Insects Dream Of Beautiful Fluid

He lay there, the king, under the moonlit trees in the forest of his own heaven. The light blanketing the leaves with white existing in a great lambent dark sickened him, for his kingdom is painted in blood and the flags are tattered on their poles. Earth's green and brown veins enshroud the school-houses and maggots parade around in the fermenting gizzards of dead livestock in town-square. The shadows are still and cold and the people are colder still. The vultures circle overhead and the clouds rain only dust. The dams are leaking and the clocks tick towards the inevitable end. This treacherous tick rings like a thousand cannons firing behind the skull of the once grand king.
It rains in the forest of the king's own heaven. The trees secrete milk that spirals and dances in the bubbling mud and the shrieking insects of the night go and search for their beautiful fluid. Roots encircle and take hold of the king, forcing upon him the embrace of a universe that does not tire or falter. The elements pain him to the marrow and he dreams of his bed of fine linens and it's feather pillows. A candlelit dinner in his crooked, leaking dining hall was what he screamed for. Nature's mantle of strength descends on he, the king of a grand utopia, for he never did see the beautiful fluid flooding and gushing all around him like magnificent rapids in the river of cacophony. The river of time. The river of space.
When the grand utopia was finally done away with and the vultures dead of starvation, wind came to blow away what was left of the king in the dry desert of his own indifference. The dust of he floating about in the air is now breathed in by the wandering man of the desert. His physical need for an oasis does not mean he in search for one. For the time being, he is allowing pain to be his beautiful fluid, in divine flow in the dryest of dry. The bloody, tender feet soldier on and the sand blowing in his ears make a great symphony. His dream factory is excited to see what new dystopias he can laugh with. The shrieking insects continue their search, their dreaming, their mission to find the beautiful fluid.

They will follow you

Spider-webs! Best be cautious around those, right?
Step step step step step
Prickly pine needles! Best put on a pair of shoes, right?
Step step step step. moment of self loathing
step step
The head of a dead rat! Best move quietly around that, right?
That rock looks like a good little spot to sit my rear upon
aaaaaah! That's more like it.
It sure beats sitting on those prickly pine needles, right?

and now... as if it'd be as significant as more step step step stepping,
I ascend

flicker flicker flicker
Maybe I'm excessive and over-sheltered
that doesn't matter...
ascend ascend ascend
Sine Waves! Best surf on those, right?
surfing?
what?
Moy? Moz? Is that really you?
ASCEND ASCEND ASCEND!
Affirmation of life? I should bathe in that, right?
But can it last?
descend descend descend

Maybe this time, Dishdawash will finally start making it last.

The spider webs
 The prickly pine needles
Self loathing
The head of a dead rat
Rocks
Sine waves
Surfing
Affirmation
They will follow you.

Apple Tangency

1.The words typed here are yours

I feel ratheeeeeer foul

Crosses to back some blank time left for me to type

Argument

Julian comes overrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

now that you're back and in wonder

Now I don't know

Kevin and Juliaaaaaaaaan are in my brainhouse

I know they're aaaaaalive because they disagreeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

Therapist or gangster interrogation behind me... sometimes he speaks

When i have long spaces... those are for thoughts

And then he is over and then under

Two oblivious about I meant 2222222 not two

ToooooooooOOoooOOOOO

2. 

What i'm typing doesn't matter

everything around me and all concepts that surround

as i type everything around me that I take in

it gives a mood

everybody is a mood giver

complete, with structure.

The structure on the paper is blatantly subscribed to what I type. when I look around at people. They will encourage no enter, aaaa

Okay now when I typed that last statement, I realized how a story must be structured

What could this bullshit have to do with anything? As I type that is it....

wuooo hm

Why don't I type with no thought

its okay and beyond all of the bullshit

Without what kevin will think or alex or dave or anybody

why does it matter to me that i'm typing this on a typewriter? does it matter? it appeases my taste

i prefer this over feather and quill.

It's style

life is art

so i write for everything

Skull or no or dlalack of linearly thought. 

Connect with feelings

and how multi media they are

Connect to the now. The literal now that is and won't be. 

3. The date is unclear to me. All I know is you can't stop me for whatever reason.

I've but one aura

For there is but one brainhouse

Beware of the rat kings

If it doesn't make sense to you, that's probably because it doesn't make very much sense. They are exceedingly significant to me though. I wrote those on a typewriter at Kevin's house before sitting still for a long while. i sure do enjoy sitting still. 

MO: T Through Z

Mot • The Universe in it’s purest form. Whatever brought the consciousness about. That which an interpreter exists in that will exist without it as something it can’t comprehend.

Mou • The vessel and container of the universe. The body that perceives and interprets the universe. The input and output of information. A machine fixated on prolongation of it’s own existence. A means of communicating stored information with other Mou’s. A fragile device.

Mov • The presentation of the stored information to the Mou. That which the Mou has interpreted acting as spectacle for said Mou.

Mow • The stimulation of emotion or memories in response to Mov. The physical and mental retort towards Mov. The Mou communicating to itself for the sake of pursuing and achieving what it finds ideal, often determined by what gives forth feelings of harmony with Mov, which can be related to the feeling of Distance from oblivion caused by the destruction of Mou beyond repair.

Mox • The physical or mental pursuit stimulated by Mow to achieve formulated goals concerning harmony with Mov. Communication, sessions of thought flow, activity etc. carried out by the Mou with the intent to satisfy itself for bodily/mental ease or excitement.

Moy • The unaware, deluded, or distracted flow of information in Mou’s data bank. Deep unaware harmony with Mov in states of bodily/mental relaxation, distraction, or unconsciousness.  The anarchic movement of thoughts. Indulgence in Mov.

Moz • Complete awareness and/or disassociation from Mot through Moy. The Mou’s data bank, often in states of Moy, omnisciently observing the process of mot to mox. The Mou’s positive and negative stimuli are in compliments to one another rather than following through with mox because in the moz state, both are respected as products of Mot. 


I created this to map the movements of my mind. To me, the letter combination "MO" is the most atmospheric and the last seven letters of the alphabet are the most fervent. I am harmonious with these words so they seemed like they could be good tools for amplifying my understanding of me noggin. 

Threnody For Hot Pad

I have decided to put schoolwork aside for a short while today, for I now wish to pay homage to Hot Pad, who died sometime last night.
Apollyon, Calypso Bizaar, Ploof, And I (this was pre nemo/whitefoot saintliness) were walking about in the woods behind Crescenta Valley Park... and if I recall correctly, we were on an expedition to find where exactly the mayans had scurried off to. We had to put a hiatus on this escapade because Sir Paranoia wished to merge his party with ours. He had just finished some sort of seminar on raising and treating koi fishes and now had a wee one with him in a bag. When the power explorer arrived (he and his ardent aura), I was immediately attracted to the simple little thing. I had wanted a living organism to call my own sitting in my room for some time. I got some basil but, it just wasn't very lively. I wanted something from my kingdom that I can maintain. I decided i'd be the one to take it off of Sir's hands. We spent some time sculpting a name for it and Ploof finally proposed "Hot Pad", which for a time had morphed into "HOT PAAAAAAD!!". We spent that afternoon desperately going from store to store trying to find a fish-bowl and some fish food. The 99¢ store and Good-Will provided these two things. That was a fun time. I figured at the time that if this fish didn't survive, at least we'd have the memory of acutely trying to prevent that.
It lived and now I had a fish. HOT PAAAAAAD!! the fish. It floated about, looked at the little rocks at the bottom of the slightly claustrophobic bowl, ate what was fed to it, etc. I figured this was only a provisional home for it and that it'd end up spending the rest of it's days in a larger environment with his Koi brethren. This never happened.
Overtime, HOT PAAAAAAD!! returned back to "Hot Pad" and it became but a mere decoration for the room. I grew lethargic towards it and only took heed of him when the area around him began stinking of barnacle. One day, however, I looked at his murky domicile and became stricken with deep anguish. I've realized that his whole life has been composed of frantically trying to sustain itself. I was told by either my older sister or one of the saints that koi fish only grow large when they have room to grow. This chilled me to the marrow. I was only going to keep him until he grew large enough to not get eaten by other koi fish, and even then I was only keeping him because of my signature inertia. I began watching him with an immensely deep fascination and a deeper despondency. What I saw was a creature meant for larger environments being kept minuscule by the domicile that I have placed him in, vanishing behind a veil of his own collected filth, gasping at every moment for pockets and bubbles of oxygen. Cleaning the bowl proved futile for the murk would return but hours later. At times his state proved stimulating and other times he felt like a bone chilling metaphor for all consciousness. I knew what time would do to Hot Pad, and it happened last night.
I hovered over the bowl, gazing upon a motionless koi fish. I looked at his eye and saw no difference in his expression. His eye was no window to a soul, but rather another tool for survival, for he was nothing more than a biological machine. Life is a state of matter. He focused all of his attention on staying alive and now he was focusing all of his attention on decomposing. I quietly lamented his shift of priorities for a while in my backyard, considering what exactly it is I have taken from Hot Pad's short life. It certainly helped me appreciate the idiosyncrasies of my mind in contrast to his. His mission was to keep going for as long as possible for the act's own sake. When I sustain my life, I feel much more aware of the prolongation of awe-inspiring euphoria, bottomless despair, and all that lay in between. Hot Pad could never know how deeply his dance of frantic self-regulating effected Dishdawash. It doesn't matter to me that my eyes serve no greater use than his but I enjoy how I can knowingly move harmoniously with nature... neither of us have much of a choice anyway. Rot in peace Hot pad... fuck it. His name was HOT PAAAAAAD!!

Brief musing at about 1:30 on october 15th.

Everywhere in my brainhouse is me, except for you because you disagree. The roar of a car roars quickly by my peripheral pick-up zone. The car itself, however, is veiled by the wall, protecting my eyes from the street. The wall is what emitted the sound, my brain is what presents to me it's sociological origin. These words you read did not come from Chris Arnett, they emerged from your computer screen. The universe is composed of things in different places and this is being interpreted by us. Our minds are what makes a spider-web out of what we perceive. 

Stairways

Peoples words are like stairways, leading you beyond their outer shelling and deeper into their dream factory. What you find is only your thoughts contorted and bleeding into one another, forming your superficial interpretation of their screams. Soon, the conversation shall become an inner fiasco. The stairway shall often present you with nothing more than a trap door. Endure the darkness that lay ahead. Turn it to light, smile, laugh and, in doing so, stimulate the universe in more places than one. You shall turn your ears back to the stairway and find instead another being emitting the heavens right back to you, for they have a dream factory to show you. 

The Flat Mountains

finding the musicality in nature, despite her volatile and indifferent way, makes it an easier feat to endure even in making it harder. Being conglomerated with nature is much more self-sincere than trying to make order out of chaos. All moments are complex and in musical movement and there is no need to let our restless bodies close our eyes to that. We must embrace it, and we must communicate it, for we are part of it. We play an indispensable role too, the interpreter. A most emotional interpreter at that. 

We cannot hold time for long however! Even the quickly exploding mountains appear perfectly stationary to we, the lapses of knowledge, for our time is too short too see what fruitless and beautiful progress the universe is capable of. Only what appears to be a superficial magnification. If there is a dawn, a dusk is soon to come. For the time being, however, we are the holders of the cosmos, and we, the lapses of knowledge, can see it as larger than it really is through the power of feeling, which transcends concept. The heavens and the hells are all ours while we still have the sensation of individuality. The universe is mine and it dies with me, or at least the dishdauniverse does.. but only relatively. After that, i return to the land of grand, grand apathy. 

We would bring more light to our own universes if we take heed of the infinity of every moment running by our peripheral pick-up zone. Paradoxically, bringing darkness into the mix with open arms presents light all the same. that darkness shall forever be standing astute in this mixture. It shall remain as apparent as a dead insect, floating raggedy-legged in your elixir. We must accept it as something we are connected to and dancing in response to. 

Next time you have a short while alone or not being depended on by others, take a moment to perceive your senses without preconceived notions. Sounds difficult? for a short while, it is. Negativity can be rather abundant rather often, and sometimes surrendering oneself to it is involuntary, just as laughter can often force its way from a mouth without control from the conscious mind. In my eyes, a wise policy would be to accept it as a state of being and just sort of let it encompass you. It's harsh grip will wither and die just so long as you don't permanently paint the cosmos with it's assaulting eye. If you do that, the universe will become quite a fiasco. 

Don't become too dependent, either, on the warm bosom of good cheer and tranquility, for it too, will wither and find refuge from you in the shadows. Adjust your biological and mental maps! Erase the indications of topography. The mountains are flat in the face of infinity so climb the mighty ones as if we perceived them as so. Whether you discover an ancient egyptian tomb, or you discover a pecan in a bag of cashews, the task is infinite and microscopic. Now go do what you find worth doing!