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Below are 20 journal entries, after skipping by the 20 most recent ones recorded in gillesderais' LiveJournal:

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Wednesday, September 9th, 2009
9:22 pm
If you're feeling saucy
I have a weekly webcomic up at Unlike Comix.

It is weird. I am also weird.

Lemme know if you have comments, criticisms, and etc. And, I really mean that, I am trying to become a better cartoonist and even a "your layout sucks, there's no depth, and your characters heads are disproportionate and not expressive" helps out.


(end of entry)
Tuesday, August 4th, 2009
10:21 pm
After much thinking
I finally understand why so many of the young fellows that I have been acquainted with love the song 'Jolene' by Dolly Parton. Not that it is a particularly difficult song to like. Well written and brimming with pathos, it's a damn good song.

Here's my epiphany, as it were, this song is beloved because it feeds a desire to be the object of desire. So many sad songs, love songs, are written with a certain assumption of roles. The person who desires is usually a man, and what is desired is the woman. There's much more too it, of course, enough for a million million Women's Studies Dissertations. But, the point I'm making is not about other songs, but that Dolly Parton penned and performed a song where the plaintive notes are directed at a man. In the song the Dolly's voice calls out to the beautiful and cruel Jolene asking her to please have mercy on the author, just this one time.

At the same time the man-object is absolved of his guilt while at the same time remaining that which is desired.

My apologies for this. I don't think that I can help traipsing down these paths occasionally.

(end of entry)
Saturday, June 6th, 2009
8:30 pm
In spite of and because of
In spite of and because of the clamor, I am going to post my sexy glamour style photos. Taken by the talented autolatry.

Read more...Collapse )
Thursday, June 4th, 2009
4:10 pm
Check out my

I got a hairscut.

It's all pomped up now.
Tuesday, May 19th, 2009
11:57 pm
no go
sick girlfriend = no movies.

(end of entry)
9:50 pm
this silence is never quite silent, always full of something. Really silence is not a space, sound is space. The spatial environment is always full of something, whether this fullness comes from the noisiness of my existing or from things that are mostly not me.


I am going to see Demon Seed at the Alamo Drafthouse, I am full of gleeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

(end of entry)
Tuesday, May 12th, 2009
8:52 pm
I am my own parasite. Conscious thought riding this meat, seeing where it goes.

(end of entry)
8:07 pm
I have noticed.

So, studying Arabic for the last Arabic test in the foreseeable future. Which is both good and bittersweet. In spite of the fact that I frequently resent the language (projecting my insecurities onto the language, energy that would be better spent in rote memorization time), I will surely miss the class time.

That said I have a plan to get a job that actually utilizes these long years of toiling, carrying the Hans Wehr Arabic-English Dictionary around on my back not to mention al-Kitaab fii Ta'aluum al-Lugha al-Arabiyya aka my textbook, etc. I would love to actually begin focusing on communication, I just wish that more people spoke Fusha/Modern Standard Arabic instead of dialect. I love the music of Fusha Arabic, much more than any one of the dialects. Although just for sounds I love Moroccan, its clipped aggressive energy seems to always push forward in a glowing rush of consonants.


as the sky blues' deepening seems to generate new breeze. cool winds calm hot concrete and pavement. rising and falling hiss of wind and tree leaves, straining the air for toxic outbreaths and respirating for us anew. not for us alone, nor for us at all.

(end of entry)
Monday, May 4th, 2009
11:30 pm
overcome. overwhelm.
insert ocean imagery. just on the cusp, the tip, the knife's edge of the end of dusk. an ambiguous concept in and of itself.

I know that there are some humans who don't like the ocean. I admit that it is not made of perfection. Somehow I occasionally crave its specific imperfections.

The sound of the ocean drowns out the sound of ringing. A luxury that I have come to treasure, I'm unsure if other humans could possibly realize what a big deal that that is for me. My ears have continuously rung for years now. It's less a drowning out than the luxury of listening to something else. A matter of attention really, in silence the tone swells and sometimes threatens to engulf me in ochre vibrations, a touch of synesthesia. Filling even the space between the bottom of my eyelid and my eye, the catchpocket for tears.

Beside the point.

Anyway, the moment when the sun, it's last mote, is no longer visible. The end of the sunset is what I think of as bliss. Quenched sun, sleep heavy. Salt air.

Knees in the surf.


I miss my two best friends from Arkansas. At this moment, intensely.

I'm sorry.

Sunday, May 3rd, 2009
11:46 pm

This entry is to advertise that I AM NOT BORING. I ONLY PLAY ONE ON TV.


Spending so many hours in the library is taking its toll on my fragile sanity.

Holding up the mirror to my brain is reflecting an ice-cold frontal lobe.

What I mean to say is it feels like there is a dry ice cube one half inch above the mid-point between my eye-brows. It is like a chill unibrow. Only visible on EEG/EKG/ULTRASOUND/MRI/MMORPG/AKA/MDMA


I have been infected. WITH CAPS LOCKS. It's like a captain's version of dreadlocks. Not like pirate dreadlocks either. They are like a vomitous mixture of Captain (of Captain&Tenille fame) and the one and only Captian Stubbing (pronounced: STOOBING) from the Love Boat. Love Boat was a show that I only remember being aware of at the dim borders of memory. I have the same fragmented and mediated memories of re-runs of Fantasy Island (the one with Herve Villechaize, or to mock the man's memory: the midget who said "De Plane Boss, De Plane!" at the beginning of each episode).


Please continue existing. I insist.

(end of entry)
Saturday, May 2nd, 2009
4:55 pm
we love a good apocalypse
It seems like a disease of us human animals that we love, desire, and maybe even need the apocalypse. It's like a mental draught, one that addicts us.

I am not immune. There is a feeling of POWER being a prophet of doom. Why is that? What is it about predicting failure that electrifies the bones, and in which the flesh exults. There's an almost sexual thrill about describing the suffering of the species in a climate apocalypse, religious apocalypse, meteor apocalypse, LHC apocalypse.

I think that it is the same feeling of superiority that comes with knowledge of any kind. The conceit of the teacher, so to speak. Certain kinds of knowing are prone to this feeling of elevation. I'm sure that many have had experiences with school teachers who cannot allow themselves to be mistaken or wrong. The kind of teacher who cannot stand to be demonstrated incorrect. This is because of the addictive nature of this positioning. The role of teacher (rather, the discourse) is internalized until the "being-above" power relationship between teacher and student is a fundamental aspect of the teacher's identity.

What's worse is that this is, as I mentioned above, almost like an addiction. The illusion of absolute freedom, importance, and control associated with being in charge of another group of humans (who are defined by their structural/power relations with the teacher) cannot be challenged.

This represents the multiply centered and dynamic nature of hegemonic discourse, the teacher is both dominated and dominating in different contexts. But, to greater or lesser extents is internalizing these relations as 'natural'. Something like this process seems ubiquitous in human culture.

(end of entry)
Monday, April 27th, 2009
11:20 am
harf jar
I have recently been thinking more about the differing means by which affinity groups are entered by new members. That is to say, how these groups collectively welcome new members. I believe that there are a few socially constructed mechanisms by which this process is conducted. Some groups are based upon specific, at-times esoteric, knowledge bases. We might look to fandoms as this type of group. In these groups entry is based upon the deployment of trivia and facts about the object of fan admiration. There are, of course, other criteria, but much variation in dress and other social affiliations is allowed if one has exhibited enthusiasm for and knowledge of the cultural product around which the fandom revolves.

Second, scenes (music or life-style being what I am focused on when I say 'scene') in which one's fashion and physical appearance are key. That is to say if you look like you belong (tallest mohawk or most asymmetrical haircut or most 17th century dandy your clothing) then you are assumed to belong. Mods, New Romantics, punk rockers to some extent, are all examples of this category. Again, the criteria change constantly, and fashion or knowledge never represent the only vector by which you become accepted, these only represent certain primary factors. (also I am willing to admit that I am totally wrong since this whole paragraph is primarily based on initial suppositions and does not represent the culmination of a long period of reading and research, my apologies)

As I have been thinking about this subject, it seems to me that there is a socially manufactured quantity that goes by a number of different names ("cred" being one of them, and sometimes it has no name) that is dynamic and fluid. That visibility (attendance of key events to the community, concerts, art shows, being active on internet forums), contribution (if the community is based on writing music then being a songwriter, television show then reviews of each episode of the show, etc.), dress (conforming to the physical norms of the community, dressing like a mod at a metal show will probably inhibit your acceptance as a 'genuine' metalhead), and other factors all subtle in their interplay and with wide variations possible from time to time as tastes shift, new members change the internal dynamic of the group, or the scene/group/whatever falls apart due to any number of factors. There is a highly normative thread in many of these groups, it seems, all of which is based on the undefinable quantity 'authenticity.'

This quantity is visible when punks or metalheads discuss posers, or discussions of who is the most devoted fan to a certain book series (number of times read, number of fanfiction stories written), or other such social activities. Who is a genuine fan/member seems to be a never-ending discussion within these groups, sometimes as an adjunct to the official business of the group (for example within Leftist/Anarchist groups, or non-profits), and sometimes as a main topic of conversation (within music affinity groups a main topic of conversation is obscure, niche, and minor bands). This topic of conversation has at least two purposes. First, is the explicit discussion of musical trends, i.e. whatever the conversation is purportedly concerning be it folk music artists or metal bands from Norway. Second, these conversations are challenges between members to name the 'best' band, group, or artist. Best, of course, being defined by consensus (black metal fans look for socially constructed indefinable quantities like being "KVLT" which is a mixture of low recording quality, authenticity, extremity in rhetoric and fashion, and ostensible rejection of wide financial gain from the music, although there is more to being "KVLT" than these). Knowing bands that no one else has heard of increases one's prestige as well as one's claim to being a 'true', 'genuine', or 'authentic' member of the group, basically the exact opposite of being a poser since the two terms are defined primarily in tension with the others.

Anyway, back to real work now. I might come back and write more on this later.

(end of entry)
Sunday, April 12th, 2009
6:44 pm
we make ourselves anew
I wish that all of my shirts, coats, and sweaters had a hood. Maybe a detachable hood. A detachable roomy hood for my oversized head-thing with its attendant mass of human hair. [the hair appears to grow out of the head-thing, I am still wrestling with the implications of this rather odd process. See also: finger/toenails]

In addition to hood(s), all clothing needs more pockets. And in each of those pockets, a thing.

And, there needs to be a magical process whereby these clothings become clean without needing the removal of pocketed items. Or, in reverse: These things could be impervious to whatever cleaning process is available.


When the sun shines, I beam. Eyebeam.

When the sky clouds, you are pleased. Appeased.

We both say 'no' to rain. Precipitations. I don't know about you, but, I do approve of pre-sip-itations. That means: standing invitations to have a little sip of my drink. [Maybe this would work in reverse. It's so hard to know how humans fit together sometimes with these kind of agreements. Maybe you do not want this from my end, or would not offer it from yours.]


is what I am thinking about.
are what.
Writing without thinking of
doughnuts is


noisy nose. Last night I thought that my nose was making a weird sound. I don't know if other people notice sometimes that if their nose is stopped up it can make weird gurgling noises as the goo inside it moves around. I thought that that was happening to me last night. But, really, it was just rain outside dripping off of the house. Odd in its sensationness.


Dollar signs, snake around the pillars of hercules. herclueles. Her Ack Leys. Herque lackeys.

That's what dollar signs are. snakes holding the world together. Which is the opposite of money. the substance of money makes us all go further apart. further than we would without it, I think.

Tuesday, March 31st, 2009
10:38 am
xxxxxxxxxxxx - thisthisthisthisthis
It enters the eye, grayed and dirty. Looking makes the feeling acute, or the reverse. The feeling makes the looking acute. Where does the demarcation line between senses fall? At what point has my seeing been polluted by skin's nerve endings? And the skin's traitorous syncretism, let us not begin to speak of this miscegenated sensation.

When we speak of what we experience how much of this is the viscous oily fluid that has collected between sensation?

It is well known that humans construct meaning through sensation, or it should be. But, as language mediates, feeling obfuscates.

I do not think that most humans, myself included, could productively describe the movement of curtains in a breeze without recourse to words that cannot be easily categorized as relating to any given sense. If these curtains whip in the breeze, the evocation is not primarily visual, although that sense is decidedly present. There is an aural and tactile component.

The intent is not to pejoratively describe this admixture of sensations in language. I merely wish to explore this subject. We possess distinct senses, but who among us actually uses them separately? Senses are merely outgrowths of this ravenous nerve bundle, eager to interpret, analyze, and interleave with pieces of our selves.

And, of course, the disease of language further hews this block down to smaller pieces. As certain sensations, idioms, or events are characterized by different strains of this disease in distinct ways.

As V. has noted, the blood-fluid suffusing our outlying parts calls to mind idiomatic descriptions that differ based upon one's linguistic background. For non-English speakers, the innate character of this liquid may center around the echoes it carries from heart muscle's pumping, or the pressure in throat and wrist as this action transpires. The very identity of blood, then, changes.

There is no immutable description. Only those descriptions that are intelligible and those that are not. Although, in typing that I find that it is not inclusive enough. By definition any description that fluent speakers of language construct is, or should be, intelligible to other such speakers.

And now the mirroring and hedging begin. Productively, then, I think I shall cease this line of mental inquiry.

(end of entry)
Sunday, March 22nd, 2009
9:21 pm
I just sent off a 94-ish page 1st draft of my thesis to my 1st and 2nd reader for their OK to the department. Welcome to bureaucracy.

smooches to the universe.

(end of entry)
Monday, March 9th, 2009
6:40 pm
One nice thing about Austin
I got to meet Chris Onstad, and I listened to Jeffrey Brown do a pretty good Q&A. Mr. Onstad was also nice enough to sell Secret Agent V and I all of the Roast Beef 'zines AND the Achewood Cookbook for way less than they were worth. Then, on top of all that, he also drew Roast Beef in the Cookbook AND signed all 6 issues of "Man Why You Even Got To Do a Thing".

So, if you don't read Achewood, you should, and if you do, then stop envying me. Hah.

(end of entry)
Sunday, March 8th, 2009
6:20 pm
Noiseless construction
this eve. appetite.


selling selling selling. Life gets easier and more enjoyable as unnecessary ephemerata is jettisoned out of my life. I am a sucker for believing that I NEED all this extra junk. When it is pretty apparent that possessions are mostly a waste of time.

Just gotta keep my eyes on the goal. That is, the goal of having a fun, enjoyable, and rewarding life. So often this does not involve boxes full of papers that I will never ever need.

(end of entry)
Wednesday, March 4th, 2009
1:27 pm
the noise of publicity is whistling tree branches
fit to smash ice.


The new house rules. Still a little cluttered as things I own are turned from solid matter to liquid currency (much less than I would wish, but not inconsequential). Domestic bliss is to be had, work notwithstanding.

I am looking quite forward to having the time to read something that has no purpose, no reason behind it other than my own enjoyment. That would be stellar.


What origin?

Epithistle: this is the center of the universe, it is a thistle plant. It has roots that run up the legs from the earth. Into the space that becomes less blue as we move farther from the thistles which are inside our cells.

Laid over the universe small/large like a transparency. or maybe two competing visions. near and far overlaid, binoculars and telescopes with two pupils in each eye.


These gauze beds rise heavenwards. Heaving these words along with them, root carried and thistled inward.

(end of entry)

deliberately taking apart in order to understand

I love when I reach a certain level of caffeinated, however, as with any self-medication it can be hit or miss to reach the desired level with out under or overshooting the target feelings.

At least the downsides to caffeine addiction are more manageable than getting a bad speed habit.

(end of edit)
Sunday, February 15th, 2009
1:11 pm
I frequently think about Viking long ships. Burning. It may be more apt to say that I think, frequently, about Viking funerals. I think a lot about burnt timber nudging up against the reeds. I think about ocean salt and tar pitch smoke, as the setting flows between lake and ocean. In my mind reeds and salt air can be in the same place at the same time. Cliff-top wind and wading into the chill marshy lake edges, superimposed.

Sometimes I imagine the sounds, wind carrying the sounds of strings from afar. Or maybe just at the edges of hearing white noise and tape hiss. Or, as in real life, the ears ringinginging. A tinnitus funeral march, a sleep time drone with water lapping at your knees.

I'm not quite sure what it is about this imagery that it recurs with notable frequency. Perhaps as the mind tunes, is tuned by the sleeping machine, and the missed stitches of our numinous thoughts, snagged and unraveling, are re-coiled or oiled or stowed or discarded as the brain sees fit, these odd bits and pieces have not worn themselves smooth enough to sink dna deep. I wonder what ragged end of thinking germinated the mixed tears over Viking death?


right now right.
now right.


Got so much work to do, why the hell am I writing weird shit on Viking funerals, again?

(end of entry)
Tuesday, February 3rd, 2009
9:09 am
mist must most
Much of the time when I sit down, either with the intention of writing into the airy confines of this journal, or come upon this desire as I peruse the ranges of human action available to us via internets, I find that almost always I have just enough words to start writing; but never enough words to finish.

What is it about my own life that seems to twist words until they gasp for air, but they still are unequal to their task.

It's not as if I am living a life that is somehow beyond human experience.

Maybe I'm just whining.


I ain't got much else today, yet, maybe?

(end of entry)
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