Let slip the dream.

August 21, 2011

I haven’t been writing here because I’ve wanted to keep the Aaron Smith posts on my homepage in some vain hope of keeping that part of the dream alive.  Dreaming precludes work, but work is meaningless without a dream.  I’ve been resting on the former and neglecting the latter.  Time to switch things around, be profound and work, write, speak without a sound.

Aaron Smith may someday leap out from the distant past, and my personal past, with his enigmatic smirk and become very real again (in a post-modern sense).  Until then, onward.

I’ve been busy not working on this new screenplay.  Living instead.  Well, not even that.  I think I’ve been in a waking coma for the last several months.  Like insanity…one cannot self-diagnose in these cases.  I am reaching this conclusion based on my total lack of output since February (or earlier).  And in this retrospective moment, I have been struggling to scream and nothing can escape me.  I am a prisoner within me.  I don’t want to listen to me anymore.

Ummm, that’s not wholly precise.

The wrong part of me does not listen to the right part of me and I am mostly the wrong part of me in many regards.  An internal uncivil war because there’s only one victim…me.  Or so I think.  There are many around me who could claim to be casualties of this war.  Friendly fire.  Shrapnel.  Debris.  Hubris.

Bullshit.  All of it.  Time to get back on track.


Old Fashion Olfaction.

June 22, 2008

Silence.  No noise other than the whir of my computer, the keys of my board and the birds outside.  Sweet relief.  I am suffering a nullification of my consciousness.  Sleep deprived for four days.  Catching a nap wherever, whenever they roam.  I should be sleeping but having thought about sleeping so intensely, I am kind of weary of it.  So it’s coffee instead.  Caffeine straight to the head.

You ever get the feeling your nervous system is no longer centralized?  You can derail your breathing by thinking about it.  Different nervous system (I think!).  This function falls under a different name at least.

I’ve often wondered, always in jest, if I am handicapped.  If we have five senses and one of them is suddenly turned off, would you not agree the resulting condition is a handicap?  Blindness, deafness – both very challenging conditions.  But what about those people who can’t touch?  Or can’t taste?  Or smell?  Are these three senses any less important?  Yeah, I know they are, but how much less?

If you ask me, I couldn’t tell you which is more important sight or hearing.  I’d think sight is.  To rank the senses – sight, hearing, smell, touch, taste.  My rationale for this ranking is in terms of necessity for survival.  I switched smell & touch around a few times, so I’m not sure which is more essential. 

We rely on smell as a distant early warning system in the approach of an enemy, or in searching out prey.  Hunters try to stay downwind for a reason.  However, the sense of touch informs us when something is hurting, infected or potentially dangerous to our body.  I don’t know, but this certainly isn’t an exhaustive argument one way or the other.

In the wild, loose your sight or hearing and you’re in trouble, more so with the loss of sight.  Loose both and you’re doomed.  After that, losing your sense of smell would put you at a disadvantage when enemies are still a distance away and you could’ve had time to elude.  Loosing your sense of touch would put you at a disadvantage when things are closer, close enough to touch.  However, loosing smell or touch does not guarantee your demise.

Taste is a mere trophy sense (or is it?), so falls last in the ranking.

How many times is a fire detected by sight before smell?  How many times are gas leaks sensed by sight, hearing or touch, before smell or taste?  You see where I’m going with this.  Everything is essential in certain regards.

Did you know that most of your refined sense of taste is determined by your sense of smell?  Taste buds detect only four things – sour, sweet, salty and bitter.  Oh, the tongue detects texture.  So there are five gross categories of classification in the mouth.  That’s taste for you.  All the refinement of the mouth is in the nose.  For instance, the difference between a lemon and a grapefruit is mostly aroma (and a little bit of bitterness – trust me!).

If you loose your sense of smell, you also loose most of your sense of taste.  Double whammy, not only have you lost a full sense, another one is cut in half.  You’re operating with three and a half senses.  If you’re not handicapped, you’re definitely disadvantaged, but not doomed to death in the wild.

There’s the jest of it – here’s the rest of it.

Without a sense of smell one misses the hunger generated from the aroma of cooking.  One misses the arousal from the aroma of their partner.  One cannot smell that wonderful baby odour.  Or a dewy spring morning.  No flowers.  No farts.  Nothing.  All these things add peaks and valleys to our emotions.  You know – the mise-en-scene of life, the full ambience of being.  So where your emotions go this far, mine stop here, a little closer to the base line.

There is an entire dimesion of experience in which those without smell can partake.  The world is has a little less life, a little less beauty, a little less depth.  Oh well.  I didn’t really appreciate when I had it, so what’s the difference?


A period pinches the line.

March 6, 2008

Born this morning without warning, don’t number me a hundred fifty tornadoes, a person is a thousand pictures, requiem mourning, symphony of pleasance and woe, hymn frantic to and fro.  Never sojourning.

A period pinches the line.  Every breathe, a pinch of time.  You are yours, I am mine.

Show me how to give.  Show me how to care.  Show me you know something of hell.  Show me you’re well.  Save me from me.  Show me your face.

No slowing the winds of a tornado.  No cooling the fire within.  No easing, nothing pleasing.  The stone-cutter becomes the mountain on my back, bringing me back, breaking my back.

I’m the black-hole.  No events on this horizon.  Big events in store for me.

Mental exhaust.


Once I had a bunch of moral fibre (but it went through my system pretty quick)

November 7, 2007

I don’t know the first thing about seconds.  The truth of the matter is I like throwing Frisbees to myself.  I love the dignity of the parabola.  The golden equation, the sum.  Some is too much.  Chocolate smiles too sweet to smudge with a touch.  Lick it, lump it, like it.  When did fudge become a mistake to make?  I rub my eyes full of glittering flies.  Blue.  Electric.  Eclectic, almost like electric if you don’t pay attention.  I’d be surprised if most people’s attention could span a puddle. 

We’re getting Googlephrenic.  The idea of disgoogleplexia is heightened by infinity plus one.  The numbers never end.  There is nothing but empty space.

I wonder if they’ll ever have McDonald’s Restaurant theme parks for all the little chubby kids.  Eat your shorts for good, nutritional Christian values.  It’s not supposed to make scents, but it stinks no matter how you slice it.  I recommend using your hands and ripping, but that doesn’t always work out for some of the saucier things in life. 

What can you do about googlephrenia?  I don’t know, Google it.  The spinning wheel, karmic in nature, stops on a dollar.  Bits of a puzzle up the barkers sleeve.  Religion is so medieval.  Shit.  Think of something else.   You know what I meme? 

Know, no, I mean, now, how brown cow?  If they made chocolate milk, I’d be sucking those teats ’til the farmers came home.  I don’t want to offend Hindus.  I rather like the art.  Beautiful intricate colours.  I don’t know anything about famine, except for the guilt I feel from cheating on the thirty-hour version.  Fuckin’ charity, what is it these days?  A corporation under a different guise. 

Shit stinks.  I think that’s why we call it shit.  We say so many things smell like shit, but they don’t really all smell exactly like shit, not even all shit smells the same.  That would be weird.  What would the world be like if we spoke with our mouths, but ate with our bums?  The food court would be a lot uglier. 

What does crude mean to you?  What does rude have to do with crude, other than the price we pay?  I’m on a plane, wake up snickers, I have a sweet suite to suit all my wants, but none of my needs.  All these weeds.  How is cleanliness close to godliness?  Priorities ward back, beckon thee to reckon thee. 

A yahoo is a beast of burden, a human slave to horses.  Is this what you want?  Horses are fleet of foot.  We’d be too, if we stayed on all fours.  That would be strange, huh?  Quadrupeds, eating out of our asses.  At least there’d be some time when we weren’t talking out of them.  Too many people talk shit.  Not a bad breath statement.  I might have something to say about that, but I locked all the workers out of my olfactory.  Commie bastards.  None of them can play the drums worth a ruble. 

America is going down with their dollar and sense.  If life without a gun in my face means death, then death it is, ’cause you can’t control anyone or anything for long.  If I’m going down because of you, I’m taking you too.  Ya dig? 

I once had a nightmare about digging holes.  Each hole was assigned an numeric value, more like an algebraic equation.  The nightmarish was that no matter how many holes I dug, I couldn’t surpass a certain sum.  I woke up sweaty and terrified.  I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.  2001 was on TV.  I should give that movie another shot.  I was in a poor frame of mind.  I shouldn’t live with regret, but that would mean I’d have to forget.  What?  Not sure.  No matter how much I forget, it never changes the regret.  Some things are carved into bone. 

Once I had a whole bunch of moral fibre, but it went through my system pretty quick.  That’s the title.  That’s how things are named in these here parts.

Funny thing is I don’t know what’s mine and what belongs to someone else.  I don’t know if plagiarism applies to a memory without footnotes, end notes, ibids or et als.  We’re all crazy.  We can’t agree on cake.  I like the icing that gives you a cocaine like sugar high.  You know the icing in which you can crunch the granules of sugar.  Still mostly empty space.  Hard to picture.  Harder to imagine.

All apologies and a thousand more, but I’m still going to slam the door.  I don’t want to see you anymore.  You’re a whole other whore.  None of this real.  Nothing I feel.  The opposite of love is indifference and I am finally indifferent.  It doesn’t matter, because matter is mostly empty space, like an excuse.  No substance other than forgetting.  I’ve lost count of the leaves in the trees, but the planes are lining up ninety seconds apart on the skyway.  Nothing is forever, not even energy as we know it. 

The truth of the matter is that I like white chocolate cake with my name scrawled in sweet icing sugar.  I have a big belly.  So there we are…word count 856.  666+190.  I wonder what the six-hundredth and sixty-sixth word was?  I should’ve paid attention.  My attention span is a short toothpick bridge.  Everything is a joke, especially this, that and the other thing, like an algebraic equation for holes, the variables are yours to tell.


The Validity of a Response.

September 21, 2007

As you read through this web log – do I really sound hateful and narrow-minded?  Or, is that how certain readers read my crap?  We see everything through our predispositions, but I’m also writing through my predispositions.  So, what’s valid?  My thoughts or yours?

I may be contentious.  I may be inconsistent.  I may write things that upset your sensibilities.  I may be the dumbest person to ever walk the planet.  But I am open and available to your comments, whether I like them or not. 

I consider everything you say or write.  I weigh it against my experience, knowledge and understanding.  I try to share your paradigm.  That doesn’t mean we will agree in the end.  It means nothing other than I do not outrightly disregard you.

My thoughts are no more or less important than yours.  My ideas are no more or less enlightened than yours.  The greatest of all achievements is an open and honest dialogue between two contrary points, between you and I.

I am far from perfect.  I am far from being free from the sticky grip of ignorance.


New For Me (phobia)

September 12, 2007

I discovered a new irrational fear today – the dental hygenist.  Sorry, not the dental hygenist, but the equipment they use.  I can actually be pretty specific.  It’s the water pick!  It has a high pitched squeal and shoots a wire of water!  If the hygenist hits a sensitive spot…look out!  I was afraid I was going to hit her as a result of a knee-jerk reaction from pain.

I was friggin’ terrified.  There I was, 30 some odd years old, sitting in the chair, white knuckled from gripping the arm rests too tight, my legs completely taut.  I was like a little boy.  I can still hear that high-pitched sound echoing in my ears.  I had a headache.  My back muscles started to spasm.  I was sweating, but freezing cold.  I wanted to cry!

The whole time, the hygenist was saying things like, “This wouldn’t hurt so much if you flossed every day.”  Or, “If you don’t floss, you’ll have bone loss.  If that happens, your teeth will fall out.”  She said other things, but I was concentrating so hard on not freaking out that I wasn’t really listening.

She is a very nice lady, is very gentle and professional, but she scares the shit out of me!

Thank goodness the fear of having no teeth at all is stronger!


Rhyme or Reason?

August 17, 2007

I can’t really do either, but I try.  Oh, I try.