January 6th, 2021 10:03am pst

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Re Obscura

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"1-5.

Wow this period is one big pile of shit. Very little up, plenty of down.

Since the last entry here, I have been hit in the face with the facts again. Just yesterday, for one. I don't know how much more of this shit can slap me before I shut down completely, leaving all the other people with tons of questions but zero answers. I've been sitting here for a good portion of today continuing the transfer and formatting of the entries for the new site. Very tedious, often boring, but at least I have the television up there to keep me company. Some of the nonfiction is lengthy and due to my using the desktop computer and massive displays to create them, the result is text off the page for this small machine. Lots of keystrokes. There will be no difference in production, only the code will reflect changes. Boring.

I'm tired of being slapped. While I must admit that the issues are mine, those who choose to be around me interacting and such must comply with my guidelines or I react badly. Yes, unfair, however I am respectful of them, so I expect the same and do not feel I am asking much at all. We are all different. I just happen to be hypersensitive after living this long. The problem in these late days is the fact that while each incident tends to fade with time, the underlying idea remains and has become cumulative. That is not a joke. Sitting here right now at the beginning of a new year, I can feel the tinge of discomfort from events which took place over a year ago, and some of the worst examples have been there for decades. I suppose they could be referred to as scars, but I really do not like that word. Eh... Call them what you wish. I have no control over others.

Today. I've completed some things and the routine is finished, leaving me lots of time to sit here and work. Good and bad, for sure. I honestly feel more fearful now than mere months ago. The little things keep creeping in and flooring me, one at a time.



907



1-6.

I went over that shit I think. Those years. You know... The glow. Christine Baranski up there on the screen, God love her and that incredible nose. Anyway, the dishes were atop a converted gas station canopy. The shop sold the equipment and subscriptions for television (like cable channels, or 'premium' networks within packages), and the dishes up there were not just examples, they were functioning and aligned. We watched several televisions in the shop daily. I believe some time ago I went into a bit of detail over the CD girl, too. The shop in question is where I did the work on her car. The beginning of the film thingy and right about three-quarters of the way through the glowing years. Everything all at once at that time... Family, holidays, wonder... You know.

The idea of the glow is even more apparent now than just a few months ago. I wrote some about the feelings and ice skates, the D-555 and other things which were sort of a focus at the time, but now I really believe that the period represents even more than I had originally thought.

Oh, and some dream about the Ace hardware down the boulevard involving paint or something, but I can’t remember right now. I awakened with a strong feeling of the aisles there and the always-young and adorable cashiers. The owner, too... His help is always right on the money. None of it is returning, though. I'll just have to wait.

I also awakened in the condition discussed in 'Evan...' along with the understanding that I am completely doomed without respite. There can be no doubt any longer. The more I need, the more I see, the more I recall of the past; the further into a hole I travel. Nothing will ever be enough and I have to buckle down for the enjoyments and maximize them before my time is up. I have no wish to go away right now, either. Though my words may point in such a direction quite often, I honestly need to stay here for the duration. A few days ago I was told that on many occasions I stated that I wished to be alone yet am not. Well, I am unable to be completely alone because I have fucked my life up so much that I need to lean on others. That is not a joke. I am dependent upon people, and as much as I hate the sound of such a fact, the truth is that there are aspects to this living situation which I will not fucking explain to another person, no matter who they are. I will say that the condition of me is such that if anything dramatic were to alter the current state, I would not survive. I would be gone. Believe it. And yes, I do need to be harsh because rarely does anyone actually listen to the words emanating from my maw.

As I said, nothing will be enough. I have been shown that my expectations or desires are always going to cause more analysis and difficulty than they are worth. And with such a fact, we go back in time to my vast dreaming of a machine named Jaime... The one from the fiction and somehow attached to those fateful images I ran across last spring. Her. It. Whatever.

I keep typing the words 'there is no other way' for good reason. No matter what another person may see or feel, I know myself better. I really do. And when I say such things which come across as absolutes, it is because they are. Period. I can barely deal with the words which come out of other people (especially women, but that is nearly unnecessary due to the fact that I expect males to be worthless anyway. I am one, believe me... I know), and that will never change. The situation and worry worsens as the weeks fly by. Dreaming of the machine keeps my head far enough above the flood to ensure I can breathe. Without it? The aforementioned 'end'. I have simply tired of the effort. I have grown weary of worrying what may be going on in there, and regardless of what I may be told, there is no fucking trust left because none of it matters. I will end up all by my lonesome soon enough. So far, I have been able to maintain pace and live day by day, yet I know the end is near. I know not when, but there is no longer any alternative because of the simplest fact that I have ever spewed: Happiness is not possible, and what I need is equally nonexistent. See? Do you want to fight back and try to reason with me? Go for it. I like the challenge and eventual disparaging expression on a person’s face after I bury them with words.

Machine. Is she out there?

Nope. Nothing is out there. Not what I need, anyway.

The rollercoaster girl comes to mind when I think of that period working at the CB shop because she reminds me of the CD player girl. I don't remember her appearance, though. Rollercoaster girl is a face I can still picture at this very moment, with her bright, hopeful eyes and long hair. But the other one is probably gone forever. At least the former is out there on video, somewhere. Anyway, the period which glows is beginning to carry with it the idea that my needs were very different. I did not obsess over many things as I do now. Her? I didn't really think of her appearance in such ways, although I do recall a strong desire for her to model some three-quarter cut bottoms on occasion, which she did for me. Other than that? Nothing much. I was very interested in the way technology was advancing, the radio club with which I was affiliated during the last few months before we relocated across the country, and my truck which required maintenance often. I did not think of her 'modeling' or posing for me very often. I see it all very differently now, especially after discovering a huge change in the way I view the female form. Nothing wrong with it, but I do find the difference interesting now. Looking back and recalling the way she looked in certain lingerie, I should be thankful I had the opportunity at all, let alone going further with anything out of the ordinary. Even after seeing the CD girl, I still desired the one attached to me. The other was only appreciation, if I remember correctly. I'm sure there was curiosity further than just looking, but again... Natural, I believe. She was a person, too. The rollercoaster girl was another story and a much larger problem. I still daydream about her. During the glowing years, none of that shit was a problem, whereas now it pretty much rules my thinking most of the time and can derail any fucking situation imaginable in mere seconds.



908



I really don't need to say it, do I? Again? No control means no satisfaction or fulfillment, worry all the fucking time, and the comfort remains at a minimum except for a few key occasions. There you go. If I cannot hang on to the reins, I will lose my way completely. Just a matter of time. The more I write about the subjects which were covered all summer, the further I go into a little capsule with room for only me and the dream. Recently I had been going on about day to day activities and went around the barn with my feelings. I saw all the previous entries and felt that to keep going was pointless. There are only so many ways I can say the same fucking thing over and over. I tried, but in the end much of the crap published was completely unnecessary. I must admit, however, that a good portion of the motivation to explore all that shit for so long is the fact that I hold control over it, unlike almost everything else. I need not worry about a retort, and others' feelings toward what I have placed here honestly doesn't matter to me. This is not for them.

Control. Issues gone. Possible happiness? I'll never know. Other than being consumed by this for my remaining days, I don’t see a lot of sunshine. And I'm sorry, but I don't believe Grace is five-seven. Evidence to the contrary, of course. Yeah, that's important. Well, she does relate... A machine designed to look like her? Hmm. Yep, closer to the crazy basement. Unfortunately, it's not funny anymore.

There will be others, I'm sure. Grace popped up a few weeks ago and is still fresh. Part of the reason she continues to be mentioned (aside from beauty) is I have been transferring and reformatting many of the essays from the last five years. [In fact, next month will be the five year anniversary of the first titled entry, and tomorrow will be five years since I first wrote about the Raven. Just a thought.] After seeing some of the difficulty I went through in trying to understand why the obsession began to torment me so much, the sight of Grace is a reminder of those feelings. Yes, she is that picturesque, believe it or not. There is far too much for me to attempt to describe, but suffice to say her face and everything below aligns with every single fucking detail over which I have written for years. Everything. Just imagine what she looks like inside my head. Heuristic algorithms, microhydraulics, soft and tender to the touch, eyes never changing, and every fucking detail under strict control through software. Yep. I have to get away from this.

The other day was very bad. I took the slam (like a man?), sat on it and did not bring it up again, but I know there was a problem. I am reminded of the new office period months ago while enjoying the weather sitting out there with this machine, and that day of the words. I knew. And then September... Much more. I knew then, too. By the end of October my head processed exactly what needed to happen. Upon reaching the high country a month later, I decided to head into the forest, but never did. I wrote about it, however. That will always happen. Cut to even later... A few more snippets here and there have cemented my brain into a position which will be forever unchanged. Damaged, worrisome to a point -- although that can be dealt with -- and recalling everything, all the time. I did not fucking do this. I laid it down and had it thrown back at me anyway. Well, one more and the forest will become the residence for the rest of my life. Just one more. That is all.

I think it was three days ago. Not sure, though. The exact time does not matter.

My mood is still hiding behind the huge window coverings, too. Letting anything through is going to weaken me even further and I can't deal with more shit right now. All I have to do is make nice like the world is in good order and others will leave me be.






I know they know. Some, at least. Not good. I need to hide.

I could surf across Leeta's beautiful lips. And I will no longer apologize for gushing about my desire to shove my tongue inside her, either. Live with it. If there is going to be emphasis upon fear, the double standard is going to be harsh. If I end up alone, so be it. I don't give a shit.

Cute Cardassian again. Too bad her father is an asshole. Heh.

Have I been overly harsh? When one considers the levels to which I have gone in both displaying and describing the female form along with the subsequent desire, I could be viewed in a very bad light. Those who truly know some of me (and they are but few) can understand more because of discussion. Maybe. I really believe that holding me to the fire for being myself and speaking my mind is wrong, although what is not wrong is the idea of others doing the same while I am within earshot. I can't handle it, yet my reaction is not their doing, it is a combination of several other aspects of me at work. This will never change and I don't know what to do about the situation. I have been traveling along the same road for so long that I can't see anything else. Other avenues, options, methodology... Nothing. Blinders, for sure.

This is a dark place. No way out.

I have to watch six fucking football games this weekend. They jacked the schedule around and the result is three games each day, one following the other. On the one hand it's pretty nice because none of them overlap. The downside is saturation. I don't want or need any of that shit. Not now, anyway. I've had enough fun trying to reconcile shit that took place months ago, let alone something more recent. I suppose all the imagery and words will just pile on top and await my attention (or attitude) like everything else. Up top I said the little things are flooring me. Well, I can't help it. A syllable is like a scepter from the sky. One of the worst facets of my issues with others is that a knot can quickly form in my midsection, effectively ruining any possibility of relaxation and enjoyment of my media. Every fucking time, just about. It's unbelievable. How I became so fucking weak, I'll never know. I used to stroll the facilities at NASA with my head high. Now I am hiding all the time. The football games are completely under my control, though. I can watch all, none, or whichever I choose, and I can also watch with others or alone. That last fact is comforting, but I know if I announce that I do not wish to be around anyone else because I'm all fucked up, questions will arise quickly. No doubt about that. As of this morning, I do not know what to do about the fucking football. Thank the maker I still have a few days to think about it.

Nine in the morning and I do not have the house to myself. Hmm. Routine soon, I suppose, and then whatever I need to do. I do not have any live auctions right now. Maybe I can come up with a few more items for listing so there will be something to watch during the next week. I do enjoy it. The watch which sold yesterday ended at more than half-again what I was hoping. Lots of bidding on that one, too.

Very dark, these late days. I have the little things still providing enjoyment (thank goodness) and those moments which bring magic (sometimes they do, anyway), yet the substrate is losing strength. Maybe I should not have included Grace here. She is a problem. Representing everything right now. Hopefully she will pass like most of the others because more on my head is not good. And speaking of the magic, I have no control over that one, either. Out of my hands.

Switch, I suppose...



910

A glimpse...



So... Something I find interesting is the idea of nationalities on three of the series'. Gorgeous Rosalind Chao (Chinese) played gorgeous Keiko O'Brien (née Ishikawa, Japanese). Garrett Wang (Chinese) played Harry Kim (Korean). And then we had the lovely Linda Park (Korean) playing the lovely Hoshi Sato (Japanese). Fascinating? I don't know, but why can't the actors just play their own nationality rather than mixing everything around until it ceases to make sense? I'll never understand. I will say all of them were fantastic, though. I watch enough of those shows to know my shit. Heh.

Switch back.

One of the aspects of present life is the fact that I cannot go into detail about some feelings. I just can't. Too much of a reveal means ridicule and possible damage of a type I am unwilling to entertain. In the past I just slammed everyone and then left town. No more of that. Not now, anyway. I have not the resources nor a destination. Everything in the world is closed off, still. Nine-plus months later and still we cannot go anywhere. So, what can I do besides tread the same stale water? Nothing. More of this, more selling of little things, and further into my cocoon until reaching the true forest. The military version this time. It will happen just as surely as no one will like it. Present life, indeed. Some enjoyment, some comfort, but all the while lurking right behind me is a conclusion I do not wish to face. I'm starting to feel the way I did after Ashley and Ellie. Not good. Dire, reckless, and inundated with insurmountable problems. Once again, I must keep up with the routine and those little benefits which lie therein. This is all I have for the time being. I can't count on the world going back to normal, or at least to some degree so as to allow escape. We are all pretty well stuck in place. Keeping the most difficult and pressing feelings out of the commentary is wreaking havoc on my head. If I could go into detail about everything, the path forward from here may appear smoother, or at least passable. Opening up too much could also mean my destruction. Splendid.

I might have to focus upon the garage today for a while. I can put the show on out there and organize, also getting some crap into the trash. There needs to be distraction today because my head is wide open with shit again. Ever since the other day when the flare took place I can't seem to do as well alone as I did weeks ago. And if others keep causing trouble I will slice them off like rotting branches. I don't care. Number one, first right now. If I don't survive this, none of my words will matter anyway. I just keep going in circles from one day to the next, and the diameter seems to be reducing with each revolution. I forget nothing, the worry does not stop, I run into trouble due to my past and it takes away sense, and then I obsess over the fucking forms and lose my way even more.

'How did I fuckin' get ta dis?'"



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