. Sometimes, it rains or snows- especially during winter. It's impossible to put on a coat or a hat, or find an umbrella inside, though I suppose you can try to shove one in....

Sometimes it hurts to be alone. You can grow so accustomed to being alone you forget how to speak. You forget how to think cause you are too busy dreaming, and people become mere images in your imagination. I'll be alone the whole day and- when I finally do go out with someone, or go to a class or a party- I'll forget that it's a situation where people are actually paying attention to me; instead, I'll just watch them, and sit or stand there silently as if I was still dreaming and forget it's real. When you think of people as images (holograms) rather than beings like yourself, they can be reduced to that. This happens with models: when you see a photograph of someone, you remember what you saw, and that's all they are.

Models could not exist as real people and still serve the same function. They don't need brains: a simple computer chip could serve as that purpose. They could be hooked up to a computer and a scientist could type "smile" or "spread your legs" or "look into the camera" and they'd do it, and then you'd photograph their poses. What happens is people internalize everything, refract everything through their own prism of humanity, and wonder "Who are these people I see? Do they have thoughts like me? Do they have friends? Where did they grow up?" They try to understand them as people rather than the images they are, and the purpose is defeated. Pornography- to speak specifically about people as images serving no greater purpose than mental/physical stimulation- is often misunderstood as degrading not only to the models, but women and men in general. Pornography is nothing more than a visceral record of sexual thought: if you can think it, why not see it, too? If you can hear music inside of your head, why not put on headphones and make it a little louder? One might say, "Well, if you have those thoughts, why not leave them inside?" Well, why not? The images are the same, it's just that one is on the canvas of your mind. We are all paint on a huge canvas. The painter has given us consciousness, but we are still only images. We can really only understand ourselves as people because our consciousness is limited to what we can see/touch/hear/smell/taste. We rationalize the fact that everyone, because they have similar shapes, can or should think like we do. We shouldn't do that. A broader consciousness- what is referred to as "unity consciousness" - can be experienced by a unification of two or more people, but that is transient. Also, it could be that you want to believe such a thing can happen, so it does.

I think all this stress has been making me feel shitty about [omitted] again. Damnit, this sucks. I don't know if I am thinking of her and feeling sad (something naturally happening as a result of the suppressed love rising above my emotionally constructed boundaries) or if it is the logical progression of me becoming upset about one thing and then another, and- since I've had so much experience being upset about her- that's where my focus is shifted? I guess we'll see after this semester ends and all these layers of stress and depression are peeled off of me. It's this fucking work! Fuck this bullshit!

10 July 1997

Transmission & Clarified Butter at the Sardine Bar, Detroit

Transmission Personnel:

Stuart Bogie: Saxophone & Clarinet
Andrew Kitchen: Drums
Zachary Mastoon: Guitar
Eric Perney: Bass
Colin Stetson: Saxophone

The Sardine Bar, Detroit, MI