JLarmor's blog, page 4

Last login: 2 days agoJLarmor: JLarmor is a 25 year old guy from New York, USA.; Likes 58 pages, 4 videos, 4 photos • 14 fans • Received 3 reviews; Member since Oct 27, 2006

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Nov 15, 2006 1:05pm: An unorganized essay about Organization which becomes An essay about the unorganized Organization

Organization is a good thing, right? Successful people are organized. They're clean. They know what to do next, and if not, their destiny lies in their palm pilot, a historical database, an active, continued digi-diary. That about does it for them. Shit, if their stuck-traffic-5:30-return-commute isn't wireless hands-free, well, they just weren't organized enough that day. When the kids get back from soccer, basketball, whatever season it doesn't matter it is, the dinner sitcoms are on so everyone can complacently ignore each other. But may be life isn't about family interaction that'd be too unorganized, peppered with confrontation and resolve. They'll eventually talk in the car, on somebody's birthday or hospital visit, as long as everyone's not bored enough to listen to their I-Pods. Follicles frozen in time by hair gel, pores clogged by designer deoderant, bleached teeth and botoxed jowls, all markedly traits of the organized magnus-humanus. He's on top of some kind of pyramidal schema of modernity in slavery, operating a conveyer belt of stamped out duplicates, soon to become himself, they ride his coattails only to later fill his shoes.

Nov 10, 2006 4:38am: "Pigeon-Holed"

Tangling the fingers, digging into the graying scalp, now considerably infused with the street bacteria, bacteria found between dumpsters, in sitting puddles, rotting vegetables, carcassed meats. The floor, the bed, the book, the pillow seething all over with primordial ooze. Under fingernails, moisture pits fighting my battles, building my resistance, my own private, silent army.
The age and the wake-up call, the mirrors narrative of bad influences and premature loss of innocence. The false notion of security in youth, fleeting love and self-respect, powerful burdens of instinct colliding with "soulful virtues", pre-established doctrines of semi-sweet bullshit. You're not supposed to be up this late because you won't be able to awake as early as the rest of the worldly sheep flock. Biting the bullet, you ride the same train, eat the same food, punch the same clock. When the time comes for death, the not-so-balanced, half-empty, half-full retrospection of self provides the anti-climactic calm before the storm and cloud that is the infinite underestimation called death. And life is what you make of it but also what you take of it. An eyeblink shutter the involuntary autonomous bacterial flush casually unnoticed provides the encoded time sequence of your personal apocalypse.
You meet your old self in the safety net of your dreams, a mutually indifferent passing by, silent, subconscious exchange of wisdom for a once remembered age of vivacity and youthful zest--"zestfully clean", you think, may be, if you remember, if your contaminated memory, however pathetic, may provide you with that kind of trivia. If not that one, I'm sure you can recall countless other witty, benign commercialized horseshit.
Pointless.
We're with it, forever ingrained it's too late now. May be take some pharmaceuticals to bring back those smiling feelings, those sugar-coated days of lore, beautiful, "clearly-now" sunshine.
Sweethearts, I have a six-pack, I really do... Hollywood told me to have that. My shoes, they cost more than the yearly salary, the annual grocery lists of those who made them. MTV told me to buy those shoes. I can't wait till [insert-name-of-double-disc-DVD-chock-full-of-special-features, movie-star-interviews, deleted-scenes and bloopered-outtakes] comes out on [insert-month-day-and-time-of-release-date]. Santa Claus, the purveyor of Jesus Christ, said he would bring that to me if I were good. Let's hop into my H-2, fill-up at the pumps, get a 24-pack, and forget our troubles, our so-called "deep, insidious problems". Monday Night Football, George W. Bush and Arnold Schwarzenegger called, they're comin' too! I don't really claim to know what's goin' on in Iraq, but I want to drop some bombs. I want to drop some bombs all around my house; in a razing hellfire this circular perimeter could then be detached to float out to sea, or may be outer space. And once at sea, me and my house, and my two of every animal on Earth, my personal island, my own garden of flora and fauna will remain unseen by the satellites and the Lizard Men. Once on my Noah's Ark, I will look up into the clearest skies, and count shooting stars until I fall asleep. But I'd only be falling awak... because this is only a reality in my script, my mentally-landscaped dreams. I don't fall asleep very well, because, well, when you count sheep all day, the fuzzy heads of everyone you pass by, the heads of everyone you see, you get pretty tired and you're verging sleep all the time. And if you're never awake you're never asleep. But hey, who needs sleep, or shooting stars for that matter when you've got raves and glowsticks and drugs. Hey do enough and you get to trip permanently at the drop of a dime. The drop of a dime into the hat of the bum who's been living street for 10 years from a single acid drop. This revealing confessional gets him a coin-drop closer to those new Salvation Army shoes he telling you he's gotta get. But

StumbleUpon - Illusion81s web site reviews and blog: Nov 7, 2006 3:19pm 23 reviews stumblers
http://illusion81.stumbleupon.com/; Neo, Art-Nouveau?
Illustration taking it to another level or a few

Nov 2, 2006 5:15pm: 3:58 PM 2/17/2005

Yellow Ribbon Sticker, Support our Troops, msrp $2.00

Everyone drives straight ahead, straight away, into nowhere land, the america highway... looking straight, in SUVs with yellow ribbon stickers that feign a show of support for the United States troops dying for the gasoline they abuse, inhaled with their guzzlefuck cars. Air Conditioning and power-lock windows, 5.1 dolby stereo DVD players. Freedom. Let it reign, Let it rain. Let them get what they pay for. Anything their little, big, fat, artery-clogged heart desires. This is star-spangled. This is beyond Catch-22. Animals are slaughtered, dying, children are starving, dying, but not here. Never.

The sticker, that magnet, it's not fooling any one, a profitable gimmick by some middle-aged monkeywrench to an aspartame-coated society en-masse, all who know too well exactly how deluded they've become, knowingly slugging through salty existance. Their oozy residue, a mucous of fat and sweat, greases the path, easier and easier for the many to follow, the more to come. Not even looking to see what's passing them by, not a shift or involuntary pulse in their eye, the cell phones completing their cyborg-transformational-state, the radio waves, pop-rap-rock, crap-crock-poop CDs, mp3 players constipating the clarity of their brainwaves. Highly evolved, perfected-by-nature, clogged pathways for these fired neurons from a wasted-brain before it can pass through the nerve-net-colon to an anus-for-a-mouth. People can't even speak worth a shit any more, but I've stopped wondering why.

And when I drive too, not a wolf in their clothing, simply a misled sheep, I rubberneck. I look at half of everyone I pass, give them the eye through a cracked windshield, just to see if there are any signs of life on their planet-Ford-Explorer, if there's any programming on channel-Fuckyou-Pathfinder. I'm disappointed for the most part. No one talks to themselves any more. Then again, I don't know if people ever did. Nobody does what I do to pass the commute's time.

nataliedee.com/012405/ribbon-based-economy.jpg [nataliedee.com/012405/ribbon-based-economy.jpg]

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