streaming consciousness…

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  hardie karges 3:12 pm on September 6, 2008 Permalink | Reply  

  The urge to merge makes strange bedfellows. 

  It doesn’t always work out the way it seemed in the heat of passion in the throes of ecstasy in the back seat of the car. Breaking up is hard to do, or so I hear. I could never figure out how to do it, to tell someone you’d prefer not to see her again, ever. So I don’t. It’s just not true. So I let HER do it. She usually does that after an absence of a month or so on my part. Call me chicken-shit; call me indecisive; I call it accurate. No matter how fucked-up a relationship might get, it certainly doesn’t mean that I don’t want to ever see her again. So I do. I try to stay in touch. Same goes with male friends. I don’t burn bridges. I’m connected by sticky fingers to everything I’ve ever touched, mental sticky fingers. It sounds like a candy bar. Thai women frequently chop off all their hair when a relationship ends. I like that, not the hair, but the symbolism. Actually I think the hardest part is dividing the turf, as if you could just go transplant the sod in another lawn, the Astroturf theory of existence. So I don’t, accumulate possessions, that is, for that and other reasons. They end up possessing me.

   

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  hardie karges 6:33 pm on September 5, 2008 Permalink | Reply  

  There is no neutrality; there is no middle ground. 

  ‘Normalcy’ is just the average of all the ups and downs. Love and hate trade places like two sides of the same coin. Thai women are digital; they have switches for hot/cold, sweet/sour, sweet/bitchy, and ultimately, on/off. I don’t. I’m connected to everything and everyone I’ve ever met by invisible strings that bend and stretch, but never break. I don’t know how to ‘dump’ someone any more than I know how to seek confrontation. I’d rather be taken advantage of a thousand times than knowingly take advantage of someone else once. My conscience is relatively clean; my closet’s not.
   
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  hardie karges 7:17 am on September 3, 2008 Permalink | Reply
  Tags: EVOLUTION ( 21 ), sex ( 39 ), women ( 5 )   

  Women have the upper hand 

  in the meat market in the modern Piggly Wiggly. A nice-looking woman can get laid anytime she wants, foreplay optional. A nice-looking guy still has to go through all the motions, all the phone calls, all the arrangements, all the hors d’oeuvres, all the over-priced drinks, and even then has to ‘get lucky’ to get his order filled from the butcher. Still an unattractive guy can at least buy canned ham or get a face full of Spam as long as he can afford it. Unattractive women must resort to electrical appliances and divine intervention. It’s a sad fact of Evolution- the ugly ones don’t get to breed, Nature’s path of least resistance. The ugly ones don’t get to breed, and the smart ones hardly care to anymore. They just go through the motions. Sexual selection drives evolution dumber and prettier. Now that we no longer need our wits to survive, the world dumbs itself down exponentially. Still, sex is a heavenly way to ensure reproduction of the species. Having sex is looking upon the face of God, connecting to the ultimate source of space-time creation without all the unnecessary drugs, and realizing that, yes, it is good.

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    nottibits 7:37 am on September 3, 2008 Permalink | Reply

    Wow this is the exact plot of Idiocracy.

    And you have to think that the whole strategy is messed up when money enters the picture. Otherwise known as “What’s he doing with HER?” or vice versa.

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  hardie karges 6:52 am on September 2, 2008 Permalink | Reply
  Tags: sex ( 39 ), women ( 5 )   

  I want an analog woman, 

  infinitely adjustable, none of that digital shit, merely off and on, yes and no, in and out. I want infinite settings and an ocean of probabilities. I want a big brown knob that I can tweak to my heart’s content until I get things tuned just right. I want to try different flavors, different toppings, a la mode. I want light hot licks on long cold nights. I want platitudes and attitudes. I want moveable walls. I don’t want sixteen colors on two-bit logic. I want an infinite degree of separation between infrared and ultraviolet and an innumerable number of paths between them, just like that rainbow up there always perpendicular to your line of sight no matter from what angle you approach it, and not there at all when you really need it. Rainbows rule in an imaginary world, though practically worthless in real life. Women are a lot like that. Men probably are, too, if you’re a woman.

   
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  hardie karges 10:38 pm on August 31, 2008 Permalink | Reply  

  Women are digital, 

  the great 0’s making sense of men’s egocentric 1’s with their single-minded obsessions and hardened points of view. The great 0 can soften those rough edges to its own level of nothingness. All the dreams and schemes, all the cities and civilizations fade into nothingness under the spell of a woman, IOU, a baby being born, a fruit ripening, a blank canvas summoning someone to come paint it for sheer love of the paint. Sympathetic magic is like reading a letter and hearing the voice of the person who wrote it, all in a subliminal effort to bring that person closer to you, face to face. Sex implies possession the way face implies personality. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, and penetration implies possession, somewhere in the back alleys of the male subconscious. The act of penile insertion marks a territory as ‘taken’, giving notice to competitors that they should exercise other options, or be prepared to engage in battle. For all our human pretentiousness, we’re just dogs leaving our scent, or even better yet, pandas competing to see who can piss the highest and ultimately get the girl. The biggest and best might get many girls, thus strengthening the species and the progenitor’s dominance, while others get none. Sound familiar?

   
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  hardie karges 9:33 pm on August 30, 2008 Permalink | Reply  

  Interzone girls can be whatever you want them to be. 

  They’re international after all; they’re pragmatic; they’re compromising; they’re the future; they’re nothing; they’re available. Interzone girls further the progress of evolution, for a price. Interzone girls are fresh meat, trading at $100 per kilo on the FTSE exchange, price inversely proportional subject to legal age requirements. The eastern dark crude can be had for a discount at the well head, good value when compared to the northern light partially refined stuff. It all tastes like chicken. All you need is some elbow grease and a little TLC and you can turn a nifty little profit. The mail-order bride business is booming as global warming shuts down the traditional means of communications and citizens dig in for the long dark winter that usually accompanies global volcanic activity. Everything is different now. The old rules don’t apply. Long after humans cease to reproduce sexually, men will still need the illusion to function effectively, just as humans still need physical exercise even though the majority have never plowed a field or hunted an animal. The memories rule; the genes control. The memories all carry weapons. Don’t forget to wear protection.

   
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  hardie karges 8:19 am on August 29, 2008 Permalink | Reply  

  Interzone girls grab you by your semi-erect uncertainty 

  and jerk you into line, jerk you into submission. This is where the algebra of need meets the geometry of desire, and this is the turbulent fractal edge of chaos that I inhabit. The encyclopedia states that in time of famine, an animal will sell itself into captivity to secure the food it needs. That sounds really pragmatic on an animal’s part, but how can they know that? How many animals did they interview? Nevertheless, this sounds like an opportunity for everyone, not that I’m advocating sex with wildlife, just cultural exchange. No offense, but I can hardly get it up for white girls any more, no matter how physically appropriate. They’re too much like me. I already know what sex with me is like. I want the Other, the more ‘otherness’, the better. The Red Dzao girl got away, but she knew; she knew everything. She was from Outer Space, and that’s just fine. The official form asked ‘Frequency of sex?’ My preferred frequency of sex is about 108 mhz, broadcasting live into the future.

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  hardie karges 8:12 am on August 28, 2008 Permalink | Reply  

  It’s the weirdest thing in the world, 

  the connection between seminal fluid levels, images of femininity, the formation of complex emotions, and the urge to merge them all with the presumably equally mysterious nexus of another, damp with fecundity and erect with possibility. Thus the mystery of Creation, biology begets image begets desire begets biology in a never-ending dance. What’s it like without image? Do dogs get images of the bitches they want to fuck? Do they get any other images? Do they feel emotion? Do they miss their mates? The females will sacrifice everything but their own lives to save that of their offspring, then walk away like nothing happened when the battle is lost and life goes on. Humanity produces sages and saints, masters and magicians, who live and die and devote their lives to tell you nothing more than what you already knew before you got ‘civilized’.

   
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  hardie karges 9:01 am on August 26, 2008 Permalink | Reply  

  Obsession with sex is seen variously as vulgar, nasty, or downright perverted, 

  but it’s definitely good for Evolution. Evolutionary success, after all, means reproductive success, nothing more and nothing less. Species don’t go extinct because of lack of food or water or clothing. They go extinct because they don’t reproduce fast enough. Thus was born the ancient expression “fuck you”. Love is a by-product, industrial waste, a wet spot on the bed, logic used to back-fill a gap in understanding that’ll never be bridged by conventional means. Considering that human populations have sextupled in the last three hundred years, I guess we’re doing pretty well. That ‘love’ shit really worked. Cancel the visual aids. Bring on the birth control. Bring on Islam; bring on the veil; bring on four jet planes flying at the speed of sound crashing headlong into skyscrapers and window-washers uttering oaths of communion to a God they expect to meet any moment now. The guys on the other side of the plane’s front window are saying the same thing, expecting to soon see all the virgins that they couldn’t see in high school, because they were all wearing veils. The God they worship and the Prophet who fingered him have no faces, either. It’s probably better that way. They won’t be able to see the mockery that’s been made of the universal Truths that they stand upon as foundations. When religions are no longer capable of teaching anything and are too flimsy to use as doorstops, they are best utilized as pretexts for good old-fashioned racism. The jihadis never figured that out, or did they? Where does the race lead if not perdition? Everybody can’t win, unless we all tie, bind ourselves to the same God, timeless and eternal, and leave the dirty work to the politicians.

   
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  hardie karges 9:08 am on August 25, 2008 Permalink | Reply  

  Love is one hell of a way to ensure reproduction of the species. 

  You can back-fill the logic later; you can send love letters and postcards, but at the end of the day you’re just planting seeds and watching them grow, plowing fields and digging furrows according to the lay of the land. We all work for the big D here, DNA writ large over the entire field of human endeavor no matter how you spell it, watching and waiting with all the patients in the world. God works in strange ways, the end of all paths, the beginning of all endeavors. God picks up where Ego leaves off, soothing the fried and battered soul, feeding the famished affections. If I could understand it, then it wouldn’t be God.