Pay the Years

“But it hurts when I get out of bed.”

“What hurts, baby?”

“My heart.”

“Oh you’re much too young for that.”


Spent 25 years wasting my life

Just wandering around looking for a good time.

They say “Honey don’t you pay them years no mind.”



When you’ve gone and spent enough time in a box

You stop needing windows and you quit using clocks.

There’s no difference in what time it is because



Do you need something to make your hair stand up?

To depress your nervous system and loosen your cheeks?

…Surprised whining hasn’t done that yet.

You know that’s a favorite pass-time of mine.

Right next to counting zero dollars ’bout 47 times.


My boots are too heavy and my coat is too big.

If this is being a man, well I’d rather be a woman

But I look like a fish in red lipstick and



With a bag of fool’s gold and a bucket of wooden nickels

I’ve got enough for an evening on the town.

If I’m spending papa’s coin with extra whiskey in my jacket

Honey, you know I’m paying the years no mind.



When the Hell is it?

I like my morning time. I wouldn’t give away my coffee and apple time for anything. Not a job, not a person, not a dog, and definitely not a fish. I got so high and fell asleep last night. I ate four 750’s and I got high as hell. I don’t really have a continuous stream of thought right now and nothing will really coalesce into a solid piece of thought-matter.

That all happened. I’m no liar. In fact, I’m quite consistent. This time, my yesterday night consisted of copious amounts of alcohol being forced down my gullet by an invisible hand with a grip like a gorilla foot. Lucky for me, Chernobyl had some speed he was willing to share, as long as I had five bucks – I did. We made the trade, he went to work, I ate the speed. After a greasy shit, some compatriots and I headed to the liquor store for the first round of legal purchases. Cigarettes, munchies, and a four-pack of high octane IPA were what we walked out with. We shared amicable good-byes and that was that. I had no idea I’d walk into that store two more times in states of steadily deepening madness.

The second time was a regularly scheduled visit after the primary locale of New Years drug abuse had been ridden out to its end. Kabel and I had his tequila – which I had no idea you could write yourself a prescription for. Then we split up and after I dropped a few items off to a few interested parties, I required whiskey. I was well aware you could write yourself a prescription for that. Paul arrived a few minutes prior and was in a state comparable to a distraught mother of a good-for-nothing after finding a syringe in the underwear drawer. I wrote him a prescription for whiskey as well and conscripted him for the return journey. We made it. I was drunk, the clerk wasn’t, we both understood the situation. I mumbled some pleasantries, not at all as erudite as before, he gave me a fonzi-esque gesture. We agreed to not hang out until the next year.

The whiskey went down smooth as ever. All the boys came home for more planned activities, in contrast to our usual impromptu chemical debauchery. We drank – the air was thick with smoke and merriment. As easily as we united, we broke off into factions. Some to articulate emotions chemically excavated from their tartarus of sobriety, some to see a band, some to study the floor – which, as it turns out, is as interesting as you are drunk. Oh world, how you surprise.

We slaughtered the phalanx of substances set before us. We drank the blood of every bottle and burned the flesh of the sinsemillian, we crushed the non-believers into dust and insufflated them properly, we promised to be better people and pointed out the hypocrisy of a moral system based Roman calendars and brain-manipulation. We’re the same us as we ever were but it feels good to know we can change.

We’re relative. It was New Years. Time isn’t real. See you tomorrow, or next year.


Dear Sally

Dear Sally,

It would seem I have a skill. As my tube of toothpaste comes to the end of the bristles on my toothbrush, the mouth of the tube flicks toward me causing fluoride paste to be slung straight into my eye. This happens with surprising regularity. This phenomenon gives rise to a situation in which, after the initial attack, I become shocked and confused. My feet begin a mutinous dance which in turn causes my arms to flail as if I were a drunken goose. My grasp on the toothbrush weakens, the bristles turn to the persuasion of gravity and what paste was actually on the brush slips off toward its end on the dirty linoleum.

Though my story seems sad, even pitiful, there is a glimmer of hope within. Observe, the awesome powers of self-awareness it must take to be one’s own saboteur! You see, my dear consort, I have been blessed with conclusive evidence that I, Phoebus Archibald IV, is none other than a full-fledged psychic. While this news alone is enough to strain a wife to tears and hair pulling – I do have more.

Due to my considerable talent, I became compelled to contact precincts all over the state of New York. Naturally, the gross majority of precincts lie in New York City and one of those fine establishments has agreed to take me on as the city’s first Psychic Investigator. I plan to leave immediately and to take all of our combined savings so I might effectively establish myself when welcomed into the city. Though I am sure you are red with admonishment and sick with worry, I attempt to leave you, my dear Sally, with love and the understanding that my gift is one that must be shared with the world and certainly, used to defend our proud nation from ne’er-do-wells.

All of my love,

Phoebus Archibald IV

That Yoda Quote

“No! Try not. Do or do not. There is no try.”

I’m going to use a synonymous phrase instead.

“No try, only do.”

Yoda may have been trying to ease Luke’s anxiety about taking on a galactic empire and nothing more but the words he chose are fraught with meaning. Of course, dissecting the semantics in an Eastern-inspired phrase is essentially pointless – but so is everything else. So fuck it.
Obviously in our Western lexicon we have the verbs “try” and “do” which mean different things. To try means to attempt and to do means accomplish. These are different. So now we’re here: we have trying and doing all figured out. If you were to get saucy and decide to split hairs over trying to do and doing tries, yes, you’re right forever. You’re also an asshole.
What Yoda is saying is actually quite literal. No try, only do, in this context, means: If you’re going to fight off the entire empire, you should leave no room for doubt. Yoda is trying to instill Luke with confidence enough to defeat Vader – which is an obscene amount of confidence to have for a 20 year old who learned how to sword fight from a green midget in a swamp. What I am going to do is explain why the phrase worked(s).
First, some back-peddling. Star Wars has a plethora of Eastern influences ranging from philosophy to costume design and a significant portion of this influence is stuffed into the concept of the Jedi. If you’re unaware of the Jedi, you’re either a genius or, more likely, a terrible person. I’m not saying you can’t be both but if you are, you are seriously wasting time when you could be saving the world. So the Jedi exemplify the Eastern ideas and Yoda is the most badass Jedi so naturally, he would dispense the greatest wisdom – or the coolest nonsense, they’re basically the same thing. What I’m getting at is Yoda is the Dalai Lama of Star Wars and what he says is the realest shit in the galaxy. Except for the huge letters that recap earlier events in the other films.
When Yoda says “There is no try, only do.” not only is he fully capable of dropping the mic and walking into the swamp to enjoy his bitchin’ self and smoke some force-spice but he is also giving the audience a nugget of advice from on high. In effect, he’s hacking up commonly used language that comes with a self-destruct button. To try, or attempt, leaves room for failure. Yoda says “Fuck failure, you got this.” And so he knows Luke won’t try to defeat the empire, he’ll do it. In a phrase so tiny, the Jedi master hides a bit of wisdom we’ve known for quite some time, but is easy to forget. Believe in yourself.
Failure is ever present. In fact, failure succeeds about as much as success fails. It’s nuts. Failure is inevitable, like death and runny poops. If something is inevitable, like runny poops, instead of worrying about it coming, cause it will, we should prepare for it. Knowing and worrying are different and one of them sucks the life out of everything. It’s the one I didn’t capitalize, for all you who are hanging on my every word. Yoda knew if Luke ever thought he might fail the stress of fighting a fucking empire would destroy his training and Vader would whoop Luke so bad he would have less limbs than his father. Luke, not wanting to live life as an evil head and torso adorned by cybernetics would find this most distasteful. Yoda knew that, because Yoda is a goddamn hero.
If we take this advice, being the Luke Skywalker of our own lives, we can see that anything we’ve deemed worthy of trying, should be worthy of doing and if we’re going to try it, we may as well do it with everything we’ve got. “No try, only do.” means giving all the percents you have 100, 200, I don’t care, it means no pussy-footing or half-assing, it means diving in ready for whatever may come, it means buying 3 hot dogs and eating 4, it means, in a world where anything is possible trying just holds you back from what you could be doing.

The Spider and The Ape

I live in a doll’s house. A place with thin walls and plastic ghosts frozen on fake cushions. Mirrors reflect nothing but in that nothing, they reflect everything. See, that’s the funny part; The lifeless eyes of the dolls inside are pried open by understanding – they have seen the face of Life and so have become lifeless. They have breathed and so have become breathless. They have moved and so have become frozen. Frozen in infinity, where nothing moves and all is alive. I live in a doll’s house, and this is my happy family.
There’s mommy and daddy, the spider and the ape, who live in my domicile. Daddy was walking through the corridors, all pastel and bright. Until he found a little spider and to his delight, she let him scoop her up and guide her through night. When he finished his walk to the end of the hall, the spider whispered the greatest secret of them all “Night is around you when in my arms. I require no assistance to travel these halls. I cry on the shoulders of the dark.” The ape was confused. He knew she needed him – why else would she stand in the corner accompanied by tears? “But you were afraid, and I who has no fear came to guide you through this maze of ink.” Said the ape. “You are small, like a thread connecting my web to the jam of a door. I will show you the center of the web so that you may know just how frail I am.” And the ape was shown the silk highways stretching far into the ether. He was shown all the paths that lay before him and all the ways he’s been trapped. The ape froze in terror there in the center of the web and he looked at the spider, the Queen of the Universe, and he kissed her.

“I’ve found you again.” Said the spider. “Now give me your fingers, lest your body becomes mush too soon.” And the ape put all his limbs into the air so the spider might use them for wondrous things.

The spider ate the fly, this we know too well – but what of the ape?

The ape widened himself, placing a hand in the four corners of his world. He became the world so that the spider might save her silk. He was Atlas and Gaia, simultaneously holding the world up and becoming it. His mountains would hold the sky.

The spider thanked him by bringing him food – his diet depending on her own. The ape ate flies and mice until the spider came to him one day and asked him “Are you happy here as my world, whose mountains hold up my sky?”
“I am what you say I am.”
“Then you are mine forever.”
“As I have always been.”

And the spider covered the ape in a cocoon and imbibed him. His strength, his power, his fury and his might, all turned to thick liquid absorbed by the spider.

The two were married and of marriage is borne children.

Through the windows of my doll house, there is a sky painted white with woven threads. The curvature of my world told by the slope of the web in which it is housed. The stars never move and the endless serpents of silk push through the black dirt in exactly the same paths as they ever have.

Oh the sky is a liar! It promises freedom and rewards soaring madness. “Look at me! Look at me! I am full of splendor and joy!” It says. But when you look, it becomes as empty as your head.
“Made you look! Made you look!” It says as a gaseous grin tears it in half.

The spider, my mother sarcophagi, descends on a string made of light “One day, my little child, I will eat you just as I have eaten your father. And one day, when a scornful babe walks through your universe, I will ride upon its shoulders to a whole new house for dolls, just like you.” Said the spider as she crawled behind the moon.

Filling Your Holes With Someone Else’s Dirt

There is a nebulous zone between two people where the bridge connecting them begins to narrow into a thin wire and entropy becomes a very real problem. The obstacle in this case, is not as it seems. The issue doesn’t lie in the situation of the wire over the abyss but more so in the hesitation to trust the wire. Perhaps trust is the wrong word, it’s a bit more accurate to say the problem lies in our hesitation to believe in the wire. Like a spider web, the circumference of the wire deceives the perceiver into assuming the wire is weak – it is not.

Normally, we assume the form we first witness something in is its true form. Which needs to happen if we are to have any starting point. If we can disrupt the form of something with relatively little effort, we think it must be weaker than us. In the case of the web, it’s structural integrity can be easily compromised so we view it as weak. This is the same as judging an aquatic animal’s agility in terms of a terrestrial animal’s agility. They’re different. The strength of the web is in its ability to be easily repaired, not in its raw endurance. The wire works similarly: its strength isn’t in its capacity to hold the weight of a relationship – it’s the wire’s ability to coax the players into shrinking their egos so they may cross safely.

In every situation there is a dominant force and a submissive force. This is widely accepted. Most emotional exchanges follow this pattern. Where one side is dominant, the other is submissive and simultaneous transactions exist with the roles switched. Therefore, if there is a wire for every transaction there must be several emotional trapeze acts occurring at any given time. This means that both egos are shrinking and swelling in constant flux. In a model this frenetic, there is a limited time before one party runs into a point at which the ego will refuse to shrink or swell. This results in a few things.

One being a standoffish posture that can either portray conviction at best or stubbornness at worst. The dance involved here is one most of us are familiar with, an argument, rolling of the eyes, dismissal – the process is well documented. The other is total detachment. Often this event is characterised as a red flag or “deal-breaker” or a push for separation (this seems to point to an unwillingness to grow which can be simplified to fear). This is breaking the wire or rather, testing the strength of the wire with force instead of finesse. It’s a misinterpretation of the challenge the wire presents. When the environment doesn’t match our judgements, we experience fear. Relationships that fall victim to this pattern of fear are often summed up colloquially with a phrase such as “We just weren’t working out.” which means “We’re too fundamentally different and instead of trying to grow out of my comfort zone to meet you halfway, I’m going to look for something that’s easier.” Which may be as far into self-discovery someone may want to go; as it is, by nature, an uncomfortable experience.

There is a question here that I frame like this: If self-discovery is described everywhere as a good thing, wouldn’t it also be a good thing to encourage it? Also, if self-discovery is inseparable from discomfort (at first) wouldn’t it be the decent thing to encourage periods of manageable discomfort in order to achieve growth in knowledge of one’s self?

What interests me is that the common tendency is to reach for comfort, yet we revere those stories of people who become the most unlikely of comrades. Which calls into question the degree to which we take lessons from literature because when it comes to actions, we are living out our fantasies vicariously and we are conscious of that fact – but interpersonal relationships fly in under the radar. It’s easier to see someone else develop character than for us to do it ourselves. Thus, we end up as two-dimensional beings with a deep appreciation for someone else’s admirable qualities and an impotency when it comes to our own.


The White Stripes RULE

Junkyard Bastards

Well fuck. The power just went out, again. If I were to tally the pros and cons of the Canada House building my graph would likely tip in the favor of the cons. This is not a place of efficacy or construction. This is not a place of pragmatism and order. It is certainly not a place that makes sense. Nonsense reigns supreme in the citadel of madness that has enveloped my life. This is a monastary of chaos and we, as the new order of tenants, have read the rules. No upward momentum, no clean counters, no decent brooms, half of the recommended equipment, socks must be sacrificed and the final rule, drugs everywhere.
In here, my body becomes a refuge for wayward chemicals on the run from the law. If my eyes aren’t chemically peeled back by amphetamines, my legs are wobbly from alcohol. If my head isn’t sunk into my chest from vicodin, my skull is on fire with acid and if we’re dry in the department of felonious drugs, then we go back to smoking pot. On the occasion that we’re all the way out of all the good shit, we smoke cigarettes. I hate cigarettes. I smoke them anyway.
Those fucking cigarettes. I’ve quit smoking them five or six times but every time I get drunk, I can move backward in time to before I left those glorious cylinders of tobacco. It’s ridiculous. I loathe the acrid whisps that slither down into my lungs. I hate the black loogies that crawl out of my my sinus but it’s all worth it to satisfy an image. There’s something Sysyphian about lasting a week without the bastards and then, come friday night and the battalions of liquor, landing back in the junkyard with a well-packed bone rolling in my fingers. I look at it, remember the most recent promise I made to myself, nestle it in my lips and ask for a lighter. Once I reclaim my post outside the bar, I search for an attractive stranger to say nothing to. Luckily, those kinds of strangers come in droves.
Imaginary conversations leading to love-making in cars and the nights Steve Mariott sings about float around my head while I eye-fuck every filled pair of jeans that passes by. Leaning against the wall, trying to look aloof while simultaneously looking around for a pair of glazed eyes belonging to a woman as sexually frustrated as me. The eyes never float by. Maybe I don’t wait long enough, maybe the hours are fucked, who cares. Either way, I offer a final prayer to the mistress of the night and walk back into the bar to nurse my whiskey back to health. After all, you wouldn’t want to go into the chaos unprepared would you?

He gets it.

He gets it.