high pitch nine

another weekend got through. my eyes are bleary with sleep. my concentration is compromised (boring TV program on in the background) My already terrible typing skills are a little worse than usual.

tired.. i hoped to get a lot of work done this weekend but i burned out. it's okay, i will handle it better during the week if i am not all used up by the time the week begins.. i am a firm believer in the notion that if you step away from something a little bit, you can enjoy a better perspective on it than when you are lost in the thick of it. Actually, i like that.. it gives me a little new perspective on my life. Not new... i think i remember thinking the same thing as i bought a tom petty CD in central square, cambridge, about 8 years ago...

it was a little bit of a difficult weekend.. alright not really. it was honestly one of the nothing-est, forgettable-est weekends i have had in some time (and i think that would register as a good thing!) But i was in a "make myself feel busy" mood, so i wouldn't say i unwound very much.

feeling a little out of it, anyway. there's been a lot going on in my life, around me.. a lot on my mind. i can feel myself sort of poking and prodding in ways designed to "make things interesting" (whether that's good, or bad.. i can't say) -- but it's part of my program i guess. i like it when things are a pain in the ass, when there's obnoxious problems and unsettling burdensome situations looming just over the horizon to deal with.. exactly what survival advantage is that going to give me? sigh, i would make an excellent astronaut.. why couldn't my parents be teachers (or therapists). Actually if either of those were the case, i'd probably be some boring investment banker, or the manager of some office equipment supply and shipping outfit. yeah, it would be easy, and i would be driving some economy sized sedan and have a dog named skip and an HDTV with Tivo and all of that. I'd probably live in New Jersey with my wife Diane (blonde) and our two buck-teethed children. yep, it would be a different life.

i wish, just one night, my consciousness could slip thru the space-time continuum and trade places with my alternate universe doppelganger, and i would have to spend a day as Office Supply and Shipping version of myself. I'd have to spend a couple of hours getting over the initial shock, but trying not to blow my cover all the while (even though my kids would sense something was wrong). i would end the day realizing that I'd most likely slip back into my proper dimension at the strike of 12 midnight, so i would use the opportunity to act without consequence and wreak havok with Office Supply Ron's life. End up in a brothel, a jail, a horrible truckstop divebar somewhere.. something... get knocked the hell out in a bar brawl and come to back in my proper body.. Hopefully, Office Supply wouldn't have had a similar idea and left me in an equally compromising situation, or then there'd be some honest-to-goodness hot water i would not exactly be too keen to deal with (though i can appreciate comeuppance and karmic universal payback. can't i??)

well.. nah.. no. that is all just a retarded man's fantasy, actually. in all likelihood, the best i could hope for is that somehow space and time itself bent far enough to cross and the electrons that carry the data impulses of my blog posting, immediately after i'd hit the "publish" button (not so named), would be super-transmogrified by sunspots (remember those? 70s) and accelerated to Office Supply's universe and we'd essentially switch blog postings (his would end up in my website, mine in his)

Does any of that make any sense? i'll simplify it.. you know when you play that old video game, Pac-man (yes, it always comes back to pac-man).. when you go in the little "warp tunnel" at the side of the screen, you leave the left side and instantaneously reappear on the right side, or vice versa. BUT! For that one brief second, the pac-man you control exists not in his single blue maze reality, but a shared endless void of oblivion, yes the same oblivion where all things have come from and eventually end up. Yet just as he is on the brink (the millionth of the millionth of a second that his essence dis-registers from the visual plane and registers, relatively, in the non-plane), he immediately is plucked back and reappears at the extreme other end/beginning of the same circular universe.

And then.. all the games of Pac-man being played, in all the videogame systems in the universe (in this reality), in each case all the pac-mans will disappear to the same brink of nonexistence and then reappear.. but they will EACH return to the single proper place, in opposite, from their point of departure.. (are they the "same" pacmen though? are they the same form of energy and matter or are they interchangeable, recycled? that's for another blog post)..

SO!! Then.. in this case.. what if the game is being played, the pacman disappears for the millisecond.. what if the power goes out? what if the electricity shorts.. what then? the pacman has just momentarily lapsed from his existence.. one foot out the door so to speak.. and then his lifeline is BLIP cut out completely? the machine reboots, producing a new fresh pacman, lacking any history.. but where is the displaced, limbo pacman? does he join the other half-formed infinite pacmen from all the other video games who's power has blipped out over the years? do they add up infinitely, in some great conceptual non-nowhere, where all sounds and recipes and thoughts and beliefs and colors overlap ad flow freely and distribute, somehow, back into the collective consciousness of the waking dead, the daily toilers, munching their donuts and riding their subways and combing their combovers.. writing their gay dating articles, drinking their diet redbulls, redesigning their ergonomic keyboards and faux woodpanelled living room walls in scandanavian design, binging on ice cream and sandwich and fondue and flambe' and homo sapiens..

this, this commonly displaced pacman, i am this pacman, he is my thought, my child, my progenitor, my predecessor.. my teacher, my student, my leader and follower, my inspiration, my degradation, the point from which i can not return likewise the goal of my future success (and the cause of my greatest failures). As the pacman eats the dots, as man eats his popcorn, as he sucks the four cheeses off his pizza, as he burns the hanging flap off skin from the roof of his mouth, as he puts a scrapey ice cube in there to cool it off and in also scrapes the roof of his mouth, and his eyes become teary.. and his neck becomes sore, and his ears are itchy, and his thoughts and love, become numb...

and the quarters are fed into the machine, and pacman eats the dots as his machine eats change, and the government produces more quarters, and quarters buy shit which leads to more quarters, and some OCD asshole in georgia or bammer or something somewhere collects them all and organizes in rows of 6s and 8s by dates they were pressed and dates he found them, and cross-referenced by the day of the week (alphabetically) or numerically, number of letters in that day, deciding by -- get this -- a FLIP OF THE COIN, and his family disowned him, his dog even dislikes him, his sister can't understand why he's so messed up and she herself is so normal, and perhaps he was molested as a child or hit by a car or stung by some weird blood-disease-inducing insect (which had no malevolence in it's tiny insect heart, it was just hungry) which was enough to not truly poison or kill him, just enough to destroy his otherwise normal thoughts and way of processing the world.. and in so being his misery is deep and grey and no smell color or taste, like radon, but when he finds his orderly correctness it is appropriate and proper and so right in a way that would never make any sense to anyone else ever, it is a simple singular binary feeling in his way, in his mind, in his proper perspective of the world... and this too he measures numerically, and cross-references with secondary and tertiary methods of measurement, all equally meaningless to anyone but him and especially to him, as he is a hybrid production of not only the normal human way of being and thinking but also this inevitable fucked up and "free radical" endless flowing way of creating and perpetuating new just-as-meaningless-logic, as meaningless to him as anyone else's non-logic wouldn't be to them, either...

and he has his quarters, and his counting, and his days counting down.. and pacman has his dots, and his warp tunnels, and his non-dead-zombie non-pacmans in limbo waiting for all the other pacmen to join them at the end of time, which is the flipped tunnel end of the beginning of time, ironically...

and i have my job and my black keyboard and my jumpy leg, and my bleary contact lenses. and office supply ad shipping ron has diane, and new jersey, and the Tivo. and we will never cross paths for real, for neither of us exist (well, i do, at least, or at least i think i can tell i do because it hurts a little when i hit my arm, to check)

and i have to go to sleep so i can wake up in 5 hrs and drop my car off at the mechanic so he can rip me off and make me pissed of a little bit more in a shitty part of los angeles on monday morning, and then i will go through another week of my life doing the same pointless thing which is all the meaning in the world to me, anyway. Don't swim in your trash. And if you do, don't come up for air, because you can find some between the trash.. in "trashy-air pockets"