the car show was pretty alright. when i first went, i ran into an old high school classmate (haven’t heard from him since i didn’t come home from college to be his best man. this might be the last actual friend i ever had. probably not. he would not likely admit to having been my friend. i don’t know), and rode my bike right through the front gate. i rode it all over the grounds, getting funny looks and not knowing why until a cop on a golf cart said “sir, there are not bikes on the grounds” and took off. There are, actually, bikes for sale all over the grounds, but nobody’s riding them. people drive massive vehicles all over, but human-powered transport. not allowed.
right, i tweeted all of this, sorta.
So in talking to this guy, i got doubts and extended timelines. first, it was a few years, then 20. he’s going to be fine. capable kid. these are the kinds of people i momentarily befriend in my otherwise solitary existence. I rode the bike home, got a backpack, took it closer to lock up, and walked through the grounds. it’s pretty much the same as i remember it every year since i was a kid.
there was a razor scooter for $10, but that was the closest to a purchase I got after my $4 cheese curds and $2.50 can of beer. i almost want to go back and get more cheese curds. tomorrow, perhaps.
there were all kinds of odd vehicles, campers of every kind imaginable, and random box trucks much like my future home. our most recent idea is to convert an old delivery truck. aluminum body, the one i’ve heard about.
you think labor is cheap because you don’t understand quality labor. the shit you get is cheap, yeah. of course, if you force everyone else to claw, scratch, kiss ass and compete for every short-sighted bank-cent, they’re going to continue giving you as little labor as possible.
i have no fucking idea what i’m talking about. i don’t know anything about people. i’ve never owned a business, let alone property. so what are you doing this for? it has to be done. someone has to do it. the fact that everyone hates me for it is just a side benefit. my life-long dream of being completely and utterly friendless is nearing its glorious climax. i’m not sure how i feel about that.
the app could explain it. a well-written contract could explain it (20 pages or less!). the online database could actually generate reports, and i could get on with what i really want to be doing, taking down buildings, removing nails and bolts from scrap wood, and making lots of beautiful, gentle porn. what do you mean? fucking is dancing.
the people who think i’m different from when they knew me in high school didn’t really know me all that well. perhaps they’re just that shallow, but there’s a terror in their eyes that tells me somewhere, deep down inside, they always knew. My arrival here forces their confrontation with that innocent little whipping boy, ripped, scarred, and schooled. the loudest silence ever heard. the words that reverberate at the resonant frequency of this great nation itself, with the blast-beat driven cadence of uber-militant determination. polymeter lockstep, fusion catalyst, founded upon a deep and lasting respect for the icebreakers of prior generations. get your oil-swilling lardasses the fuck out of our utopia, prior generations. can’t you see you’re not breaking new ground? can’t you see you’re the human shields that allow the demon to continue its juggernaut advance? can’t you see your backpedaling and lesser evils miss the bigger picture? stop being angry, step back. yes, it’s that easy. what result would you like from your anger? start there.
every moment we wait, we’re missing out on possible recoverable materials. we, what are you talking about? you’re not anywhere. you have no home, no roots. you have nowhere to be, and therefore nobody will take you in. ever. honestly, you’re better off driving your car off a cliff and sparing everyone the embarrassment. thanks. that’s helpful. do i owe you something? oh, ok. honestly, scream all you want. nothing you can shriek will change the state of the world, and no battle-scarred capitalist will ever gift property to the commons. once they start, it’s all over. the commons? i thought you wanted them to give the property to you? are you fucking retarded? do you even know how to read? i don’t make anything on this. what? exposure for what? my fucking being is so fucked, . . . it isnt’ really. you’re just shy. shy doesn’t exist any more. there’s only creepy now. fuck that. fuck you. i see what people see. terror stares. it’s a wonder they can see you at all. most can’t, actually. the ones who nearly run into you? you created a space-time void that drew them to your once-was.
what, am i supposed to grovel? the phone works both ways, so does e-mail. i’m not like-minded to anyone i’ve yet met, so i’m clearly not talking about me. black hole, remember? the sunglasse’d fascists really hate you, don’t they? yup. well, they know how much more math they know than you, in that other category. yeah, and domain. my mark on the world can’t be weighed, clocked, or measured in any way, really. my bliss is near constant, but then again, so is my hell. the same ones live there as lived there before. there will never be another you, nor was there prior.
the homeless man won’t kneel. mom, the homeless man won’t scrape and kiss my hand. hit it. kick it and yell and stare and make sure it knows we never want it to come back here after it leaves and dies alone. k. i like your shoes. your braids are as beautiful as your ass. umm…
it’s a bad idea to pit yourself against a person of indomitable will, inhuman drive, and absolutely nothing to lose. add in as crystal-clear a conscience as they ain’t made in over three decades, and i don’t know what you get. my body’s pretty to look it, if that does anything for ya.
what? i don’t fucking know!? what would you say if you were me? that’s fucking retarded. no, you’re . know your ratarded. know your rathardid. look, why is everyone giving so much credit to the retards? fucking a, you treat everyone like they treat retards. people get treated how they want to get treated. roaming bands of hate in that place. not really. protective, at worst. really. such is a fragile, organically occurring community. swap meet, campout, and the pride. they don’t take kindly to lurkers like you. you show up, judge, gawk, oh. really? i love that place. i love those people. i am the imaginator. the sane ones turn things into real stuff. i’m only an idea seeder. there’s no money in that.
so, i decided i’m going to give all my shit to the national archives. right off. i’ll do it all tweeting and in the cloud from now on. lol. what? i’ve declared my intention to run for president, and nobody believes me. no, you put your own weird little version of anarchy on the ballot. that’s not quite the same thing as running for president. whatever. if they write my corporeal body into officialdom, voila! what, voila? assassination? no, silly. the peaceful revolution. asWashingtonhanded over power, so shall i. i’ve seen you try to weild a ring, home slice. looks worse than that broomstick light-sabre bit. yikes.
you’re a horrible cornball, you know that? you’re not sucking on my dick nearly as much as you ought. ooh. wait, he’s gonna use the “b” word. heh. lick my twat. better. kiss me on the lips already, you crazy little girl. fuck.
i’m a pirate. i was born a pirate, and i’ll die a pirate, and not even my fleas will mourn me. i don’t have fleas. oh, by the time your rotting ass dies, you will. true enough.
I almost said i forgot how much of a soul-suck this place was, but that’s pretty much the reason i’m alpha testing here. we’re not in beta yet? we’re not even in code yet. oh, algorithms are codified. there’s no point in beginning coding on a non-global system. the capacity of this code, and infrastructure, is everyone. the primary purpose of this thing is training. permaculture training, aquaculture training, garden training, food preparation training, beverage fermenting, chicken raising, earthship designing, companion planting, and then the actual real-life tracking of plants and schedules and needs and wants and opportunities and resources. it’s pretty simple, really.
these words, that you love so dearly, they’ve ruined my life. or, if i ever had anything close to a life, they changed it. i have no fucking clue. this is honestly how i try to get people to talk to me, i’m not kidding. you are sad. no, not like unhappy, like horribly pathetic and useless. *sigh* isn’t that kinda my point. not being as many jobs as there are capable people, let’s put the capable people to use on communally good things regardless of whether we can “pay” them any more than letting them live there and eat the very nutritious food that they’re helping to create. we must all participate. your western “American dream” skills aren’t that impressive. look, micro-manager, why don’t you get back to your tv shows. maybe i will then. fine. fine.
why aren’t you making solar ovens twenty-four-fucking-seven already!? i don’t have a lab yet, settle. i don’t want to settle, i want to destroy buildings. you get to load a truckload tomorrow, plus get paid and solidify their undying *conditional* admiration. i know. if they have help from two others, they won’t need mine. need, no. go see your dad’s fucking new house, you asshole. why? yeah, you do have better things to do, don’t you? too bad you don’t do them in your own fucking free time anyway. what do you want from me? action. that’s all you get. beyond finger action, beyond thought action. there is nothing beyond thought action. i’m helping them “sell” their houses. they bought museums, not re-sellable homes. they just don’t want you there. fine, they can e-mail me when the shit/fan collision occurs. you are the shit/fan collision. and? mud bricks. rammed mud walls. sun-dried. (read: SOLAR ENERGY)
you have a home designed for a capitalist manager, and the existence of the very concept is shrinking. your space allows something far greater, would you take the opportunity. every day you wait is an investment opportunity lost, in your world, in your health, in your community, and in yourself. fuck your petty beliefs. i have soundbyte-rehearsed responses to any objection you could possibly imagine, and the personal ability to restructure the infra. it’s much easier than you’d think. less expensive, too.
so work on the kickstarter. contact the pipe dude. call the guy about the truck. folks, this is my to-do list. i’m not yet programming apps, not in this reality anywaze.
oh yeah, well some dude i follow asked oh-bomb-ah if he was down with o.p.p. yeah, you know me.
even the mobile homes will have certified kitchens. yessm. they’re rolling labs, field processing stations, portable safe-houses/shitters/showers/sleepers. Find something to do. I have plenty of somethings to do. i need a someone. yeah, that’s what the moving is for. so north, then. what can it hurt?
do we have songs here to finish? with the guitar? that might actually happen.
nah. all the people tell me how i’m to starve. i say, you’re the one who’s all malnourished and bloated. you don’t really get this “starving” concept, do you? clearly, no. it’s ok. we’re all on the same ship.
should we get some food? probably. should we get some ice cream? we didn’t even have a brat at the car show? well, whose fault is that? fuckkin expensive! and how can we ever claim to be a freegan even. hah. wannabe freegan. so, like, i wish i were a noble opportunist. lol. noble. what use is nobility? that’s about as useful as politeness and chivalry. you know nothing of these things. touché.
so, why all nasty all of a sudden? haven’t i always been? undertones. some people have seen them. i get thrown in twitter jail always now. yuh huh.
i go back over my own tweets because i tweet cool stuff that i like. that’s a video, of a being named seth being channeled. he takes over an otherwise rather meek woman and teaches the class. her voice deepens, and she clearly takes on a different character.
i decided, apparently, not to put any gluey stuff in my hair tonight. which means that it ain’t happenin’ for a while. I have a workday/road trip coming up, here. I must get more sriracha for the road!
tabula rasa. i miss my old cat, and, you know, imaginary people.
sleep well, dear internet.
p.s. oh yeah. this.