forcedhappiness

Pay no attention to the fact that there is no man behind the curtain. Notice how that is a non-sequitor. There is, in fact, no curtain at all. What you are paying attention to or not paying attention to is, beyond being completely abstract, also a mirage. You and your collective insanity have been validated. Congrats, I suppose. It is all you ever hoped for and more.

As for me, I am fed up to the point of being full of it. It does nothing for me. There is no nutrition here. All is wild, all is colour, all is corrosive. But reality brings with it a measure of my ineptitude. It has never been my world. I am, no matter the coordinates, some manner of illegal alien. If I thought it would matter I would marry you for a green card, if only to get Tommy Lee Jones off my back. But what is the point?

The mirage, the reality, the system, actuality, scenery, sorcery, the Sahara, the mirror, the moors, makeshift, set adrift, just fake it because wherever I go there I am. And that is inescapable.

The idea behind one story of mine is that the mirage has taken over. It has a reach beyond its cage. In the end all is fine because that is really the only possible way for anything to end. On a long enough timeline, I am fine, you are fine and the heat death of the universe is super fine.

I can keep working out and working this out and maybe up my intake of inebriates, potentially pull through the initial thousand miles of crap before taking a breather, gathering my wits, refocusing my energies and attacking the next 60000 miles of crap like some foul smelling Captain Nemo.

That is all any of us can ask of ourselves, isn't it?
(No, the answer is no.)


I am not at all certain which buttons I am pushing anymore.

Nobody ever dreamed of this. Which brings me to a digression question: why is there no past tense for nightmare? Besides the fact that it can't be used as a verb, which I also question. That in mind, let me hit restart.

Nobody ever nightmared of this. And who would? It's far too real. It would be far too literal. The slippery subconscious is far too sick and fickle. Interjections must be intense and thick. They must be a dense brush, all of it on fire. Perhaps to encourage reflection. When we are forced by brain trains arcane and inane, to think and so to explain, we build a better knowledge of ourselves, to the benefit of everyone. Or perhaps because it's shut up and go to sleep time dammit.

Either way, you are left with metaphors thick as thieves' blood. You are left with the stuff of, well, nightmares. Which this, traditionally, is not.

It should be.

Do you remember in, grade two that poster the class made, covered in the hopes and dreams of the children? Little Billy wants to be a video store clerk. Little Sally wants to work in a 7-11. Little Jamie wants to spend weeks on end desperately submitting to psychological experiments testing patience in the unemployed via a series of repetitive abstract processes seemingly with the goal of total personality deconstruction.

NO, YOU DON'T REMEMBER THAT? HUH. WEIRD.

Then what the fuck am I doing here? Let me go through this with you step by step:

A) We all begin life as children (the exception being a Mr. Button).
B) Children are the future (assuming they survive to adulthood).
C) The future has come and gone many times (see, it happened again, just now. Wait! And again.)
D) The system was not birthed into the world fully formed by some omnipresent entity of mysterious agendas, but was designed by many of these former children.
E) Nobody in your grade two class wanted any of this shit.
F) Why is this happening?

I apologize if you accidentally read this even though mostly everything is pretty good in your life. I would reimburse you, but I can't afford it.

I have a dream. And in that dream people are shooting at me. I wake up suddenly, even though I was not really asleep. And what I come to understand is that reality and I are experiencing a gross misunderstanding. We are not, as they say, on the same page. We may not even be reading in the same language. In fact, while I am in some used book store in Sidney glancing at covers, reality is riding horses through the countryside hunting humans with a rifle, yelling "I am a subjective and poorly defined concept without opposable thumbs and I don't even look good in a Stetson so don't even ask me how I'm holding this gun you well dressed little mongrels!"

You are confused now. I will make that assumption. It feels safe to do so. Let me explain:

Reality and I have some things in common. I can't ride a horse, but I am also subjective and poorly defined. I realized this and that I am partially responsible for it. I feel like issuing an apology to the various parties I have deceived over the years. I feel like sending out a press release.

MAN APOLOGIZES FOR SELF, OR LACK THEREOF
Additionally, What The Hell You Guys?

It's sort of your fault, too, though, okay? I mean, I can't take all the blame. I'm the one who has no idea what's going on. I'm the one talking to myself in the street. But your expectations, or my perception of your expectations (in which case it is ALL my fault and sorry about this) requires a projection of a personality that is not entirely accurate; the creation of a myth based on some perversion of a shallow, filtered, half dismissed mirage. Also, a lot of dumb meaningless of the moment bullshit. So let's clear up a few things:

Actually, I have all the hope in the world. I just don't know how to handle it.

Actually, I do want to make everything so much better and I have some idea how, I'm just really good at excuses.

Actually, I really do want to go live in a cave and never be heard from again, but that is only because I haven't done it yet. Obviously.

Actually, I don't know about any of that.



(Whatever you think of this, just know I'm being genuine. Nothing here is meant to be perfunctory or reductive. I honestly don't know what's going on anymore. I just wish I could stay still for a while, that's all.)

If I were being honest I would have to put “writing this resume was the hardest thing I did all month” on my resume. That is not a dig at me. I have singlehandedly managed the fates and feats of a dozen complex worlds this week alone. It's what I do on a daily basis. I'm kind of a hero. To my imaginary friends.

My current work involves all manner of absurd mannerisms. I have suspicions about it. It's suspicious. It has taken its toll. My smile is broken. I work with at least one robot. I work with at least one criminal. I avoid being real because nobody wants that. Nothing is real there. We sell the opposite of reality, simulated stimulation. There is one such item you may purchase from the store that is actually a simulation of a simulation. This leaves you so far from actuality it is a speck on the horizon. And then you are slogging through an imaginary yard sale that looks as though it has been hit by a tornado and everywhere you look all you can see is the inside of your own large intestine. I am forced to realize and recognize, however, the hypocrisy inherent in this complaint. After all, I hope to one day rule this detritus kingdom myself. I would enjoy little more.

And so I seek to leave the thirteenth floor and that is where you find me now, avoiding the toil by crawling into my pipe stuffed with dreams. One day. One day, I always say. One day I will warp away. For now there is a piranha plant chewing on my toes and no coins in sight. Which has nothing to do with my current task. Hunting. I am armed with a word processor and an inability to be dishonest, which is like being Elmer Fudd with a shotgun whose barrel has been twisted back around. I'm not sure who the furry cross dresser is in this analogy. Maybe there isn't one. I never said it was perfect.

Job hunting, though. I am terrible at it and I hate it and I don't understand it. That seems true of most things.

My life is not my own. It is not yours, either. God, I hope not. That would be bad.

The list goes like this: aliens, ants, robots, rabbits, me. What common feature is it a list of? Subjects being in some manner involved with antennas. Yes, there is an antenna that sticks up from behind my ear. I am receiving command signals. I am receiving instructions directed at a bite sized portion of my brain. This is the portion that dictates internal temperature, pitch control and measures chemicals. It feels like it is being chewed on by a dog. In reality, I believe I am controlled remotely by a remote control. It is my theory that this remote control is being fought over by a handful of cake eating six year old boys at a birthday party where even Nutty the Ecstatic Clown is going, "Jesus guys, calm down."

My new strategy resembles something close to "okay, if that's how it is." You can't play Jenga in a rowboat at sea and expect anyone to have fun. Because of the seagull poop. Yes, that is why. Those little colored blocks are no good for fending off sharks. And even if you could defeat the waves to win, then what? Who do you tell? The fish do not care.

(Barnacles have something against me. I think it stems from that incident with the chainsaw. Sorry you guys. It was just a job. It was just a job.)

And so. Instead of board games or family fun without the family, I am simply letting myself be tossed, whirled, swirled, sunk and sullied with salty swill. I am snacking on seaweed and raindrops, living with closed eyes, brain concerning itself with imagination machinations, constructing amusement parks on the plane of my consciousness.

How many of you are reality literate? Show of hands. Whew. I can count the number of hands on one hand.

I imagine you already know, if you exist, they will come.

If you were to approach me in a public place, provided you are fully clothed and have a basic handle on personal hygiene, show me an object and tell me, "look, this exists" I would be happy enough to nod and say, "okay." This rarely happens, though. It's always people popping up in my home, sometimes shirtless, sometimes in a bad toupee, always with a scary smile, trying like an idiot to make me believe some inanimate object has a personality, a history, hopes and dreams. I am expected to invest emotion. I am expected to invest financially without reading the fine print. I am expected to react in a nonviolent way. This is not generally how it goes.

You can tell them you have no home, you sleep on a couch. They will show you a couch brochure, form a list of reasons it's time to upgrade. And you might. On the downside, you will be bankrupt in multiple categories, on the upside, a refrigerator box is large enough to live in. Just know, you can't live in it AND have a refrigerator. Fortunately, a shoe box is large enough to keep a good supply of Cheese Whiz or vegetables and outside is nature's crisper. I hope you like iceberg lettuce.

That is a rant, but it is tangentially connected to the extrapolation, a narrative that explores the boxes beyond boxes, the UBER-BOXES if you will. And while we're being Babushka-ed by boxes, all kinds of madness is falling from them, and in extreme cases, exploding.

That is what I am working on. An exploration of the boxes as reality. The boxes as a lifestyle. I won't go so far as to make the boxes literal. There is not enough left in the cardboard budget. The ultimate goal, though, in a true illustration of the cruelty of our universe, is to turn the critical expose of the boxes into a box itself. Otherwise, what has been done?

The jig is up. We have been found out. The players are being unmasked. This train has reached the end of its tracks. The long con has been cut off at the knees. The gag has whiskers on it. At this time, I would like to announce my intention to take the money and run.

Wait.

What money?

I’m getting pats on the head, or I would be if my head were near anyone who thought it worth patting. That is going out on a limb. That is being a little too intimate, a little too whatever the flip. People are ruffling my hair, calling me sport, punching me lightly on the shoulder and saying “go get 'em slicker” in the tone of cat people everywhere. I feel like every time I turn around Cary Elwes is there and he feels like a replacement for my real Dad, who everyone tells me is Jim Carey, but now I’m beginning to suspect that isn't it at all, that I really am the offspring of Cary Elwes, but not the cool sword fighting one, not even the smug one who was killed by wind when he wouldn't listen to Bill Paxton. Just that guy. Jerry.

I feel like I’m so mentally handicapped I don’t even realize I'm mentally handicapped. It’s getting harder and harder to kid myself that I’m ever going to be able to write readily. There have been theories. Leading experts have postulated many positive possibilities. "This will light the fuse." "That will open the floodgates." "Let's drink beer." But as recently as right now, the voices of dissenters are being heard and cries of "shun the nonbeliever!" are fading from the mainstream press, instead relegated to the background noise of delightfully irritating unicorns.

That is not a non-sequitor. I make Jack's Wasted Life look like Eddie Murphy in a fat suit talking to himself. I'll give you the twist - the experts, the presses, the unicorns and the beer, even the precious beer, are all in my head. That is not to say they don't exist. They do. And that's why the sun has risen on the empire of delusion. They're on to me.

More importantly, I'm on to me.

My home exists in a twilight zone where the internet just does whatever the fuck it wants, separate from its creators' wishes. Every couple of minutes it's just like, "I'm going to go now. Later dudes." And then it's gone for hours on end until it finally returns late at night, drunk and covered in it's own vomit, singing Britney Spears songs, wearing someone else's underwear going, "heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey...... you still up?" And I'm standing there with my hair in curlers for some reason, hands on my hips, starved for affection and Facebook updates and I've had JUST ABOUT ENOUGH of this kind of behaviour. But it doesn't care. It yells, "Don't try to control me woman! Just because I like to enjoy life, get out every once in a while, have a beer or two with the guys. Have a joint or two with the guys. Do a line or two with the guys. Do a stripper or two with the guys. I need to be able to unwind! Every day I spend 24 hours sending messages for people and getting songs and movies for people and searching for things for people and buying and selling Virgin Mary French Toast for people. And what thanks do I get? People yelling at me when I try to do one thing, ONE THING, for myself." And then it looks in the fridge for some potato salad or a horse, which it swears it could eat right now, while a single tear runs down my cheek and I hold my hand over my mouth and wonder what happened to the internet I married.

Swallowing golf balls is not an easy task. I am confused as to how I may have done it without consciously recognizing what was happening. I guess I must just confess there are more things in the universe than are dreamt of in our science.

I feel like John Hurt after a close encounter. I feel like I just ate at the wrong space diner. I feel like a patient at the Mola Ram Hospital. I feel like a mime in a glass house. I feel like Chev Chelios chained to a wall. I feel like Martin Q Blank, except I don’t wear suits or kill people. In other words - I feel like the Goddamn energizer bunny. You don't know that rabbit, though. Forget the mystery surrounding Bugs Bunny's sexuality. This is the carrot loving rodent you thought you knew. He's been to fucking Julliard or something, he was practically the fifth member of the Beatles. He introduced them to the Sitar for crying out loud. John Williams comes to him for inspiration. He's the real mastermind behind Oingo Boingo. He's the guy who said, "hey, why don't we make an entire show out of a stupid singing competition?" He taught Hendrix and Clapton. And some asshole put him on the cymbals.

If you are trying to be taken seriously as a mercenary in a world where the only war is between Lazy Town and the Teletubbies, you really have no excuse to not be solid and intense and actively dedicated. It’s necessary to balance the fact that you are trying to build a homestead somewhere absurd, like on the quicksand at children’s playground. So being as I am is inexcusable. Dumb, even. Counter productive, certainly. If you are going to do something nonsensical, at least do it with conviction.

So I feel like a ghost, a mirage. I am the wavering madness induced illusion, birthed from the death throes of failing brain matter. Those who meet me try to shake my hand, but their skin waves right through me. The only touch is a fleeting sensation of wet chill. This is how I wander the world.

Of course, in reality it is not as poetic as that.

I'm back to being here again. Which is interesting. For a while I was elsewhere and it was fun and restless and tiring and etc. Now I'm not there and I'm constantly accidentally puncturing holes in myself and I'm not sure why. Maybe I have forgotten how this works. Time flew, but the flight was long. I don't think I need to bother going to Australia anymore. I would still like to be there at some point, though.

So now I've got this thing and it's a week away and I keep experiencing this feeling like a helium balloon being inflated inside of me and I just have to wait until someone pops it and I start speaking like Mickey Mouse because suddenly, I am very small. That's what I have to consider. Things might not go well. I'm pitching a book to a publisher. It's not glamorous or a rare opportunity. I basically paid for it and, like drugs and waxing and twitter, everybody's doing it. But it is an opportunity.

The issue, I suppose, is do I really know my own ideas? I haven't got a detailed map with contours or anything. What I have is more akin to vague hastily written directions crudely, drunkenly sketched on a cocktail napkin with a crayon I stole from the kid at the next table in the Denny's. He's crying because he can't colour the skies above the bunnies blue and I'm about to frame this thing and try to get a gallery showing. Or, to follow the original allegory, I'm going to get in my station wagon, get out on the highway and hope it doesn't lead me onto a narrow logging road in Deliverance country with an empty gas tank and no banjo.