v: the continuum project

Eight in as much time: 18 August 07: Done With

The Patient is now available through amazon.com and Barnes and Noble. Excerpts are floating around. Email me or ask around for PDF. Distribution unrestricted.

Seventh Record: 18 July 03: Half-liter Less Sensible.

So much better to do, things such as accomplish.

While progress has come fine, its costs have remained surprisingly negligible. Its impact on my social life aside, I miss nothing with the trade. A few more months should be all I need. Right now, however, I'll

Sixth Record: 12 April 03: Saline Schemes.

With the tips of her fore- and middle fingers clamping down upon my corresponding knuckles, my fingers push deep inside of her nurse with wound. With the very edge of my own, I caress the smooth blotting neck of her cervix. Pressing upward slightly as with her lead, partly so I can listen for her sigh, she fails me not. Even if compression should make for frailty, lying slug bait in bed with her all morning has changed only how we kicked these sheets away.

Drawing back her neck, angel youth takes these dripping fingers out of her, up to her lips. Sliding across her reds lips, I trace what should mean only in that second an advantage over the body. -Leaning forward, she plants upon me the shared sensation of all our minerals mixed together.

Fifth Record: 16 Mars 03: Silencer.

While quite, not at all paralyzed, taking to task daily the endeavor to see if I still gleam, to see if I still shimmer, to see if I can still call myself one of sanity. Perhaps a year plus its half ago, I wasn't ready. Possibly for the better, for as far as progress concerns the task, I've come full circle.

Readied, as they say. Lucidity should procede now that the season has been broken out of.

-ix

Fourth Record: 31 Jan 03: Larval.

Sweating Yage bullets profusely along the drop blotting; nape on pillow pushed back by gravity and the grace of twitch.

Sprawling, timeless, and normal. Over again, shimmering. Went out, the grueling usual crushing barely anything at all. As a narcoleper sneaking in prohibited mid-day fissures, when my eyelids shut this crackling sets in. Visual blisters and all like it, murmurs below noise just above my eyelids. By the body becoming as if it had gelatinous blood, a heaviness sets in and gels me to the mattress in a grave manner. Struggling to thrash but too down with the comfort of the tearing, all neurons misfiring. Creaking.

Then the struggle pops, I gasp silently or can't hear deafness. Air again. Here again with the white ceiling neither ultraviolet nor crashing upon the user when in clout. Having the dust settle, it becomes evident the error wasn't in sleep. Just its avoidance; the sea stirring too inner coma and white to have anyone but impaled.

-ix

Third Record: 7 Jan 03: Exit Figure.

The Shaman, ancestor to the philosopher, poet, and prophet, gave life to something that gave way. Caved in, along with it those who it gave rise to all while mutually being given risen to in turn. It's asleep, not dead, despite what anyone would tell you. It isn't simply that the uninvolved don't know better, they've always been better off not knowing at all. They just stick to their meaning and it grips onto them.

What I call God you may call infinity, but both words would be wrong. When confronted with treating a negative space in the same way we would treat something that actually occupies space, our language gives us hell. No, gives us to hell, delivering us straight to its door.

The funny thing is that it's not the door leading straight to its heart through temptation, it's the exit.

-ix

Second Record: 29 Dec 02. Obligation Followed me Around.

As far as effort concerns an endeavor, starting something doesn't take nearly as much effort as following up. Consistency seems the virtue most don't even know about. Its deficiency measured out in small winces and irrationality. Sure, the rest of the universe may head towards doom: I do not have to follow with it. Torment can distract me, hazard may strike me down, but as a human being I can appeal to logic to save myself from the craving salvation leaves in the back of my throat after tearing out my sigma receptors. After all, to feel clinical is just an opinion a body has to back up with enough force. Intensity has nothing to do with it: clinicians must commit with a violent method if their solo needs a guarantee of not going awry. Blot out the rest, cover up dissent, and convenience anthropomorphically smiles upon thee.

Such is the domain of control. Those who control their condition stay in that condition. As for where I stay now, I will not know where I stand until I can figure out what I would stand for and or endure. Time will test me until I figure out how to turn on time without shutting off my ability to think in terms of time. It's not nihilism to think oneself out of existence: it's nihilism to think you're [always just] on the verge of it. Collapse, complain, concern: repeat.

-ix

First Record: 25 Dec 02. The Birth of Fragility.

Site goes up tonight, a few minutes before midnight strikes. A few hours later I might go sleep or try to sleep. On the way I'll read more of the Pali sutras or The Romantic Manifesto.

Wreckless or recluse. It comforts me that if I fucked up now no one would see it. Not a matter of making a difference, but making an impact. I know that I clearly make for the superior entity. That's not a matter of acumen, I gush acumen when vindication comes easily. When it won't, then the things to get in order are last orders. Just that. Last stretch to go. Last holes to patch up, more holes to shoot through. Riddled with arrogance, gnostic pox. Septic in so much as skeptics still having something to take as a given.

Keeping track of it starts here, now, today. About time to keep a record.

There's something endearing about how much I shiver in the morning. If I feel cold by proxy, then I'll feel warm when I won't have to think about writing. Just writhing the in the seat, alone, makes my back sore enough. If I don't get enough out, I should beg myself to let it go. It rarely happens that way. More often the contrary, I end up stimulating myself to another extreme, a colder way out. Boiling in my own imagined sweat wanting to bleed over type but ending up with that familiar razor-sharp numbness, that electrified feeling of vagueness, that alert sensation being about to shut down.

My heartlessness has passion; no other person could possibly condemn me the way I strive to. I need those others' fits of anger to get scope. It's vital. Otherwise, I would be chewing my own skin thinking that I could get the boils out of my skull with enough teeth bared.

I wouldn't call it addiction for the same reason sin hides its reifications under the shield of morality. I wouldn't call it an addiction if it's pathological and/or terminal. Fixation without the chance of substantiation does not deserve the time I waste on it. It's a good hook for others to: hence, I keep it around. It's the caduceus sans meaning, hermetiically sealed vacuum tubes. Purposeless, senseless acts of fucking over as many as possible. Friends can be bought, enemies must be earned. And so on.

-ix.

product of/ in conjuct w/ pandrax.com

press . diss order . bio . the continuum . sprawl . predatory fiends
ec: stereotaxic@thepatient.org . copyright 1999-2003 pnd. x1168