Sunday, December 31, 2006

Time for a shit

No one understands shift work.

Basically, I'm fucked all the time.

Even Rothgar and Glowenda born in to it don't get it.

It's unnatural. I like it.

Three-thirty AM is different when you're working it. You're still trying to think. Meanwhile that sock in your brain that holds your dreams is overfull and the bung is leaking.

Six is beautiful, cleansing all the little malingering thought squares.

You become thoughtless., fluid with time and motion. Operating, not being operated by, Machine.

Time is Machine in Itself that will chew on you like a stick of gum and so you do what is only necessary, set time aside, outside your view, and when you do that you set time up so that it takes care of you.

Time is your friend. Just don't let him dominate you. Take the lessons you have learned in life and apply them to your life. You haven't learned anything til you do. Lesson learned. No. Not until it's applied. Apply. Otherwise, it's just a hypothetical universe. Lived in theory and statistics and abstraction - all agents of Machine. You have bought the notion that they care. No one cares about you. Apply that to your life and get on with it. Okay you mom does okay, fine, fuck me, but other than that, none. That is what Time teaches. It's a deal. Repeat cycle.

Irregardless, time pasess. The work doesn't. Irregardless, they'll throw shit at you until the shit they throw out the door no one wants not more.

I think we're there now.

And Machine itself is an old beast, incontinent, grumpy, and full of stories dull and determined - but gone! done! past! Machine that would eat you and your sister and your brother and your kin is fucking dying. I'm the male nurse in the back of the photo op holding the bedpan.

Gone Times. They are accumulating. These are the Days of Polyethelene. We'll look back on this Time with the deatchment that Time allows. Life is a limited number of phases. You just hop and pray the next phase is better at best or no worse at least. Time is a healer. Can be a cancer, too, but.

You don't know it when you're young, Love - live these - unaware, blissful, in pain, the whole nest. I never left the seventies. The problem is I grew up in the eighties and nineties. In the history of man. Best Time. As I say I didn't see it because I wasn't there. If I had been I'd have wanted to be in another time as well more than likely I realize that and that keeps me sane and not an Elvis Impersonator. Still. I'd have been happy a cerf in feudal times. From what we know.

And what we know here we know from Shawnelle.

Shawnelle is a time traveler and she goes pretty much where in time she wants when she wants. On a bus. Not that she's ever on a bus. But if she was, she can and does at will transport her spirit back in time the way some women entwat three stainless marbles juggling them coming all day long while logging or collating or, say, riding a bus. For those then she'd be a lurking spirit - good, evil, toss of the coin.

Does not do forward, Shawnelle. Time is lateral. We are riding on the ever arching crest of a static eternal wave. That's the given visuable. Sidewise is okay. Down, under, and back are all cool.

At that there are some fucks, I'd say maybe, that can emport forward and break the time barrier and cause a sort of psychic boom. Kinetically, astrologically, I'm one of these. All the potential in the world. I love being a fucking constant disappointment. One of my hats. Neverwise, this is my gracious understanding of Shawnelle's world view. She'd disagree, squeeze my nuts with a wrench, and talk your ear off about time and travel in that low clipped voice of hers all logical and sexed up. Drives me fucked nuts that voice. And with a pair of vicegrips. Duck if you're spunkaphobic.

Change. Don't like it.

History. Don't like it and don't much like where it's headed. The thing is your story is increasingly told in raw data. A file, a dossier, a byte, somewhere on you and what you do with every waking fucking minute of your day interacting with Machine and you, who else. yeah you, you think I'm talking to myself? into the void? like no one is listening? are you fucking nuts? You should be envious of my time because my time is spent right the fuck away from what most might refer to as normal people or those who would feign shock and be all affronted when confronted with the idea that there might be maybe hello in there Machine there a priori there fucking pre their fucking egos.

I do not know many normal people. Ball of dough, them, anyway. They may be normal, those that I sorta know but vague someone's cousin from another town shit - you really never can know.

But those I do know are not normal. You can't be to do what I do. Theoretically, you'd die.

I sleep while you live. I have the advantage of seeing Night under the glow of high efficiency lighting, random shards driving into the eyes like steel swarf fines, commodity grade robotics factory grown coffee and midleavened vat spat dough stewing in my gut, ready when it says, on its own timetable, resulting in an exhaust not to be sensed by any human, noise to go with the general overall pounding on the soul, to the beat of Corporate's big fat soft shoe show and dance.

In the Valley of the Sleep Deprived. Distance keeps us sane and out of jail. Get the fuck out of my way or get the fuck away from me is the general through-hum.

Man takes a pounding. Gets up and takes it again. On fours hours.

That's fucking sick. I love it.