crane games in the underground

i'm not a writer. maybe i was once, but there's been a long period of dissociation and self-inflicted mental and mystical malpractice since i was last tossing holy bullshit to worm my way through the apple of "higher" (emphasis) education. and really, i've always been more bullshit than talent. dreaming the ways away, may have put me on the left path, but i couldn't have gone right more wrong. 

all that being said, i'm taking the time to work words here, in hope that i might reconstruct my thoughts back into a lattice of creation, mindtrick, illusion practitioner, transcedental jester, activating will, prism-partitions, pantherwork

i hesitate to say much about the meat. as of this writing i am in the tar-pit throes of unemployment,  struggling la-brea style next to my industry kin as we burn to the sound of squalling violins. viral sentiments have been in vogue for two years, and two years of whitebox and grey skies would dull even the keenest brainknife (much less one choked on several years of industrial toxins and late night cold cases). nevertheless, i greet most days with the grin of the Fool, and attempt to struggle my teeth and eyeballs above the sucking pitch. sips of black tar coffee and staring out the living room window at such saturated sunsets that it almost dazzles you into ignoring the shipyard cranes and the vast grey sprawl of car dealerships below the violent sky. 

the world seems cold, and i am too hot-blooded to suffer it easy. i have felt muffled, circumvented, and blackboxed. but yet for all the sinking feeling, i am still lightyears closer to peace than i ever felt before the pandemic. call it plague-perspective. call it "growing a pair". mostly just got fed up with pretending to be something real but untrue, when being unreal and true is the only path left to me. 

i'm exploding like a comet. i am pulling myself in all directions. living quietly, absorbing, practicing, illuminating. silent salt circles. preparation for the flood. build the arcane ark. praise eris and pass the aneurysm! 

realizing that i had lost my ability to imagine one day was like stepping on a soaked wire. how could this have happened? was it always this way? was the culprit the trauma? the numbing of the pain? the excessive frozen weight? a sickness untreated, left to fester in some black lobe? literal brain-poisoning? the old place seemed like it would fall down around me. a hovel of poison pressing from every wall and pore. divided and couldn't stand it. but what could be done about it? i was stuck. making illusions to make money, making illusions to stay alive. 

i made a doctor's appointment for the first time since the spring of 2021, when i fearfully wandered to the hospital with an expired bloodwork form. tallying symptoms and syndromes in my head, already feeling mistrust. maybe the doctor will help me construct a redprint of my bio mech, approach and transition, real, tangible knowledge of whether i am truly sick (in head, bed, red) or just a lazy weakwilled alien stoner deadbeat with a brain like a crane machine full of plastic-wrapped neuroses. get you the one that looks like a ultraviolet two-headed tiger!!

worlds still under construction. maybe i'll find the words to talk about those here some day. but until then deima bodhi and zeta deepfield and spare and the hummingbird and fixer leech and the judge and the backalleys of carnival and chain city will just have to fester away inside a miasma. or maybe they'll infest my dreams only. the word is that i must learn and grow beyond the vine-choked concrete tower of my mind, boarded up with trauma. my hands are resinous and translucent, soul calloused from countless days of midnight exposure. i squint at the sun refracting like 8 mirrors, i have been digging under red soil for so long i forget what light is, and light is my business. i'm done worshipping my own death. forward to leeching heavy metals, the bursting smell of popping bulbs, black smudged with dust.

i imagine not all my entries on this page will be as silly and esoteric as this one. merely musing merry macabre, life is but a scream. let me first introduce myself. no wealth, no taste. the devil known obscurely as Myles Celium the anarchomycologist/Why-vyrn the Cro-Magus/Reefer Debris; i live in a hole in the ground.