Her gen-x self-formulaic (aka: gotta start somewhere, part III)

Alot had grown stale, circa 1973. Hamlet's aside kept repeating, in the cultural semi-consciousness; to be? or not to be? To be? or not to be? The needle got stuck in the groove, so it seemed. Kids like her would be oversaturated with a Shakesperean baseline. All rhythms and words measured against iambic averages, pentameter mean. Then when all seemed safely so, they were informed: we don't know who Shakespeare was, umm, or if he wrote those works and words we shoved down your throats, little chickadees. Sorry if its unsettling, shakespeares still the bees knees.

The nourishment had a limit, circa 1973. Gas lines for cars extended far as eyes could see. The avocados and Sonoma wines were the only locally grown taste, one could argue. California native. Freshness. Quality of product and price. She started to rebel against the grammatical elements, dangling her participles and positioning E before i. It got her out of self. She took E before me.Walking away from the farmers market into the unsettling processed food joints perched around the circumference, was an experience she found herself repeating. The objects became subjects, and got lost in the actions. Parenthetical fast food with its weak energetics, could well be complemented by halved avocado, she found. She was used. So she learned to use everything in some fashion. Using was more than just a passion. It was an embedded way of life. She stopped trying to break it, she took hold of it, embraced it.


No matter what she did, she realized, some people would never like her. Which was cool, once she understood, because this gave her allowance not to like or please everyone. She met the eyes of judgment with matching eyes of fire. Zinfandel could so easily wash away the pain of being judged, douse the fire. Back to the enduring legacy of generation x girls like her. To know them you need the backdrop. Where they came from, what they came from, and what they had to endure. In summary this was the process of finding seminourishment within the culture. She first found her capacity to nourish herself. Then looking outward she saw the offal of culture as it was. Hardened eyes and attitude maybe came from what had been processed, packaged, flavored, microwaved, heatlamped post its voyage to the bottom of the deepfryer. The grease could be mistaken for steam soaked into the paper scaffolding holding what never really came together, together. Think about the influences. Like diversity in people can be associated with diversity in climate, the weather.

All in all this amounted to a temporary something. Call it relief. Call it semireplenishment. Call it whatever you want. She could make it from noon to seven pm. A large enough window of time and energetics, to generate momentum to evolve herself slowly. Turtle evolution was cool and well known. (The story of the hare and the tortoise, locates the seed that was sown). One year stood out, astrologically so. She was about to touch the premier full moon of the new year. And with it came some potency, some amplified feeling in her. The feeling turned her on and turned on her social circle. Which then lit up like some 20 watt transparency with fangs of light sautered on the walls through the filter of the lampshade. Then her whole tribe sunk into the juicy metallic taste of a ripe half-century old american standard wall outlet for those old general electric turntables with matching postbellum deux de monde hair curlers become subservient t her tribe and their purpose to generate noise out of nothing. Scrap sound system picked apart and wired together haphazardly but with purpose. Definite imperfection in a very real way. Not all neatly up in a row like bombs awaiting their drop from a generic saab diesel! This momentum took its drive from possibilities without end. Like where Alphabet city meets Numeric Avenue which squares off with dead presidents on downtown streets. Madison intersected with B Street then got triangulated by Third Avenue. One two three, as it goes, hits a B side or floats up for a birds eye view. You can choose destruction over creation? she exclaimed one day to her posse, Who knew? Who fucking knew?

Well that did it! It was on! For her, the synapses all could be fucked with, managed, rearranged. So can we, exclaimed her transmittors in their neuro-variations. So can we! was the cry on the intracellular precision bands. Spirals upon spirals had her spinning in infinity. Like Paul Simon said, by way of translating some divinity. She resonated with it all, the music, the literature. The sex and the drugs. The intoxicating feeling of deprivation in the mountains. Air got thin. Air got cold. Afterwards the heat of the lodge felt so deliciously bold. Her world hit her hard, thats just the way it was! Concussion force hit the X generation like Vietnam veterans coming home from a very real nightmare. What was real could be sacred, she learned through and through. She would be real and anti-fakeness. Dress down the pretty faces. No hype, she conveyed to her circle, now a spiral to be exact, no adware spyware, dont nobody care for us in the marketing industry! They selling stepford white pussy now, lets get busy! She got control over image, by changing her ways. She jetted from the maniacal spinning out in her cadillac days. One dui was all she took, and she got so lucky, she knew. Drunk driving used to be a pasttime for her. She got control of her adrenaline junkie.

About fact-based theory. no second guessing. time to take a seat for some soakup session. Really, will you sponge now? Or are you not so resilient, not so forgiving, not so flex, not so cushioning, just an excuse for a really hard landing? If so, coerce the confession. Such a situation is damaging, diverted, divided and ready to be conquered. Starting with the humble confession, only then might it all come together and coalesce. The damage could undergo analysis. The unbroken fall from an unknown height measured in unknown stories of a nondescript apartment building two doors down from the austerity of the projects in the way of her common capacity to overcome deep deep depressive thinking leading to impulsive untold otherworldly actions orchestrations movements, in the key of desperation flat, followed by some prototypical chord progression the grunge movement adopted in between sets of screaming truth of tragic course of life, present time bookended vaguely as the life of generation x kids on x hitting skids from rowhouse repitition to moshpit meditative new releases. All of it naturally damaged the psyche,  creating chinks in the links of the spine, the C's one two three and four. Will certainly need to be fused, some doctor remarked in the ER, seeing the body and tissue so badly bruised. Generation X case study. Tragedy. Bag it and tag it. Cold case the file. Basement cold stored. Still down there, sure, but the quality always has a life about it, if its truly a gen-x case. A surprise in every box! There was, sure enough, hope in her wheat american midwest type hair with some ends acoustically radiant, could not be sized down, zipped, boxed, filed, cold cocked, nah! None could tame that wild in her. She had unfaded hair braided, evolution occuring. Then there became thought! Underneath the pain of the feeling, which was validated by thought, which at first silent, then became spoken, then on the mic, announced, then screamed, sung to the bottom of the lung kinda release only generation x types wearing fleece could make out of damaged bruised, otherwise written off parts of self in society. Others responded well. How could they not? She arose like a phoenix, no embellishment. They could not and would not diminish her primal scream. They allowed her to become their waking dream, the kinda trust the grunge movement established almost on the spot. Generation X. In love. In pain! In lust. The kids they all acrobat like scissors, dearly departing in mechanical syrup... the venue was mad fresh! Could just as easily been Seattle by the sight of it, the diversity, the alien energetics! Could have been Bangladesh! She went from the gutter to her fame by way of the express. She would settle for more, when all that was ever offered her and her peoples, demanded she settle for less.

Her distance from it (the less for which she was to settle, and the restlessness in her symptomatic of the gravitational force pulling her down from her dreams for more) grew out of the horizon, created a concerted effort towards liason, community involvement, converse all-stars tied into the music scene, the very scene, the one and only shot youth spot! She was wise to the window. She jumped out before it closed. Out into the scene. Out into the cold freshness so hypnotic. Her fears evaporating as she fell to rigid earth. Static plane. Her courageous act was considerably insane. Which made her ex-communicated from all things pragmatic, outdated, boring, sane. This made her magnetic like she would be now, and forever. Metal sharpened line planted flat in deep earth, all the C's breaking apart naturally, painfully to necessarily reform like her entire being. A chaotic script never written, simply followed. Done. Made in the shade! The age old experience: to come apart in order to come together. Coalesce in a genuine self-formulaic. The swords now rest inside the soul, crossing over one another the way cold steel embraces. The search for generous farmland indiana home words was over, for they could now be homegrown self-generated. They would. With them, the words, she was able to pick up her C's, exit intensive care, get together and cultivate the city intensive! Like through the mouth, through the belly! Dirt became a high yield commodity, like pagers dirt got its moment in time. Like her, too. Another gen-x signature series. Well done. Applauded. Used until useless. Loved until worn and torn and inside out. Delivered to your auditory kinda story no holds barred front right from the gate, she was! You never would have known the real deal before she made it. No matter. Acknowledge her, became the rule not the exception, or else be outdated. Shes an exceptional woman, divinely inspired! self-created!

weak moves, on a hot and spicy midnight

i was a death dealer to Noise in my atmosphere. Was midnight. I was runnin hot like mojave. spicy like indian. short fused like Acme animation. The road runner must have passed my way ten times over. i pounced on my phone to prove i could pounce. i had the agility to capture a rock. you know it. I checked out the digits on the digital. nobody i knew, number was local. i answered it. typically your digits gotta be in my cell. but i was trying to catch my shadow i guess, so capturing a random phone call seemed like rehearsal.

there was a perpetrator talkin to me now. some dude within the past 48 hours got the nerve up to call me. he must not have seen the reluctance in giving my digits. i was too focused on avocados and all the variety of apples to think clear. i just did what he asked, then almost changed the 2nd to last digit to something different. a dishonest move i could not make. close! the # was reversible, 9. so to offer up 6 could have excused me from my guilt with a claim of dyslexia. sometimes it happens when i stay in the sun too long. anyway, my integrity paid me back with this awkward moment on my hot and spicy midnight.

I had to recall how we met eyes over the strawberries in the foodmarket spectacular in my neighborhood. you might call it 'juicy' (from his perspective). his wings fluttered and retracted to the eyewatering browns trying to enter my 7th chamber. i blocked him at the aura level. my auranti-virus is tight. immediate split second blocks on (basis of) gut feeling. the feedback on this one was 'perp', across the 4th food group. organic. all of the latest trends represented. flagship quality. the food does not reflect the consumer. i didnt see any organic folks up in here. some were raw. some were processed, some homogenized. but no flash pasteurized peoples. everyone around me seemed conservative & preservative. reserved. almost impossible to interact with in a healthy kinda way. holding back all sincerity 20+ hours of the day. i marked them. they were the ones looked at you like you B just gettininmyway!

I was wild caught alaskan and a fish out of water sometimes. such was life in the food spectacular. give me my chicken caesar pizza and im ok. get me out of here, synergy snatched up for all i could hold. to rejuventate from the toxicity that passed through my aura like spyware.

The memory i clearly cherished. i had it in the temporary trashfiles of my cluttered multitasked out mental, ready for abort(ion). this call i haphazardly chanced, well, my word for it would be more like 'convenient' or 'tragic'. convenient would better describe the seven eleven. tragic works. like putting on all your makeup and doing your nails and everything, and slipping into your sweet dress...and the occasion never manifests. broken down car...agitated child...sudden uncontrollable fits of sleep (your date told you with all apologies burning down mascara forest). the same kind of reasons you once pulled on someone else, probabl. tragic like karma come back. why tragic? im sure youre on the edge of your seat, waiting for the magic. i can get us out of this! i promise! (once i locate an analgesic).

anyway, the point almost escaped me then (like it escapes you now). in the sedated hour past midnight when atoms dont hug so tight, electrons turn positive, i mean optimistic, and spirits mess with those who do not believe in spirits. easy to derail in this kind of tension free atmosphere. well, this young man boldly called at the terrible hour to call, and proceeded to try and talk me into meeting him this very night. very bold, very ignorant. say it again -- TRAGIC. because i was one nerve from unnerved, before he called. my entire latest system was heavily firewalled. i was twice removed from my own truth. i had burned through my midnight snack: baby ruth. i was pickled and jarred, talking to me must have been so hard.

i was emotional mind, anger defined, so so so veryfar from kind. this guy would be sorry he crossed the line. he would be incinerated by my firewalls transitioned to fireballs. coming out my eyes into the wireless wires. barreling into him like recklessness on tires. fuck you! i gotta go to work in less than a half dozen hours. i dont know you! and i can see you are drunk! you daft punk. i will now bring upon you the sensation of --SUNK. your battleship is about to get mothballed. ill think of you out there building rust up. you so fucked up! calling me intoxicated, telling me how you are located close, you made it! i should come meet you! you are sweet on me, drop some heavy breathing as my short fuse ignites. youre not a genuine article, you lost all rights. lose my digits, generic! asking me for a lick? you dog! sick! let me google my next question...how to piss on someone over cellular? your conversation back around again, circular.

so i was heated. felt kinda cathartic. the chill i conveyed, well, very antarctic. he got froze. he was at some gas station fighting a machine for a candy bar. i was a fuming cigar. a screaming guitar. burnt food char. ready for war. but instead i just froze him, no room in the freezer. its all taken up by my pizza, chix caesar. i could no longer regard him, had to discard this. full up with vinegar and piss. snapping rubber bands on my wrist so just to bite my tongue. i could blow up on him like when i was young. but instead i iced this situation. then cubed it. dropped it in my ginger ale. felt like chased tail, right out of town. i had to find my way back home. back to SOURCE. get found. cooled off and ready to digest. drop some classic uncut over my airwaves. one way or another back to the source. i located the one with whom i could best relate. Russian stock composer. personality told: 'fragile and nervously agile'.

i lay back into deep meditation. auraviral system disarmed. firewalls fallen. whole again. empathic waves of Dmitri Shostakovich. all my fire? well, i sold it. sorry aint no magic. laundry? fold it. just fire and ice in store. side of whiterice. a bed for to rest the real...the core.