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You know quite well, deep within you, that there is only a single magic, a single power, a single salvation...and that is called loving. - Well then, love your suffering. Do not resist it, do not flee from it. It is your aversion that hurts, nothing else." - Herman Hesse
Me
sitting at my desk...jogging pants and a white wife-beater...hair piled up on top of my head...and typing furiously Myself
barefoot...music coming up from the floorboards...bent over a table doing body work on a close friend...loose clothes and stringy hair hanging down on either side of my face...pulled in by the exchange of energy I black combat boots, short skirt...laughing hysterically with my best friend..eating indulgent food drooling over the waiter....feeling life with every inch of my being Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't
matter and those who matter don't mind.
-- Dr. Seuss
If you hate a person, you hate something in him that is part of
to make your life more interesting: hear: the vidrines see: Melvin Goes to Dinner touch: yourself (ha!) taste: lip gloss smell: the bubbles at the top of the coke Graphics by: Deanna
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Monday, March 13, 2006
The House of Manic
The house of manic is situated on the corner of criminal activity and euphoria. There is a lizard queen here. She rides around on roller skates with a bottle of vodka. We worship her because she is out standard of normalcy. There are no beds here, no sleep - only bar stools that spin and spin. - Molecules that bounce, unaltered by conventional ways of thinking. The house of manic has no walls. - We got bored one night and blew them up with toilet bowl cleaner and empty water bottles. Our favorite phrase at the house of manic is, "it can't be that hard, can it?" - sometimes prompting us to build home-made solar powered nuclear fusion machines - only to disassemble them the next day because we needed the duct tape for the inflatable swimming pool. The noise here is constant. -definable sounds of music and typewriter keys - no song ever lasting more than two minutes. We live off a diet of heat-lamp fried chicken and gas station cappucino, the kitchen long-ago transformed into a moldy piece of living art- dirty glass sculptures piled high to the ceiling. The foundation of the house is made of grey concrete. It is covered in poetry written with hot pink retractable sharpie. We lay on it at night and deconstruct words and ideas and theories. Conversation is our highest artform. Followed closely by sex. We have lots of great sex here. What we don't have here is electricity. We forgot to pay the bill. Sometimes the neighbors drop by and offer us cookies and alternative ideas of betterment. "Therapy", they say, "religion". What they don't understand is that we choose our lizard queen above all other gods. She gives us a life of measured chaos, time slips, fearless flights and lucid dreaming. The house of manic is a great place to visit, but you wouldn't want to live here. - Especially in the winter - it gets cold with no walls and no heat. And the lizard queen always goes into hibernation. Our duct tape is replaced with red tape and police tape and we mostly just hold hands and hide out until the sun starts to shine again. -Then, on to the dreaming - and the worship - and the vodka - and the racing, fleeting thought that nothing matters. Posted at 08:36 am by angryalchemist
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