Achtung Baby!

being nonsense from an insignificant reclusive blogger

Dear You,

My fight with Anhedonia rages on. I win skirmishes but it wins battles. I keep waiting for a reversal, for my brain to give itself completely to the pleasure principle. 

It gets harder and harder to engage my mind in inspiration. The future of my blog is quite uncertain. Trying to make it to 10 years.

My Muse owes me a picture of her in a My Little Pony onesie. This will make me laugh and cheer me up. Anyone who has the ability to cheer me up is utterly important. Be glad she exist since this blog would have died last year if it wasn't for her.

Random Facts
- Turn On: Tartan Skirts
- Turn On: Lip biting
- Turn Off: Any chick over 21 with a Tumblr.   
- Turn Off: A Narcissisitic woman who is also a snob about any subject ( but Especially Books & Music )

/READER/ interaction required

Dear Reader:

How would [ you ] describe this blog? Please leave a comment. Thank You.

P.S. I think I lost a few facebook followers from that "Like" button on the left column because of my constant posting of girl's bums as little icons.

[I'm not leaving my bed depression]

Dear You,

This has been the worst year for me. I've been inside a bed bound depression for three weeks now.  I feel like I only have one friend. The only one who calls.  She's a very funny, inspiring, beautiful, sexy as fuck, smart and mischiveious one at that. Alas, she doesn't live in my town. She's been my lifeline ( without knowing it) during this very trying year. I had a breakdown that destroyed the life I had spent years rebuilding. Gone in a flash. I'm back to square one. It's very unpleasant. I'm Fianancially¹, Emotionally and Creatively bankrupt. My heart feels so empty. The Holidays are just a dissaster for me ever since my mother died. I long for someone. I'm getting old and it sucks..but there is a light at the end of my bed....I believe IN CHEMICALS.  At least "I'm Still Alive" (this gets carried over to the next post Obvs.)

^{1 in fact: if this blog ever goes down 'cos I can't pay for typepad: Bookmark achtungbaby.org. I have to back it up over there eventually but it's years worth of stuff and I'm not in the mood to fuck with migrating to wordpress or whatever the fuck. unless one of you wants to do it.} 

bad Mood

For years Holidays have not been pleasant for me. I can't even recall the last good Thanksgiving I had. I've been numbing the pain but alas, I woke up fucking grumpy today because in a few days I'll be going through withdrawal and it's a pain in the ass. These seem like ways to preoccupy my mind in one manner or another, away from my catastrophic life. Regardless, I'm in a pissed off mood¹ and these are the random things that have irritated me today: (a) assholes who use Twitter like a public Instant Messaging Client and clog up a time line with their ridiculous back and forth chit chat (b) Gamefly did not deliver Playstation All-Stars ( or Persona 4 Golden) in the mail and I'm looking forwards to playing as Big Daddy in the game (c) the fact that "tv show recap writing" is a job is ridiculous (d) I'm only one season from being up to date on Sons of Anarchy and I've gotten used to marathon watching and real time digestion of the show is going to suck (e) Marvel comics decided to fuck up the Spider-Man comics with such a bullshit storyline that if I described it you may vomit on your keyboard (f) there is a person with a flamboyant lisp in one of the podcasts I listen to - so fucking annoying (g) I had some Canadian Whisky and it gave me a g-d damn headache. 

¹ I almost wrote "Pissy" moody but I had an ex that would say that word and for some reason it drove me nuts when she did. I recall saying to her once: "Please don't refer to me with any words that end with the letter y". 

/prelude/to/a/playlist

being a playlist in unknown parts(posts)

a soundtrack to myself.  to feel one way or another about life. a coded soul status. feeling like I'm in the wrong time line, these things keep me alive.

" Sometimes after I have come or just before I fall asleep, my mind seems to go out on a path the width of a thread and of endless length, a thread that is the same color as the night. Out, out along the narrow highway sails my mind, driven by curiosity, luminous with acceptance, far and out, like a feathered hook whipped deep into the light above the stream by a magnificent cast. Somewhere, out of my reach, my control, the hook unbends into a spear, the spear shears itself into a needle, and the needle sews the world together. "

"...my future wife is probably doing her calculus homework right now..."

“Most people live through the day with this or that part of their mind in a happy state of somnolence: a hungry man eating a steak is interested in his food and not, say, in the memory of a dream about angels wearing top-hats which he happened to see seven years ago; but in my case all the shutters and lids and doors of the mind would be open at once at all times of the day. Most brains have their Sundays, mine was even refused a half-holiday.”

— Sebastian Knight in The Real Life of Sebastian Knight, by Vladimir Nabokov (via)

I've had a terrible and stressful day. I have to move in a few days and I detest moving. This year's excursion back to Austin was a catastrophic failure. I am ruined. Thank Buddha for my Mistress. She called me and I was able to loose myself in our intellectual conversation of secret origins, missing histories and youthful romances. It added some levity to my agitated state. We are both age-gap inclined so I made her laugh by saying that my future wife is probably 15 at the moment and doing homework, she'll find me in a few years when she's 18. I was trying to emulate the same age difference between my mistress and her very lucky future husband. Making her laugh is the best. Even though all you read is my depressive side here, I think she would attest to how funny I am on the phone. Today I realized just how much truth there is to my principal personal maxim: "I like Smart Girls in Short Skirts", being that two of my closest girlfriends are a doctor in training and a lawyer. I should have been a professor. Teaching and introducing "Lolita" to a new class every semester. Annotating "The Dark Knight Returns" for fun as an extra credit project (I tried to do this in High School and I convinced my English teacher into reading the book and appreciating it). Making fun of Dave Eggers and a long list of elitist literary twats. Elevating the prose issue of Detective Comics by Grant Morrison into the curriculum. Obviously Batman would be my hero with a 1000 faces of choice for discussion. Visiting all the places in Canada portrait in Beautiful Loosers for summer classes on the one book that blew my mind open when I was 18. I would be a peculiar professor no? Affairs with students: optional. This is making me want to watch "Wonder Boys". It's the middle of the night and the silence dictates I put the kind of movie that feels like a safety blanket. Something to make me feel better. "Lost In Translation" it is.  

prelude to a deluge (1)

[ Prelude to a Deluge of Posts: Part 1 ]

And I'm working at trying to find a kind of language
where I won't be so easily modulated by expectation.
Kathy Acker

I've druged myself with what I fondly call chemical truth serum. I need relief. My fastidious life has taken such a turn that I just want to dig a hole in the ground and jump inside and cry. Alas, my medicine does not let me cry at all. Any and all "sad"-like feelings get turned into "boredom". Lately I've been thinking long and hard as to why I saved myself. Why did I bring myself back from the brink of extinction? What are all these tribulations leading to exactly? I have to do whatever it takes to avoid self examination.

 unsoundwilderness 

a waif's siren call

"Finally, from so little sleeping and so much reading, his brain dried up and he went completely out of his mind."  
Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quijote de La Mancha

I wasn't looking and there she was: inspiration inside a monster truck jumper. A little dangerous waif's siren call that I could not resist. I kept going back facisnated by every little detail and escapade. It's not until I was describing her to my muse that I realized how predictable I am. I respect her recorded sexuality, her honesty or need for attention. Any flaws look like diamonds on her.

I'm trying to sleep, nap, anything that turns me off. I start writing a note. I can't sleep until I crafted it perfectly. I'll never know her but appreciate this fuel, this propulsion I felt from her. I need to write her and thank her. I want to share secrets with her. I want to know all her secrets. The spark gets brighter and I write her a note:  I want to tell you how pretty you are each hour of the day. I want to stop wondering if you are wearing cute underwear and just have you show me. I want to go buy cigarettes for you and come back to you waiting in bed naked. I want to whisper dirty things to you in public. I want to play with your hair while you fall asleep. I want to wake you by going down on you. I want to tell you "guess what? today you didn't cry".

I'm feeding off of Creativity to survive. Each post is a heartbeat. It's how you know that I am alive. I was feeling like I was going to shut down. Inspiration felt like something I could not hold or imagine. The menial ecosystem of life gets in the way and ruins my mood. Nothing is going right in my Life. Not A Single Thing. I have to take a moment and try some mental yoga. I aim to avoid a state of emergency. Make a list of the certainties: I love photography. I love women. I love the fall season.
Sometimes it's so quiet here I feel I'm living like a monk. I want to break the silence in the dirtiest way possible. To rebel against things said about me: "he's very nice", "has high morals", "does the right thing", "one of the reasons I like you as a friend is that you've never tried to fuck me".

I [need] joy. I am not mobilizing to find it though. Something keeps me serene. I [long] for a shoulder to lean on. I need to look beyond these walls. Photography is my moment of zen. This leads to Tumblr, a vortex, a black hole, an eternity of pixels.

 babyskinnyminny 

daydreaming in hypertextuality

“My heart is beating like it’s lonely, like there’s nothing else inside of me.”
Junot Díaz, 'This Is How You Lose Her'

"Its easy to know what you want to say, but not to say it."
Mario Vargas Llosa

"Se escribe para llenar vacíos, para tomarse desquites contra la realidad, contra las circunstancias"
Mario Vargas Llosa

My inspiration is coming at five ideas a second and seven songs a minute. My computer can't keep up. My browsers have fatigue. So many open tabs. I've hacked my brain and created a sort of momentary synthetic hypomania. That's in addition to the obscene amount of Red Bull in my system, probably enough for a heart attack. I have to ride the wave as quickly as I can before it washes away. The posts have been multiplying like little Gremlins today¹.  I'm going to finish this which I've been writing for a while in my head ( which means the better more graceful parts are probably gone b/c I didn't write them down ). I actually wrote something along these lines, a long text post, between May and August, in small parts, but it never looked good once I was sober so I eventually deleted it. I kept thinking I could salvage parts of it until I gave up. I woke up on the I don't give a fuck side of the bed today.There's some sort of filter that comes off during my curent state. Everything goes.

I've tried rebooting myself so many times and it just doesn't work. "what I am is what I am, cause I does what I does" as Fiona Apple said. I'm not on some quest to find myself. I'm just stuck with who I am and annoyed with what I can't change. Irritated and full of Regret. I know who I am: a thematic tome of unrelenting desire and failed romances. I'm very hard on myself.

Sometimes I find it offensive that I need anti-depressants to live. As if there's a sort of Natural Law that says we should all be Happy that does not apply to me and chemistry has to keep me breathing. A synthetic existance. Mostly it leaves me bored, with hints of quiet desperation.

There is currently no girl, no woman, no Romantic Interest. Only Lustful daydreams of a mistress. I'm a blank canvass with a drip of red pain falling halfway down the middle. And this painting is stuck on a wall.

I don't pray hard enough for amnesia. I don't pray at all. Maybe that's why it hasn't happened.

I was telling the most Lolita girl I know how much I wish I had a photogenic female friend in this city to take my own photos for posts on here. All my girls, they get married. All the nymphets are now older and having babies. 

Andy is right. I don't want what I can't have anymore. This is a much practical stance.



Well, I'm off to write my first short story in years. It's called "The sexual frustrations of a man without a serial number"

 ¹ written between 9.20 and 9.22

 *Nishe / I love you / p0und-the-al4rm /wild hearts / I was blank  / i am who i am

les mathématiques de la séduction

The day I see you naked is the day I am reborn. It's not just the architecture that houses the heart I want to conquer, but it's the windmill to my Don Quixote. I don't break promises and I've told you that I'll dominate you with desire and look up as you bite  your lips. I'm feeling clueless but the the margins of my lust are littered with the Leonard Cohen poems I want to leave on your bed every morning.