The Faux Pas Press #120: Sleeping

The Faux Pas Press #120

Sleeping

By Jason Fresh

12 December 2011

There must be something happening here. I'm a tortured soul, living in a tortured world of garbage's loss. All my life I've experienced dreams of flying - all my life moving through a flax, hairy infrastructure that pulsates electronic signals like analog spirits shifting from cognisance into creative inception. All my life I've either been out of my body or out of my mind. I'm sleeping but I am awake, excited about dreams that are remarkably close to a lucid manifestation of something disgustingly real, detailed, and physical. The are so many thrills in that dream. Thrills can become the pit in a stomach where I can dream really fast, faster than I've ever thought possible. But I'm sleeping.

You know when you go to sleep, you are transiting from frequency to frequency - hoping across electromagnetic energy, preparing to wake up and sleep again, sleep in numbness, sleep in hostile visages of something you thought you might experience, sleep in the wake of waking life. You are banking and turning like a commericial jet liner. As you move through the air, objects below shift toward you in perfection or a mocking cackle at your mastery of the speed of light. And now, you can do anything you please. But you're sleeping.

The Faux Pas Press #119: Ode to Crazy Good

The Faux Pas Press #119

Ode to Crazy Good

to Miss Eleanore Cinerama

by Jason Fresh

I thought today I would write poems, or a curse, or a clever verse reaching deep into the pockets of a good woman's purse. But I decided instead to lay bare the device, to think not only once but twice upon the avarice that has become my solitude. I think it has become my choosing. And while I want you to think it is good, I can not force it. So long I've waited, and waited for a new future, a future gold-platted in the fond opinions and glances. I've not seen them. For in doing absolute good, absolutely good, all the time, one finds himself on the South side of a poets cry. According to The Prince, it is impossible to do total good all the time, even for good men like you or I, for in doing so, one finds himself in shit with not-so-good people. It would be nice to be good, nice to do what good boys should, if the glances of Eleanore don't hail me than another ugly bitch could, I'd prefer to choose not 'good' but 'crazy good'.

'Crazy good' means standing in the way of your sneer, looking deeply into the eyes of unintelligible human counterparts and asking the unanswerable question. Why? It means driving aimlessly across town to find the hottest of hot spots where volcano pushes up through pavement onto a city canvass, onto bleeding poetry, crying blood onto the souls of Hawaii. It means I don't have to be your 'good' or her 'good' or any one's fucking 'good'. "Do you think I should vote in the Republican Primary Elections? Oh, I think you should? Do you support Mitt Romney or Ron Paul? (I support the latter by the way. Romney? Hell no. Ron Paul. I said I support the latter not the latter-days.) But after all is mined in brass and wood, I think I'll choose the other fellow, that Darth Sidious-looking motherfucker hiding beneath the hood."

I'm Crazy Good - not aligned with any race except for the 2011 Honolulu Marathon held on the morning of 11 December this year. That is the marathon that will change every fiber, every fabric of who I am. What a beautiful commitment I've made. We'll see if I become sober and the halls turn to jade.

I miss the soldiers from the past and those from the future. It would be nice to see them again. I've got to pay a penance on Sunday. And I will.

The Faux Pas Press #118: Traffic and the Missing Link

The Faux Pas Press #118

Traffic and the Missing Link

By Jason Fresh

08 December 2011

Traffic. I'm interested in traffic. It demonstrates so many problems in the fabric of modern life and her little bitch called Modern Man. I want to understand why the western conventions that appropriate decaying solutions to ever-present problems can't come up with new solutions for eminent problems like climate change and hunger. I watched miles of pathetic-looking motorists shuffle at a snail's pace down the H1 freeway today while I hauled ass going the other direction. I felt awful - for a second. I pondered like a jack ass, "How? How in the fuck can someone live like that for something so meaningless. Meaningless to me - I know but shit. That house on Leeward Side, fucking Waianae and shit - that was just too damn affordable. The truck, the house, the dream, the material winning that keeps all of us in the grind. My God! Is it worth sitting in two hours of fucking traffic every morning." I won't do it. I'm interested - and a little depressed about it to say the least.

Suffering. Addicted to suffering. We must be. The Idea Sickness that gets passed around like a bong and then delicately ingrained into the unconscious mind, through the walls of robotic movement, through the numbness, the Idea Sickness sits. She waits. She asks you questions while you sleep, while you cry at night, wondering and dreaming about lives you should have been living. She's oh-so-tempting. She's convinced you that life is a linear collection of good moments to be had, a product on the other side of an American dream algorithm. You? You are a function in the dream algorithm and all you have to do is increase your value. Bullshit. You must expand consciousness. Magically exercise your will, in coordination with the Universal Will, to bring about global change. Sit in traffic as long as you must. I'd rather sleep on in the back of the Fresh-o-matic 3000. I think this is the missing link between you and your happiness. (Not me and mine. I must figure out how to live life without being intensely annoyed by everyone I meet.)

The Faux Pas Press #117: Diet Soda

The Faux Pas Press #117

Diet Soda

07 December 2011

By Jason Fresh

1. Diet Dr. Pepper

Diet Dr. Pepper is a drink that I've recently fallen for - well, when I say 'recently' what I mean is that this substance has gradually, over the course of years (7 years - I think.), worked its way into my organs. No. It has worked its way passed the matter that makes up the corpus humanus, worked its way passed the Gatekeepers of my soul - Thaddeus and Romulus. This insidious little bastard beverage has been trying to get into my pants for a while. And this year, he has succeeded. If I had a vagina and Diet Dr. Pepper had a penis, we would become great night lovers, saucing each other across a skillet of love gravy. Yes, love gravy damn it! So, recently, yes, 'recently', I've been seduced by a gay doctor named Diet Pepper. He has a twin brother and his name is'Regular Pepper' but he is a sonofabitch. I think he's a doctor too.

2. You're Fat

Diet soda is some good shit. I thought about that shit today. Diet soda is the reason I'm thin and you are incredulous about your own fatness. That's right. I just called you fat. Or, maybe you're not fat and maybe I have some horrific personality disorder that can not be cured. Very well. We'll just agree that we both like diet soda, so sweet, artificially sweetened diet soda. We like it because it makes us feel better about eating like shit. (Also, the reason I attend yoga 'almost' daily. Shit! So I can feel better about eating like shit.) I feel okay about liking this (the fact that I like diet soda) - and about eating the Cheesy Gordita Crunch from Taco Bell which I wash down with artificially sweetened soda to accompany this delicious artificial food. But you're still fat. I don't care if you feel okay about it.

I would say that I use an excessive diet soda regimen as a replacement for not understanding myself. I don't know what that means. But I like to think it means that I consume stuff to quiet the sorry stillness that rests over my heart on most days. My new attempt will be to drink diet soda, voluminous amounts of diet soda, to cope with life. This will be coping with a cigarette and an alcohol-free life. I've said this oh-so-many times. But if I have to pick the lesser of three evils, let it be diet soda. I drank me 4 of those motherfuckers today. My grandma drank tons of it when she quit smoking too. She's a model for mediocre health and a poor example for anything, but I'm all out of other places to draw inspiration. Thanks.