March 7th, 2024 12:41pm pst

If you are visiting for the first time, go to the beginning.

The Compression Vane

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"The peaks have been lopped off by a chainsaw like errant tree branches. They are now dead.

My neighbor just fired up his hot rod. I’m not going out there. I need to remain behind closed doors for as long as possible because my head is about as sideways as it gets. All of the shit throughout the past week has rendered me unsociable and angry, sad and fairly despondent. I don’t want to ‘make nice’ as if everything is peachy because nothing is as such. I am upset and do not feel well. Today was to entail a trip to the wine store but I doubt I’ll be going over there at all. I didn’t place an order, either. I was just going to push a cart and pick up a few things for the bar. The way I feel right now is such that I’d rather not open the doors, let alone actually drive away from the house. I need to be alone. The latest vane is going to wreak havoc on my head and heart equally. Once again, I am helpless against the power of the vanes. Compression means all of the high points in life have been removed. I’ve felt as such for a very long time, but the vane has illuminated everything just to knock me down again. Thanks. This is not going to be a fun ride. You may want to go back and check the gate.

Friday morning and all is quiet. My brain cannot right itself as of yet and the vane is not helping. I see everything as it unfolded, enjoyed seconds; moments; reminders all over the fucking place, and mostly inside me screaming for change. I see everything. I see them. I cannot see ‘her’. If she was to be a peak, the chances have been sliced off and pushed down by the compression vane. And now I have to see Emily on the right-hand display. Jesus. The sight of her conjures all manner of deviant thoughts... Much like the way I felt after seeing the girl at the car wash so many years ago. I don’t even know where to fuckin’ start, damn it. The sheer mass of desire inside me right now is going to derail every fucking thing I try to do. Believe me, you don’t want to know. This day has to progress on some level and at some point, although right now the sadness and anger are building. The vane compression has taken away far too much for me to sit here and remain balanced. I have work to do. I have projects and other responsibilities. How in the holy blue fuck am I supposed to function with all this crap pushing me into the darkness? There is only one way out, and I’ve flirted with it for many years. One path to the exit. And then?

Emily is nearly five-seven. Does her height matter? Does anything matter? At least there IS an exit.

The clock continues to roll regardless of my condition. That is normal. I don’t expect anything good in life. Not anymore. All of it remains in the past. There was no compression back then; there were no vanes. I caused much damage and created problems seemingly out of thin air, but at least I found where I so badly needed to be and fucking forced it to happen. Now I can’t do anything. The media is still paused from when I captured an image of Emily, and the more I stare at her, the more I miss the past when doors were open. No compression. No vanes. Very little of what I am feeling at this very moment. At some point I have to do something in this house today. I simply must rise from the chair, shelve everything that hurts, and complete a few chores. Right now I don’t have the first fucking clue as to how I can get to the other side of this situation. Maybe I can’t. That would not be surprising at all. I’ve plodded along this far, but that is not to say I will be able to continue as such for much longer. I just don’t know.

I was there and can’t be there anymore. Right there. She was right there, too. Which one? Take your pick. Add up all of the days and then subtract them from the opposite days. Yep. The difference is Satan’s own gradient; a delta percent from hell itself. I can’t be there anymore, things are changing right before my tired eyes, and the world is more compressed at this very moment than ever before. Life has been compressed. The vane pays no mind. I am fucking powerless, like always.

Put on a helmet.

Half the routine is out of the way. Once again, I have to wait for the little emperors to vacate the room before I can finish the morning work. I don’t mind. At least they are comfortable. There is Emily again, all slender and gliding... Her gait is amazing. And there goes my brain right along with everything important. My life is compressed all to shit anymore and I fucking hate it. The neighbor is still out there with his buddy, but I have yet to open the door. My mood is diminishing as the clock turns. Even when Jamie is sad or otherwise upset, she is still about as stunning as the word can get. Unbelievable. I can’t even get through a fucking paragraph without being derailed by the vane. My thoughts are compressed.

Wow... Just imagine... Can you see? I don’t know for sure, but I’d bet that what is inside appears fucking amazing to no end. I don’t know, though. I suspect due to a handful of factors. Honestly, this shit is very difficult because of where I am in life, although no matter what may be transpiring on a daily or weekly basis, my brain still goes into all those places and ends up painting pictures better left out of my head. Still... There is something very special inside. Clues. Factors. Glimpses, even. This will drive me out of my fucking mind. I stared as much as I could despite the sighting being one the computer display here in the office, and I’ve stared in the past. The mystery just kills me inside. I know, however... I know something very special is going on inside. I fucking know it, especially considering the time frame. There was just enough motion to open the door to wonderful places; beautiful sights. This reminds me of that fucking day when I saw too much. My entire world became compressed, reduced to only a few very special details that I had already suspected were inside. And then? Slam! Something unbelievable, and then much more. I could not believe my eyes. Inside the other place? I have zero doubt that everything is right there and absolutely breathtaking. Unfortunately, none of this matters in the least. Jamie is up there right at the very end and my head is going to explode. I won’t even go into how much the compression vane relates to her endless pull upon my heart. Fuck.

Saturday. No drive this morning. Only tomorrow. Today is going to be very slow because there have been pictures circling inside my brain since last night. Past images of where I’ve been, some very detailed and others quite foggy, but the bottom line is that when these things enter my head, the rest of daily life melts away and I can barely function at all. I remember telling her that everything was as I had told her, and she didn’t believe me. I proved it, and during the process I realized that something special was present and it would soon disappear just like everything else. She didn’t believe me. Well, I know what the hell I’m talking about after so many years of obsessing over the same shit. I knew then and still know, hence the previous paragraph. The only way a problem can develop from such a beautiful situation is when the past comes to mind. The only positive aspect is knowing I’ll probably not need to concern myself with the difficulty in the future. All that shit is gone. She was patient, too. The importance was very clear. The rain is beginning to fall again. Last night it sounded like a torrential storm. I don’t know what to expect out of the sky today because I haven’t updated myself on the radar or forecast. Anyway, the pictures inside me cover a long stretch of time, from the eighties all the way up to and including some situations that came about much more recently. I have (had) no control over any of them, and am left to deal with memories. This is like a slide carousel that I cannot unplug. Spinning slowly; bright images; pain all up and down my being. Over and over I see those very specific details, recall having all sorts of trouble, and then remember the occasional, wonderful things developing from the damage inside my brain. I really don’t need this kind of shit following me all day long. I have responsibilities. I’ll have to force the issue and make everything fall away in order to operate as others expect.

One good thing that took place last night is a message informing me that the carrier has my watch and the tracking shows a delivery date late next week. I am hoping that the sight of that beautiful machine helps me relax as the days pass. Good fucking God... What am I if I’m in love with a fictional character? What if the feelings keep growing? What if I live in her past – a fictional place frozen in time forever – and often barely relate to reality? What about those times when I am unwilling to deal with reality? I love her more all the time, so does that mean I’ve voluntarily slammed the door on any possible future? Is this my fault? I was talking about the wristwatch. Shit. My life has become so fucking compressed that I can barely live from one day to the next without seeing that last door. Fucking hell is she ever beautiful. Yes... The most uniquely beautiful woman I have ever seen, past included. I am fucked.


My coffee is nearly gone. I suppose when I begin my daily housework I’ll switch from one fictional universe to another. You know... The one in which I’ve needed to live for the last few years. Peachy. The peaks are gone; chopped and accurately leveled by the vane. One of those peaks was my enjoyment of the kitchen work. If I lose it completely, I’ll be dead, sure as hell. The importance of the little enjoyments has been laid out here in spades for years, and to see them being truncated is very depressing. The sad truth is that they are all I have left. Well, I also have my fantasy worlds – those people I love dearly playing out stories in the background of each day’s work – and I can occasionally immerse myself within them. If those people and places lose their magic, I’m fucking finished. Time for housework.

And... Half done. The emperors are sleeping in the spare bedroom and I shall await their emergence prior to cleaning that area. There is a massive glass of whiskey here on the table. And speaking of tables, I finally have a plan to move all three; this one goes to the dining room again, the oak table will move into the spare closet with its leaf, the base will head to the garage, and the old government table will return to the office. The entire operation will take less than an hour. I’ll work on it either tomorrow during my free time or Monday. I am looking forward to this beautiful table residing next to the bar and new cabinets. I believe the appearance of the room can benefit greatly from the darker wood. Moreover, I will once again have drawers beneath the control center along with all of the useful tools they hold. Once I change everything around, I may install a dual monitor arm for the center and right-hand displays in order to free up space and make this area easier to dust. The left side is not a big deal, although a second arm would mean nearly the entire surface would be free of clutter and wiring. I’ll have to wait, though, because they are not cheap. I’ve already tossed some money toward the wristwatch and will need time to recuperate funds for anything else. Ah... The cats are out and about.

Second half... Complete. I still have other things to do, but for the time being I need to sit here and gather my errant thoughts, perhaps even find the ability to collate them into something sensible. Ugh.

Had the impact I just witnessed on the screen happened in reality, there is no way in hell the guy would have been back on his feet in seconds, let alone attempting to fight her again. And people believe it’s funny. Well, I lost my ability to produce children for the same reason, and was barely developed enough to even know it. Funny? No. You can’t understand. You don’t understand. Just go on believing in comedy. In one story from the past that I wrote a few years ago, I violently opened the neck of one of the people responsible, and would do it again every fucking day until I die, given the chance. Believe it. I’ve been mostly ruined due to the past. Three surgeries. Three. Pain at some point on a weekly basis, often enough to completely immobilize me. The pain also relates to desire. Do you understand the complexity of this? Nope. Like everyone else in society, you can fuck right the hell off and stay there forever. Die there. I don’t care. This are nowhere near enough words or 'terms' to express my anger with people, either. Just trust me. I have no desire to be locked up, so there is nothing I can do but sit here and take it. That’s all I ever do. Just pointing out all this shit makes me hurt inside, very deeply. I don't usually go into detail on this or one other topic (somewhat related) because I fear there will be backlash. Unfortunately, I've about had enough of the fucking stupid media and societal mindsets to remain quiet. Believe me, if I had a certain type of power, none of this shit would be necessary. Just believe it. Nothing else in life brings on this much burning anger or murderous rage. I've been squished and trivialized for too long. Do you think this paragraph is enough? Think again, fucksticks. Try me.


I turned off that show in favor of something different. Eventually, I will go back and finish the series, but for the time being, I need some fucking distance. Let’s drink. The previous topic upsets my stomach, so I have to venture elsewhere. I hear a train approaching. Uh oh. Is that other world calling again? If so, I’m going to be the harbinger of destruction.

I can still see her heading up the stairs, hips moving back and forth and creating patterns of obsession. The stairs, of all things. There were several flights in that place, perhaps six. I watched every fucking one of them, too, because I was nearly as bad off as I am right now. And then she was gone. I was reminded of Shannon on the treadmill so many years ago, just ahead of my position on the Stairmaster. Often we were in the gym at the same time and I watched her on and off – along with the twin televisions just above some of the machines – while dreaming of her one day leading me up the stairwell to her apartment. Jesus, she was gorgeous. I endured months of seeing her on the machine she always chose as I climbed my way through a difficult but rewarding program on my own unit. The girl on the stairs was different somehow, as if from another world. I felt as if she appeared for no other reason than to cause me to lose track of why I was there in the first place. And then my brain traveled through time again to Cara, one the leasing agents for the apartment building we had been perusing, walking from the ground floor to the third, my eyes absolutely cemented to her ass the entire way. We hadn’t even seen the lease agreement, let alone signed it, and I knew living there was going to present a plethora of issues for me. I kept dreaming of those lines that diverge, converge, and then diverge again... A part of a segment of the female anatomy that would soon rule my entire life. No, I am not speaking of the intimate area above, only the radii. The girl on the stairs was dressed such that I could see them for a split second with each step up. Cara showed off a similar form. I met Cara in aught-four. Twenty fucking years ago. Now look at me... Gaze upon the words that outline what I have become. And then? Go back a few lines and read about the pain. Everything is related, and to this very second and many years later, I desperately need to be close to each of those women for the same fucking reason. And then? Go forward in time some years and see how everything has disappeared, likely for all time. Only pain and heartache remains. Ask yourself why I need a cocktail during the mid-morning every day of the week, and then answer your own stupid fucking question. The compression vane has cut off possibilities, dreams, and any semblance of a future.

I would still give up the rest of my life to be THAT close to Cara for five fucking minutes. She is still walking her beautiful self up those stairs at this very moment. Basket case. The basement awaits, and I am looking forward to being alone regardless of where it resides, likely it is in hell.

I need to change the images contained in this entry. Jamie will come and go and the images of her that are here now seem too grainy. I love her and cannot have her likeness unclear. I’ll figure something out soon, I guess. Maybe some lines are in order.

The hour is later and everything is finished. I had planned to do all of the dry cleaning tomorrow while the garage is vacant, but at the last minute I remembered I’m supposed to make an appearance at a birthday party. Earlier plans will help both the morning and afternoon, both for the dry cleaning and garbage. I straightened the office a bit in order to ease the table rearrangement which has now been pushed to Monday or Tuesday due to the party tomorrow.

Sunday business will commence very soon. I am later than usual with everything, although the hour does not seem to matter since I have the entire day. I will probably avoid the birthday celebration at the bar today because I don’t feel like being around a bunch of people. The drive early this morning went very smoothly, and then a visit to the market on the return trip morphed everything to shit. Two incredible forms, one very tall, caught me off guard and left me unable to think clearly during shopping. Damn it. There is always something. As for the rest of the morning, I’ve been sitting here reading instead of typing because the mood struck after a movie yesterday afternoon. The subject matter stirred me quite a bit, being the development of certain high-energy weapons during WWII. Frightening, yet fascinating at the same time. And no sooner did I pour the last cup of coffee and switch to this interface, the program on my right-hand display solidified feelings of loss by showing a club with a number of extremely attractive dancers in very provocative outfits. As I said, there will always be something. They will fade and time will move on as it does. I have much to do on the order of organization, the typical garbage business, and then some dry cleaning once the car is out of the garage for the afternoon. The stunning legs from earlier this morning have once again compressed all of the good things to which I normally look forward on a Sunday. Another shot from the program just slapped me silly all over again. Maybe I need to change the media. Or, I can move away from all this shit and begin some housework. As I said earlier, the party does not seem to be a good idea for my head today. It’s her fiftieth birthday, but seeing as how my occasions in the past were glossed over as if I was unimportant, I will most likely remain home all day.


Monday. Boy did I ever need this morning. Yesterday was horrible. I attended the party for a while since two others were there that I often enjoy seeing. The affair was nice for the birthday girl, I believe. She seemed to be having a good time. I also enjoyed myself for a little while, although my head went sideways later in the afternoon and the evening turned out to be one huge pile of shit. Well, not the entire evening, but a good portion prior to dinner. This morning is very quiet and peaceful and all of the crap went away for the time being. That is not to say there are no problems right now, only that whatever happened yesterday has faded. Regardless of whether or not it will return, I need to remain mindful of the current condition and the way I can affect other people. That is that. Today shall be very quiet and relaxing. I do have to pick up an order at the wine store, but other than that I will stay inside with the doors closed. I’ve been compressed quite enough in the last two days. And no, there was nothing troubling at the bar. One might think that the odds of having problems would increase in such a place. The fact is that the market is often much worse. There was nothing to see except one Asian beauty passing by the door when I first entered. She was only a problem for a few seconds. Inside the bar? Nada. That was good. Now is not the time for me to be hit upside the head by anything wondrous. That is very bad and the feeling is cumulative. I still need the shitty situation from last night to continue fading or this day could end up going nowhere. I can’t have that right now.

Looking around the room yesterday made me realize just how detached from convention I’ve become. Part of me feels good about such a circumstance while another, smaller part continues to wonder how this happened. Last night I tried to illustrate the sheer depth of damage that was caused by the two past shit situations, but nothing ever seems like enough. Every conversation ends up being buried so deep in the ground that the only result is discomfort, anger, and feelings of loss. I need to turn inward when such moods strike because no one can fucking help me and all I end up doing is initiating a very unpleasant – yet fairly calm – tirade, eventually coming out the other side feeling no improvement whatsoever. Quite the reverse, actually. I guess I have yet to learn and retain such knowledge. I have to keep trying. There are very few individuals left alive that have affected me in a negative way. All that was worse is completely gone. I don’t understand people anymore. Many seem to follow the same paths, most of which demonstrate a herd mentality and I don’t fucking get it. My life is no longer conventional, and I realize that I’ve made myself different for good reason. I’ve gone out of my way – even as far as intentionally missing out on what could have been very enjoyable situations – to avoid ‘conforming’ to societal norms and standards. I have deviated so far from what others believe is a ‘regular’ path through life that sometimes the gradient between myself and others is so severe that I can barely understand much of their views and behavior anymore. I saw it in spades yesterday, and that is part of the reason I need to remain behind closed doors today. I am not going to pick up the order today. Tomorrow I have to carry a friend from a shop to the restaurant while her vehicle is serviced, reversing the trip later in the afternoon, so I figure the best plan will be to head to the wine store in the morning after the first leg is complete. I will already be away from home, so combining the trips makes sense. Moreover, leaving the house to go anywhere today seems frightening. I keep thinking that what is best for me in the future is to avoid situations which tend to illuminate just how far off center I’ve become, and that means the conventional type of people can’t be near me, ever. This is going to be tough.

Part of my work is finished.

‘Tuesday’s gone... With the wind.’

Indeed. I took care of all my business yesterday and was overjoyed when I arrived home after each trip. The housework felt very simple when held against dealing with driving to odd places and the need to speak to people. Everything worked out just fine, though, and despite my hesitation. The only lingering tidbit is heading over there in a few hours to reattach a sign in front of the restaurant. The work will take mere moments and then I can return here or visit the market if necessary. The bulk of the day is all mine. All I have to do is remove some imagery from a dream earlier this morning and I may get through the hours without too many problems. This is the type of time period which will slam the point home about everything good having been lopped off the top of life. The compression vane rears its head and I see how truncated life has become, and this typically takes place during the late morning. Unless I am very busy or otherwise occupied with something, the view of the future comes along and makes me very sad. The tops – the peaks, as it were – have been lowered; the gate has removed the noise floor; the sum is truncation. My world does not have the highs any longer. A few days ago, I realized they cannot return. All this free time today appears very enticing right now due to the peaceful nature of the house and low noise level. Later, however, I already know that the compressed nature of life will get me and not let up. I know. I really do. The morning – up to and into when I work in the kitchen – is about all I have anymore. The afternoon hours find me completely lost more often than not. I am compressed all to hell.

The dream was dreamy. I was finally precisely where I’ve needed for a very long time. I was right fucking there. Like every other occasion in which I am actually feeling relief, everything was soon ripped away. While in the dream, I realized that I had somehow become important enough to warrant some very special people doting over me. Upon awakening, I remembered just enough to really hurt inside (again). For what felt like a few minutes, everything in my head relaxed and I felt wonderful. I’ll admit that some of the imagery in the dream was very unrealistic, although it was from my subconscious. That means there is no limit to the strangeness. It also means that a few very specific thoughts throughout the last several months finally manifested themselves while I slept. Frankly, I am surprised that this has not happened before. Certain faces and such, you know? They remain inside me for the duration and for one very critical reason. I can’t talk about it, much like the damaging dreams. This was different, though. I am only pointing out that considering the way my mind operates each day, I can’t believe it took so long for some of that shit to enter my sleeping time. At least I know where the exotic imagery originated. Better than nothing. The downside is that once again I was given the priceless gift of feeling as if everything will be ok, only to have it violently torn away like always. Such situations make life feel less worthwhile. The vane continues to push. There is an exit from this shit, too. There is an exit.

I don’t want to see a certain face in my dreams anymore. She is a problem. She is also a person I’ve never known in reality. I am only vaguely familiar with some of her personality. The issue with her being in this particular dream is that I’ve daydreamed over and over along similar lines, yet always knew that there could never be such improvement in life. While sleeping, she was real, effectively raising my hopes enough to really hurt when the whole thing came to a crashing halt, likely mere seconds later. I am not educated in these matters, but I suspect the entire shitaree was very short-lived. Now that I’ve ‘been’ where I needed to be and ‘saw’ her right there next to me, I’m quite certain that to think of her during a regular day is going to feel worse than ever before. Not good. Insult has been added to injury, as in my head was already concerned and lost prior to the dream. Now it hurts even more.

On top of all that shit, I’ve been watching a different program during the mid-afternoons while having lunch or taking a break. It is full of problems, but the story, setting and compelling nature of the narrative holds me to the screen unlike most programs. The problems are just going to have to be dealt with because I won’t stop watching. There is a mass of very exotic beauty all over the screen for a good portion of each episode, and much of it is aligned with the way I think (very bad). I know seeing everything is not good for me, as well. I already know what is healthy and what is not, yet the compulsion won’t let up enough for me to make a good decision. In short, if there is something very special to see, I simply must see it regardless of the downsides. I’m going to be pretty miserable anyway, so I may as well gaze while I still can. ‘You don’t wanna know.’ Thanks, Tony. Anyway, I will not be able to avoid the program, nor can I remove the dream woman from my head. The sum is me being compressed more than ever. Truncated. Amended? No... That’s too pleasant.

I have a much longer morning today. This is good because I need time to reconcile myself with the current condition of my head with regard to what I’ve seen and dreamt. None of it is good for me, yet I still crane and strain myself to take in as much as possible, and part of me believes the process has become some errant defense mechanism. I may be trying to gaze at beauty knowing that I can never truly be ‘there’ again and need something wondrous in my life, real or not. If a person is going to be shot by a firing squad, their last request is always something pleasant, such as a pizza. I can’t be certain that what I am doing is really in defense of all this sadness and depression, so the content here will continue to grow for the time being.


The compression and gate vanes work in concert with each other. One on top, the other on the bottom. The noise floor inside my head can be very troubling at times and the gate often mitigates some of it. Unfortunately, it also takes away my ambition by forcing the realization that no matter how quiet the world can become, my brain will continue to scream in random directions because there is no one listening. This is likely very difficult to understand and I don’t care one bit. I need to be where I need to be, yet no matter how loud the inner voice, I see less and less chances that anything will ever come to pass in reality. I’ll continue to dive into the past and keep my friends close. I no longer have any choice in the matter. The floor has been raised and the ceiling lowered, and the combination is rendering me unable to understand other people or the ways of the world. I don’t even know why I filled out and mailed my voting ballot. What difference will it make? Is my condition going to improve due to those who hold political office? Nope. Even dramatic tax alterations will change very little of what goes on in this household. As for the rest, it’s all just opinion, and mine rarely aligns with any others of which I am aware. I’ve not met a single fucking soul that thinks the way I do with regard to society and its machinations. When I do express even a smidgen of a viewpoint – something which is rarer than those ideal lines in my head; see two of the images here – no one wants to hear it because I generally railroad them until there is no more ground upon which to stand. And what does all this have to do with the vanes? Society created them. I have to deal with them. I don’t know what to do. My life has become so narrowed from what it once was that voting is even less important now than in the past, and believe me when I say that I can’t even remember a time when I felt that politics could make any difference at all in my world. The vanes will not let up on me, continue to grow in number, and there is fuck-all I can do about them. I just have to fucking lump it.

The political landscape of this nation has become so fucking convoluted that there is little point trying to follow along anyway. I’d love to see some key changes, but my beliefs are so far detached from convention that nothing I wish can ever come to pass. Progress peaked at frozen pizza, as John McClane would say.

The woman from my dream is fading a little bit. Maybe the rest of the morning will move along better than I had expected. My routine will be pretty straightforward, so I’ll probably make some preparations for dinner earlier than usual. I like the evening to be relaxing rather than busy. I can get a few things ready so cooking is that much easier and takes less time. If she leaves me alone for the rest of the day, I should be able to accomplish quite a bit. If things go the other way, well... Whatever the case, I’m going to end up in the ground soon enough. I’m already compressed all to hell. Focusing on the next couple of hours is probably all I can do.

Vanes of death. Splendid. I’ll do what I can.

Later. Half of my morning routine is finished. I am awaiting a delivery, after which I can modify the spare bedroom. Well, no work will commence there until the little emperors of the universe vacate the space for a while. They are sleeping and I have no wish to disturb them. I have plenty of time. I also restocked some items in the dining room pantries for good measure. I’ve been cleaning the outside of the refrigerator every few days (unless I fry a bunch of food, in which case it should be done the next morning) and it is still shiny and like new. The best way to ensure there is no build up of vaporous oils or whatnot is to keep it clean from the beginning. The process is much easier if I maintain a schedule. So far, so good. The old fridge was neglected for long periods because I never realized how much crap floats around the kitchen while cooking, regardless of the exhaust fan. The new one is going to remain beautiful for as long as we own it. I love that appliance. What a difference it is to have a side-by-side for my purposes. And no ice maker, either. I make the ice myself, and like everything else I do, it is on a schedule. As for the remainder of the morning, I postponed the restaurant trip until tomorrow so my day stays wide-open. I need to think about all this shit.

I hope I appreciated Her enough at the time. I really do. I expressed my feelings often during those months, mostly on that fateful day that nearly ended my life. I ensured that She was aware of the depth of my obsession and just how aligned to it She was, regardless of clothing. This shit is important and I must remember as much as possible because the entire topic has been forcibly removed from life and there is likely no way to get it back. The compression vane will make sure of that. I recall Her appearance from that day on and off no matter what else I may be doing. The first and third images pretty well get the point across, to be honest. The more I remember Her, the more I strain to see something similar; eventually the process takes its toll and causes me to fall on my face. And then I do it again. And again. And again. The gray pants from the parking lot some weeks ago were very similar to what you see in those two images, although at the time my point of view when I passed that beauty in the parking lot was straight-on from the front and then the back (yes, I turned around to look at her shape after she passed me). I felt so much fucking torment that the Raven flowed into my heart and rendered me almost unable to shop. Yes, the two were THAT similar. I placed the images here because my head is all fucked up over the dream and related feelings during the same. I felt that way about the Raven, and on two occasions nearly ended my life when I calculated the sheer level of either possible damage, or actual destruction that developed shortly after such a stirring connection. God damn did I ever love that woman and the way Her mind operated. Jesus. Looking back now causes all sorts of heartache and I simply MUST consider Her importance and remain mindful of what we had for such a short time. Nothing like that can ever happen again, trust me. No fucking way. The world appears dimmer now than when I began this paragraph. Shit. Whatever. Just another pile of rocks I can kick. ‘...once you’ve plowed enough shit; taken enough heat; felt enough pain...’ You got that one right, mister Walken. Damn it all, anyway. I know I cherished many moments and days we spent together, but was that enough? As relates to the previous sentence? Is anything enough?

I might sit at this table all fucking day. Just for the hell of it, let’s look at the numbers again...

From 2002-2014, I wrote 7253 lines of code on the site. From 2015 on, I wrote 232072 lines, most of which came about in the last four years. Is that enough analysis? Enough? Fuck off. I should be dead right now.

Nothing is or will ever be enough. I’ve HAD enough of this shit, but my feelings don’t matter. As for the rest, all I can do is consider the shrinking enjoyments and the possible impact of making a change that no one wants to see. Believe it when I say that suicide is at the forefront at some point every fucking hour of every fucking day. There is a handful of other people that continues to keep me from making said change. I am selfish, angry and controlling, but not unkind.

One thing I’ve considered lately is the fact that I changed dramatically after the loss of Her, and I now believe the effects of said loss have been cumulative. Not only do I miss Her more with each passing day, but the event may have been the catalyst for this fruitless, ongoing search. If so, there can be no repairing me. She is gone and cannot return. Hence, I am ruined. All this shit is nothing more than conjecture, however. There is little certainty to my obsession anymore. The connection between what I see and feel cannot be denied, either. My brain travels from fascination to desire to torment so quickly that the loss of Her becomes more painful and stark every time there is a form even remotely similar to Hers. Add the two shit situations and years of being squished, and one may understand how I became what I am at this very moment. As I said, all of this is conjecture. I can’t know for sure. There are some truths, though. The changes I have undergone throughout the last several years are equally cumulative to what I felt when that woman left this world. Not a single difference can be attributed to society in general. Compression is absolute in my experience, and is one of the most damning and important aspects of the way I think. It is also directly related to the only measure of power I have left in this sordid life, and that is of the RF variety. I had thought building the 4355s might help my sense of balance, but the truth is that all they will do is facilitate my ability to lash out with more dramatic results. People will understand me even less than they are already able. If, through some miraculous series of events, I am able to complete such a project, the mass of compression that I’ve been feeling will take over the house and garage via pressure waves. They can often be very uncomfortable. Maybe I should have lunch and watch my show for an hour or so. It will cause more damage to my psyche, yet I will be mildly entertained at the same time. That may be all I can ask anymore. The hour is early. Free time and quiet are the two aspects of weekdays that still help.


And in case you believe all of the lines are related to the lower portions of the female form, think of hands and fingers. Just a thought. They have caused trouble in the past and I still become goo-ga from time to time when I see something special. I’ve asked more than one woman’s permission to inspect her hands. Many more than one, actually. Think about it. Height? Yep. Whatever. I have to get away from this shit for a while.

Another day has passed by, never to return. Was yesterday worthwhile? There is no way to know. I spent a lot of time here at the control center trying to understand myself as regards the period nine years ago when I tried to throw myself at Her, yet this morning I don’t even know what I was saying. Sure, I went nuts over Her because of Her form, but that was only at first and the situation scared the hell out of me once I opened a line of communication. Right now when I look back at that fall period from so long ago, it seems that time was compressed – much like what’s been happening inside my head and to my life – and flew along like those trains I tried to capture with maximum zoom. You know... The focus field ends up very deep in order to maintain clarity when shooting an object, front to back. Compressed. The timeline from when I first sent Her an email until the end of all things (the first occasion of such) now feels as if it all transpired in a matter of seconds. Unreal. She was unreal, too. I am losing my train of thought here, damn it. Coffee. There was a field reporter on the news this morning with the same first name, and I believe her appearance triggered memories and sent me into a bit of a tailspin while taking care of business. The reporter had dark hair and eyes, too. Big fucking surprise. She did remind me of the Raven in some ways, and once I stared for a few seconds, I recalled seeing Her in the office for the first time. Our conversations came about some weeks later. The events which unfolded during the later months actually altered my vision and the way I looked at beauty in general. They changed me, likely for all time. There is nothing I can do about it, either. There were moments that turned into opportunities, and then other moments that nearly killed me. This all adds up to the idea that every single fucking time I felt that I had found that beautiful place where I so badly needed to be, there were always underlying circumstances that pushed me toward the grave. Why is that? Could it be akin to that first horrible trip to the goblet and the fact that I had no intention of returning, only to reach out in ways I normally would have avoided? I ‘threw a line’ at Juliette in the bank and ended up wrapped around her beauty for days. And then I did the same with the doll, all the while believing that I needed to find the very unique comfort prior to dying. Even way back then, my life had been compressed. I didn’t even know about the vanes and they were already beginning to wreak havoc on me. Marvelous. I know that I’d been disregarded and squished, the latter eventually building up to the point of driving me (and my car) out the gate that day to free myself of everything difficult and sink into the lavish atmosphere of the goblet, but I did not know that first getaway would be the beginning of a horrible, repeating pattern over which I would eventually have zero control. Hmm. I may be onto something here. Reckless behavior twenty-plus years ago, more of it less than a decade later, and then a few years after all that shit, I found myself in the arms of the Raven and tied up in the same type of fucked up mindset. I’m losing the train again.

My life had been compressed for some time, yet when I ran away to seek the elusive comfort, I did not feel such a vane. While sunk into the beauty of those connections and attached to certain individuals, the vanes did not seem to appear. Everything was lovely, warm and very comfortable. By way of comparison, as I sit here right now I have a total of ten different vanes affecting me, the latest being actually related to all of the others. Compression; the process in which peaks (the good stuff) are unheard in order to find balance with regard to output. That may seem a tad technical for such an emotional exploration, but I need something to help organize and identify the way I feel, and that means devices; terms; structured allegories. Years ago I was unable to identify and label certain aspects of my personality and the effects other people had on my life, whereas now I suppose I have so much fucking time that things occasionally clear for a while and allow me to analyze. That sounds good, I guess. Whatever. At least the keyboard pays no mind, as do the vanes. I am compressed right now and despite knowing such a fact, there is still nothing I can do about it. I can type, but that’s all. Two hundred thousand lines of code have not improved me one fucking bit. At least all of the content is fairly organized. Better than nothing, as I often say.

I need to go to the restaurant in a little over an hour. Sometime later, a woman is going to come by and pick up cat food that I offered on the local site because my little snoots don’t like it. I’d rather it went to a good home and be used than toss it in the trash. There is no money involved, and I’ve done this before... Paying it forward, as it were. I don’t mind. When it comes to food, the importance is not cost. It is helping others. Prior to leaving the house, I’ll probably take care of my usual stuff along with a bit of laundry. My brain travels all over the world with any number of beautiful companions, yet the reality is that my entire life is contained within a space of just under six thousand square feet. That is very sad. I used to actually be someone. I was involved in the space program, now I am in charge of a different type of space. All that engineering, high-voltage analysis, electronic troubleshooting, machining, compressed gas work... Gone. The only compression left is that which resides on top of my fucking head. My life is compressed all to hell. I will go and help at the restaurant because others count on me. I always help. I help everyone who needs it, yet the reality is I need more fucking help than I can even describe right now. Maybe I should express the lot here in three-dimensional terms so the number is larger, say thirty feet from the ground to the top of my antenna mast. That would mean I am in charge of 180000 cubic feet of space. Better? Nope. This is fucking stupid.

The first load of laundry is running. I have yet to do anything else, though. Motivation is rarely forthcoming unless I am pressed for time, such as when the evening approaches and I have to make revolutions for dinner. Nothing is funny.

The next vane will also require a helmet. This one may not seem very bad, but believe me when I say that behind each fucking word is suicide.

My watch is scheduled to arrive today. I hope it puts a smile on my face for a little while. I’ll probably capture some images of the dial and case for posterity and include them in the next entry. Doing so may ease my head a little bit because what you see on this page is trouble, most notably two out of four. Stare at them and perhaps you’ll lose the ability to understand just as I have.

I’ve mentioned the girl that stars in this program and her uncanny resemblance to one of the most beautiful and frightening women I have ever seen. The more I watch – and I’ve not watched terribly closely, for sure – the more I see the other woman’s facial traits and expressions, and then am reminded of the fact that the level of desire inside me some years ago was overwhelming. Much work was required for me to maintain composure while near her, and the difficulty became ten-fold when I was nearly hired to work in her office. That was my attempt to escape the rigors and pain of the trade in favor of something more comfortable and involving my intellect more than muscle. Just following her down the hall to the interview room was crippling. Five-nine; long, wavy, dark flowing hair all over the place; breasts bouncing and everything else. And then I had to sit there while she went through paperwork, all the while staring at her long, slender fingers. Jesus fucking Christ did I ever want to be close enough to see all of the lines, and much more. Fuck me. This program is very entertaining at times, yet I am beginning to see that nothing in the media is safe for me to watch anymore. My head is far too fucked up at this point in time. On the flip side of how beautiful that woman is, there is fear. A lot of fear. She is very strong, forthright and set in her ways. I’ve seen behavior which demonstrated a reckless disregard for the well-being of another person (I can’t go into detail) and her subsequent amused reaction. She is not necessarily a bad person, just one with a very strong and unwavering view of the opposite sex. That is all I will say. The woman is frightening, but that is not to illustrate my fear of such personality types, only a measure of self-protection which dates back more years than she has been alive.

I am back from the business trip uptown and then downtown. I fixed the shit at the restaurant and went to the market. Thankfully, there was nothing present to exacerbate my already weakened state. Now I have a fat cocktail and the rest of the day to do whatever is best (perhaps nothing). At some point I will have something to eat and watch an episode of my latest program, after which I’ll fall on my face over the sheer mass of unbelievably beautiful Asian women on display. Um... One in particular. I probably didn’t need to say that. Whatever. Suck it.

Oy, I really didn’t need to craft that fucking paragraph above; the one that upsets my stomach. The mere mention can cause extreme nausea. But? In the interest of avoiding another tirade that no one cares about, I will stifle myself like always. No one ever wants to hear me speaking. That is not to say I am wrong in doing so, it’s just that the subject matter is very uncomfortable. For reasons of good form, I’ll do my best to leave it alone for a while. You can thank me later, and while you’re at it, lay some flowers in my backyard. The reason will be painfully apparent soon enough. Death.

This entry is a pain in the ass.

The compression vane has been taking its toll on me for so long that I can barely understand it anymore. People just couldn’t fucking hear me (or chose not to for whatever reason). Who knows... Maybe I am nothing more than a boring soul with nothing interesting to convey, ever. Could that be the reason for finding myself compressed all to shit at this age? Was I wrong all along? YOU make the call.

And after you make that stupid fucking call, write it down and eat the fucking paper with a side order of about 300mg of potassium cyanide. Leave me the hell alone, please. I own this space. Go somewhere else if you want bunnies and flowers.

I feel like committing suicide right now. And in the IDE, this is line number 666."