Diary of Joshua AKA @JLAJones Part 2
Hi, Hello, Hey and Howdy,
If you could spare a moment and look at Mark and my Kickstarter campaign for our project titled Horsemen, that'd be great. Instant rewards. Just look in the project description. Here's the link-> http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1130379423/horsemen
And so, here's part 2 to my limited journal from when I was but a nutter of a boy clouded by mystery, darkness, hormones and booze. Cheers!
Journal 2
Vacillations and vicissitudes going to places in my thoughts and
dismal daydreams of layered fabric into tapestries of time and a place
with no space, a perfect plenum. Seeing seas and storms flowing, sitting
at tops of trees with the fragile mist chilling the organs and the blood.
Surrounded by myths and obstructions and monoliths are signs of
realness at every edge of the realm on the crooked brick stairs in the back
of an ancient sullen house made of uneven stone cold as the mist,
but without greetings and sensation. Droplets of reminders course down
my back, a tingle as recollections of the coarse experience in the depths
of a moonless night where proclamations of the one question and
supplications for help relayed the sonorous fright. Voices that are never
heard drown and fade away automatically and proceed backwards.
Sometimes I hate pathetic fallacy.
In the beginning we are alone but individuality is a test; the separateness
searching for a station in life or at least a place to sleep without
interruption. No, there are no divine exams.
Mostly these illuminations are never found in daydreams, no
radiance before the dawn. It is the search that drives primal suggestion
to the pointed faculties of mind in the climax that there is
struggle, strain, strenuous suffrage, and to wear this is too much to bare.
Bombarded by blocking thoughts or meditations unnerved by anxious
hooks in the stomach reel us into physicality. Uncertainty looms as a
weaver in the back of the mind stringing the high strung, dangling
a statement, “It is a waste of time”. Go on like the dreaming ocean of
ensuing devotion and to do all that others say is impossibility, in
the eventual outcome it is will or the lack of that will kill.
Or are we all lying?
Are we creations and creators? Maybe just some infernal joke or
an excuse of some other? Artists, we all
are! Damnable polysyndetonic syntax.
We must take a step out of life as the snake out of its skin, oh no, sexual
symbolism, so to shed the opaque covering of the eyes, and see
the hive hunting its impervious prey in the forest of the twilight
as we are tinted a King Cobra gray. Sorry William! No tiger.
When you are on the safari yourself you never see anything but
the targeted, and everything is a target as you are and will be.
To be an artist might be to document behavior, culture, social problems,
perceptions, deviations, and the vile as well as pitiful conditions.
These are targets and artists are fundamental targets. Maybe artists are
simply sociopaths with outlets besides human destruction medicated
with a
placebo?
Naughty, naughty, don’t worry it is all bullshit made up as we go along
with the influence of the past astonishment and creation. In all media
they trying not to overtly plagiarize. Artists are just thieves stealing
from others’ lives as well as their own and other artist’s work, just
recombinant conditions. Everything is communication through
symbolism and that is what people do so we let you do it and then modify
and regurgitate it back to you in a nice mix of acid and beauty. Sometimes
we pretend that we know what we are doing.
Maybe it is about deliverance from insignificance and the token
realization that the metaphysical connotation of living may not be
anything but us fish swimming from danger and a flight into the open
sea’s light or no? The insatiable calamity has no relief
as stars, designated constellations, or personal
suns.
It is just the universe mumbling and
self-esteem draws death, as said before life is a theft but death
is something life lives in. I don’t want to be this mumble or this simple
horrible
mortality.
Fraud is the most genuine thing we have. Love, emotions, plastic
moldings of the face. Truth, beauty continually erased but seldom ugly.
Trite, banality never fugacious these things are to determined to exist
through comfort. Once we are engaged, we are too blinded to redeem
identity. Even the silly plastic moldings on my face find their ways to
violate the daydreams and rip the layered fabric.
Targets are acquired but life never concludes while you are watching
as absolutes never existed anyway. An artist’s creation?
Or a bullshit excuse? A plagiarized science experiment forgotten to
its own devices?
***
Creators and creations are developed myths of martyrs and
meeker manifestations. And by the way,
Beauty is not all we need to know ugliness is just as relevant.
Everything once was and will be symbolism and if GOD exists and knows
all pain I am sorry it had to feel mine, but I didn’t want to be this way
it is too convoluted without prenatal talent displaying itself
so not to decide.
The act of deciding is probably the point but how trite is that because
everyone must do it except……..
***
GENIUSES and trust fund babies.
***
Nope, I wanted to be something else.
I wanted to be Nietzsche, Jimi Hendrix and Bruce Lee.
I wanted my ideas to manifest and spread for all to see.
I want my will to be fulfilled and be an earthly guru.
I want to be an evangelistic with philosophy and music
and to be feared so nobody will try to fight me.
I want others to add to my images and progress in a radiant form
of talent of soul, mind and body. My shadow would cast darkness
and doubt on deluded ambition and would create a resolute condition of
creativity. Meeting the godhead and conversing having power
without corruption.
Thoughts could be mutable flesh.
***
Once in a time before thoughts escaped and became.
They fell to freedom on their own.
We went on in different stratified existence and
they went on in an innocuous form independent from us. As once they
were just ideas as we were just ideas and it could happen again.
We might encounter a thought from GOD and the infinite choir as GOD
Maybe? or even something beyond comprehension. But on a side note
I don’t want to die of syphilis or any remiss vomiting events.
I don’t want to die from some death touch or allergic reactions.
***
Hell’s fury can come from women but it is not the only scorn, I don’t want
to die at all and maybe in the future of
genetics
and bio-engineering I won’t. Probably not in my lifetime I want
to be delivered into my daydreams without plastic moldings
and cold stones. It is just another stupid opinion on another earthly
rotation in this mortal condition. I never thought I'd hate being human
and I don't feel like one.
If you could spare a moment and look at Mark and my Kickstarter campaign for our project titled Horsemen, that'd be great. Instant rewards. Just look in the project description. Here's the link-> http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1130379423/horsemen
And so, here's part 2 to my limited journal from when I was but a nutter of a boy clouded by mystery, darkness, hormones and booze. Cheers!
Journal 2
Vacillations and vicissitudes going to places in my thoughts and
dismal daydreams of layered fabric into tapestries of time and a place
with no space, a perfect plenum. Seeing seas and storms flowing, sitting
at tops of trees with the fragile mist chilling the organs and the blood.
Surrounded by myths and obstructions and monoliths are signs of
realness at every edge of the realm on the crooked brick stairs in the back
of an ancient sullen house made of uneven stone cold as the mist,
but without greetings and sensation. Droplets of reminders course down
my back, a tingle as recollections of the coarse experience in the depths
of a moonless night where proclamations of the one question and
supplications for help relayed the sonorous fright. Voices that are never
heard drown and fade away automatically and proceed backwards.
Sometimes I hate pathetic fallacy.
In the beginning we are alone but individuality is a test; the separateness
searching for a station in life or at least a place to sleep without
interruption. No, there are no divine exams.
Mostly these illuminations are never found in daydreams, no
radiance before the dawn. It is the search that drives primal suggestion
to the pointed faculties of mind in the climax that there is
struggle, strain, strenuous suffrage, and to wear this is too much to bare.
Bombarded by blocking thoughts or meditations unnerved by anxious
hooks in the stomach reel us into physicality. Uncertainty looms as a
weaver in the back of the mind stringing the high strung, dangling
a statement, “It is a waste of time”. Go on like the dreaming ocean of
ensuing devotion and to do all that others say is impossibility, in
the eventual outcome it is will or the lack of that will kill.
Or are we all lying?
Are we creations and creators? Maybe just some infernal joke or
an excuse of some other? Artists, we all
are! Damnable polysyndetonic syntax.
We must take a step out of life as the snake out of its skin, oh no, sexual
symbolism, so to shed the opaque covering of the eyes, and see
the hive hunting its impervious prey in the forest of the twilight
as we are tinted a King Cobra gray. Sorry William! No tiger.
When you are on the safari yourself you never see anything but
the targeted, and everything is a target as you are and will be.
To be an artist might be to document behavior, culture, social problems,
perceptions, deviations, and the vile as well as pitiful conditions.
These are targets and artists are fundamental targets. Maybe artists are
simply sociopaths with outlets besides human destruction medicated
with a
placebo?
Naughty, naughty, don’t worry it is all bullshit made up as we go along
with the influence of the past astonishment and creation. In all media
they trying not to overtly plagiarize. Artists are just thieves stealing
from others’ lives as well as their own and other artist’s work, just
recombinant conditions. Everything is communication through
symbolism and that is what people do so we let you do it and then modify
and regurgitate it back to you in a nice mix of acid and beauty. Sometimes
we pretend that we know what we are doing.
Maybe it is about deliverance from insignificance and the token
realization that the metaphysical connotation of living may not be
anything but us fish swimming from danger and a flight into the open
sea’s light or no? The insatiable calamity has no relief
as stars, designated constellations, or personal
suns.
It is just the universe mumbling and
self-esteem draws death, as said before life is a theft but death
is something life lives in. I don’t want to be this mumble or this simple
horrible
mortality.
Fraud is the most genuine thing we have. Love, emotions, plastic
moldings of the face. Truth, beauty continually erased but seldom ugly.
Trite, banality never fugacious these things are to determined to exist
through comfort. Once we are engaged, we are too blinded to redeem
identity. Even the silly plastic moldings on my face find their ways to
violate the daydreams and rip the layered fabric.
Targets are acquired but life never concludes while you are watching
as absolutes never existed anyway. An artist’s creation?
Or a bullshit excuse? A plagiarized science experiment forgotten to
its own devices?
***
Creators and creations are developed myths of martyrs and
meeker manifestations. And by the way,
Beauty is not all we need to know ugliness is just as relevant.
Everything once was and will be symbolism and if GOD exists and knows
all pain I am sorry it had to feel mine, but I didn’t want to be this way
it is too convoluted without prenatal talent displaying itself
so not to decide.
The act of deciding is probably the point but how trite is that because
everyone must do it except……..
***
GENIUSES and trust fund babies.
***
Nope, I wanted to be something else.
I wanted to be Nietzsche, Jimi Hendrix and Bruce Lee.
I wanted my ideas to manifest and spread for all to see.
I want my will to be fulfilled and be an earthly guru.
I want to be an evangelistic with philosophy and music
and to be feared so nobody will try to fight me.
I want others to add to my images and progress in a radiant form
of talent of soul, mind and body. My shadow would cast darkness
and doubt on deluded ambition and would create a resolute condition of
creativity. Meeting the godhead and conversing having power
without corruption.
Thoughts could be mutable flesh.
***
Once in a time before thoughts escaped and became.
They fell to freedom on their own.
We went on in different stratified existence and
they went on in an innocuous form independent from us. As once they
were just ideas as we were just ideas and it could happen again.
We might encounter a thought from GOD and the infinite choir as GOD
Maybe? or even something beyond comprehension. But on a side note
I don’t want to die of syphilis or any remiss vomiting events.
I don’t want to die from some death touch or allergic reactions.
***
Hell’s fury can come from women but it is not the only scorn, I don’t want
to die at all and maybe in the future of
genetics
and bio-engineering I won’t. Probably not in my lifetime I want
to be delivered into my daydreams without plastic moldings
and cold stones. It is just another stupid opinion on another earthly
rotation in this mortal condition. I never thought I'd hate being human
and I don't feel like one.
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