Dear Shringara,

I am glad to hear you know supportive friends in your desert lands. I regularly think of you in wonder and hope.

My own kingdom is at once busy and lazy.

I am doing some menial labor for a local company (assembling paper reports) so that I can eat. Soon, I will start a job where I can work more hours or make more per hour, as I desire to refund those who have lent me money over the past year. Other than that, I do not feel remis on any debt I have to the world.

I have been reading much, reading much philosophy, much history, and some literature. I find comfort, as I know, as a reader of books, you must, in conferring with certain sages through their words alone.

I am in a writing zone, producing text (did you get the play I sent?), and thinking much, as usual. Writing is part of my gift and my duty, I know, and this year, more than ever before, I have written. That part of me is as it should be, and, feeling that, I now harbor a fierce protection of that goodness.

So I am busy with these creative acts, but I am also lazy, spending the majority of my time walking and thinking, and wandering around this city, watching people, exploring, just catching a train and seeing where it goes, expecting to find my way back if I so decide. And taking baths, which for me is meditation.

I feel centered in myself in a way that I can best describe as the way I was centered before Rebecca died. I am not the same as I was before then. I am much changed indeed. But there was a quality of my life then that made me okay with my balance of life and activities. I feel much akin to that okayness now, and I feel strong, and in touch with myself. And, as I’m sure you know, that has nothing to do with any specific outward action or accomplishment, or costume, or setting, or trapping, or relationship (except for the relationship with self).

I have erased my web sites because I no longer wish to communicate with strangers in an intimate way. For a while I specifically set out to communicate with them in that way, because I liked the idea that no truth of mine needed to be hidden. I still hold to that…there is no truth of my life that needs to hide for shame or fear. But I feel that it is wasteful for me to spend time on communicating and connecting with most people in that way. Astrea asked if I was shutting out the world. I suppose what I am doing is redefining what my world is, what is this part of my world and what is that part of my world, and how I will participate with this or that part.

You spoke of the Mirroracle. I want to tell you (or maybe I already have) that the Order and the Chaos has been leading me around the library, leading me to read subjects on exorcism and related things. All of that is something that you and I will have time to talk and act through in the future.

It will be a time before we stand side-by-side again, Laughter Love. Until then, I cherish our letters,
zha

As for ********, I don’t have his address. M********’s is ********, though, and I’m sure she would know.

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Dear Shringara,

zha.blogspot.com

From an old blog…

[4/17/2002 8:57:19 PM | inhaesio zha]

Today, this is indecipherable rambling that has been rejected for publication by over 200 literary journals. In less than 100 years it will be a classic poem. What the fuck am I supposed to do in the mean time?!?

=) =) =)

the transient fish
copyright 2001 inhaesio zha. all rights reserved.

Parrot Bay, Long Island in the year seventeen-hundred and forty-two
fish and flone gathering upon milkweek pond
laughing violet
rippling surgically negotiated breastmilk
seedpod carcus rotting insectual graces
bracing Neverland at the front door
brimming the whore of twilight
breathing up my neck
intimidating my courtisans
bludgeoning faithfulness
brightening my day with starlight evenings’ blush
ever-so-slightly reminiscent of this fading crush that brings me
flush to the meandering of brook’s serenading
wet/dry underwater buffalo breathing
ankles tumbling under rockslide jibberish
moaning
removing my toenail for a moment
peering underneath a three-year-old child
wide-eyed hands flexing tiny nostrils breathing
toddler’s shoes in ancient hues
settlers’ ships
flags
and maiden’s hips
resting lightly with hands
cresting slightly the sand
breasts nesting rightly the man
luna lullaby rocking the sea
pebbles basking in the cosmic twinkle

and you now have an inkling of Parrot Bay, Long Island in the year seventeen-hundred and forty-two
before the pastor bridled her for lust
before the dust began to settle on the veil
before of the wail of ardent passion slipped away
before the very day of which I tell
before the knell of lovedeath made a sound
before the frightened brutal pounding of his heart
before the sudden start of quick cessation of the bond
before the singing trance, the siren stroll, the bubbling organ first cajoled her from the brimming, seething, laughing Parrot Pond

they
broke the glass of scripture’s form
into the house a swarm
malignant hordes of insects screaming
bristling at the outskirts
teeming with vice
angry jaws and microscopic claws
with ferver lunge and vengeance douse
this sacred Sunday morning rock built upon a beach house

gnarly fingers twisted
scrubbing Cinderella
far below these arching lofts
thrown to heaven’s floor
to scratch the lore of crumbling scrolls
that mortal souls applied so far beyond that kernel of their holy bard

a band of insects
well skilled in the art of munching
anxious to get started crunching
mad with taste for these sacred fibers
mud divers years since mutated to screwdriver-nosed fairy wing-tips
with serrated rips in their flanks like gills
gutted rith a rotten tank of goop that kills like poison anything it might so happen to lick
(a flick of the hand is all that it takes to off the prick
if she doesn’t first happen to stick
in tandem
twenty-three ribbed laser siphon syringes
injecting the thick, blue poison known to the natives as fairyscrew juice
as it comes
without a doubt
only from the dastard snout
of the black-winged, purple-bottomed, green-eyed character scientifically regarded
as

protobromine axial synthespectriarc rotogenus fairyscrew)

Millertime®
way before Kennedy was assasinated
way before Teflon® was discovered
and way before three Berkley mathematicians patented a random number generator based on the chaotic behavior of lava lamps
about two-hundred and fifty years before, in the year seventeen-hundred and forty-two

an elephant vomited

and while that, in itself, is not surprising, as at that time elephants roamed Long Island freely
and in large herds on the Discovery Channel®, natural pack hunters with coordinated attack strategy and advanced communication systems to rival those of small, handheld electronic devices of the twenty-first century
what happens next
is

a tiny African boy
wearing no clothing
runs in from the left edge of the screen

someone changes the channel

Rosie O’Donell instantly fucks a live albino crocodile in the Cincinnati zoo
Chris O’Donell fucks Batman up the ass
Chris Rock fucks Elton John’s piano
Mary from The Secret Garden loses her virginity
Jim Carey inserts tubes into the genitals of everyone’s second-favorite fictional serial killer
and a thirty-year-old model with crows feet inserts a half-empty bottle of Millertime® into her bleeding vagina

someone changes the channel back

a tiny African homeboy with a tiny penis and safety pins in his eyelids runs in from the left side of the screen and performs an age-old ritual passed down to him from his neck-ringed ancestors

the sky darkens

the tiny homeboy makes a gang sign

the post-vomit elephant rotates itself one-hundred-eighty degrees
the post-vomit elephant poops largely into the vomit
as is popular in Europe
the poopvomit begins to bubble

the tiny homeboy sits back on a rock and introduces a fatty fat blunt from the crevice of his ass
he twirls it around his fingers
and sparks it
with the juice of a column of lightning

which then jumps to the cauldron of poopvomit
and ignites it
to massive hydroelectric
firestorm
inferno smoking Hiroshima
shadow flash
burning images into time
itself

into the myth of quarks
echoes
casting residue
of the conflagration
as the elusive subjects
of scientific inquiry

the homeboy re-inserts a blood-spattered marijuana cigarette into the Millertime Vagina® and walks slowly back across the Serenghetti plain

Maury Povich secretly obtains a Jacob’s ladder piercing
Madonna secretly gives Stephen Hawking a blow job
AOL® publicly buys Time/Warner®
Spike Lee directs his first Nike commercial
Madonna publishes the Stephen Hawking photographs on the Internet
a government clerk named SallyJoJohnson processes the official trademark registration of the Millertime Vagina®
Millertime® launches a suit against AOL/Time Warner® for improper use of the Millertime Vagina® trademark

the tiny African homeboy finally reaches home after a long walk across the Serenghetti

then

Kennedy is assisinated, etc.

UDCS for Dummies:
Learn the Unified Demigoddess Classification Scheme in 12 Easy Lessons

Lesson 1: The Spectral Virgin
namely, Julia, the spectral virgin, climbing branches on a spectral cherry tree
namely, a large hunk of Bob
namely, Bob’s gaping mouth
namely, Bob’s cruddy fingernails
namely, Bob’s nose hair, unruly beyond a month
namely, Bob’s sweat
namely, Bob’s urine, which smelled of swamprot and indicated a less-than-utopian dietary fingerprint
namely, Julia’s panties, visible from below for Bob’s gawk
namely, Julia’s legs (Julia is a goddess, and goddesses have nice legs (actually, Julia is a flipside/crosshatch/demigoddess/class seventeen, and such demigoddesses invariably have nice legs (class means age in the Unified Demigoddess Classification Scheme (UDCS) so Julia is seventeen years old at this moment)))

anyway

Julia is climbing up the tree
Bob is sitting below gawking

and the girl slips
due to a large stripe of crumbling bark and falls below

through the distance of a mile

during which time the boy opens his mouth

then opens it wider

then opens it wider and wider and wider and wider
until the class seventeen demigoddess
accelerated by gravity’s clutch

drops snugly
into the gooey
whale mouth
of the lusty mortal

Lesson 2: Being Completely Unable
namely, Julia being completely unable to breathe

Lesson 3: Actually Being
namely, Julia’s panties actually being in a bunch

Lesson 4: “Live from Times Square, this is Carson Daly, host of MTV’s Total Request Live. Today our guest will be Julia Stiles.”
namely, Julia’s father being in the audience
exercising the problem with the sex scene in her new movie
it’s not gratuitous
it’s a real scene
she says
but Carson is far from convinced
why did it have to be with a black boy?
god dammit
why am I on MTV?
why do I get this channel?
and after this movie she’s going back to college
she’s going to Columbia
god dammit
let’s go Carson
come on
let’s go to commercial

Lesson 5: Et tu?
alabaster zipperfucker suspended in a viscous mixture of saline #4 and industrial lubricant #719, calling me on the lobby phone at work, laying rollercoaster tracks underwater, intimating me in your latest scandal, trading me on the after-hours market, shorting me, hedging me with this week’s doughnut, glassy eyes looking to the future, to Columbia and beyond, beyond the rise and the fall, the building and the burning, beyond the guilding and the turning inward to find Hobbes’ atomic landLocke theory, welcome to the post-post-modern clique, where all that matters is that you’re dead and I’m not–pow! motherfucker, this is what we teach at Columbia, the post-post-mortem and the pre-pre-embryonic translucence known to the common man as elegementary motherfuzzuckin skillz, you know what I’m sayin’? the bed mouse, the head louse, the beach house, yes? this eon’s X-Games hosted by the undertow of the second wave of thermodynamics

alabaster zipperfucker imitating me, twice baked half full serendipity nexus, the enless defiance olympic caught forever in the desert, cave retreating nascent springs, Oko Yamayuta, the brilliant winner takes all, begs the question, yes we really do care what kind of peanut butter makes up the p in her pbj

alabaster zipperfucker wearing Tommy Jeans, Alabaster Zipperfucker Jeans worn by Tommy Girl, Tommy Girl with the zipper between her alabaster teeth

alabaster zipperfucker jumping a freight train, sliding to New Mexico for a spell’s poison apple mysticism, re-appropriating resources from slush fund A to slush fungus B, re-appropriating apple sauce containing dangerously high levels of BHT, eating BHT straight out of the can, eating BHT by itself, putting BHT on a plate in the microwave because you like your BHT hot, get the powdered kind, added to nothing just to keep everything fresh, okay? added to me to keep me fresh, added to every pair of Alabaster Zipperfucker jeans in the factory to keep your ass fresh, added to your ass in the womb during the second trimester

alabaster zipperfucker walnut delegation, alabaster Latino, alabaster trickstyle 180°, alabaster trumpets, alabaster Megadeth, alabaster wail, alabaster silver lining my jail, alabaster walnut ditto-fucker delegation, alabaster multi-processor, alabaster insurance policy, alabaster nutsack, alabaster photo emulsion, alabaster wetback, alabaster X-Files, alabaster nutcase, alabaster muffinfucker, alabaster hooptie (8-cylinder), alabaster druglord, alabaster Rodney King, alabaster top-to-bottom home remodeling, alabaster re-instatement of policy, alabaster nipple clamps, alabaster superstar, alabaster mosquito, alabaster contagion, alabaster talk show, alabaster freak show, alabaster gladiators, alabaster betrayal, alabaster

alabaster

Et tu, Cleopatra?

Lesson 6: A is for Alphabet
Alphabet singing of the
Breath giggle
Cunt tickle, loosing hungry dogs for a
Drastic sniff and hunt wiggle
Elevator carnage gettin’
Freaky in a hip jig, a strip wig, an oil rig, a boil, rip, and snipe swig, a
Generous helping of
Her suck that and stuck pig
Interactive flesh
Junkies’ Wonderland of
Karamel
Lollipops
Marshmallow
Neverland of
Orange-yellow, panoramic rotoscoping butterfly cavities of
Plush interior pleasure-filled plurality,
Quickening the pace of my cardiac normalities
Running me away from this self-imposed depravity
Starting
To
Undress the
Virgin
Waitress’ causes schisms, coaxes jism, not to mention frees me from the hoax of prison in the prism of my mind, lets the analysts unwind, touches bleeding me and blinding me with deja premonition, always knew she’d someday back with action months of
Xhibition
Yearbook photographs in which I whip, bite, and nip her, the trophy is this snap of her teeth around my
Zipper

Lesson 7: Et tu? Revisited
namely, alabaster suicide

Lesson 8: “Sometimes nothing can be a pretty cool hand.”
Julia Stiles cutting the heads off parking meters

Lesson 9: Fields of Rye
Julia dwarfed by endless fields of Rye, a storm brewing, static in the air

Lesson 10: An Entire Chapter of Someone Else’s Book
Julia as a turtle, crossing the road for an entire chapter of someone else’s book

Lesson 11: Vardaman
Julia as my mother. Julia as a fish.

Lesson 12: Ape Shit
Julia Stiles hearing about all this and Julia going ape shit

the transient fish
bubbling
brimming
incessantly swimming
invariably hawing and hemming the line
bathing soapless with subterranian swine
bristling with anemone, shark, and brine

delicate specimen
destiny’s dish
running in the ice
the transient fish

phosphorous glow
zoom fast pause slow
stop know

through winter’s brittle forest
you see her far below

powder packed under each foot
walking in the snow

frozen glass tubules
tapped
ring a diamond flute
droplets
globules
up down strange charmed
bottom
top
perfect still invisible

ice runner
stream cutter
river-walking skydiver bloodhound
tuning that instrument
of electromagnetic sound
the deadly flow
seductive cajole
unrestrained “oh”
that is the undiluted singular byproduct
of the organ gargle
the audio swish
known to friends of the deep
as the transient fish

there
below
beyond your reach
lies the mystical
egotistical
hyper-quizzical
Buddha-baby
stroked by the solar wind
warmed with nuclear light
eyes so bright
soaring, prancing
dancing on the keys

wrapped in a funnel of stars
vortex spinning
glitter fairies abound

the floor
a train
of underwater crabs

my knees on this slab of earth
face turned to the transience, which
sings of satisfaction
sings of ends
to timeless journeys
blends
the sands together
mends
the broken sky

kneeling here
lulled softly by the singing trance
wrapt to the siren stroll
smiling at the bubbling organ, laughing
at the bottom of this brimming sea

currents shaping
sculpting
endless

but

what smoother song could they possibly wish
than the hisses and the kisses
of the transient fish?

[edit]
[4/16/2002 2:22:54 PM | inhaesio zha]

Does it sound pretentious to talk so much of what I think while talking so little about what I do? Do I preach here? How can I claim to express ways I change without also expressing what has changed me? What does it mean to relate to a storyteller? What does it mean to relate to a commentator? You tell me stories you have lived, I tell you stories I have lived, we each comment on each other’s and our own stories. That model is so fundamental to this whole experience that it is maybe best described as the campfire. The campfire around which stories of the day are told, in which storytellers relate the peculiar mythology of the tribe. What is a story without the ensuing commentary? What is a commentator who does not also tell personal stories? I don’t want to tell stories here right now, and I don’t plan to tell them until, if, I want to again. But, can I allow myself to continue across what I regard as the lop-sided structure of reflective commentary without what I consider its integral partner, the personal story?

[edit]
[4/9/2002 5:22:14 PM | inhaesio zha]

Listening to Jesse’s song. Thinking through the Frogger metaphor again. Thinking of a different angle on it. What kind of a journey would a journey be if you knew where you were going to end up before you started? If you really knew exactly where you would end up, it wouldn’t be like moving toward the future, it would be like being Merlyn, living backwards through time, approaching an end you already know, like perfect memory. Just tracing the steps from point a to point b. Astrea writes about following longings that you can’t really put your finger on, and, really, what other way is there to travel? An impetus to move, yet an acknowledgement of one’s ignorance of the actual goals and paths that will be touched. In science, when people know what they are trying to find before they start looking, it seems they often find paths that prove the rightness of whatever they seek. When you observe with such expectation, your mind finds ways to make your desires come true. Wonderful this is when you can know with confidence what it is you want to find. You seek it, you find it. But the related handicap, for science or spirit wanderers, is that what you know or think you want to find when you start looking, serves as a bias against finding something else. What if that something else would have pleased you more? So you must travel toward the unknown, travel always open to change, if your journeys are ever to take you somewhere profoundly new, somewhere you didn’t know about when you started the trip.

[edit]
[4/5/2002 2:17:07 PM | inhaesio zha]

Keep looking at it. Continue staying there. Be unrelenting in applying pressure to the pain. When the right song comes around, put the player on repeat. Press through stages. Zoom in. Zoom out. Move over slightly. Zoom in again. When moment presents itself, allow self to integrate with moment. When something of interest comes across, allow it to become something of sphere, allow something of sphere to become something of self, something of self to become something of gravity, something of gravity to become something of depth. Surprise become delight, delight become ecstasy. Spark become tingle, tingle become wave. Wave become oceans. Oceans cover globe. Allow slightest discomfort to give way to decided trouble, decided trouble give way to distinct pain, distinct pain give way to unbearable torture. Only then I know I hurt, only then I can bleed through it, breathe through it, wash myself of it, purge, drown, sweat, expel. Only after the black hole collapse, crush of weight, can I truly be of air, weightless, no border between other and self, water in water, space in space, breath in breath, motion in motion, chaos in chaos, body in body, light in light…

The Second Monkey teaches that pain cannot be salved by circumvention. Numbing pain never makes it go away. Only after going though it, on the other side, is there beauty, peace, fullness. Only after the terror of chaos comes tranquility, stillness. So it is that depth lies on the other side of pressing; that ecstasy is the millionth rushing ocean wave, the first of which is only a tickle…

[edit]
[3/21/2002 3:28:14 PM | inhaesio zha]

If I may say so, I don’t think it will be everything you dream of. I think it is always something else. With overlap, quite likely. But its the lilly pads. The surface of a pond represents mental possibility, everything you imagine you could attain. The lilly pads are what you can actually attain. From your vantage point as a frog, you can’t see very far, so all you can ever do is just hop to a lilly pad that is different from the one you’re on, but is one of the ones you can actually get to due to its closeness to your present spot. Hopefully this process will lead you to a lilly pad that is close to the point on the surface of the pond that represents what you consider ideal. If the lilly pad completely overlapped that point, I suppose you’d be perfectly happy. If it didn’t overlap completely, but it overlapped some, or was close to the ideal point, then I suppose you’d be pretty happy. But, even if you got close, in this analogy lilly pads are the only part of the pond you can stand on. You can’t necessarily jump to that ideal spot. You have to hope that it’s covered by a lilly pad.

Of course, in Frogger, I always make it past the street but I usually die in the water, so what do I know?

[edit]
[3/18/2002 1:31:57 PM | inhaesio zha]

breathe in as deeply as possible

breathe out as fully as that

wait until you are ready to breathe in again

breathe in as completely as you can

wait until you are through breathing in

wait until you are ready to breathe out

breathe out completely

be still

breathe in completely

be still

breathe out completely

be still

breathe in completely

breathe

[edit]
[2/23/2002 3:49:44 PM | inhaesio zha]

In The Silence of the Lambs, Dr. Hannibal Lecter encourages Clarice Starling to “Read Marcus Aurelius. Of each particular thing, ask: What is it, in itself, what is its nature…?” I thought of that line one day when Nakia handed me a note that said, “inhaesio, what is your nature?” Given the definition of inhesion, the defunct English translation of the Latin inhaesio, that way of stating the question is especially fitting.

Becoming familiar with the discussion surrounding this question and resolving discrepancies between that understanding and the course of your actions is fully the task of self-actualization. An entire class of psychological conflict is simply the result of simultaneously holding incompatible goals. For example, the tenants “I find happiness in relating to many close friends” and “I am highly selective about who I consider my close friends” are inconsistent with happiness. How will you ever have many close friends while being highly selective about who your close friends are? If you are not selective, how will you ever find the happiness you could find if you were selective? But many of our thoughts and goals are like this, in conflict with each other and our natures. What is your nature? What is your self, in itself? What does it do? Not being familiar with the myriad answers each of us can supply to those questions makes unintentional self-confusion and accidental self-thwarting a matter of course. Becoming familiar with the discussion surrounding those questions makes it easy to see internal inconsistencies that cause frustration. If part of your nature is to be a truth-teller, a bearer of light, then you are prophet and exorcist and executioner. In telling truth to those who thrive on lies, you will threaten death to those who still fear death. You are like the sighted among the blind, like the hearing among the deaf. What you do appears insane to the masses of your world. If that is your nature, if you seek to bring new truth to stagnant masses, do not also seek to be loved by those masses. Expect them to fear you like vampires fear the sun. Expect them to systematically attempt your destruction. You appear to them as death, your light to them is pain. So cause death, bring pain, tell truth, bear light. That is your nature. That is your job. Shave off everything that is incompatible. If you discover that your nature in this momentary lifetime is to please others, to seek praise, to be liked by as many as possible, then go all the way down that road. Actively strip away any tendancies that will get in the way of your expression of that nature. Become completely a phantom, try to starve your hunger into dying, deny your longing, ignore your crying and your aching, idolize the vacant, make uneasy growth your monument of death.

If you are the sky, rejoice in being blue and black, make the stars your shining friends. If you are the sea, endlessly make love to the shore, and know that you are home to the whale. Do not only float the ships but also bash them against the rocks, sink them with vengeance to your heavy depths. If you are the sun, then give light even to those who are far away while you consume those who dare to approach you. If you are a puppeteer, then animate the inanimate. If you are a dancer, then use your body as the vessel and conveyor of that which is madness to those who do not hear the song that serves to inspire you. Let the composer compose, the writer write, the inventor invent, the critic balk, let the zombie walk while dead. Let the pioneer die going first. Let the guardian clutch seeming rock. Let rock inevitably turn to sand. From Marcus Aurelius:

To a stone thrown in the air, it is not good to be tossed up and not bad to fall down.

Whatever anyone may do or say, I am committed to be good – just as an emerald says, “I am committed to be an emerald, and keep the color that is mine.”

Everything exists for a purpose – a horse, a vine, even the sun. What then is your purpose?

[edit]
[2/21/2002 7:31:22 PM | inhaesio zha]

When events do not make sense to you, when people do surprising things, when it just doesn’t add up, consider that you may have incomplete information. Another way of saying “Bob did something that Alice thinks is completely senseless.” is “Alice doesn’t have the slightest clue what Bob is up to.”

From my journals: Today people are giving me advice that assumes I wish to do things in the way that they would do them. They laugh at me when I encounter a state that they would consider embarrassing, or that they would consider failure. In such a situation, I find no motivation to attempt communication with these people. What goodness might I reasonably hope to tap by attempting mature interaction with someone who makes the broad assumption that I am operating under precisely the same pretenses as they? I do not so broadly make that assumption about people I meet. When someone is doing something that is different than anything I have done, my first thought is generally that they probably have a reason that makes sense to them, and that I simply do not know or understand that reason. My first thought is not generally that I completely understand the internals of their decision-making process and that they are stupid for not being like me or doing something like I would do it. I lament whatever skein of consequence has led so many individuals of this species to believe that other people somehow do or somehow should operate with the same attitudes and goals as each another. That belief lies deeply at the center of much of the behavior in others that interferes with me peacefully doing what I do. I’m walking in the rain without an umbrella. Some people conclude that I was stupid for leaving my umbrella at home based on the assumption that I want to be dry. And their fear of embarrassment by wetness blurts out ignorant remarks, apparently unattached to any sort of evolved reasoning capacity. Maybe that actress with a genius IQ doesn’t want to be a doctor. Maybe that Britney Spears lover doesn’t share your particular and narrow view of what makes sound beautiful. Maybe that man wearing a dress isn’t as paralyzed by other people’s thoughts as you are, or as obedient a subject as you to the rule of idiosyncratic cultural dictums. Maybe he’s completely and happily oblivious to your culture. Maybe, if you chose to so inflict him, he might not even consider education about your ideas to be enlightening. And maybe, maybe I never intended to carry an umbrella, and am quite properly enjoying my walk in the rain.

[edit]
[2/4/2002 6:49:15 PM | inhaesio zha]

Bright, bright day. Sky canopy white and blue. Frozen fresh breathable. Permeated with the magic of potential, the seemingly inert setup that is precursor to firestorm havoc, tornado zappers, the flood of what’s to come. Everything that’s not completely lost lies millimeters from my fingertips, happy for me to touch it, take it, envelop it in my next scene. I am standing around the corner from you, having come through the everything of my past just to become the momentary pinnacle me that is only now capable of what I now will do. And you possibilities stand, similarly, around that corner, ready finally to walk or run or fly in the way that can only now be natural after what you must have come through to get here. So everything that happened before has a way of being okay, but only when I learn what it has been trying to teach me and use it right now, only when I demonstrate what it means to be the ultimate experience/possibility borg, acting in concert with, in the active context of, everything I have been given the opportunity to learn.

As those who Remind me are fond of saying: You are of the Reminding. You are of the Finding. You are also, always, of the Becoming.

[edit]

zha.blogspot.com

zhacritic.blogspot.com

This was a short-lived blog in which I just criticized things. =)

[4/15/2002 5:46:40 AM | inhaesio zha]
Also…I feel I should point out to myself that this site is called zha/critic, not just zha/hater. It is likely that I will write here about some things I absolutely love. The site, though, is also not zha/encourager or zha/affirmer. I expect that the ratio of hate articles to love ones will be rather high.

[4/15/2002 5:38:56 AM | inhaesio zha]
Columbus must be mad at me for criticizing it. Last night I had a dream I was taking taxis all over downtown Columbus, getting out on the street, looking at buildings, walking a block or so, then catching another taxi. Every building I looked at I found fascinating. The streets were beautifully clean. The streetlights sparkled against a sky at dusk. In my dream, all of this traveling, and busyness, and observation…Columbus in general…was just wonderful…

[4/15/2002 5:25:32 AM | inhaesio zha]
golf. I have never played golf. What I hate about golf has nothing to do with the game itself. It has everything to do with its functional essence in corporate structure.

[4/15/2002 5:23:52 AM | inhaesio zha]
the body design of late-90s ford probes. Don’t laugh. I really hate this. When you see a Ford Probe, it probably doesn’t stir your aesthetic bile to the point of material revulsion. It probably doen’t have much affect on you at all. But when I see a late-90s Ford Probe, I feel like the Wicked Witch of the West right after Dorothy pours water on her. If I’m walking through a parking lot, my body involuntarily contorts itself. I seek the ground, or some stable form, to rest against. I request that whoever I’m with seek medical assistance.

What is it about the late-90’s Ford Probe that has this effect on me? The back windshield. More precisely, the complete obliviousness with which the back of the car and the front tend to regard each other. Take a good look at a Ford Probe sometime. Ask yourself how it would be possible for the body to have been designed by any configuration less clueless than two design teams working together Manhattan Project-style, except with no third-party coordination. Unless, of course, the body was designed by one team composed entirely of blind-deaf-mutes all of whom suffered from complete nerve-numbness. A team of monkeys working in complete darkness could chisel a better design out of granite. A limited series of unrelated, non-communicating blind-deaf-mute monkeys with some nerve sensitivity could chisel a better design out of jello.

[4/15/2002 5:12:49 AM | inhaesio zha]
sport utility vehicles. What I hate about SUVs is not what you might expect. It’s not their symbiosis with the lifestyle of suburban, corporate types. It’s not their high rate of flipping over in sharp turns. It’s not the fact that they tend to kill people who drive economy cars when they accidentally collide with said cars. It’s the identity crisis inherent in the combination of a sport vehicle, whatever that is, and a utility vehicle. For the same reason, I also hate those pickup trucks that have a cab that seats 6 people with a cargo bed that’s only 4 feet long. What is the point of a pickup truck with a cargo bed that’s only 4 feet long? Anything you can carry in that you can carry in a Chevy Metro. Sport utility vechicles are a more plentiful example of the same crisis. I want to buy a sports car but I have a family. I want to buy a jeep and take it off-road in Colorado but I live in a metro area. I wish I could just get a pickup truck but my wife won’t allow it. What the fuck vehicle am I going to buy?! The sport utility vehicle is the perfect answer to a buyer conflicted thus. You can drive it to white-collar work and not be perceived as low-class or a heathen. It can be used to drive kids to school. It can be a date car for married couples. And people who have them can be assuaged that, if they wanted to, they could carry large furniture, use their vechicle to support a construction project, or (and this, of all these things, is the one they want to do most and are least likely to actually do) they could take their SUV off-road. It’s an SUV, right? It can go off-road… Yeah, okay, how many $50,000 Lexus SUVs do you think have ever left the comfort of metropolitan asphalt?

If the SUV is a perfect vehicle to answer the particular type of identity crisis I have described, then why do I hate it? That’s why I hate it. It pretends to be something (a sports car, an off-road vehicle, and a pickup truck), while it is functionally quite another (a minivan). Stop kidding yourself. Suck it up and buy a Caravan.

[4/9/2002 6:21:09 AM | inhaesio zha]
columbus.The only reasons to go to Columbus are 1) if you know people who live there, 2) for a certain Indian restaurant (so I’m told), 3) you’re forced to go on business, 4) you live in Buttfuck, Ohio and your catching a plane from Columbus to somewhere else, 5) you just happen to really love malls and you would like to enter a zone of the world where everything was laid out to support their development and continued prosperity. What does it mean that Columbus is the test market for everything in the United States? That, basically, the US is turning into a big fucking strip mall. Wonderful. I will still go to Columbus to visit Anna Kiss and Monkeyboy and any other friends who live there. Oh, I forgot, there is one more reason to go to Columbus: 6) that new movie theatre they have downtown, what’s it called? It has a small theatre with about four rows of leather seats, digital sound, and I saw the Apocalypse Now Redux there, the first day it came out, which was also the day that theatre opened. It was a Thursday, and nobody knew they were open, so there were only like three people in the room. That was one of the best, maybe the absolute best, movie theatre experience I’ve ever had. Can you talk about things you love on a site filled with things you hate? I think you can.

[4/4/2002 7:24:56 AM | inhaesio zha]
voice-over foreign movies. Another one Astrea reminded me of. Bad English dubbing of a foreign film (and it’s all bad) can really fuck up my movie experience. S u b t i t l e s. It’s not a new concept. It’s cheaper than dubbing. It’s the only way to go, unless we’re talking about a low-budget martial arts flick, in which case that particular tackyness has become part of the aesthetic. Eww. Fortunately, most of the time you do get subtitles instead of dubbing, so in this regard it’s still fairly safe to watch most foreign films.

[4/4/2002 7:18:11 AM | inhaesio zha]
depressing things when I’m happy and happy things when I’m depressed. Thank you, Astrea, for reminding me. I hate depressing things when I’m happy, and I hate happy things when I’m depressed. Who doesn’t? I also hate things that are overly critical when I feel forgiving, and things that are overly douce when I want to rave. There’s nothing worse that someone in an overly good mood when you’re in an especially bad one. But, hey, chalk it up to our innate difficulty in relating to the complexity of the everything. We just can’t see that it’s never one or the other, but always both.

[4/4/2002 7:03:36 AM | inhaesio zha]
guardian personality types. What is a guardian personality type and how can I hate one? I will tell you. Guardians are one category of personality temperaments described by David Keirsey in his Please Understand Me books. The Keirsey temperaments reflect people’s characteristic pre-dispositions. Knowing your Keirsey temperament and that of your family, acquaintances, and co-workers can be a helpful way to approach understanding of some classes of interpersonal dynamics. My Keirsey temperament is ENFP, one of the four temperament types that Keirsey categorizes as idealists. There are four temperament types that fall into the general category of guardians. Those four personality types make up 45% of the population, so it might seem dangerous for me to say that I hate guardian personality types, but the fact is that, on the whole, I do. Guardians are concerned with the illusion of respectability, with seeking the illusion of security, and with busying themselves with the illusion of supervising others. If you know anything of me, you may begin to see why I generally find it maddening to interact with guardians. If you are a guardian, and you’re reading this, don’t be offended. It’s just that you and I are most likely at diabolical odds with each other in terms of what we consider real. Your reality, your securities, are, to me, the idiocy of farce. The solid tenants of my reality are, to you, unreachable dreams. As long as we acknowledge that about each other, we can chat.

[4/4/2002 6:33:37 AM | inhaesio zha]
j&b scotch. Most people don’t give a shit about Scotch. On first tasting, people tend to believe they must instead be drinking gasoline. Some get past this initial repulsion and realize that Scotch is, maddeningly, one of those elusive acquired tastes. Those people’s preferences tend to gravitate toward Glenfiddich, Dalwhinnie, or the hallowed Balvennie Doublewood. Some people never get past the initial impression of gasoline. Hopefully, they stop drinking Scotch. The true madness, though, comes into play when individuals get past their repulsion to the taste of gasoline, but lack the gustatorial refinement to be able to taste the qualitative differences between different kinds of Scotch. These people end up drinking J&B, which really is gasoline.

[4/4/2002 6:06:19 AM | inhaesio zha]
good ‘n’ plentys. I don’t think I have to explain, to anyone who has eaten them, why I hate Good ‘N’ Plentys. Some things, you can’t eat just one. Some things, you can only eat one. With Good ‘N’ Plentys, one is one too many. If you’ve never had them, just imagine what it would be like to eat grease from the engine of a car. Now ask yourself why you would want to pay to do that while you were watching a movie.

[3/25/2002 5:35:14 AM | inhaesio zha]
light chocolate. It isn’t chocolate unless it’s dark.

No exceptions. Zero. None. chocolate => dark. The set of all chocolate is a subset of the set of all dark. f(x) is a function returning chocolate given a darkness quotient x. x = 1 for dark. x = 0 for light. f(x) for all x < 1 returns nothing.

[3/25/2002 5:34:40 AM | inhaesio zha]
white wine. It isn't wine unless it's red.

I feel compelled to make one exception…a certain Paul Thomas Riesling that I love to drink despite its whiteness.

[3/21/2002 8:24:51 AM | inhaesio zha]
scott stapp's face. The worst thing that ever happened to Creed is that guy's face. I love Creed's sound. They have perfectly McDonald's-ized the nebulous alternative angst of the post-Nirvana decay of alternative music. So there I was, digging on Creed like a Florentine sipping Starbucks cappuccino, and then I saw a fucking music video. I can never appreciate Creed the same way again. Everything about their lyrics that is satisfyingly desperate, Scott Stapp's chubby, glassy-eyed face undoes. Everything about the yearning in his voice, his goddamn babysoft Care Bear chin throws in the hamper. Pampers. Suburbs. Outlet malls. These are the things I think of whenever I see Scott Stapp's face.

[3/21/2002 7:58:36 AM | inhaesio zha]
this one line in the matrix. Despite Keanu Reeves, I love The Matrix. When it came to the dollar theatre Ashley and I saw it like three times in one week. The story and special effects are awesome. The dialogue isn't all that great, but, for the most part, I can deal with it given the film's other strengths. But I absolutely cannot stand to listen to the line where the main agent dude is questioning Keanu right before they bug him. The guy says something like: "You live two lives, Mr. Whatever. The first is spent hacking, doing underground illegal shit and breaking almost every computer crime we have a law for. The other life [he says, dramatically pausing to open a second dossier] is spent in computers. You work for a respectable software firm, blah blah blah…" So let me get this straight, he spends one life hacking and breaking laws in cyberspace, in computers, and he spends the other life…where?…also in computers? What's your fucking point? Hollywood needs to get symbolic logic people to look over their scripts before they shoot this shit.

zhacritic.blogspot.com

The Rules of Blindfold Parties

I (and Ash?) made up these rules for “Blindfold Parties”. We never had one, but after The Ice Party and The Naughty, I don’t think the world needs any more of our parties. Lord help us.

1. You do not talk about blindfold parties.
2. You do not talk about blindfold parties.
3. Everyone must bring their own blindfold. The blindfold must block sight
100%.
4. At any given time during a blindfold party, there is exactly one host. The
host is a person who is not wearing a blindfold. Everyone else wears a
blindfold, and are called guests. [multiple room thing, lots of people]
5. At the start of a blindfold party, the host alone occupies the party space.
The entrance to the party space is locked.
6. When new guests arrive, only the host answers the door. The host announces
“” before opening the door. The host then exits the party space quickly. The
host requires that each guest sign a contract swearing that they will abide by
and be subject to the Rules of Blindfold Parties. The host secures each new
guest’s blindfold and escorts the new guests into the party space, and locks the
entrance.
7. When the host wants to become a guest, the host says “”. No guest verbally
replies to this. Any guest who is willing to assume the responsibilities of the
host [raises their hand]. From these willing guests, the host chooses a
replacement. The host does not verbally indicate who the replacement is, but
simply removes the replacement’s blindfold. The new host then secures the
former host’s blindfold, and announces “”.
8. When a guest wants to leave the party temporarily…
9. When a guest wants to leave the party permanently…
10. can take off in bathroom. Blindfold secured before exit.
11. If you take your blindfold off

[substance abuse during blindfold parties]
[host duties…pouring drinks…bringing drinks inside…music…feel free to
ask the host questions at any time, like where’s the bathroom…the host can
lead people places]
[2 hosts?]

People

The Rules of Blindfold Parties

If I die before you do,

do not for an instant of your consciousness think that I did not live. Do not for one billionth of a second think that my death was a shame. Do not, if I die young, think it a tragedy I did not live to old age. Because in this moment, as I write this, I am alive as few can ever say they are alive. Alive in such terms of self-awareness, body, thought, logic, integral spirit, that I am beyond care of your impressions, beyond care of the seeking of accomplishment, beyond care of the search for validation, beyond care of punishment, beyond care of pretense, beyond care of order’s illusion, beyond limitation of humility, beyond the false-step of pride, beyond the torture of self-censure, beyond the prison of morality, beyond the hell of acceptance, beyond the stagnancy of self-regulation, beyond the cell of language, beyond the cast of fear. I am. I am. And I pray that the chaos of time conspires to burden you with fission and ecstasy beyond even this mere animal state. I pray to the chaos I constantly distrust to bring you shades of insanity breathing you the gullet of a dog’s fusilage, breathing you the claws of the dolphin, breeding in you discomfort that leads to unbearable agony that leads to inevitable peace, heavy peace, heavy like the ocean, heavy like the waves, heavy like the sand, heavy like air, heavy like moss, heavy like static, and lightning, and breeze in summer/spring. I pray the cosmos curse you with insatiability and care-not-ful-ness and deep, writhing, living invincibility. With a Circle. With the rapture of the mathematical symbol known as pi. With complete disregard and complete staple respect. With forlorn wistfulness. With lost. Lost. Walking. Moving. Transience. With home-ful-ness, with the diabolical opposite of homelessness, as Shringara and I came to know we posessed, homelesslessness. The inability to be outside of that over which you are master and lover, slave and guide. The inability to be Truly lost, the inability to be completely comfortable. Forced into the world of stepping it up a notch. Constantly. Constantly being beyond fullness and constantly being hungry for the Next. Insatiable. Conscious. With Conscience. As Martin Luther said, here I stand, I can do no other. The very definition of the nature of the Truth of Truth. Prostrate to the compilation of all the latest information you have incurred. Slave to the constant desire for freedom. I speak now not From, but Through, and bow away from all association, aware of and {consciously, fully} integrated with my posession. Claiming none, whispering all, vanishing and appearing again as the space between space, gone and here, apprised of all the reprecussions, briefed on inconsistency, caring none, caring all, caring deeply for the you of You, one I have known and yet, have yet to know, one I have much to teach, one from whom I have infinitely more to learn…..

I am possessed, possessed completely, by none other than myself; therefore, call me Halcyon.

If I die before you do,

Thinking through the Frogger metaphor again.

Listening to Jesse’s song. Thinking through the Frogger metaphor again. Thinking of a different angle on it. What kind of a journey would a journey be if you knew where you were going to end up before you started? If you really knew exactly where you would end up, it wouldn’t be like moving toward the future, it would be like being Merlyn, living backwards through time, approaching an end you already know, like perfect memory. Just tracing the steps from point a to point b. Astrea writes about following longings that you can’t really put your finger on, and, really, what other way is there to travel? An impetus to move, yet an acknowledgement of one’s ignorance of the actual goals and paths that will be touched. In science, when people know what they are trying to find before they start looking, it seems they often find paths that prove the rightness of whatever they seek. When you observe with such expectation, your mind finds ways to make your desires come true. Wonderful this is when you can know with confidence what it is you want to find. You seek it, you find it. But the related handicap, for science or spirit wanderers, is that what you know or think you want to find when you start looking, serves as a bias against finding something else. What if that something else would have pleased you more? So you must travel toward the unknown, travel always open to change, if your journeys are ever to take you somewhere profoundly new, somewhere you didn’t know about when you started the trip.

Thinking through the Frogger metaphor again.

Keep looking at it.

Continue staying there. Be unrelenting in applying pressure to the pain. When the right song comes around, put the player on repeat. Press through stages. Zoom in. Zoom out. Move over slightly. Zoom in again. When moment presents itself, allow self to integrate with moment. When something of interest comes across, allow it to become something of sphere, allow something of sphere to become something of self, something of self to become something of gravity, something of gravity to become something of depth. Surprise become delight, delight become ecstasy. Spark become tingle, tingle become wave. Wave become oceans. Oceans cover globe. Allow slightest discomfort to give way to decided trouble, decided trouble give way to distinct pain, distinct pain give way to unbearable torture. Only then I know I hurt, only then I can bleed through it, breathe through it, wash myself of it, purge, drown, sweat, expel. Only after the black hole collapse, crush of weight, can I truly be of air, weightless, no border between other and self, water in water, space in space, breath in breath, motion in motion, chaos in chaos, body in body, light in light…

The Second Monkey teaches that pain cannot be salved by circumvention. Numbing pain never makes it go away. Only after going though it, on the other side, is there beauty, peace, fullness. Only after the terror of chaos comes tranquility, stillness. So it is that depth lies on the other side of pressing; that ecstasy is the millionth rushing ocean wave, the first of which is only a tickle…

Keep looking at it.