electric-powered efforts at complacency

Transmitter wrote this at around evening time:

PBJ on white bread sliced
diagonally with the edges
trimmed off
smooth peanut butter–
petroleum jelly spread on my temples
with my edges tied down.

conducive conductor for wires running
conduits of the happiness–
clearing space up front, a spare room
to diffuse the blue light into.

rolling back into my room, just feelings,
no memories of home, animal crackers– snack time
where the good boys get candied capsules–

let’s stay and watch the electric people
moving on the screen.

Singing Little Bluebird

Transmitter wrote this at around evening time:

There was no sign, there wasn’t even a front door. I knew I was at the right place by the smell of the clove cigarrettes, the telltale odor of an indie rock show. The Bluebird looked like a church basement, complete with a drop ceiling, couches, and hushed clusters of teenagers.

I came to see the Hibernauts, but I was here because Grove Fest was awful. Not only was Grove Fest nearly desolate, but my ex-wife and ex-friend, who is now dating her, showed up. They didn’t see me and I quickly downed my beer and left.

The show was awesome, but I was shocked at the indie immobility. How can people not dance and move to this music? It made me think of the Arcade Fire line, “my body is a cage that keeps me from dancing with the one I love, but my mind holds the key.” Then I felt lonely. I wasn’t dancing and I wasn’t with the one I love. Maybe my mind holds the key.


Transmitter wrote this in the early evening:

Tiny bugs scurry in and out of my keyboard,
Nanites crawling out commands
with the click clicking of mechanical legs.

Infected by tangible viruses.
Silicon carapaces shield my attacks.
I am defenseless.

I lay still as the miniature creatures move under my fingernails
and through my hands, float up my arteries and burrow into my synaptic centers.

My skin flickers with the movement of the silver army.
My body is a shell, a replication of my possessors.
I am only an observer now of my memetic movements.

My fingers click clicking at the keyboard –

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.

Mobile Again

Transmitter wrote this in the late afternoon:

Bianchi Forza

Several months ago both of my bikes were stolen from behind my apartment. I was so fucking pissed I could barely speak. I spent the rest of the evening muttering, “fucking fuck.” I was most upset over my Specialized racing bike. It was lightweight, fast, and vintage, and I paid next to nothing for it, despite it being worth a lot of money.

Anyway, being without a bike has given me a good reason to buy a new bike. Having saved up enough extra money I just got myself a Bianchi Forza. I’m super excited about it. This is the first brand new bike that I’ve purchased in over ten years. With the weather getting cooler and a new job that is much closer to me, I can’t wait to start riding it to work.

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.