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    dotsJournal: dots
    Mood: The Usual

    I'm actually in awe of movie and show scoring, or more particularly the people who do it. Daily, casual music for the sake of expression always dances around the paradox of being so relevant and irrelevant. It always makes sense right now, because this moment in history is its only plausible context. A context which invariably and quickly becomes lost.

    The grand imagination it must take. Movies kind of solve that problem, and in it music doesn't have to deal with all of this nonsense. It just has to focus on what makes us human, and how to tell that human side of us a story.

    Just to be clear, with things like Dumbo, the music sinks into and supports the story. With things like frozen, the dialogue is just emboldened, but the music often comes at the price of story pacing. I've always hated musicals.

    ...Created 2018-03-13 13:19:57

    dotsJournal: dots
    Mood: The Usual

    I've wondered once or twice whether single-serving emotions exist,
    or whether saying your baseline mood is sad
    is just being in denial of depression.

    It is okay, because this is what you're used to.
    It is okay, because this is what you can handle.
    And sure, maybe that breaking point isn't as far off
    as it could be, but that's also okay;
    we should all live a little more dangerously,
    on the edge.

    A challenge is beautiful, a whole new world onto
    dimly lit minds, glistening brightly like fire at night.
    And the warmth of tragedy, before the frigid solitude of shock;
    that warmth is sublime humanity -- should it exist.

    Maybe that's the point though, that change is good.
    Maybe it wouldn't hurt to move that baseline
    up a couple notches. But how? Love yourself,
    or love the world. Maybe both. Maybe love is the problem (the gateway to romanticism).

    What if change means death -- death to the you
    beneath yourself, beneath the behemoth struggling
    to force itself onto you. What if, change is giving up? It could be amazing to be unchanging.
    It could be tragic too. An untidy statue.

    ...Created 2018-03-11 23:57:33

    dotsJournal: dots
    Mood: The Usual

    Drugs are amazing.

    ...Created 2018-01-16 01:29:06

    dotsJournal: dots
    Mood: The Usual

    It's nice to not be on the cusp of anything. I have a heart for the sadder things in life, tragic beauty and such. I openly admit that my baseline is being sad, and that sometimes I find that pleasing for lack of a better word (and because saying it makes me happy to be sad is certainly nonsensical). Depression is also a bit like a canyon in that it is snugly hugged by peaks -- or to phrase it differently, a colorful life allows for greater accents. Sadness bring that extra oomph to the party when you're happy.

    I might be on the cusp of going bald though.

    I was in my dad's hospital room, when he was still in the ICU, and it was quiet. I don't think it would've ever occurred to me before then, but my regrets about my relationship with him... they felt like this magnetic force. The growing repulsion as I got closer, my inability to form words, and how crushingly small it all made me feel. I think my mom thought I was apathetic, but it glaringly obvious to me that I wasn't. You see, I love my father. The problem is, that wasn't ever something we talked about, or that even I talked about in general. It's not like I've lacked retrospection over the years; I've always known my relationship with him was severely lacking. It always just felt so out of my control.

    First the divorce, which lasted the better part of a decade, but left me and my brother with my mother. Invariably the focus was on my parents, and their disputes -- their pernicious lies, attempts at manipulation. Child protective services was an awkward little bout followed by foster housing. My brother kept acting out, and escalating until finally everybody stopped. Nothing refocuses two adults like their children being taken away. You could say the focus was on us, but the truth is my brother spoke for both of us by default of my refusal to become emotionally involved. I chose avoidance because I just understood the divorce had little to do with me (outside of the trophy role I was given). My brother split from my mom's the moment he legally could, at 13. He actually spent a second stint in foster homes while CPS sorted out evaluating my father's housing situation. Prior to, he'd literally just been sleeping on a mattress in the back of his taxidermy store. Who'd've thought a work space with poison, chemicals, biological waste, etc., wasn't adequate living circumstances. I used to love the smell of his store, and the barrels full of guts and blood never struck me as anything other than innocuous. I did sometimes wonder though if my father bathed in the same bath tub he used to remove that stuff from the animals. The blood stained bath in his basement -- kind of murdery on second thought.

    Before then, my father had to make an effort to see us otherwise he'd never see either of us. But after my brother left, it was a different story. I was welcome in either home (legally) after I turned 13 myself, but I was walking on the thinnest ice with my mom. She sort of transitioned from her marriage into, well, filling that hole -- trying to -- with work. She left with us at 8 in the morning, but she'd often only come home after 9 or 10. I often say I grew in a second home because I'd spend the better part of the 10 hours I had outside of school and sleep in somebody else's home. I never acknowledged as a child the impact the situation had on her, or why she was the way she was or did the things she did. I wasn't the only way applying the avoidance strategy. I just knew she was volatile and could really hurt me. She was the only person who ever actually took things away from me; like a sheltered child, I viewed her as the enemy.

    It didn't help that my dad was continually serving hate-your-mom koolaid, or that my brother drank it by the gallon until every problem in his life basically boiled down to being her fault. But much like I just understood the divorce wasn't about me, I knew I couldn't just abandon my mom. I also hated myself greatly going into puberty and adolescence and donned the mantle of enduring my mother like this punishment I deserved. At least, that's how I'd play it with anyone who asked. I like to think deep under that that I also just loved my mom, and hated the ultimatum of having to choose a parent over the other. The government/court had made the original choice, and for that I couldn't be held accountable. But if I left her, I'd be the one responsible. Avoidance.

    But invariably that just meant I couldn't really spend that much time with my father, yet. Every time I went over there, I got the double agent treatment from my mom. And I grew tired of being treated like my mom's spy by my brother and father when I did go visit them. High school kind of breezed on by, and then came university. That's when the person who got in the way of my relationship with my father was, well, me. I left Toronto. I was just far enough away that habitual road trips weren't practical. My dad lost his truck because he's stupid and won't stop driving when he's tired. He was too poor to get another vehicle.

    Post university, I stayed in Ottawa for a while working. I had already known by then that my dad was terminally ill, but what was I going to do? Eventually, my mother came to visit and broke down her situation for me back in Toronto. If my dad had just been sick, it would've been one thing. The usual process of becoming decrepit, between the ages of say 70 to 100+ mixed in with Parkinson, is essentially what my father was going through in the span of 3 years. Adding to that was my brother who'd never developed the ability to take care of himself, and remained emotionally stunted by, well, everything. He was diagnosed with schizophrenia, which can often manifest as a whole lot of violence towards maternal figures in young men, alongside a lot of other things. I left Ottawa to come help my mom here, in Toronto. I did the brunt of taking care of my dad so she could focus on my brother. Unfortunately, my dad's illness had already intensely limited his ability to communicate by then. I'd been at it for just over 2 years, when he finally passed. I hated watching him, but that hate was always crushed beneath the weight of how much I loved him. I would lose my temper on a regular basis though. A restaurant didn't have accessibility despite it saying otherwise online; some asshole occupying the only accessible space in a food court despite not having any mobility devices. I snapped at bus drivers who drove too brusquely. I was a freaking mess, but I tried to put a smile on because.. I didn't know what else to do, and I felt like whatever the fuck my dad was going through in his mind, he didn't need to see me sad all the time.

    In the last couple of months, in that ICU room, I began to realize he just needed to die. Which is so messed up. But in my father's terms, it would've been a great mercy the way you kill an animal you've fatally wounded by haven't killed. You just end their damn suffering. And I hated that I thought about him in those terms. What I regret is how empty my relationship with him was, or rather how distant I felt from him. Even when we'd had the opportunity to bond more freely when I was in high school, there was friction. The baggage from the divorce, but also how old school and just flat out racist he could be. He felt restrictive to my life at times, and not in that responsible parental way my mom was.

    I got close with one of his friends after I moved back to Toronto -- just about the only person who visited him more than once. Apparently my dad was filled with all these insecurities about me. So I know it wasn't just me; he also knew there was this strange distance between us. I also didn't drink his koolaid like my brother did, which made it harder for him. I think he respected that about me, wrote it off as me being too intellectual for my own good. But by the time I was headed off to university, I felt like I'd already long left him in the dust intellectually. Which is a weird thing to say, rude, disrespectful, and was probably in large part my youthful hubris getting the better of me. But he was, like my brother, barely high school educated. The thing is, he still had so much to offer as a father and I know that.

    He used to take us fishing before the brink of dawn, hiking on these trails to go bird watching (and get eaten alive by mosquitoes), snowboarding -- he used to pick me up, after my brother had left, from school during my 30-45 minute lunch break to go eat at these botanical gardens. He would drive us down to Niagara falls to go see the butterfly conservatory, play in the arcades, go to the beaches, go-karting, go on long ass bike rides -- especially on Toronto Island. My dad loved nature, loved animals, loved cooking... he loved all the sides of life that just are beautiful. Hunting wasn't the moral taboo and didn't have to be this sacred ritual, but he also stopped every time there was road kill to check in case there was any good meat. He would build toys for me and my brother when we were young, and carve silly things out of bones. It's hard to put an exact name to it, but those sides of my father I wish I could somehow live up to, adopt, integrate into the very essence of my being. I think my dad knew how to be happy and how to shamelessly enjoy life. And I know those are things I struggle with. I mean I have faith I'll figure it out eventually. I feel like I owe that to him.

    ...Created 2018-01-09 04:30:50

    dotsJournal: dots
    Mood: The Usual

    This boy approaches a table full of girls, mostly his senior;
    he's there to escort the words of dalliance his friend
    only wished he could speak moments ago. In a summer camp cafeteria,
    this scenario ends in a happy kind of laughter – at least,
    that was the impression.

    A month goes by before a smile catches his eye:
    she's bold, opinionated, with wild curls to encase
    her roundabout charm. The first he finds beautiful
    because all the shapes of her puzzle seem to fit.
    Although he can't quite find the words to explain it,
    she gifts him a poem ripped from his heart.

    At first they share earbuds, and then a sleeping bag.
    He doesn't realize its her music, her sleeping bag.
    He meets her boyfriend, listens to his lively stories at supper.
    Meets her friends, hears about their garrulous small town lives.

    A couple more months go by before she tells him.
    His heart begins to break his mind open.
    They stay in an apartment downtown, in his big town, together.
    Alone. Unsupervised. The kind of luxury children long for.

    Every kiss feels like satisfaction dissolving into his being.
    The nights are long, and his early commute to school goes from
    awe inspiring to mindless blips. It's his birthday, she gives him a book.
    It was just the book she'd written her final high school report about.
    He's never cared for presents before and yet he cries. Uncontrollably.
    He can't tell if they're tears of joy or sadness.

    She breaks up with him the next day. Seven years later she admits,
    in so many words, that her previous boyfriend wouldn't have sex
    so she thought maybe he could deliver. That's all.

    ...Created 2017-12-25 04:28:28

    dotsJournal: dots
    Mood: The Usual

    Youth is a kind of cutting ignorance
    that effortlessly reaches the heart;
    in parts, it is too impatient for impurities,
    and in others, it is too reckless to survive.
    it sharpens claws, makes our lioness so fierce –
    to use her body and throw her weight against the world
    at every mistake that would otherwise cost a life.
    Perhaps she protects her legacy, or better yet,
    becomes the bridge upon which life moves on
    and which life invariably neglects.

    Youth isn't strength, but rather an ability
    to be weak without appreciation. It is purified from concerns.

    ...Created 2017-12-02 13:50:49

    dotsJournal: dots
    Mood: The Usual

    a death and dying
    a squealing desire (squelched)
    an empty set of desires
    while also alleviated
    death and drumming
    a soft chant
    cantor within descent
    a phallic distrust
    bouncing pennies
    wretch in destressing
    (all a loaner who could do
    alone by loaning)
    crushed and heave the heavy
    heed the hardening tooth
    sit and embrace a head
    effacing the grace
    warriors live and die
    people live and die
    are people graceful?
    am I line? are you a story?
    have you come to pick me up
    shame in estranged lands
    homesick for imaginary
    rosebuds and whims
    a decorating line of clothing
    a depth of mixture in color
    and shape, all a superficial elate
    warmth. friction. fiction.
    coldblooded hope. blind. blight.
    is romance hope diluted in love
    or the idea that the unattractive
    can be desired.
    respect & recognition a relegated possibility
    dismissal and failure a closing in.
    hear my voice, but not its sounds
    the ideas, the imagining of me within it
    ephemeral and absent – in your voice
    a reality of me. speak it.
    set that me free; the ideas of you
    a hymn hummed in silent salvation
    death and dying. being.
    never yes.

    ...Created 2017-09-07 14:44:37

    dotsJournal: dots
    Mood: The Usual

    March arrived like a lion
    dawdling about with such intensity
    it could see through you –
    yet still too busy to tend
    the cubs.

    His lioness swam by May, June into July
    blisteringly hot and yet
    she had a humbling warmth to her;
    eyes you could approach
    maybe learn to hug
    given enough time.

    Their litter, a puzzle in April
    an arrangement of beautiful notes
    orchestrated like soldiers not yet at war
    ready to begin, to live their lie
    to belt out their brightest roars.

    ...Created 2017-08-29 00:52:49

    dotsJournal: dots
    Mood: The Usual

    Reminds me of them old diablo tunes, but with a livelier less "I'm going to kill you before this campfire burns out" vibe.

    ...Created 2017-08-08 01:30:36

    dotsJournal: dots
    Mood: The Usual

    ES was never something special. I have just always needed something to obsess about online. And here I thought I was nostalgic about being an anonymous stranger on the interwebs.

    Why do I need something to obsess about online? Well I've already established that there's this brain-numbing facet to the whole experience – primarily, that looking at a screen allows you brain to effectively ignore more sensorial data because the scope of what's actually changing in front of you in on average less than say, when you'd be walking around. That's part of the reason why you "get so focused" or "lose track of time" so easily. But that doesn't really explain the underlying psychological drive (unless it's just another way to offset anxiety about death.. but I feel like that's one of those all encompassing answers that can never truly be justified, but is always uncannily plausible).

    ...Created 2017-07-24 02:29:38

    Be kind, take a few minutes to review the hard work of others <3
    It means a lot to them, as it does to you.

    Bre-anna written by Daniel Barlow
    In God's Name written by poetotoe
    A Fire! A Knife! A Black Crow Calls! written by HisNameIsNoMore
    Love and Solitaire written by HisNameIsNoMore
    To the Epilogue written by HisNameIsNoMore
    You Make Me speechless written by elephantasia
    Dirge of Nostalgia written by HisNameIsNoMore
    Instances written by hyproglo
    Everyone written by poetotoe
    an explanation of how i was not good written by Daniel Barlow
    Legends written by poetotoe
    Limbo written by HisNameIsNoMore
    Can't let my demons go written by faideddarkness
    I am a sorry son. written by MyPeriodical
    ... written by Daniel Barlow
    Benediction written by Daniel Barlow
    Where is My Ghost written by ForgottenGraves
    When Crows Tick on Windows written by metallichick786
    The Last to Walk the Earth written by HisNameIsNoMore
    Watch them Die written by HisNameIsNoMore
    less is more written by Daniel Barlow
    One day older, One year wiser. written by Rhythmal
    Chasing The Lie written by jackz
    Stance written by Daniel Barlow
    not alone written by Daniel Barlow
    Cage written by distortedcloud
    On Top of a Water Wheel written by Wolfwatching
    Blood to Plowshares written by HisNameIsNoMore
    The First Time written by Wolfwatching
    In the end written by Janesaddiction




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