Numbness as Warning

Transmitter wrote this in the wee hours:

It was like he was plugged into an electrical current,
twitching, jerking, tranced out in a shaken frenzy,
receiving magnetic transmissions of mimetic themes,

Sound wave patterns on the scanner–

Darkly melodic to the rhythm of white fists,
flashing out of his black overcoat,
a new stage trance, seizing out of the car onto the ground–

“We didn’t know what to do. We held him down.”

Love tore him apart.


Transmitter wrote this terribly early in the morning:

You don’t have to worry about what time it is when you can’t see the clock behind the pile of dirty dishes, but you might have to worry about the pile of dirty dishes. But, this worry over the dishes could be misconstrued as a concern for what time it is. So, maybe it’s best to not mention the time and worry about the dishes, but then you’d see the clock and worry about the time. Now, you’re worrying about both. You’re worried about what people think you’re worried about. Maybe it’s best not to worry about either. Maybe you should be worried that you just had this conversation with yourself.

Smells Like…

Transmitter wrote this terribly early in the morning:

It’s strange how smells bring back memories so strongly. Right now my apartment smells like it did when I first moved in, leaving a long relationship, living alone. Alone again now, I’m wondering whether the smell or the situation is doing the remembering.


Transmitter wrote this in the wee hours:

I think that I’ve discovered the source of my insomnia. When I was little my mother used to sing me to sleep. This is an excellent strategy except that she sang a lullaby founded on reverse psychology. It clearly had the opposite effect. Here’s how the song went:

Stay awake. Don’t go to bed.
Stay awake. Don’t nod your head.
Though the moon is on the rise…
Stay awake. Don’t close your eyes.

Trapped in the Estuary

Transmitter wrote this terribly early in the morning:


I’ve shared my obssession with patterns and my belief that everything follows the pattern of sign waves many times. Applied to life, this pattern portrays major events and changes with the events themselves representing the apex and the transitions between events representing the trough. I hate the transitional periods. I always get caught up in the downward motion and I struggle to move things up again. I get frustrated with the pattern, the up and the down, but I know I don’t want to flatline. The sign wave is life.

Right now I’m stuck in a transitional period. I don’t know where things are going or how long I’ll be here and as always I’m struggling to find out what will bring me back up, what will lead to the next event. I know that I’m always progressing, moving to something bigger, but I feel like I’m caught where the stream meets the tide.

Storing Up for the Winter

Transmitter wrote this in the late afternoon:

When I was little, I was convinced that squirrels struggled with opening acorns and getting to the tender yellow insides. So, I would spend entire days gathering up acorns and removing the shells. I would then group them into little piles on the deck railing, leaving adequate space in between the piles in case some of the squirrels didn’t get along with each other. As a child all of this made perfect sense to me, but now I wonder what people thought when they looked out on the deck and saw tons of tiny piles of shelled acorns.


Transmitter wrote this at around evening time:

I could hear the water running inside of him.

He was from Florida. He wasn’t prepared to move north. He never wore socks and didn’t know how to dress. He was always cold and sick. Shivering in his Brit-pop v-neck shirt and slip-on shoes, he talked about Europe.

He filled his body with kabbalistic tattoos, numbers that named everything and found god’s name in long division. He liked to read motorcycle schematics.

His hair was frosted. A remnant from the shock of the cold.


Transmitter wrote this just before lunchtime:

Bright Yellow Dress

The other day I was outside the changing rooms at Forever 21 waiting for my love to try on some clothes. And, as the name of the store implies, the regular clientele appear to be trapped more in a young mindset than a young body type. During the wait, a helpless girl needed assistance: “Does my ass hang out of this dress? Does the color look okay on me?”

She was trying on a short yellow party dress, bright, bright yellow. The contrast of the sunshine yellow against her fake-baked brown skin looked like corn kernals in shit. I wanted to tell her that no one will even notice her ass. I wanted to dive across the room (screaming “nooooo” in slow motion) and save her from a terrible fashion faux pas. I wanted to stop the sales people that came to her aid from telling her that she looked great in it.

Instead I just sat there and tried not to cry. I am weak. I should have helped her.

Chase It

Transmitter wrote this in the wee hours:

Chase Park Puke

It’s an idle Tuesday night. A late night movie with my girlfriend and her friend sounds like a fantastic escape from work. A couple drinks at the bar while waiting for the show to start makes the evening even more enjoyable. We down the last of our drinks and slip into the theatre, expecting to ride our buzzes out through the two and a half hour show. They sell beer at the concessions; what’s one more beer? We’re officially drunk. The popcorn isn’t helping at all. Fuck, why not get another beer. Fucking fuck, the concessions is closed. Wait. They give us one more round. Godbless them. Shit, those didn’t last long at all. A little drama and some smooth talking scores us more beer from the cafe that we smuggle into the theatre in coffee cups (lids and all). Godbless the bartender. The popcorn really isn’t helping. We get more beer. The suspensefull drama is now a comedy. Yes, we were those noisy assholes across the aisle from you. Fuck off, we’re drunk. The movie’s over. We wander out. My girlfriend says she’s going to puke in the bushes. We laugh at her. We go outside. We’re laughing and smoking, not sure where to take our drunkenness. Midsentence she pukes all over the sidewalk right in front of the theatre. Brilliant. We stumble down to the coffee house where she pukes in between drinks of coffee and water. Godbless public restrooms. Fuck you Wednesday morning.

My Mind on Love

Transmitter wrote this around lunchtime:

Lists have always bothered me. They always feel daunting and oppressive. A list, even if it isn’t numbered, implies a hierarchy of importance. While lists certainly have their usefulness (tasks and to-do’s), I don’t think that they work well for thought and I don’t even like using them for tasks. Maybe that’s why some people think I’m disorganized. I have a different way of thinking, though.

Instead of linear lists, my mind operates in circles. In the middle is a core that processes all the information (thoughts, things to remember, things to do, etc.). This information is processed as it passes through a receptor bar. Each item is placed on an appropriate orbit based on a ratio of importance to processing frequency. In other words, the more important thoughts and items are placed on the inner circles so that they are constantly “on my mind” while the outside rings are only brought up occasionally.

My Mind

Drawing number 1. (Click to enlarge.)

Occasionally, just like a real universe, my mind experiences meteor showers and supernovas. Meteor showers represent a barrage of shit. Supernovas on the other hand occur when something extraordinary happens in my life. Supernovas completely fuck normal thought. Things get knocked off orbit and the receptor bar is rendered useless since the processor is receiving overwhelming amounts of direct input. Love is a supernova.

My Mind Supernova

Drawing number 2. (Click to enlarge.)