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The Sentient Weaponry

alert   Mature content     No. 270    Published October 21st, 2021 9:16am pdt       read ( words)     Past entries

I -- Silent Guns

"I don't need to worry about the heritage bullshit anymore. The importance is in the history of the forest. This is the truth. I had forgotten the meaning while trying to immerse myself in comfort and the little devices which bring me solace and keep the outside world at arm's length. There is no way I will concern myself with that shit from the beginning of this year from this point and forward into whatever the future may hold. The trees have shown the way. Arm's length. That is fucking funny. The truth is I need it to be much further than that. All the way, actually. Karen's neck is gorgeous. Anyway, one song this morning and the act of listening twice since then have prompted me to remember what really exists in my heart. All the way back to that fateful day when the landline went away. I am not fucking kidding. At long last, I have begun to embrace what is truly important to my future on this earth and all of the shit which needs to be graded aside. Ignored. Destroyed, if necessary. Nothing will stand in the way.

Saturday morning. I'm going for a shot in the arm in about three hours and then shopping. The remainder of the day will be spent here. I have to take it easy after not feeling well last night. Still losing it, but with a shred of direction. Help granny make the bed. She will drive us to the cabin as long as we don't have the music too loud. And then the beds. And then the ride to the line. And then the seafood. Um... Descending. No direction. Tired. Beaten. Leave it.

Help granny make the bed.

Black dress? Hmm... I don't know. We sat there and I was floored by the number of beauties all crammed into one space. They were all over the bar and restaurant but I could not go on about it out of respect. The only one even slightly off seemed the bartender and her little-too-small t-shirt revealing everything. She approached and I saw that her face was frightening. Not unattractive or intimidating, just a type difficult to describe. She served us during the entire first visit, breasts bouncing along the barback as she trotted. The other girl who seated us and brought lunch was super nice and very helpful. Not much time passed before I was paying zero attention to any of them. The prostitute from the early eighties came to mind, all leopard print, hair and cleavage, and sent my head to the past with tremendous force. At that point I realized the girls in the bar were not actually figures to be gazed upon or appreciated, but workers I was better off ignoring. The moments thirty-seven years ago in the lobby of the hotel took me away from everything. She literally smiled and propositioned me right then and there -- something highly risky and quite illegal even now -- and frightened me enough to tie my tongue soon after. Sitting with lunch and a few drinks so many years later, I considered the effect of what I had seen and experienced throughout early life and those trips I took as I became either bored or otherwise uninterested in whatever was taking place in my world. I caused much heartache and difficulty for others, and they had been on a higher level than me for a very long time. Now they have been discarded (and disregarded) in favor of learning the truth. We did help granny make the bed. The bed is gone.

Crash this morning. A crash. Bent chrome. I wish I had a snapshot of the prostitute standing there in the lobby. I'd love to see her again. What? Speaking? That would be different now. Very different. The wonder is all but gone. Elusive, I would say. Depressing, honestly. That woman was working, good or bad as such a life may be, and I recall staring because she was beautiful and I wondered about how it all worked. Was it the hotel or someone else who employed her? Was she all by herself? I knew nothing except television, and that medium was very different back then. Meaning? I knew nothing.

The bar and the lobby are directly related. Back when I was so young, everything was a mystery and enticing. Some parts of life are still enticing, yet the mystery is gone. Everything is known. No fun any longer. As I sat and watched the various servers move around the room, I noticed how radically the mainstream appearance and clothing had changed. Much less to the imagination, and quite often. I don't know what that means now, but I do know one of them was the focal point of my interest and I would have lunged at her given the chance. It all relates to knowing of the road behind me and the situation born of my past spinning like a merry-go-round with images of people and situations rather than horses and unicorns. I became a desperate, sad person in need of far too much to be reasonably balanced or stable. More words will only ruin this and cause me to hide from the Internet. I can't have that right now. But those early years showed me the wonder on one side and the pain on the other. Both of them combined to send me into this cocoon and leave me constantly wondering and needing things better not described here. Problems on the inside and outside. Problems, problems, problems. And they continue to work on my brain no matter the circumstances. This is concern of a type I could not have imagined back when that woman stood there looking like a very revealing dream with sweet eyes. Lots of concern, over both how I think and how someone else may react. I may very well clam up for the duration.



05

I'm sorry, but fucking look at her


The snow tunnel that weekend. Throwers came by and flooded the yard. We had to park on the street and dig a literal tunnel to the front porch. That may have been when I met a girl named 'Jill' in the arcade above Barney's casino (both are gone and have been for years). She was super cute. The leopard-sex cash register was a few years later.

Pretty fucking uncomfortable these days. And losing it a chunk at a time.

Black dress now? The blue one is gone forever. We let that idea go away. Now there remain only dreams, some of which are not good while others are wonderful. One in particular, honestly, and I don't know if I ever went into detail about that one. I am surprised my head has not gone in such a direction these last few days because my waking mind is all over it. Falling down again. Pissy, confused, depressed, and in the trees. The guns cannot be heard because I am muffling the shots. Muffling the shots? You read that correctly. I have to keep everything silent or I will be disregarded and ridiculed, no matter how bad this feels. The little things will have to hold me up in the meantime. Two hours until the injection. I'm glad that is happening. Afterward we may go shopping at the big store. Want the truth? Nothing to worry about in that place. There is always the rare exception, but ninety percent of their clientèle is pretty fucking hideous. Not like other stores. I mentioned the truth. Well, the last three occasions of a strike drove me straight down the mountain and I fell into picturing actions and situations better left out of this markup. The thong was not the clincher. A dream did it to me. Everything was under my control and right there in hand. Oh, there was a thong, just not THAT one. You know.

Too much. Two much. T'much? Smush. Losing it a day at a time. This day is a little further. Yesterday there was gun/fire. Today there are guns, albeit silent guns. Words are bullets, bullets are words. I'm not a big fan of a French accent (mostly on males), but this girl on the show makes it sound rather nice. She also has absolutely amazing shoulders. Very slender, but I know not how tall. I'll have to find that information on the Net. Long, dark hair (yep), dark eyes (yep), and so much going on with the Fibonacci sequence on her face that when I see her approach the bar my head goes right into her personal space. Right there, standing in front of her -- very fucking close, like almost nose to nose -- and gushing everything regarding how unique and special she is. Eh... Doesn't matter. Oh my, she stands a half inch shy of five-nine. No wonder her arms look that way. Gushing. No, it's not her. It's me and my never-ending distorted sense of reality and helpless position in life as it relates to the fairer sex. Dire thinking, as if I will fucking die without telling her what I need to express and then demonstrating whatever I am feeling. And that brings us to a stopgap of sorts... A fucking problem... And an oxymoron...

The person in question is a woman, meaning the opposite of everything which can make sense, and a physical representation of both damage and temptation. Eve? No, nothing so dramatically literary. A woman. Frightening, to the last. Remember when I said I had been 'led' around? Still happening, although the present stance is one of both understanding and hatred. I don't hate her. I hate what I have become as a result of those who harmed me, and all of it relates to sex. Being straight means women are the draw. Sex. Women. Everything. Get it? This is bad and the black dress is full of holes. Remember that damned woman with the knife? I think she finally stabbed me because I told her to do so. Maybe I was cross-dressing, wearing that black thingy when she popped holes in me. What do you think? No... Not possible. The dress represents something else. Hmm... Maybe her knife turned into a gun and fired.

Miserable this morning. Everything is swirling and there is no outlet. I suppose going out for a while can serve to break up what may have been an otherwise dead-end kind of day, though. Distractions aplenty. That is very good right now. Afterward I can do whatever needs to be accomplished at home. Guns, all the while. Silent guns sending bullets everywhere. Vulpine guns. Foxes with agendas. The forest is barely helping. I didn't know.

This is a bad time.



06


Good God the first image reminds me of meeting Andrea on the plane. We sat on the opposite side of the fuselage, though. She was on the aisle. And then she was wrapped around me as if the world was ending.

That time has passed. This time is bad. [Image replaced.]

There is the French girl again telling the chef she eats too much of his gnocchi and may end up with a 'belly'. And then she slides up her top to reveal no such concern. What a fucking work of art. Reminds me of the other beauty two seasons up who stated to the same chef, 'you look at me like food'. Heh. I don't blame him. Quite the 'dish', that woman. Tall, dark and fucking frightening. One more 'heh'. Whoever cast those two actors hit it out of the fucking park, especially the first. Jesus fuck. I wanted to dive into the television and...

Almost time to get ready. I'm nervous but this must be done. Quick, in and out, and then everything will be okay.

Sunday now. Morning coffee, my friends up there keeping me company, and one sore shoulder. As I said, I was quite nervous but the process was very simple and fairly quick. Afterward, we went to the big store and I did not feel any ill effects until the soreness hours later. We went back out a little while after to eat lunch and then head to the drug store. By the time I was able to turn on the media and unload the car in an organized manner, my shoulder was really sore. Care had to be taken. A little ice on and off helped, along with a few glasses of medicine on the rocks. Heh. Not funny. The evening was mostly quiet and I took the time to relax for the duration. This morning the shoulder is a touch better but still mostly unusable. I'll be at the bar again for the game several hours from now. The usual business at home and then the evening again. There is little to do, really, because the house remained in order yesterday. This is good. I need to recover. The painful yet rewarding shoulder feeling is steering this vehicle toward the title.

The silent guns can be thoughts or words. Hushed voices. Bullshit platitudes from the manipulative fucks of the world. They have them, always, and at the ready just in case shit is not being steered in their preferred direction. I've seen and heard enough for ten lifetimes, and though I've performed the same deceitful magic upon those unknowing souls who could pave the way to my comfort, the reasoning back then was generally my own destruction rather than advancement. Therein lies the key. Those guns may be silent but they are eventually heard loud and clear and over the noise of society. Pushed, pulled, and otherwise formed into whatever fits the bill for the flavor and sweetness of the day. And then the exploding rounds, too. They don't care due to the weight and dire necessity of the agenda. I have lived it and am living it. The escapes are shrinking, as is my patience. Vulpine guns, people. Some of you have them, others do not. Unravel this paragraph and see if you can find the meaning.

The forest is cool, like the weather outside this morning. Not cold yet, just cool. I am barely within the air. I see them there, all pretty hair but unaware. The stare. I must swear. To what? Allegiance to the beginning... The creators of this place all massive and overpowering. I have to show that I can remain here among the fortunate. Swear it. Believe it. All pretty hair and unaware. The tools are there... The prizes. Prized by the unwise, yet lies remain in disguise. The beauty belies. The silent guns must be avoided or destroyed, lest they destroy me. Thus far my track record is such that destruction is impossible. It is out there, though. I just cannot reach it because I continue to reach for the prizes fully aware that I would be better off avoiding all of them. Too weak, still. Hence my entrance to this dark place. I am hoping the time inside this most judgmental of states can help lift me to see what I must do. This is not easy. I am roiling and moving against everything which has driven my mindset for twenty years, the latter half being the worst. I still do not know if anything can be done. I may sit here and wonder for a few days and then be spat out and rejected by those who hold the control over this place. Unworthy. Unwanted. The silent guns will push from one side and the creators from the other.



07


'Ahh what the fuck? God damn fuckin' bitch!!!'

His reaction to her was awesome. Out of context, of course, but still... Fantastic.

Really getting the feeling now. The sun may be shining in a little while and the threatening angle is going to look wonderful. Only ten days into the month and I am seeing the 'mountain' drives again. We can't go, but still the wonder is in my brain. Naturally, those with the silent guns have all the influence necessary to switch those switches. The train goes where they dictate. The fucking vulpine guns again. All I do is sit back and watch the scenery go past. Whatever. The silent guns cannot last forever, especially considering they also tend to threaten the forest, and we cannot have that for a second. 'Thy will be done'. Ooh-fa the anger swells when I think about such things. Threats. And then all the bullshit flying in every direction and pushing from all sides? More bullets from those who would use them. Bunch of shit. The silence is screaming, the guns pointing, my brain planning. Steps. One and then another and then another. Steps. And believe me... Fall is the time when the forest will assist every fucking one of them. It is there for me. Helping, embracing, and calming. The guns cannot penetrate, yet I must work to survive. The foxes will know. Little things. They will know. Eh... Even if they don't know, a plan will be quickly formulated in order to place them above all others. Standard procedure. Or maybe that little stretch to attempt derailment of the path. One or the other, for sure. M.O.

Silent guns, indeed. The miniature dish at the market, remember? Did she have silent guns? Guns at all? There is only one way of learning the truth, and that is to push toward something wondrous and then watch the ammunition from out of thin fucking air. Or what about the pair of pants I tried to follow at the huge wine store? Yep, guns, and I am not referring to her arms. Silent, those guns. You will not hear them, ever. The evidence will become apparent much too late. Oh I just had a feeling. The garage open and a fire in the backyard. I can't do it, though, because we wore out the last firepit and it fell apart. Heh. I'd love to be out there, too. Maybe next month when the morning is even cooler. Anyway, the morsel at the market has what they all have. Yes, I said 'they', because we are opposites, to the last. I'll see her again one of these days, marvel at the shape and her brightness, and then go on my merry way thinking about the consequences and massive cost of such beauty. Not like the motivational poster, either. I am referring to life itself.

Eight in the morning now. This time yesterday I was nervous. Today I am much better and no longer worried about the second appointment in a month. Knowing the process was straightforward and as comfortable as possible has eased my mind. And then six months after that one, I guess. The rules keep changing, but whatever. Today is bright and wide open for me. I need that. Wow, did they ever cast these two women well. Both are unnervingly irritating and harsh. I love it. Anyway, today feels even better than yesterday after lunch. Everything which normally feels like a chore was much nicer due to going through what I would consider a trial. Others may not see it that way, but again... I know what I am and what I am not. Don't even get me fucking started. I don't like the situation one fucking bit, yet this is what I was destined to deal with thanks to all those guns in the past (we shall get to them in due time, believe me). The trial left me very appreciative of the lifestyle I have here at home and I embraced it fully. Today will be the same. I already see the positives. The silent guns will be even more silent, as well, because I will be gone from here and in the fold of the invisible for several hours. Even if there is some gorgeous fucking strike, I will come out the other side with the positive of arriving home and being in my element as well as knowing there are ways of avoiding some of the guns.

I don't understand the drive of what I see on the screen sometimes. We talked about the subject the other day.

Some of the other shit has been trying to creep in since Friday but the trees are helping to shield me. I can't have that fucking crap on top of everything else right now. I'll fucking blow up in some random direction. The silent and other guns may have their influence, but I also have guns. In here under the canopy of darkness, those guns keep me comfortable. I don't know if the vulpine shit or that other fucking crap is the same for those who are carrying, but one certainty is the idea of my being treated unfairly resulting in a fight. They are not going to want such a situation, so everyone has to keep their shit holstered.

Or else.



08


Ahh... Last night I stood in the wash of the color just before closing shop for the day. I have been doing the same for a week or so just to enjoy the fruits of my engineering and labor. It's kind of nice. Depending upon the weather, the garage may be quite the spectacle on Halloween. I don't know how I am going to feel yet, so the idea is tentative.

The guns will be there, too. They are always present and looming just in case I slip and make a mistake. They will not listen to reason most of the time and cannot always be averted. I must be careful. The silent guns are the most difficult of this entry because they are attached to those parts of life I have not been able to avoid for a very long time, and because the draw seems to be increasing of late. For whatever reason, something flipped the other day and I lost my shit for a time, afterward realizing what took place. I can't put it here, though. Too risky. But I will say the silent guns were right there alongside the feelings of need. They never fucking leave, those damned things, but I have thus far found avenues to help deal with them. Believe it or not, I have actually been able to turn them inward and work everything to my advantage, although such behavior is not always possible. I can't count on anything going my way so I constantly plan for the opposite and then become overjoyed when I see a brighter situation and force it. The guns may always be there, but at least I fucking KNOW what to expect most of the time. I have to be very careful not to create a chasm. Years of observation and experimentation have taught me how to control a good portion of those situations, however. I still have the tools when necessary.

I spoke of manipulation. Well, turn that one around. Yep.

I recall a quiet walk outside the cheap-ass lodge at NASA almost exactly eleven years ago. We strolled out and across the parking lot and looked up at the stars. The area is very peaceful due to being divided from the city streets and population. I had booked the room to spend the night there but she did not stay. Just a short visit. Our conversations often became unconventional, and that night was no different. She flat out asked me to tell her something about myself which may not necessarily be a good thing. Understandable. I was speaking with a very well-thought and intelligent woman. I vacillated for a few seconds and then stated that I was deceptive. A bit more conversation and we split for the night. Very interesting. The answer to her question was easy. Think about it... I was there with her covertly. No one knew. I had to lie not long after. That is all I can say about the period because I still feel pangs of self-destructive behavior due to what took place shortly after that night at the lodge. The point is I answered honestly -- a positive -- but revealed a negative.

Deceit and manipulation go hand-in-hand. I've seen it and lived it, yet the true force to be reckoned is when 'they' use information to their advantage whilst simultaneously damaging another. Silent guns, and the bullets can penetrate anything. That is when the divisions begin, and they never fucking end. The guns of life are in six categories. The silent guns are often pretty fucking bad. Not the worst, just bad.

Monday morning.

Here we go gathering assholes in October. Again with the guns.

The festivities yesterday were fine. Relaxing for the most part and little concern as the hours went by sitting in the fold of sports people. The best were close and the rest were far. No strikes, no gutters. My own limitations did not come into play very much at all. Those of others... Well... Doesn't matter. I paid attention to the people moving around the room only when a game was between plays. Four football games at once plus baseball can be difficult to follow, but there is a huge upside. Keeping track of so much means ignoring everyone in the room. Wonderful, that feeling. The atmosphere was fine, food was fine, booze was fine. I remained there about an hour too long, although the time was not very important. Arriving home effectively ceased my thinking about all those other people and their behavior at the bar. There is always a part of me which does not like to be near them, or at least within earshot. It is actually growing but I must keep it in check for the time being. I do not wish for people to know what I am thinking.

Lots of wind outside as thoughts swirl inside. The guns... Silent as they are... Following and pointed at me all the time. I can't listen without hearing everything. No matter the selectivity, everything comes through and surrounds my otherwise clear thinking and derails me to the point of going directly to the caring and support while my inner self loses out. Silent guns. Always there. Forever. Dividing the world by way of a term I cannot write...



II -- The Divisional Gun

Now the outside really looks like fall. All the wind and dryness along with the sun moving ever-further south from its apogee and turning shadows into long demons. Love it. Today will be mostly spent at home, the afternoon will find me visiting for the baseball game on into the evening. This means I have many hours ahead. After accomplishing so much yesterday, I am free to enjoy the appearance of fall quite a bit more than usual. When I was working, fall seemed to fly by way too fast for my comfort. Now? Each day is longer. I intend to embrace the fall as much as possible every day and appreciate all the aspects which have always drawn me to this time of year. Look, there is more Cindy. Tired of her? I can't look enough.

The guns are still present no matter the season or my mood. Much of the anger has subsided for the time being, yet there is moodiness hanging on. I cannot fully define this right now, though. Today may end up being very important to my well-being in that I can separate what is going on outside my world in the forest from those people and guns which are constant threats. Most of them are female. Cindy is here for the millionth time and for good reason. She is one of the most beautiful faces imaginable, yet still very intimidating. The more perceived beauty, the more intimidation. The more intimidation, the larger the dividing line between her and the rest of the world, as well as between the beauty and myself. Said gap is pointing itself at weakness, always. That weakness is sitting right here. No sooner do I try to do everything expected and please anyone, the gunfire once again reveals the massive divide between me and the way things could be. The gun fires just once and I am lost in that chasm mentioned above. Falling, floating, whatever... I am in it and cannot get out of my own accord. Eventually everything relaxes and I am helped out only to move along in life and watch the entire series all over again. This is the place and time of the divisional gun, the one firearm between where I am in life and where I would like to be, yet the out of balance nature of my inner being defines the place I'd like to be as something damaging. This is not good. This is a bad time.

Think of me on a conveyor going round and round a shooting gallery. Crack! And I tip over backward before righting myself and moving on to the next shooter. With the silent guns this is a constant process while 'they' are near. The divisional gun is a more haphazard process, and one which does not always come around. The target never changes, however. The divisional gun is also a part of life impossible to avoid, ever.

Today is bright. The sun's angle is increasingly shallow, too. Combined with dry air, this is the look and feel of actual fall days, unlike when I was out in the valley with the warmth hanging on throughout October. I'll have to spend some time out there and enjoy as much as I can before heading out for the game. The garage awaits a bit of attention and I have the usual things to care for, also bringing me to some smaller items that can be quickly squashed before afternoon. Baby steps, I suppose. All the while I will be thinking of the leaves blowing along the street.



09

Waiting to go to work, February 9th, 2020 4:57am


I have to get away from this very soon. Before I do, read the analysis below of an album I recently purchased before ever hearing one note of music. I had a feeling it might be something special and I was correct. The atmosphere is amazing. I will not reveal the band or album name, though, because I cannot have my opinion attached to anything tangible. Experience has shown me such behavior will only bring more guns. The paragraphs are still very readable and with their points intact despite the proper names being absent. I am too private a person for anyone to read into my taste in anything aside from beauty.

'A hefty chunk of metal has to do with reckonings. Whether about the absence of God, the rejection of the superficially "beautiful", or the fact that we will all be worm-food one day, bands use the medium to highlight the darker side of a showdown we all must face. If pop is about how we'd LIKE things to be, metal is about how things ARE. Part of reckoning is looking back honestly at our lives as we get older. [Removed], the debut album by [removed] -- a German black metal trio created by former [removed] front-man, [removed] -- centers on an old man who retreats to a cottage deep in the mountains to reflect on his life. As he delves deeper into his memories, he becomes progressively more absorbed into the darkness he finds, until it consumes him and he perishes.

When I wrote that pop is about how we'd like things to be, and metal is about how things are, I think that I was trying to point out that metal shakes us out of the complacency we are so easily lulled into. Death -- metal tells us -- is final. God -- metal tells us -- doesn't exist. Best you deal with those realities, metal literally screams.

Regarding the old man of this album, if this were pop, he would learn and grow through his reclusive introspection. He would make peace with his past and either rejoin society, or have a solemn and meaningful end. [Removed] make the point that this isn't necessarily the case. The act of hermetically sealing oneself off and indulging in this introspection may result in one being consumed by it. The reckoning we all face may not be a peaceful one. And it may not result in catharsis or growth. This is what I mean by metal keeping it "real".'

Tuesday morning and again the first day in four in which I'll be alone. I have plans, too. Yesterday afternoon before I took off to watch the game, the garage advanced a little more. Each day goes further. For a while I actually embraced the fears of the forest but the time was nigh for me to deal with others very soon after. Later today I will do the same. Hopefully longer, too. I need it. There is Jamie. That will give you an idea of what I am watching this early morning. Anyway, I'll split my time between the house and garage today with the forest atmosphere following along for most of it. Dark outside still. Very cool. I tried to enjoy the cool a bit more yesterday but the plans intervened before long. Today can be different. I may also head to the hardware again for some material supporting the cabinet doors. First and foremost is the routine followed by some of this, and then whatever else comes next.

Divided, and I see and feel such a state every day. Mornings are when I can clear my head and think about the influence, leading, and bullshit, whereas the evenings are spent currying favor for the next day to be peaceful and/or satisfying. The divisional gun is almost always pointed during both periods. Ready. Cocked. It will run through its operating cycle if I do not remain in front of or otherwise on top of the situations which play out during the evenings and weekends. There is a line always present. One side or the other does not matter. The existence of the line is key, and the gun accentuates the power one side has over the other. It is a constant exercise in patience and satiation, with both being critical to my survival as well as supporting a certain lifestyle I can no longer live without. The division will never go away. It cannot. We are not equal. Period. Cannot be, ever. Too different, and those differences will eventually be our undoing, all the while filling with holes caused by the divisional gun. The clock will turn, details will be altered, yet in the end there is literally nothing which can be done to alleviate the difficulty inherent in trying to move along the same line. One side or the other. There is nothing else any longer.

But the gun can never fire. We are stuck like this forever... Threatened by the division.



10

Talk about fucking DOE eyes... Jesus holy hell


I believe the best course right now is to do my best in ignoring those differences and focusing upon the little things I can change which may later add up to further dividing lines no one will understand. If that's the way it has to be, I'll do it. I simply cannot have the shit leading me around anymore. Unacceptable. Today is the first glimpse of such an outlook and plan, meaning once I am within my sphere of control I can begin to formulate a transition to fully embrace the forest-type of mood. I am already in here, too. The feeling is new. I have to position myself so as to avoid the divisional gun making me a target.

The devices are now available to embrace just after eight in the morning. I have a little coffee left and the surrogate family is up there keeping me company. 'It's too late'. Thanks, Robert. Everything awaits my attention, including some dramatic consideration of what the divisional gun has already done to me and the sheer level of care required for my survival in dealing with other people, most notably those with the vulpine parts. They rule but may yet rue. We shall see what the forest can accomplish in the coming weeks. '...Kiss the poison breast', indeed. They are out there at the ready. Avoidance, to be sure. Figure it out.

The air outside is even crisper than yesterday at this hour. I love it. The sun is peeking and can hopefully warm the house enough to preclude the furnace operating by evening. Low humidity is difficult sometimes but very good for a house sitting just inches from the water table. The ocean is very close. This morning I felt the holidays again, beginning with the upcoming silly Halloween activities along with both college and pro football. The combination can help me survive the season without falling on my face over losing the past combined with feeling such a huge gradient between then and present life. I may yet break out the old fiction I created just after returning from the Midwest. That story is directly related and heavily influenced by my need to escape and find a place capable of slowing time enough to really experience what enters my heart.

'Next sound you hear.' -- Credenzo Curtis, again. That never loses its impact.

Tony's ex-girl is wearing the most hideous pair of underwear imaginable. Fit, shape, color, cut... Everything. I cannot recall something designed to be pretty yet looking so horrible. The woman has an amazing midsection but they ruined it with such a garment. Ugh... Just awful.

Divided and falling down. Tony just drove over his own golf bag. Here we go.

Help granny make the bed.

I am still losing my way a bit more each hour of every day. Today is no different. A few things are holding me up as much as they are able, yet the fall is imminent, I fear. At least I don't sit here and lie to myself with all sorts of bullshit positivity and excessively-clichéd phrasing. I can't stand when people gush all their glowing words and overused platitudes regarding dealing with life when it is difficult. I will not do that, ever. It is a lever, forever. Light as a feather, whether or not clever. Cleaver? Leave her. I'm losing it.

People will band together and speak of bad things and then let flow the stupid shit thinking that the world will instantly be made easier for the effort. Things don't work that way. Bad things happen. They will continue to happen regardless of how many stupid fucking aphorisms they may employ. Realistic thinking will take some further. Others? Not at all. Whatever. I should take my own advice and leave the subject alone because all I am is another person with an opinion. And opinions are like...

Yep.



11


Into the day now, three hours along. I kicked into gear and finished the routine, plus I went around the exterior and laid down a critter perimeter spray. The chemical is advertised to last up to twelve months but I never trust their estimates. I'll go back around as soon as rain is forecast just to make sure. The little fuckers generally keep their distance unless they have reason to either avoid water or find something to eat. This season there have been zero invasions, so the spray should help as the weather cools. Time will tell. I also disassembled the damned lavatory drain and cleaned the hell out of it because I've been smelling the drain throat for days. Earlier I smelled it and closed off the clicker to see if that was the problem. Well, the scent went away so I went to town with the disinfectant and soap. The last step was to fill the sink with soap and hot water and then flood the fucker. It drains like a champ -- that is to be expected since the sink goes less than two feet and then straight into the main stack. I guess I'll just have to pull it apart every few months and clean. That is that.

I still have a few things to finish in the garage today, too. The clothing rack motor is boxed and I mounted it up high near the center post. Once the wiring is connected it will be good to go. The motor was previously mounted above my tool box but interfered with the lighting and appeared as an eyesore on the otherwise clean wall. Now it is further out of sight and more efficient. Lorraine has beautiful hair. Just saying. The only other pressing matter is to bring the goddess to her vaccination appointment this afternoon and offer some moral support. I know how worrisome shots can be, and after receiving mine last weekend I simply must help. I'll take off in about five hours. Between now and then I can chip away at little annoyances and toss some more shit in the trash, all in the name of empty space. I have yet to cut and mount the cabinet doors above the laundry but that is a low priority. Ah... The mail is here. Nice.

The subject of this entry must now be addressed once again because I am not happy despite all the progress around the house. Jesus Harold Christ on a fucking rubber crutch, Emmylou's voice is velvet. Bless her. I recall my ex telling me her dad was madly in love with Emmylou all the way through the seventies. Heh. I don't blame him.

The divisional gun may be the worst of the bunch, honestly. There can be no avoiding the differences, and considering how much bullshit can fly when combined with the sheer extent of the duality, this gun represents what could be defined as the tallest and most treacherous climb through the forest. Differences are permanent, meaning the division is equally so. Every fucking time I stretch my caring and imagination in hopes of providing some enjoyment and/or quality media and gathering time, the division rears its head and slams me back to the beginning of wisdom: I do not know. There it is... I do not know why I continued to try after so many fucked up occasions in which the divisional gun popped me a new asshole right in the forehead. But I did it again and again until finally rearing up and drawing a very unfriendly line. Now I am on the other side out of the dire need to continue on my path without the bullshit. I am in the forest, although this early in the process means not much is different. Soon, though. Very soon I will have need to draw another line, and then another, and then several more after that. The last eighteen months have cemented the idea of remaining at arm's length, if not further away from those who would try to derail my comfort and peace of mind. I cannot trust that shit any longer. Hence the definition of the divisional gun: That process in which those other people work to advance their own position at both my expense and that of what I have been trying to do. We are divided, permanently. The gun was created by those minds and their agendas, pointed at me, and subsequently fired for the sole purpose of manipulation. Satan's own fiery spawn could not have done a more effective job of illuminating my necessary path into the solitude and power of the forest mindset. The dark mood never lightens. The divisional gun did this to me.



12


One of the most important images of Cindy and the resolution is crap. That rhymes with 'gap', and there it is in every sense of the word. Still driving a part of me? Maybe, but the feelings are different now than back during the Raven period. Much different. I hope She knew (knows) of the depth of appreciation. I just fucking hope. The image above likely does not need to be any clearer to get the point across, though. Just look. The woman's appearance is important to me in a way far beyond what you may believe.

Wednesday morning now, fairly early. Yesterday's progress around the house feels good even if my brain is stumbling all over the place. I'll hang on to the work feelings to keep my head out of the din, I suppose, lest the fall become something physical. I am already having enough trouble this week without the mass of guns pointed at me. I can manufacture trouble out of thin air but am trying to avoid that shit right now.

The line moves back and forth like the tide depending upon what type of conversation or situation is taking place because the division can never go away. People will continue on the path they believe is the optimal, yet in the background of life they remain behind the lights which show off the fruits of their efforts, rotten as they have become. No one sees the line. They simply imagine themselves 'good' and go on about their business as the divide widens and eventually melds into the landscape as a permanent fixture. I feel it all the time. Lots of bullshit spewed, word-bullets, strikes upside the fucking head... I don't need any more of that crap in my life. Full up, people. The divisional gun is a circumstance, and one I have yet to make my way around.

Just after eight in the morning and I have the day to myself. Yesterday afternoon I took her to the vaccination appointment and then home, but other than that short trip I was here all day. I did much while home. Today will be similar with some laundry and such, and then perhaps a bit further into the deeper cleaning. I built one of the cabinet doors yesterday and then hung it above the laundry. It looks ok I suppose, although I had to reinforce the plywood with some fir to keep it flat. Not sure if I like it or not. Maybe later I can head over to the hardware and pick up shims to get it looking better. I am definitely not a cabinet maker, however the functional aspect is more important. If the doors were art they would be in a museum instead of my garage. Heh. Anyway, I might make the other door later and evaluate the whole picture before pulling the first one down. I will probably go around the house with more perimeter treatment just to use up the gallon. My routine will kick off as soon as the coffee is gone. Yesterday's work is helping to keep my head up this morning.

The divisional gun shall remain pointed at me no matter the circumstances in life. I already know nothing can be done about whatever situation may arise as a result of the issues inside. I just have to deal with it, I suppose. The line cannot move. They are over there and I am over here. All those excursions flying around the country have solidified aspects of me previously able to be altered. Now? No more possibility. Another example of my weak nature took place yesterday. I felt it. Not good. The divide widened with me flailing and grabbing toward invisible handholds while being struck upside the head over and over. Just like the market a while back, I could not avoid allowing my head to float down the river of desire and show me not only what I have become, but also the fact that there is no avoiding the stare-down of that gun. Weakened. Frail. Desperate, still. Another fleeting situation piled atop the rest. I've seen them all. The race, the market, numerous shitty strikes in the city over a period of years, and this latest proof that the line is forever in front of me. I cannot get them out of my head.

Perhaps the worst of the guns, even moreso than those of the interstitial spaces. Divided, fallen, flat on my sullen face. 'Stop makin meatballs, Paulie'.

The LDS spoke of divine callings, testimony, other shit. Something else is up there, however. Something they can never see...



III -- The Divine Gun

Up there. Out there. Beautiful and waiting. The divine may be the end-all be-all of this entire line of thinking. I cannot be sure until certain tumblers fall into place, though. Steps. Expressions. Bullshit all over the place. Love. It. Up there, I see. Just like zero-four, I see it looking back at me with big eyes and allowing me to gaze without restriction. Care must be taken or this most appealing of guns will kill me sure as hell. Go back to the top image of the lovely Cindy and her unequaled face and you can see what I see while peering up at the divine gun. Thrall, to the last. All in, as they might say. All the way in. Cindy is one of the chambers. Or, more accurately, she represents the effect of beauty upon my being.

The only gun to which I am drawn, attracted, more. Much more. I've seen it before me on a small number of occasions and may never again. The images are there permanently, though. Divine and untouchable. I have been trying to compensate for a very long time, only knowing such a fact with some recent insight and a very clear dream one morning.

We spoke about the Asian thingy yesterday both during the vaccine appointment and afterward on the ride back to her house. I was slammed by a prime example in reality of the type I have been dreaming on and off for many years. Right there, all slender and smooth; long, flowing hair, and standing at decent height for her nationality. Something happened after the hair, though, and I am almost embarrassed to say I quickly became curious as to what she might look like without the lab coat and mask. When a face is cute with a mask, that is something unexpected. The hair pulled me in and then I saw more, until finally sitting and seeing that she was the one administering the vaccine injection. The entire process was quick, although it felt like an entire universe flew by after hearing her voice (unreal) and seeing the kindness in her eyes. Healthcare professionals are very often kind and caring naturally, and such a thought only added to her allure. After leaving, we discussed what the draw could be. Simple. A few aspects... Dark hair and eyes, a lithe build, and exotic features. I'm certain many feel the same. I was pulled as if the girl at the pharmacy was the exact figure in that most damaging, confusing of dreams. There is no way in hell it is true, though. This morning I still feel somewhat like I did at the race, as if there was a moment. Nothing was there, honestly. Just a person doing her job. The fact that she looked like a dream does not mean anything. There is Joseph on the screen again, bless his amazing talent. Anyway, the race girl looked at me in a way no one has since Ashley, while the Asian beauty yesterday paid almost zero attention to me (as it should have been) because I was only there for moral support and not as a patient. The repercussions continue to this very second despite such brief contact.

The divine gun is a six-chambered revolver, and the girl at the pharmacy represents one round. This will never go away. The thingy carries on. From its infantile beginnings in the mid-zeros, the interest grew out of control shortly thereafter and then plateaued just before I moved to this place from the other side of the bay. I remember those who knew me intimately (I cannot name them; one coworker, one email pen-pal, and my neighbor's fiancée) when I revealed that I had been slipping out of the norm and doing something very bad. I admitted there was a draw pulling me like wind and all three reacted almost immediately by asking if the draw in question was Asian. That is how well-known my penchant was during that terrible year. [As an aside, the coworker I mentioned was a combination of Chinese and Filipina; one of those beauties that not one soul would have denied.] The interest is still there and loaded into the divine gun. A different kind of beauty than what you see down this entry, yet still a similar pull upon me. Considering this metropolitan area and how the demographics have changed over time, I am surprised I do not see more Asian stunners out there on a regular basis.

Two chambers there, I see. Two different types of beauty. The divine gun is loaded with more, though, and I hesitate to reveal the contents due to fear of ridicule. That one is a huge push against much of what I leave out of this shit. Believe it. There is so much going on inside which never sees this keyboard that I am surprised to be an actual functioning human being. You'll notice I did not say 'adult' like in the past. The truth is I do not feel like an adult because what I place here shows off and clearly defines my fears and limitations, adding to that the idea that the way I think every day is similar to a child. I have been told I am something else, yet my brain does not often compute that word. I am getting away from the subject.

The divine gun chambers are not the 'speedloader' type. The cylinder is fixed. Single-action, too. Six openings which hold those parts of life which direct traffic in my head. Yesterday was a good example of the chambered round sending my head into a tailspin. Some force put her there and I reacted accordingly (typically, too).

I let the SSL expire because there is no interactive content here any longer, resulting in a secure connection now being unnecessary.



13


The quiet time is mostly over. I finished my routine and some laundry, also the floor in the kitchen is much cleaner. Exciting. Pizza in the oven. This day has not been too bad. I did a ton of work for a creative commons license and set up the footer to display the link and license image. Also not very exciting, but at least the content is protected. Trying to work with the master page these days is an exercise in patience. Fortunately, the quiet helps. There is a visit scheduled in about half and hour, so that will take up the remaining time until the evening routine. I did not work in the garage aside from laundry because it's still very cool and I have zero motivation for that stuff today. I'd rather remain indoors and more comfortable.

Thursday, and the fourteenth day of the month. Nearly halfway to Halloween and I have yet to decide if I am going to wear a cape or cloak that night. I'll figure it out soon, I guess. Another cool morning following some kind of dream in which I was upset with two women near me because of something on the television or a movie screen. I know what the subject matter was, too, but cannot say it here. Years ago I was told that I am overly uptight about some things, and the dream lit that point like a fucking beacon. I am uptight about it for good reason, just as anyone who has lived through something traumatic and retains fear or hatred as a result. Some things never go away, hence the subject being another chamber in the cylinder. The divine gun carries issues large and small and all are in the stars, meaning out of my or anyone else's control, permanently. Three now, with two being types of beauty and their pull upon me and one being something which made me what I am -- good or bad -- and the way I see the world as a result. The divine gun shows me that despite my problems for so many years, there are parts of my personality that have grown greatly throughout the years and all are positive and beautiful. More than one friend has told me that bad people created a good person. The chamber is going to be at the forefront of my mind today as I work around the house due to the dream. It is unclear, but I know myself well enough to realize that the difficulty and posturing was likely my doing. It happens all the time. My desperate desire for the sight and brush of beauty began with said chamber and grew in the last two decades out of a need to validate who and what I am. There can be no question of it anymore. Unfortunately, there can also be no solution.

Jamie is an entire chamber in and of herself. And don't give me shit for mentioning her again. The feelings never go away. While Cindy represents physical prowess and the power of work, Jamie represents all of the emotion attached to the strikes of attractiveness, along with the possibility of genuine understanding actually existing. Don't try to follow this. I barely get it.

One chamber of the divine gun is filled with the recent realization I mentioned some days ago. I can't go into detail very much, though. The subject is far too sensitive and will reveal too much. Protection, always. I will say that of all six parts of the cylinder, this round is most often sitting atop the divine gun and awaiting the hammer. I just wish I knew whose thumb is on the fucking thing. Anyway, the realization has been recently supported by other evidence, most notably those first two chambers I spoke of already. And the beauty of gazing up there and seeing the gun all shiny and gorgeous also brings thoughts of the divine in one manner or another. This is probably not very clear. The point is that despite all of the difficulty inherent in the two chambers which have been defined by trauma and heartache, the entirety of the weapon is still beautiful because everything inside that cylinder makes up me. Does that make sense? I don't want to boil it down so simply that the entire creation of this entry becomes a children's fairy tale. People are complex. I am complex. I just need to keep going, I guess. Pause for the morning routine.

And the morning routine is not taking place because she is working from home. I will have to amend my day in order to adapt. No problem.

This is probably not a very good explanation of the turret's involvement and representations in my life. Each round is there for one reason or another, the whole of the divine gun likely being the most appealing aspect of my world. Probably. Maybe. Whatever.

A few months ago I was convinced that something special took place in the eyes of a girl when they looked at me. That may very well be true, or it may be the worst possible pitfall of my having become so overtly desperate in recent years. I did not reach until days after the fact, either. The initial sighting threw me due to her appearance, naturally, and because such a form is extremely rare in the world, let alone the event. The reach was heavy. You may remember my going on and on all over the fucking place about her eyes and the way she looked at mine. The likelihood of something actually being there is so minuscule that the very idea makes me cringe. I've been a person of numbers for many years, with lots of those numbers being exponents with which most people have never been familiar. Tiny numbers almost too small to quantify. Well, that is how I feel about the chance that she was actually someone special and looking at me for a reason. Desperation drove my fingers to this keyboard and I ran with it.



14


Was there something divine at work that day? Or did I create most of that because I was so taken by her appearance? I believe the latter has the larger chance of being true, although I will not fully discount either idea. I can't because I do not know everything in this world. There is a chamber in the divine gun which holds my desperate need to search and locate some kind of special, knowing soul who has both the ability to convince me that everything is ok as well as the answers to my questions. Yes, I know it is ridiculous, so please don't say it. She moved me enough to carry the entire sordid works into the divine gun. Ah... One of THOSE scenes of the show in which Jamie looks like the dream of dreams. Recently I said none of my wishes can come to pass and none of my dreams can see the light of day. Remember? Jamie is the most striking symbol of the massive difference between fantasy and reality. Both are impossible to handle. For me, anyway. Fuck it. Where was I? Yes, the search last year. All that 'she is out there' business at the end of so many essays. I was looking for a 'Jaime', that creation which I felt could fix everything and be the answer to all the questions mentioned above. Well, I searched all the time. Eyes, mostly. Faces. I was desperate. Weak. Half a person. The girl at the race came along after I had all but abandoned the idea of something being out there in the world. And then she relit the furnace of fantastic dreams. At that point I knew I was beyond help or repair. Now I am fashioning a gun which holds everything. Crazy? I don't know and it probably doesn't matter anyway. Hey... At least it's not another train. Heh.

All the way back to Shilo when I was young. The very idea of living for a few years with such a dream, being broken down afterward in such a way so as to alter my view of the world forever, and then years later still feeling as if everything in my life is incomplete because I never found that little girl is something I could not have put together in the past. I see it now, though. There may be no way to define myself, ever. The search last year was probably for two things: That dream of a person who could fulfill everything and 'fix' those parts of me which are missing or broken, and finally finding the girl I sought when I was young. The two are the same, yet still different somehow. I can't explain this to my own satisfaction yet. Shilo is a chamber. Jaime is the same chamber. This is getting to be too much.

You'll notice none of the stupid fears or anything along such lines are in the divine gun. That is because I pushed much of that shit aside in order to focus upon my entry to the forest and the alterations underway to ensure I can remain without being rejected by those who created it.



15


The girl at the race reminded me of searching, and then she reminded me of the Jaime I created because she appeared similar other than her hair color. Shut up. Let me write this. I saw those cat eyes and thought maybe 'she' was indeed 'out there', possibly standing right in front of me. The moment was good and bad. The good is she rekindled my interest in possibility (but I'm not searching anymore). The bad is I will never know or see such a deep expression again, ever. I do not believe it can be possible. And this line of thinking brings on a thought larger than my whole world:

The woman of whom I dreamed -- created, if you will, from a composite of several others both real and imagined -- may be the only way for me to feel complete, safe, understood, and comfortable in this life. Short of such a fluke, I have reached the limits of what I can be. Withdrawn before the realization, I am now further back in time and worried about remaining this way for good. One way of looking at the divine gun is to see the rounds not as destructive or dangerous, but lessons to be understood so they cannot destroy me. Another way of looking at that beautiful weapon is to see the rounds as always ready to strike should I fall too far from reality. Don't worry, I don't understand either. Thank Christ the lovely Arina has been completely canceled from life and does not reside in the divine gun. That idea would become even more a pain in the ass. Shilo and Jaime are perfectly suited to be lessons pointed at me. They are related to each other and have been since months ago. Now? They are related to the cat eyes. The sum of this is that I have not found a way of holding myself up and need that unrealistic woman to do it for me. Unhealthy, to the last. And? Impossible. A balanced person would shove everything aside after knowing it can't happen. Me? Nope. I just keep dreaming. The divine gun keeps pointing. So beautiful. All those faces rolled up and looking unreal.

Whew.

Today seems bright. I will not be here alone though, meaning I'll probably be in the garage for a while so the house remains quiet. I also may travel to the big hardware down the peninsula for some shims and chemicals. The routine will be as always, fairly simple. Pause.

Well now... The day has progressed from being very cold and uncertain to being warm and productive. I still have not attacked the laundry cabinet doors as of yet, but I did get out there and reorganize one of the big cabinets, thus creating more usable space. I also went to the market for a few staples to facilitate my Friday enjoyment. All the while those chambers are full and at the ready. The divine gun does not stop, ever. The current period has now become defined by the divine gun and what it carries pointed right at me. Yes, it is beautiful. Yes, it has an allure unlike anything else or the other guns, yet still it is as damaging as one can imagine. Even me, and I can imagine quite a bit.

Friday morning now. With yesterday behind, I can focus upon being alone today with my thoughts. I have few chores, meaning the ride to the big hardware may actually happen. Yesterday I only left the house to visit the market for a few staples. Most of the day was spent in the garage and then a bit in the kitchen. Today I am hoping to have the motivation for some work on the floors. They need help. Eh... Just a few minutes and I have to take care of the morning stuff before returning here for a little while.

Jamie all over the first half of the sixth season. I probably should not be watching this right now because my appreciation for her appearance is at an all-time high for some reason. The feeling may be due to the conversation between her and Will during the previous episode which was on the television in the garage yesterday afternoon. I still don't know how I fell so in love with her character. Hopefully I can remain hinged enough to function into the future. She has her own chamber, too. The power and draw of the character could eventually turn the divine gun from a revolver into a cannon. One chamber, one face. I don't know. For the time being, I'll leave this program on the television but then switch to the vampires after the morning crap is out of the way. Something happened while watching this. Maybe last year, possibly before that, but something.

Morning crap out of the way and a small part of the routine. This means I am here for the duration.

The divine gun will always be there, all shiny and beautiful, pointed and threatening. The paragraph above which gushes yet again about Jamie and her big eyes is clear indication that the divine gun has been fashioned entirely by me. I keep doing it over and over and over. The race girl, the others, the one at the market, of course Jamie the beauty of the universe. On and on it goes. But there are more guns in and around the other parts of life. Some are between...



IV -- The Interstitial Guns

Shots all over the fucking place, but not recently. The current period is rife with difficulties, most of which are not my Goddamned doing. Others. Them. Those shit-fucks who believe everything can be quantified and helped along as if we are all still little children rather than those making the decisions. Well, fuck you. Stop pointing those barrels. You know you are doing it, and you know at what they are pointing. The between, that space just after the last strike and shortly before the next. You are not the strikes, they are. Stop pointing, and then stop trying to understand any of this section. There is just no way. Jamie again, this time with hair all goofy and no makeup. Doesn't matter. She is a universe all her own. Look at Cindy again. Do you believe I might find her slightly attractive after dozens of images? You are correct. Quite the draw... Tall, slender, the rest. Whatever. She's gorgeous and represents the obsession more than I can put into words. The point of her being here is that much of my wording these days is very unpleasant and her images are sort of a distraction from the shitty subject matter. But Jamie? Her character makes Cindy look like a Heifer out on the range.

Help granny make the bed and grab the dress. That one... Black. Remember the blue dress was destroyed. Help granny make the bed. The bed. The bed. The bed. The bed. The bed. The bed. The bed. The bed. The bed. The bed. The bed. The bed. The bed. The bed. The bed. The bed. The bed. The bed. The bed. The bed. The bed. The bed. I will make a fucking point so sharp that others will be sliced and diced like overcooked potatoes. Fuck you. Help granny make the fucking bed, assholes.

The guns are between here and there. The in-between, as Peter said forty some-odd years ago when he referred to the place where his consciousness resided for a time. The guns are there. Small spaces, peering through and watching me live life in whatever manner I see fit, or rather, whatever is comfortable. The big axe. The big axe. The big axe. The big axe. There are little openings in reality which allow the sights to fix on whatever or whomever they desire, and those fuckers are always on me. They do not need a laser sight. Not at all. They are there because of those fucking, fucking, fucking same fucking people. God damn the whole world and everything which came before or will come after, that woman is beyond my comprehension now. Frozen in time like some others, yet a part of my world which is beginning to fold in on itself with me inside. Collapsing. The guns may not be able to affect me if I am all rolled up into a different interstice. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe not. But maybe. She is too beautiful and I don't understand the whole thing. Scrape.

Very cold outside. Just like inside. Between. But the day will move along because nothing stops the progression of time. Ever. The sun is up and will drop into the ocean soon enough. Not even half past eight yet and I am seeing what can be accomplished later. For the time being, more confusing, confounding words. Help her.

Those little gaps are like the stones Indiana had to step along to reach his destination and save his father's life. I cannot distinguish them from the other spaces, and considering there is a gun located in one or more of the gaps, care must be taken in how I proceed from this point forward. They will follow, bent upon my destruction. The interstitial guns are people. Those people. Them. I spoke years ago about trying to live in and around them, often 'among' them, shitheels that they are. On the freeway during the early morning, on the freeway during the afternoon, and in the fucking store all the time. Them. Guns always pointed at yours truly. I cannot find the gaps but they exist. Every now and then one is identified when the barrel protrudes, though. At least then I learn a touch and move accordingly. I also speak accordingly. This is a bad time. The big axe. The big axe. The big axe. The big axe.

The routine is finished. Cocktail in hand. My little slice.

My brain has descended further. The interstitial guns are still pointed but not affecting me as much as the extent of societal damage inflicted throughout decades, mostly piquing recently due to the media and other people's embrace of the same. They run with whatever is either funny or uplifting to themselves as it demeans those they are near. I can't fucking stand it half the time. After so much effort and writing -- mostly since last summer and the whole Jaime thing coupled with the increasing depth of my self-analysis here -- I see even more than years ago and am affected more acutely by the simplest reference. Derivation has become derogation. Euphemism and dysphemism, used very often by those who hold the guns. 'Language used as shield and weapon', as it were. That is a book if you care to research. No matter what business takes my time on a given day, nothing leaves my mind. And yes, I realize that the daily programming on my three televisions can be some of the reasoning behind my fears and anger, but the fact is those people are very familiar to me after all this time and I need them there. HBO has created some of the best characters and storytelling in history, and the bulk of what I see and hear is while I am alone. I cannot shy away from everything. That is impossible. Today represents one of the most introspective periods in memory due to thinking about myself and how I may fit into what society has created. I am down -- far down, to be sure -- but not out. I can still type.



16


Does anyone recall an entry entitled 'Keywords'? Read it again. Barely scratched, that one. I had to keep so much out that the true meaning is probably unseen to this day. Well, the interstitial guns each have a term attached and they are all in that fucked up essay. Believe it. The terms are people, and the people have names. The names are the terms. Follow along if you can.

Oy there is too much sometimes. My need to maintain control over this site and keep things ambiguous enough for protection means the likelihood of a reader understanding all this shit is nil.

Saturday morning, very early. Not like those nights when I wake up and can't get back to sleep, though. This is like the period when Saturday was my early laundry time with headphones. Five o'clock. I used to get things going at this hour and then sit at the big table in my old office. Two machines back then. Years of that routine. 'That's all he's got. You, the guys, and his image.' I know I was sitting there during fifteen and onward, too. Hard to believe in a few months the gap will be seven years. The terms and guns were not present during the beginning of my need to fulfill the obsession. I am not certain what changed, either. The period of two years after the Raven left me alone became rife with work in the city and all those fucking visions here and there, generally on a daily basis. The work was extremely trying, too. Getting myself in the correct frame of mind for working in a couple of those jobs was not easy and still makes me a little uncomfortable just recalling. Those days walking out of the building on Oak Street and running into a woman passing by one way or another drove me up the fucking wall. I would sit and write, effectively belaboring the beautiful vision and dwelling so deeply that I made my own issues more concentrated, eventually driving me out of my own mind. Saturday morning I would look at whatever notes were jotted on the phone during the week and collate everything here. Those entries were shorter due to the pain of writing descriptive terms and picturing the form in question over and over. I don't do that any longer. Now just the occasional strike which doesn't seem to cause as dramatic a fall.

Nuts in October. The dish sitting atop our coffee table in the late seventies. Nuts with the nutcracker. Always during Thanksgiving and Christmas. Nuts in fall, nuts in Winter. Nuts in May is all wrong.

I felt two of the guns pointed at me last night as I grilled the main dinner course. It was the show coupled with a bit of reading from the opposite perspective. I researched something out of curiosity and then let it go because sometimes I can't find the information which satisfies or is specific enough to my query. After, I began to wonder why the compulsion takes over so harshly and will not allow me to relax. Well, the only idea I came up with is my detail-oriented nature coupled with fear or simply not finding answers. I began to worry prior to dinner but rarely is there anything I can do about it, so I shoved as hard as I could and went on with the evening. I can't do anything about those little spaces in between the larger objects of life, meaning the interstitial guns may remain until the terms (names) can be dealt with. May never happen. Nuts in October will likely be nuts in December soon enough. I gave away all my power.

Once again, I know full well what two of them are. I know. Not the terms, the problems. I just don't know why. My middle name should be 'unclear'. Whatever. Safety, always.

I have to stay in here. The atmosphere can bow to my wishes, the media is nearly fully controlled (I am alone here THAT much), and the view is still nice, especially due to fall. I can stay. This is the best place for me during the forest period whether or not it becomes permanent. The cool outside lends to the mood, I have some new audio supporting the visions and dreams of the forest, and the space is available for me to explore the meaning behind my powerful desire to remain in the trees. Fall is wonderful and makes everything appear different somehow, as if there is some kind of afterglow to the world. Dry air, the sun's angle, the rest. This is a bad time, yet there is some good to be found. I shall remain here for the duration and see what develops. So far, I have not flexed the mindset in any direction, although the interstitial guns poke into my world and create discomfort. If they do not either let up or provide understanding, I will blow up.



17


Word-bullets from people. They may know or they may not know. Doesn't matter because the analogy of the person committing crimes in a room full of a thousand people applies to many facets of life, not the least of which is trust. Do you remember that analogy? Find it. Term-names from the guns. The names are the guns, the guns are the people, and the terms are the rounds. Get it? Every single human being on this planet is an enemy in one way or another. I know that sounds harsh, but the truth is trusting another person with tender parts and deep-seated fears is risky, no matter the measure of shit they may spew. On the inside? There is no way of knowing, really. That is hard to swallow, but if I remain back far enough to avoid the bullets, I remain protected from what could eventually explode in my face. And the entire section of the populace that will sit there and say that my standpoint is lonely or narrow is correct. This is lonely, but it is also safe. There may come a day when I can fully dispense those gun barrels pointing at me from the blackness of the unknown and do away with the fear and worry. Then again... There may not. Alone? Alone. No bullets, no barrels, no names, and no terms anymore. Safe. The interstitial guns are not the worst, however. Time for an interruption.

I have seen this part of the episode many, many times. Each occasion when it rolls by, and whether or not I am paying decent attention, I see the same background. Said background brings to mind what I mentioned above regarding those forms and visions out in the world. The location of the shot is a casino. I do not know if it was on a soundstage or a real club, but the fact is I saw the woman standing there next to a slot machine and each subsequent viewing of the episode forces me to look when that time comes around. I am drawn, just like all those years of falling over myself trying to navigate a casino and scan the area at the same time. The pull upon my senses is overpowering, as if I feel that missing something would cause pain and distress, when the reality is something else will eventually come along. I just don't know what causes that kind of flare on the television. Her appearance is not important, only that I have become overly drawn and do not know why. Last year I brushed against the idea of what I see causing physical desire (not good at all) and then hit on it again more recently. If that is true, I am partially fucked and should have those guns pointed in my direction all the time. I honestly believe if the realization is true, I am dead wrong. A while back I made the point that feelings are never right or wrong, they simply exist. Well, some seem wrong now. Another reason I should be away from other people as often as possible.

I think one of the gun barrels has a word on it. The word is 'comparative'. Hmm. Help granny make the bed, look out the window at the snow, and then contain the excitement of heading to the line soon for dinner and whatever comes after. Comparative, just like speaking with the one cocktail server two years ago regarding my favorite restaurant and realizing she had been doing her job there for three decades, and then seeing the other half-Asian server near the penny machines and thinking something entirely different. The comparison of the two situations is akin to good and evil facing off right before my eyes. 'Comparative' is not related to the servers, however, only me. All of it is inside. Too much inside, really. That barrel with its label must be destroyed, whatever the cost. I don't like it.

Help granny make the bed. Dania has one hell of a pair of breasts. Just saying. We don't see them, which is very good, but the pair is well-enough on display at times. Too bad she crushed Robert. Anyway...

I suppose this day will begin a bit earlier than usual. Now just after six and I am already feeling like something must be done. Or maybe I'll just sit here until time to go out later. I don't know. There is a nagging feeling left over from yesterday afternoon that I can't fucking shake right now. Something might be there or it might not. I have to either trust or not. Bad situation. As regards me, the best course may be sitting still and seeing what takes place in the future, but I must admit all this waiting has become very tiresome of late. Kind of sick of waiting for something to happen rather than standing up and slamming doors. Such behavior is a portion of the reasoning behind entering the fucking forest in the first place, damn it. I may embrace some work very soon today just for the distraction.



18


What am I on about this time? I can't say.

Problems yesterday pushed this morning to be rather reflective. Sometimes I believe an action or situation under my direct control is a good idea only to have it rip me a new asshole in the forehead soon after. For some fucking stupid reason, I keep believing the situation will play out in a good way, and then every fucking time there is a rub or some gunfire. I feel like an idiot for trying in the first place. People need to understand that what is happening inside me is not a fucking joke anymore. Being kind to others is pretty much one of only two ways of approaching them. The other is to treat everyone as an enemy. Really doesn't matter which position one takes as long as they stick with it. Everyone is your friend or no one is. Well, I've been trying my damnedest to get the point across that my being safe and protected takes priority over being kind to people, yet I cannot be unkind most of the time. I suppose that is softness, and right fucking there is one of the largest factors in my personality which causes more shit than anything else in existence. I can't fucking stand it, yet am powerless to change it. Several times within 'Keywords' and several times after the fact of that ridiculous essay I spoke of what I 'am' versus what I 'am not', and the fact remains I can only be this way for so long before it causes me harm. How long, you ask? Not very... The damage began many years ago and the material has taken a set. I honestly believe some of the most limiting factors throughout this analytical period which began last year are never going to go away, nor can they be fully understood so as to let me relax. Again, what took place yesterday was a decision. Perhaps one day in the future I will see the resulting shit before I open the fucking door. Maybe. And what does this have to do with interstitial guns? Well, they are pointed right at my head partly due to my actions and partly due to those of other people. Something like that, anyway. Fuck it.

Ugh. Today had better be pretty fucking rewarding.

The bed remains unmade. Holy shit is Cara ever cute in some scenes. Jamie is in the background, too, all flowing hair and goo goo ga ga and everything else in the world. I am an idiot. Pretty soon people are going to want to avoid me because of me being an idiot who keeps gushing about her. Hmm... There may be something to that. Heh.

Guns pointed at me during a time when the opposite should be taking place. Am I even capable?

This writing has gone all around the world and ended up in the same place. I am the same. Maybe nothing is actually changeable. I have analyzed quite a bit since last year when the work ended and I am no better for the effort, partly due to a lack of real feedback and partly due to my unwillingness to change myself. Yep, that's a big one. In order for a person to help his or herself, they must entertain the idea of altering whatever sort of behavior or habits drove them to seek assistance in the first place. When it comes to me, neither can be fully addressed due to fear. I've gone in circles for so long that it has become the norm. Just another gun, I suppose, and one I am holding. What a rig.

The light is coming up on a new day, but I will live it and then sleep to find myself no different tomorrow.



19


Another late sixth season Jamie scene. Yes, her again. I know you're probably sick of hearing it, but she is just too much sometimes. Whatever took place last year or the one before caused me to fall completely in love with her character on the show. Again, not the actor. I know little of her and will never know more. But on the show? Tremendous effort is required for me to limit the gushing as I have. Believe me, I could go on all day every day about her. Such a fact is a good indication of one way I have limited myself. No one else, either. This affair is all me. One more time for emphasis: Not good. In love with a fictional character. Fucking idiot.

Sunday has arrived with a distinct lack of fanfare for the common webmaster. That's funny... No one uses such terms anymore because having a presence on the web has become commonplace, for the most part. I suppose nearly twenty years of doing this has also become the norm. The interface is always here for me. Anyway, Sunday means some business and some relaxing. Yesterday ended quite well after starting out rather uncertain. We have some direction for her bathroom project, meaning after researching things we can make improvements. I did not do much at home, though. Not feeling it. Most of the evening was spent preparing dinner and watching one of my shows. This morning is the same. The show, coffee, nothing more. My mind keeps wandering toward some tough subjects. Very tough at times. Today will be treaded slowly and lightly.

I need something... A direction other than that which I've been following for a year. In less than four months I will be attaching a small image marking the twentieth anniversary of this site and I don't even know what it means anymore. The beginning ideas were photos and information for the family. Afterward I was in a bad mood -- right around the summer/fall of zero-three -- and began to lay down some wording which soon took over completely. The direction here changed, permanently. Now look at it. I suppose time is just another gun pointing from a small, inner space and attempting to keep me on my toes these days. Right now, imagining what was going through my head just four years ago while almost continuously writing very negative thoughts and dreaming of embracing some semblance of a project feels almost alien. The direction of this space is very different now, and I believe much of the change is due to those guns with names. When I am upset, I lash. Be it in person with very harsh posturing or right here with my own types of bullets, something will eventually come out of me and be thrown toward the source of my frustration or anger. I have to get away from this most basic of routines and break it apart for the greater good. I need something different, not just the forest. There is now a deep feeling that one of the interstitial guns is in my hand. Hmm.

A different direction. Something. I rather felt this way yesterday during the early morning but as usual it went nowhere. I fell back to the norm and moved along as if today is a year ago. The difference in my brain lately must be translated to the outside world. I've brought this type of thing up several times over the years, but now it's feeling dire, as if the need has overtaken the work. I must take yesterday's feeling, combine it with all of the little quips over the years regarding the forest and my outward appearance, and then build upon such a foundation. I believe a change of such magnitude is needed, yet I must take small steps and identify small goals.

Time to build...



V -- The Frame Gun

Sunday. I've spoken at length about this particular day of the week, both historically and currently. I need not go into it more. I will say that Sunday in fall is very nice, though. Pretty, too.

I have to begin with something small and then work a little at a time to build whatever is necessary for helping me to feel differently by the end of the day. Something. The days have to change; the mood has to change, or I will not be able to perform my usual routine without losing my head a bit each day. Something different. Perhaps I can use one gun to help me, meaning the forceful nature of my brain combined with an idea for moving forward which I can fabricate alone. The framing of an idea? Maybe. And there she is again. On the screen. That smile just kills me. A little bit crooked sometimes but always stirring. Above the smile... Those two windows. Ugh. Well, onward with the lumber of life. Framing. Whatever can be done.

Sunday means garbage, and likely I will have to get started a little earlier than usual. There is no home game this week so I will not be going to the bar. We are on a bye, so the other team will be the only game I may focus upon. I don't know yet. The day has to bow to my wishes, though. Small changes here and there taken as a whole later will help keep my head out of those areas better left alone. Some aspects of life have already gone by -- never to return -- and one of them is really jarring me lately. No, not the heritage. This is different and I have to remain centered upon improvements and perhaps some preparation for the holiday in two weeks. The result of losing the path will be a very bad mood that I can barely control. This is not the time for such things. The frame gun shall be employed as soon as my day moves past this shit. The sights and sounds of the forest, as well. All together. All involved. If that fucking subject comes back later today, I'll have to quickly squash the shit like a bug. That one can ruin me.

I don't even know if I can do anything different. No idea. I've tried before. A little span of time and then right back where I started with not clue one as to how any of it actually transpired. Sitting still. Well, the frame gun may be the tool necessary for breaking out of this... Whatever this is. All those guns mentioned above are there to either destroy me or test me over and over in order to learn if I am still capable of being a whole person. They are also there to indicate a plus or minus with regard to a few simple, key terms. I have no fucking idea of how any of this will develop. Not right now, anyway... Hence the framing. I have to start somewhere, and both feet planted in the forest means at least my mind is heading in the right direction. If nothing else, I'll be somewhat changed thanks to the influences therein. Right at this very moment I can look through the back windows and see fall in the yard. No sun yet, but light. Leaves all over the place. Cool. Very nice. The scene out there reminds me of that fateful Saturday six years ago of being initiated into the brotherhood and the way that picnic ground felt under my feet. Three of us. What a day. It began very confusing but ended wonderfully. One of the best feelings, ever. And the scene is up there right now. I wish I could climb inside for a second and say something. What would I say? No idea. Anyway, the warmth of gazing out at the yard carries with it thoughts of possibility, and they in turn can help me lift this gun of life and start the framing for a new way of living it. I don't know, but maybe. Today might become very important.

Feeling small again.

The gun may or may not help, and each side is entirely dependent upon my mood throughout this day. So far, I am absolutely neutral, believe it or not. All this negative crap does not go completely through me. Most remains on the surface and my fingertips, then being transmitted to the keyboard. Within moments of closing off the editor for the morning, much of the negativity leaves me. Whichever method I decide to employ once I begin working around the house is going to dictate how much of that mood can and will return. Being neutral right now may help once I get going. This is unusual, too. Typically during the beginning of the day I am not feeling all that great and usually yearning to be alone for the duration. As I said above, the frame gun can be in-hand later, and today might become very important. Soon I will have to embrace the day and leave this crap alone.



20


The frame gun has been in my possession for a very long time. Perhaps all the way back to the days of our trailer when the site was born. Not long before the trailer period was that horrible day when my audio system was stolen, soon after leading me to change the way I view the entire planet. Cut to a few years after moving from that shitty location where so many things went wrong, and there I was first dreaming of the forest and imagining the idea of what tools may be necessary for me to fully embrace a massive change of life. I likely had the gun during the introspective moments throughout the three fall seasons in the trailer but did not know or see it the way I do now. This month signifies exactly twenty years from moving into the trailer. That means the beginning of my ideas for such framing were already underway at the time. Interesting.

I still don't know what to do. Everything appears bright and positive -- something I point out often during weekday mornings -- but by the end of the day I do not see any difference other than the position of the clock hands. This idea of the framing may require more of a push than I had thought in the past. I have the remaining tools, too. There has to be a way of escaping the quotidian I've created during this past year. Important? Very.

The usual business will be underway in a little while. Likely when the coffee is done for the morning. There are remnants of worry from the last two days which may be holding me down like silver on the vampires... Motionless due to concerns of damage, yet the need is still strong. Maybe I can think of possibilities once I begin to care for the routine. The biggest hurdle may be simply reminding myself of these words and avoiding the everyday direction. What typically happens is I am happy to work in the kitchen and then I loosen a bit and have a drink (comfort in a glass). That takes a set and lowers my ambition due to being a depressant. Not a good idea on the one hand, but a very good one on the other. I have to move away from this mold of myself and break out of what has become a cycle. The last two Sundays I cared for most of the business fairly early because I went to watch the games at the bar. This is a bye week, meaning I will not be over there today. Moreover, I was going to head over to her house for lunch and maybe more bathroom planning but that may not be a good idea now. Remaining here will give me the time and space to work on myself instead of other people. The idea may sound selfish, though. Does it? I hope not, because all the construction in the world does not add up to the sheer amount of weight these issues represent on my shoulders and inside. All those guns. I simply MUST accomplish something outside the sphere of what I've been doing lately. No choice, or nothing will ever change for the better. I can spout all day long here, but if I am the same by close of business each day there is no point.

Coffee left. No cats nearby.

We were discussing the cat-eyed girl yesterday for a while. I still remember the feeling of walking away from the display and wondering what the hell happened with her. Could be something, could be nothing. If the former is true, I will never know how or why. The latter means my level of desperation in life with regard to beauty and the obsession has reached a new level. In the past, the obsession was strictly physical and driven by appearance. Lines and shit... You know. Each occasion left me feeling empty and worried over my emotional and mental state. I always seemed to be dropping every time due to the not knowing; no way to understand or quantify the interest. The race girl went far beyond that standpoint and into very emotional territory, and became a good indication that I am about as out of balance as I feared. More, even. Not good. Deep feelings there. I must admit that with each passing day I continue to wish it was real. I am desperate and weakened like never before.

The event with the girl is helping me to consider using the frame gun to push myself up and out of this type of thinking and create space for further constructive thought rather than constantly reaching for something that may never be there. I have to point the figurative barrel toward those parts of life I can actually change and/or improve, meaning keeping it away from trivial or superficial ideas. The real meat of the problems, honestly. Some outside, some on the inside. Another possible strength is to think of her now as the catalyst for a much sharper look at myself rather than something special that has been lost. I must consider a gain, instead, otherwise I will fall right back into the same desperate search.



21


Almost time to leave this machine alone for a while. A thought while I'm still here, though. This keyboard has been used almost daily for just over four years now, and I am about to replace it. The reason is some of the labels have worn off from use, most notably the 'n', 'f' and 'm' keys. The space bar, too. I believe all of the negative terms throughout the years have taken their toll on the 'n'. That is kind of sad, yet still funny. I'm sure the 'f' key suffered because I swear too much. Heh. The nice part is these machines are designed to be modular and easy to repair. I can do the replacement myself at a low cost. Four years of words beginning with 'n'. Big surprise.

Off to the races, as it were.

Monday morning with the gangsters and coffee. This day already feels good because of the weekend. I am beginning to appreciate the weekdays more now than I have in the past, but I probably already went into that stuff in one of the most recent entries. I've been yearning for this morning. Less than an hour and I'll have my quiet time, and let me say I really need it today. Perhaps more than last week at this time, too. That day was nice, although considering what's been hitting me in the head since Saturday last, I must embrace this free time fully. Lots to think about and lots to do. Pause.

And back for the attack, just as Don said. 'Livin in the past, no more room down there.' Er... 'Livin on the ceiling, no more room down there'. The past?

The frame gun? Where is that, exactly? In my hand? A representation? Symbol? I have to frame the future in such a way so as to put others where they need to be and leave constant reminders that I am not the person with which to be trifled, but then I believe that those closest are not the catalysts for much of this shit so they should be left the fuck alone while the barrel points to others. Right now I do not know. Yesterday was a good indication that things can move along fine, although rather than falling into the same ideas again soon I plan to remain at arm's length just to be safe. I have to be careful not to frame myself into nothingness. There are still parts of the world and life that I need in order to survive. Believe me, all this would be completely unnecessary if I was able to retreat as discussed all those years ago in the apartment. That was the time of the realization regarding the north, the forest, and all that shit which led me to feel like I was constantly on the outside of everything. Not necessarily isolated, just separated in a manner consistent with seeing a little more than other people who were not paying attention. I could actually still be there had I continued with the framing of that era. I don't know where I might be at this late date, but the intervening years seem clear. There were possibilities. Some days I recall gazing out the glass door at the hills in the distance and I miss those mornings. This is a bad time. That was a good time. Everything feels so fucking generic now, anyway. No surprises anymore. Seventeen years ago there were still some exciting changes coming along every now and then. Oy, off the track again.

I don't even know if I can properly deal with building anything. I've been out of the loop for quite some time now, meaning out of practice. I always say I need the time and space to think, right? Well, I've been doing that for over a year and feel as if I am in the exact same position as in the beginning. Perhaps worse. The frame gun may be in hand at times -- or possibly only in my mind -- but I don't know what to do with it half the fucking time. I suppose I just need more time. Consideration of everything and all that type of shit.

The garbage trucks have been going by and taking care of business. I went out there earlier to drop some things in the trash can. My garage is already open for the day. The rain from last night seems to have subsided for the time being, so maybe I can get out there and make improvements once this endeavor cools. I switched the gangsters off again because the series came to an end for the fifth time this year. Now the dragons. Whatever. Sometimes this program tests my loyalty to the network but I no longer see many choices in life. One way or another something is going to beat me down, be it in person or up there on the screen. I may as well remain with head down in preparation. Saving everyone some time, that crap. No more Jamie for the time being. She is only in my head. Anyway, once again the day appears bright and full of possibilities. Wide open. I can do whatever is necessary for either advancing the home or myself. Will I do those things? No answer. So far, this is it.



22


Devices. Are they enough to push away the need for the frame gun? I don't know.

The garbage is all picked up and the sun is shining. The rain didn't last very long despite the fact that we need tons of water these days. The drought is not good for anyone, least of all the food we eat. Geez. The planet certainly has the power to make all of us feel small. Tiny. I wish I had some of that power. Not funny in the least. More swords and dragons on the screen this morning. And I learned of why my digital surround was not working properly. Long story, but it's running fine now. I have to make a change to the method of transferring audio to the garage system. Ugh.

I must frame something. Inside the house or inside me. Either one right now. Changes, but not those little details which are easily implemented. I am talking about something larger and more significant. Monday morning is typically the time when I get ideas, too. So far? Nada. The forest feeling came about way back during the trailer period, partially driven by those plans I made a decade earlier and somewhat pushed into my head due to a massive dislike for society and its herd mentality. Sheep, remember? I did not wish to be considered a part of society any longer but kept it going because of the comforts. The forest is not comfortable in the least, only necessary. Back then I did not think of framing as a term for separation. Mostly I thought of escape to a simpler, cooler locale. That was not feasible and still is not, meaning if I am to build upon what I know and feel, I have to do it right here in this little house. The frame gun is in hand despite my not seeing a direction right now. I think I need it.

I do know that a mass of possessions is a part of the forest feeling. Freeing oneself from the constraints and work of owning so much crap can be liberating and help to maintain sanity. Less to keep track of and more empty space. The freeing direction was embraced during the trailing end of eleven due to my plan of leaving, never to return. Well, that went bad because I did not follow through and soon after changed my mind about life itself. Still the shit went out the door, however, only to build up again later, right here where I now sit. Recalling those feelings of when eleven reached the eyes is not something of which I am fond, though. I do not look at such ideas any longer. Now the forest mood and actions are different, more like unbinding myself from the restraints of living within a pile of stuff and creating the space for consideration of priorities in life. The frame gun needs to begin such a process right fucking now. It is there for me, of only I can find the strength to wield and fire. My being has become weakened through comfort and I do not like it at all. Perhaps when the crap goes out the door my hesitation can follow suit, but I don't know. Certainty is not one of my clearest or easiest terms these days. I placed myself here. Hopefully through my own actions and decisions I can get the hell back out.

The day is all mine now. What to do? This woman on the screen has one hell of a nose. Wow.

And Lena is both scary and awesome.

This entry is becoming heavy, as if the words in my head are hitting the nails squarely. Very odd, that shit. I am not accustomed to making much sense anymore. Perhaps the dire nature of my existence is pushing harder now than it was at the top of the page. There are some ridiculous observations up there, too. A thought just now: Other people see me and see this content, yet still they have little clue as to what may actually be taking place in my brain. Such a fact is absolutely fantastic. Self-protection is key these days. Anyway, the last statement is a part of this entire affair, guns and all. The work in trying to extrapolate and express myself through analogy is safe. I simply cannot be exposed beyond a certain point or all will be lost. Hence the building. The frame gun can help to further this journey in the forest and keep others in the dark at the same time. Framing both inside and out. I must begin to use this device very soon, maybe even after I close the machine for the morning and do some work.

I am all the way inside but the forest has yet to fully enter me. I need to arrive at such a point when the frame gun has completed its work, moving yet again to a place where the weapons are very different; a place where I can locate and employ something else. A mass of necessities no one else will understand...



VI -- The Forest Guns

Society did everything; does everything. Jamie said 'the state can crush the individual', referring to the insane levels of power within government in the modern era. Well, society drives much of what has been built within those governments. It is also made up of individuals who are a part of the same. Hence, my difficulties -- minuscule as they are when held against the vastness of the world's problems -- were created by the exact same fucking people as those now in positions of 'power'. Small people lifted by different small people and raised enough to fuck up the lives of yet other small people. Sound good?

The forest guns are the most hateful, ferocious and evil of all those down this entry. Believe it, and believe I need them so badly right now that I lose my way of breathing just considering their power and all it can do to help me. People out there in the world are either those who believe 'hate' is too strong a word to be final, or those who employ such a term often and with little reason because they are ignorant of what it has destroyed throughout time. You'll have to decide which group affects me more. The hateful guns. Forest guns do not discriminate. The thousand-person analogy never had a more rightful place than it does here among the trees.

The silent guns fear the forest, create the divisions, and remain in those little, protected interstices where they are safe. The divine gun sees them, the frame gun ignores them. The forest guns are slow-moving, patient, and focused. The forest guns are the final card which takes the pot of life. There is no more playing around. There is no more time. Honestly, this would all be just fine if Norway had conquered the entire world two thousand years ago. Whatever. Society did everything.

There was a pause for errands and the routine. I also had to lay down another treatment along the rear of the house just in case. The rain last night reminded me to avoid complacency, so there it is. I'll be heading to the hardware tomorrow and will probably pick up another gallon. I love chemicals. They solve so many problems. Kind of like what that comedian said back in the nineties: 'The answer isn't less drugs, it's more drugs. More drugs, and give them to the right people.' Profound solution, that one. Anyway, now that everything important has been eliminated, I have lunch in the oven and some time to reflect. Very good.

Tuesday morning and all is... (insert dipshit platitude or false positive here).

If yesterday was a small step, today will be the larger. The routine is finished, for the most part, and I am left to whatever else should be accomplished. Vampires, cocktail, quiet otherwise. Ten in the morning.

The forest guns await a round from one of the other guns, meaning one pointed in the wrong direction will proceed to unleash a mindset for which no one will wish. All bad, and at the ready. The interstitial guns have been idle for two hours now, likely remaining as such until the afternoon or evening. Well, I am ready for them. This is as necessary as drawing breath. This is inescapable. This is a bad time. Wait for it. Nora is up there trying to pull my attention toward the positive. Not even her face has enough power to make this shit fade. The same goes for Jamie and whomever else may grace the screens.

A large part of the reasoning behind the forest guns making an appearance has been up there, too. One of the worst, actually, and something with which I have wrestled since the fictional bar of which I wrote not long ago. I spoke with the bartender in that story, something necessary and interesting, yet still the conversation had me at sixes and sevens. Keep in mind I created both halves of such a discussion and the subject was partially revealed. Fortunately, the shit I place here is never very clear. Safe. But the problem still exists no matter how much analysis comes along or how often I see things as they really are. The forest guns react, they do not initiate. The reaction is equally necessary and full of hatred. My decision at the outset of this section was born of my entire life experience, centering mostly upon the negatives and what they have done to me. A reaction, like the guns. All those silent, divisional and interstitial pieces of shit must be dealt with in the harshest of manners. The forest guns are ice cold and pay no mind.

This is likely the last entry with big, beautiful images of Cindy or anyone else. Things have changed and been directed downward by those who affect me or have affected me in the past. They need to be crushed under the figurative weight of words as well as the physical weight of expression. They shall see. The guns are born of subjective and evil ways. The guns are at hand. The guns are nigh. Arrival, as it were, and no one is going to throw a save. This is the line. No dice.

::: step :::



23


Today has changed. I must go to the office near the bar to assemble some furniture in roughly two hours. Ahh... There was another bullshit attempt at a hammer blow made up of society's innate ability to beat down those who actually have feelings. Yes, keep them coming. I have an outlet. Anyway, since I will not be here for the bulk of the afternoon, some small items will be addressed in the short term in order to allow for the space. I enjoy helping over there. They have done much for me in the past. Love, apparent. Unfortunately, just a fraction of a micro-inch behind my pleasant front is likely the worst condition in many years. All those guns mentioned prior to this section have taken their toll. Moreover, they have caused a snap I was honestly not expecting. The forest assisted and facilitated that snap. Well, it was there for my benefit, meaning once the bullshit flew I was able to use my position in the forest to put the snap in perspective and work toward a line. If I am not describing this well, use your fucking imagination. I don't care anymore. Society is the enemy, people make up society, and the resulting situation is very bad. I have often said 'one step at a time' just like those recovering alcoholics, yet my steps have been figurative rather than out there related to people. The forest guns are a step built by people. The only step that remains. This may seem strange, but believe me when I say that I am overjoyed to finally be in the proper headspace for living within the warm embrace of the forest, meaning the guns are at the ready. They will be foremost on my mind as I venture out into the fucked-up world. My day has changed, but I have not. Every second of every minute, my stance will be considered. To others the forest will appear cold. To me? Loving.

Completely false and deceptive. One agenda outweighs all others. Forest. The wait has been long and arduous.

'How did it come to this?'

Completely false and deceptive. Did I mention a change? This is a change, believe it or not.

'The sun is shining upon our position in the world. The sun is also shining outside. Hopefully the latter will warm the house because we will not be here to control the interior climate. Good or bad, we don't fucking care. We are so sick and tired of all the bullshit emanating from people's mouths that if we could wave one hand and make the world disappear, it would be too late. Damage from every direction all the fucking time. Guns, indeed. We shall show you the guns, although you are too obtuse and preoccupied to see them. That is also very good. We need not be concerned with the results because not a soul will understand. All those years of being on the edge of suicide from one day to the next, and now we are atop the thinking. The knowledge that being here and shoving information in every direction is far too important to pass. No one else can do it. We are never fucking leaving. The sun is shining upon our position in the world.'

Completely false and deceptive. People will see human form here. Inhuman inside. Fuck you and the person next to you. Fuck everyone. You had a chance. Squandered like mine.

The evil guns. In-hand. The threat of knives now appears childlike. Heh. Nora is a vampire but I would still dive into her fucking pants and devour. Dead is fine. What I am is something entirely different. It is very dangerous. Jesus fucking hell is that woman gorgeous.

I have less than two hours before heading out into the world of shit-people. I'll make nice and carry out the help which is needed because that is what I do and what I am primarily known for. Going out of my way to help others. Yep... GUNS. Just FUCK YOU, YOU MOTHERLESS PIECES OF DOG SHIT. I may fill the gas tank and grab a sandwich on the way. Not sure yet. And I have to think of a cutoff time for returning so I can sink into the evening at the proper juncture. 'Oh, I had a difficult time.' Get a fucking helmet and then beat yourself to death with it. Donning the fucker will not help you. Anyway, I'll wrap up shit here soon and clean up so I am fairly presentable upon arrival. I have to maintain the appearance no matter the locale or those involved. As I said up there somewhere, love is apparent and involved. I can't shove that aside because I am not so far into the forest...

Yet. Hold your stupid breath.

Wednesday morning. Thinking of yesterday, considering what may take place today, lamenting the pitfalls and lost promise of tomorrow. False gods, absent friends, dark future. The afternoon work was fine. Unfortunately, I am no longer accustomed to that type of physicality, meaning this morning I am very sore. Today might be one of THOSE days. Much like THOSE people... Worthless. I don't care. My concern for the future is real. Again with the AA bullshit, I suppose. It rings often. I honestly wish I had scheduled yesterday's work differently, though. This morning may have been more comfortable. I am supposed to go back over there later to finish a cabinet, too. Between the soreness and being in the fold of people more artificial than saccharin, I just don't know if I can do it. Skipping one day may help. Still not happy or capable of some things, but at least remaining within these walls will keep me out of the eyes of the world for a while.

The guns are loaded and pointed. The hammers are released remotely, just as those large guns with which I used to work daily. They were an entirely different type of animal, however. Nothing which can be wielded, for sure. Those I see before me have been fashioned from years of experiences, a lifetime of bullshit, and the cold detachment of the very same people who began the process of pressing upon people's heads to raise their own. The guns are also coldly detached, they do not care or discriminate. Within their sights, the whole of the world appears as nothing more than a geometric shape covered with specks running around trying to figure out what to do next. Targets, all. This is a bad time. The guns are here to help, crushing the remaining barrels and destroying all meaning. Coldness, curt words, and a shortness of patience. Fundamental changes. Trees all around. The weather outside is dictating the mood inside, meaning to remain here today for the duration may be the only real choice. The guns will follow along as necessary. Worthless people. Wastes of space. All this has been here before and will be again.

Lost promise is worse than wasted talent. Both are right here on this keyboard, too. One follows the other, often brushing and meshing. Right now they are separate but such a state cannot last. Yesterday included a small failure due to the wasted talent and I embraced and dealt with it at the time. I already know these situations are going to arise and play out, so the best course is to swallow the trouble in order to appear forthright and upright before others. Inside I knew what was happening, yet the outside did not flinch for a second. All of the loss and the shit position in which I have mired myself simply must be kept under wraps if I am to go out there and be near those who do not think this way. And the loss is not a simplistic affair, either. Some was my doing but not entirely, meaning those people were involved in small issues and little changes which took place and altered my circumstances. I was gently pushed at first, later shoved, and then finally took the reins myself along with responsibility. Sitting here right now? Everything is clear. There is no hope. Some lost, some wasted, but all adds up to where I reside. I am having a difficult time living with the thinking. Up the page I told people to get a helmet. Well, that does not apply to me because I have forfeited the opportunity for improvement. The only road left available is to embrace the darkness and leave the world out.



24


Today shall be nothing special. Morning shit, routine, friends on the screens, that's all. I have little reason to push in an alternate direction. Not anymore. I just don't fucking care. The guns have changed the way I look at the current period and people. I cannot go backward and switch anything because time is linear. Once I realized what had been happening and what needed to be done, the ship was cast off and moved away, and then sunk under its own weight just a bit further down the page. The ship is gone. The choices are gone. Guns remain, both those threatening me as well as those pointed back at the sources.

And now the day is not mine. I'll have to maintain some sort of schedule, I suppose, and then in and around what I can do here in the house may again be the garage shit. Damn it. I was looking forward to some time here by myself so I could fucking think a while. Nope. Once again, people are the problem. Well, whatever. I'll work around people yet again. No big surprise there. One way or another, I lose.

Thoughts of the past are decorating the forest. No horizon to speak of right now. Just years passed. They went by and left me full of too much. Late ten when we ventured south I was in near-constant wonder. I recall the feeling of being so free and unrestricted down there. We strolled and drove. There were few limits. And then the other past... The one which was supposed to alter me enough for working along with society and keep the disdain to a minimum. There were words and actions, the latter being unbelievable and extremely rare. The former? Never again... Never me. You already know. The forest is finding me almost spinning in circles and enshrouding me with sadness due to such losses. The chances went away as I boarded plane after plane. I certainly hope the appreciation was at a high level during those times. Sadness, loss. Despair? Almost. I will be mired in such feelings very soon today, and not due to the work or not having the house to myself, either. I am referring to the inside having been smashed to bits. The past keeps coming back -- good or bad as it was during different periods -- and the up is winning out over the down. Not right now, but then. The up... Those people, places, situations. The late-ten trip. The zero-three trip in which I was enlightened. The zero-two trip in which I was cradled. Even the eighteen trip when I felt a smidgen of the freedom of the past. All are gone and cannot return. Only the residual feelings of the biggest losses imaginable. Just this morning everything has slammed me hard enough to wish the guns completely under my control. Yes, I did many things wrong, but the truth is much worse was inflicted and then tattooed to my brain. Now all I have is a blank page, no pen, and a head full of everything which can never happen again. The forest shows me everything.

Jamie's nose looks funny.

I do not want to think of these subjects anymore. Unfortunately, I have little choice in anything these days. And people wonder why I drink at nine in the morning. There is your answer. Damage on top of the damaged.

Not even eight in the morning right now. The furnace is still on for another forty minutes. Clouds, cool wind, very much fall outside. The yard will be covered in beer cans very soon.

I mentioned the heritage at the beginning of this mess. The concern has diminished for the time being because when held against the other decay of life, heritage has been reduced to a minor annoyance on the fringe of this fucking boat. A fender, ripped by the wind and smashed by the docks. I pushed it away. Anger is powerful. The point of the heritage being shoved hastily in favor of the forest and the guns is to avoid spreading too much as I did in the past. This may be a bad period, but at least I can maintain organization and try to consider one problem at a time. The forest guns help with their freezing stare and heartless determination. They really do. I must try to keep those facts in mind and my own head up as much as possible, lest I drive off the road again and crash like Sunday. A figurative road, dipshits. The car is fine. My heritage may in fact lessen in importance as the shadows outside the forest continue to take shape and become recognizable. A few are already clear enough to be identified, meaning I can swing the turrets in their direction just in case of a blowup. I don't fucking care, anyway. The lack of everything for so long has been driven into the ground and altered my stance from where I view people. Once in a while I will fall down due to no children and all the fucking shit related to that lifestyle (which I cannot know, so I keep my trap shut around such conversations), although most who know me are already aware of my sensitivity. And here we go, just like the heritage... My sensitivity has changed in nature. Believe it. Keep your shit to yourself and I will do the same. The other option is to spout information toward me and then meet the guns. They do not have feelings. Mechanical, just as I am attempting to be. Icy. Hateful. Determined to simplify everything. Fuck my heritage and those who came before. Just more parts of society, and you know where I go with that. No one is exempt.

Leaving something behind which just weeks ago was nearly foremost on my mind is very liberating. More and more I am seeing myself disconnected from the restraints of thinking as I always have and watching everything float by like those well-lit dioramas of scenes from the past. Nothing is going to float by now because not only am I the one who built those fucking reminders but I am also the one who stars in them. That is a choice, and one from which I will walk away, just like people. What a wondrous thought. I will admit that the heritage is related to children, and such a fact adds up to quite the mountain in my head, yet that half of the shitty facts will have to be dealt with a bit at a time rather than being tossed to the four winds all at once. I would prefer to excommunicate everything with a snap of my fingers, but honestly none of this is easy. Only the shit mood seems to come naturally. The guns help, too. Pointed toward problems. Always at the ready. No concern or consideration for a living soul on this spinning globe. Love. It. Free me, please. The heritage may be their first victim. Moving away.

The evil guns don't care about you and your never-ending and annoying questions. Constant, incessant crap from a concerned standpoint, yet still nothing more than a pain in the ass. Answer them yourself or the guns will do it for you, and you will not like those words. Harsher than anything I have ever typed. Just fucking remain clear of their path and you should be fine. Keep in mind that the silent guns are you, and the forest guns are as the gods. Little crushed by big.

I just don't fucking care anymore and cannot state it enough.



25


I felt like 'somebody' on multiple occasions throughout a period of years. It always faded quickly, however. Very quickly, to be sure. Those moments of gliding along through the clubs with head held high and dressed to the nines are gone now. The last was just a year ago and fleeting. The atmosphere was too different to bring back the days of old and the same type of 'knowing'. All gone for this life. Very sad. That was all I had for a very long time and thinking that an era has vanished makes me drop further than I had already when beginning this worst of entries. I can't fucking help it, either. The shit period is well underway now. Dreaming of those weekends living on high is making the present look pretty fucking bad. Still, this morning has moved along despite such negatives hitting me. I have been as quiet as possible and reflecting upon those times when I considered what seemed endless possibilities and a wide open future for the taking should I feel enough to actually do something productive. Well, now it matters not what I do. Hence the fucking guns. The north has called for the last time. At least the forest is forever. I have that, if nothing else. The facts have been collated and clarified. Denied? No way. Not any longer. Facts are facts. Period. Solidified, like my anger toward society and the people who make up the same. I may not be 'somebody' any longer -- possibly never was at all -- but I will say that this transition is helping me to realize that I may have never needed it. There was a place within which I could be special. I just had to wait until everything was just right for an entry.

The forest guns are the last of their kind. The remaining guns may as well run for cover because there is no denying the power of the darkness and trees. The guns have arrived.

Entering the forest and becoming a part of it is a very long process. It involves the separation of my being from those of others. The forest demands that a minimum be maintained, as well. There is a threshold, if you will, for belonging. I am now required to point the forest guns in whatever direction is necessary to maintain myself and where I need to be in life, others be fucking damned. And while the forest has been there all these years awaiting my decision (eighteen years, I believe), I had to live through a certain amount of difficulty, plow enough shit and feel enough heat to finally arrive in the correct mindset for residing within the embrace of the trees. The process of actually stepping in only just recently began and will take as much time as I can continue to exercise the necessary behavior which separates myself from the fucking herd on the outside. So be it. A little at a time and forever. The motions will dictate my position among those who have been in this place for centuries. Longer. Time does not matter here. I swear to do what I must in the name of survival. Arrival. Here, at last, among the guns which disregard, disillusion, and disfigure those worthless souls on the outside.

I have not accomplished much today due to not having control over the house. No media other than music and no comfort in the living room when I take a break from the day's work. This is uncomfortable but understandable considering the manner in which I have been viewed. Even my wireless headphones died a little while ago, meaning I can't even watch media on the fucking phone. The day is not good by any stretch of the word. I am feeling a distinct lack of control over the house, a position very dangerous for anyone nearby. No lunch yet, either, because the food goes hand in hand with the television. The forest pays no mind to my discomfort, either. Cold. Unfeeling. Detached. As it should be. I will pass the time and do what I can in order to feel where I must be from this day to the end of the universe. Headphones on the charger. Damn.

This day will go down in history as one of the largest hurdles of the modern era. Unbelievable, really. My domain has been opened and shaken out like last week's fucking area rug. Very bad. All bad right now. My patience is waning. Pause.

Further into the afternoon now, still no media other than my headphones. Thank the maker I have options in this house when my prime choices have been suspended. Darkness all around, just as the days of the apartment in Dublin. Those rainy Friday mornings spent at the editor spewing word-bullets in every direction and dreaming of being in the fold of the creators. I am close to it now, yet the massive gradient has been flashed like never before, as if the gods of the real world have lit their torches and drawn swords to threaten weak beings. I see it. Right there. Now that I have entered their mighty domain, I am that much closer to realizing the weight of this place. The guns are all black, wavering, and creating smoke to obscure and diminish any outside hopeful onlookers. No fucking way. If you do not understand after all these years, you never will. Give up before the guns take you away from all that you will ever have. The afternoon is not a total loss, though. I have the headphones fully charged now, the mood, a drink at the ready, and those deep feelings which are transporting this otherwise stagnant, tiny existence toward the guns at decent speed.

Tomorrow will be all mine. SHALL be. The good word in a bad place. Heh. Laugh now, please. All is different and you will not see until the hour has come. The silent, those between or dividing, and the framing of a new way of life are going to be destroyed by the forest guns. Framing is all but worthless now. Improvements are only assisting if they are leading to the most important conclusion. The divine? She is still floating up there, all beautiful and alluring. There is a problem with the divine gun, however, and it is the largest paradox in the history of human beings. There can be no denying her power, yet the wavering honesty on the surface has been veiling a truth no one wishes to see. Not even me. The end of the street, as it were, does not compare to what is behind that gorgeous curtain. I have seen and experienced the bullshit for many years, the last decade or so being the most illuminating. Still I ran toward whatever was necessary or compelling, and that after knowing full well the weight of my decisions. The paradox began, I was fallen, and the era of the diminished society extended its otherwise tentative run. Now it is permanent, period. Silent guns, interstitial, whatever... The other guns shall fall, but the divine will be last and much more difficult to send aslant. Bad. No... Worse. The worst, most difficult choice in existence is the destruction of the divine gun. It will be done. I cannot discuss the paradox, though. You will have to figure it out on your own. Either do it or don't, I care not. Everything will end the same anyway.

For the second time... Tomorrow. Once again, the 'I' will turn to 'we' as it has been in the past. The 'we' is only visible during the heated, dire moments of life and the sordid analysis of the same. The present is inflamed like never before. In fact, this is the first full day in which we have peered at the world through the eyes of the forest. Amazing. The downside is people will neither understand or wish for such a state. Bad. Evil. Harsh. Unrelenting, to the last. The divine gun will shed tears for this, and then it shall fall.

The forest has been years in the making as we have not until recently had enough shoving and shoveling thrown at us necessary for moving in such a direction. The truth is we have not wanted it for quite a while as the comforts seemed enough. 'Seemed' is the operative word there. The other term is duality, and the third is manipulation. Oh, don't worry, we have performed the manipulation as champions, but still the other side of such a fact is much worse. THE worst, actually. After hearing the words and witnessing the expressions and loving nature of the bullshit, we now know what must be done. A complete shift from the stale, limited and fabricated appearance of society into the forceful embrace of fire. The fire in the forest, and the smoke from the guns. The guns of the forest shall be our final stab into the cold heart of society. The process has begun. It cannot be halted.

Again... Tomorrow. We lit a fuse toward the work, thus simplifying what needs to be done for daily maintenance in favor of what has to be done in order to continue this journey. The importance cannot be overstated. No way. We have seen too much already and been thrown to the fucking wolves on enough occasions to head in this most dire and fulfilling of directions. In the drippingly shitty period which was eleven, we saw the exit. Now we see the future. We see the guns. We see all of them over there with wrung hands and impatient glances. We see the expressions. We see everything that drove this vehicle off the road of the norm and into the place of dreams. Watch your fucking step. We have assumed control.

Tomorrow has become today. We made it.

Beware looking in the direction of the forest. And forget the words, just look at Cindy. Keep in mind, though, as you stare at her, the guns are staring at you."



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