“Food Not Bombs”

Jeff Ott was his name if I recall correctly, and he wrote a Zine called My World  back in the 90’s during the era when he was performing punk rock music, before eventually swearing off petroleum distillates and deciding you were a hypocrite to be a punk rocker and distanced himself from all forms of amplified by a sound system music. To be honest, I have no idea what happened to him after that. He might have died in an overdose as easily as he might have got promoted to a marketing manager at Walmart. I have no idea, since I only thought of him because this song is exactly how I feel without the excess stink of hippies bleeding their hormones all over the place.

He’s a homeless guy who who was a known drug addict who played in this band in Berkeley. He taught people how to squat in abandoned buildings and wrote lyrics teaching you how to sanitize a syringe as best as it can possibly be done if the government wouldn’t provide you with needles and housing and such things as the socialized utopia had the means to give and that were already there not being used for the capitalist to squander, and that they would have to be scraped up from the poverty as depicted without pride or shame in his albums he made his case and empathized with the most impoverished in out country in a way that people who do not know homelessness or what it’s like cannot easily understand, almost so overcome with feeling about it that it’s characteristic of how they never learned how those feelings get pushed aside by reality and not feeling sorry for themselves as they ask you for change and mention god, but doing it for the naivety of the person who doesn’t realize there are buildings with running water and electricity to live in for free that belong to people who just leave them there and don’t use them, and let them fall into disrepair.

And even though he often pushes it a little damned close to the opposite extreme of liberal ignorance that is definitely out there, as much as we often have to focus on the so much more common conservative ignorance that more directly fucking things up for everyone. And yeah, it can be even the most left of center guy groan out loud sometimes despite every time he’s so on point because of how much he really lays it on thick as fuck with the hippie’s way of making out liberal ideas to be utopian and unrealistic plans that won’t functionally work out and ignoring all the problems his one sided perspective will cause if effected as extremely as he is outspoken insisting upon.

But, though his solutions are half thought at best, the problems that he identifies and the circumstances surrounding them is real as fuck shit that you have to respect him for. He’s not a crusty just because of his lifestyle. He doesn’t play crust music and he doesn’t have the type of “heroin or suicide, whichever happens first” themes that crust has. He’s giving public service announcements and trying to change the world for the better while he wastes no time expounding on how stankin’ are his pits and how dirty is the only shirt on his back for the quasi-badass quality of the crust scene. He plays an almost poppy variety of punk rock if not for the sound of his voice saying the shit he says, you’d not expect it at all.

And in a lot of ways, he was right to identify what should be obvious to anyone who has ever been or whoever will be homeless. And it points out that if you leave out all the parts that make no sense and fail to realize the other end of it all, there is yet an obvious solution to the biggest problems that face people who live in a world of poverty that is left to what could be resolved in an afternoon if those responsible for the poverty being so out of control would take a moment and a penny to clean up their trash from the banquet of blessings they leave — and we — just leave. Even if hardly the 1%, the decision in your mind to blame the homeless junkie for his condition and leave him to rot in an industry of scapegoating him for profit allowed by a public who fears the idea of handing out the things that should just be handed out as is the responsibility of those with power — and wealth, because they are the only ones who can.

And if you’re struggling to pay for your life after all you’ve earned is taken in such amount that you are hurt, then let it be understand the the problem isn’t handing out  basic things to improve society and all life in it… It’s that the people who should be making this shit happen are hiding their money and cheating through taxes and loopholes to throw the weight of it at you. In reality, the entire subsidization of shit that is just nonsense not to give out should go unnoticed completely by anyone who works a single day of their life. You could make the world a better place just by bringing a junkie inside to a clinic that really all you have to do is admit would be a good idea to make sure he is being sanitary and using a clean needle rather than funnel money into putting him in jail and forcing him to hide in bathrooms, where the filth spreads to all of us even up to the very top of the castle.

And… with the perspective of Jeff Ott, you can make sense of the part of the condition that you never made sense out of before. But like I said, that doesn’t mean the man entirely makes any fucking sense all the time or completely. But there’s wisdom there, too, if in only a percentage of things he asks for in practice have a percentage of basis with which there is no argument. Does it follow? Maybe you should just listen to him if you want to.


This picture links to the complete fucking discography of Fifteen and this man Jeff Ott playing under that banner. I haven’t thought of these songs in ages.

But the song about kicking speed and how much marijuana helped to get through it. I just have to say, that’s one of the things where the fucker was exactly right inspite of all the “heal the land and free the weed, free out bodies and our minds” tomfoolery you’d expect from a religious nut. And yet, the weed should be freed and the land… I guess the land can heal if you like the sound of that as we’re taking care of more direct problems, and maybe our bodies and minds could be given some tools to work with without language like exactly that… sounding like we believe in weird shit and might be in a cult or spend fortunes on charms.

At the base, he’s right though. Marijuana is healing me, as it always has, the moment I started taking it. I forgot that I’m not even out of dope, which I thought I was, for how long its been since I’ve done any.

Look what turns out in my vase.


That is at least enough dope to get twenty dollars, which I can’t just throw away. But… the dope is almost gone, and I’m ready for it to be gone, because I don’t want it anymore.  I want to smoke, eat, sleep, play video games, and wake up….

…and not come back to this, but just if I have to adjust my mood, use this blessing right here rolled up into a joint.

The sweetest respite is truly come from the most beautiful of life’s treasures for how genuine does it leave not a trace of regret, loss, or pain in its soothing of all things that never can quite leave out their foot print so much as sobering clarity of relaxed sleepiness and a mood that can tolerate its own mental state  long enough to get through it with clear head and no foggy side effects of drugs and medicines I’ve found in every other places that I’ve found one such thing.

So… okay. I thought my dope was almost out, but I’ve been writing this and chilling before that a while not touching it. I’m not thinking about it at all and I’m ready to slowly drift off into tiredness as I play Final Fantasy XII: Zodiac Age. You might notice me slightly more composed than before with last post’s narrator, which… that is based on a true story of how I really feel about stuff and its place in my life at this point.. Those are actual manifestations of my feelings and are characteristic of real life symptoms that I very much have.

When I stop using it even for the next few hours, the calmed, painfully awake feeling gives way into hope, and the partaking of cannabis by a tiny pipe where small hits show me the way. There will be no punishment. There will be no loss in mental function.

The smoke of the marijuana buds is fucking goodness on earth as I cannot expect you to understand it because, like anything else, the properties of good do not apply so much as they do for the one who observes the goodness, because in someone’s mind where it exists, it does not exist in another person’s.

So… If you do not get it, because you’ve experienced this or you’ve experienced that, then believe me; I would not invalidate your experiences and how living your life is uniquely a certain way, that for me to go on speaking of a goodness to you. It would be the folly of a preacher, who preaches all manner of atrocity in his moral hubris. So I will not make his mistake, and ask that you acknowledge what is righteous for all of you.

No, this goodness is known to a person like me, who is almost out of dope and ready to stop using it when it turns out…

So…. that means a lot of things. Firstly, it means that I have to not associate with the people I might sell this to, in order to get my money back. It means that when I wake up and go back to sleep and wake up and go back to sleep, I have to drag myself out of bed and find something to do and motivate myself to do it somehow before the cycle starts again.

I can do this. This dope will be just fine sitting here being not used because I don’t feel like doing it. And I’m not going to throw it away. It’s going to sit here just like last time I kicked it off for the half a year that I did last time and left all the evidence in all my drawers where I left them till I finally cleaned it all out and threw my shit in the trash. It was that… I didn’t want it triggering me, so I didn’t even look. I knew it was there. I just very badly did not want it.

And that is exactly how I feel.


There will still be evidence of sleeplessness and my abuse right now as I write, but I’ll be back to writing here. You’ll see. It’ll be writing like I wasn’t ever capable of, with all this bullshit to speak of.


so, i’m fucking mental

I thought I would address it for any one who may or may not have noticed it yet: I am fucking mental.

I’m not trying to turn this into my nearly decade old LiveJournal from my youth, with a lot of glorified life and feelings diary entries… I do’t think I could write such personal drivel everyday as I did then, which I sometimes think may have been more unhealthy than therapeutic just because of how negative and horrible I could be. — But who knows. Maybe it was the only way I could get through it was to write that stuff. It was characteristic teenage angst mixed with a portion of some type of undeveloped vast pools of some type of intelligence that didn’t grow up well into its 20’s.

If you look the blog posts I’e done here, it seems like I came around intent to talk about ska and other Jamaican music, as well as patwah, and I wrote at length about that for a short time before I disappeared and came back to analyze my older writings, which I forgot entirely that I was even intending to do till a couple days ago when it occurred to me, “Didn’t I have a place I was writing?” just like I always do when I find some I made that I don’t really… remember, know who the person is that I see always, etc.

That problem is not nearly as bad as it could be, but other people definitely notice. Sometimes I struggle to get through work but force myself till I can’tand it almost would start the ruin of my work relationships, if nopt for that when I’m on point, I’m on point, and when I’m not on point, I’m well closer than a lot of other people, if depression is what nearly gets me fired, it’s mania that comes around and sends me into a torrent for several days in which I save the entire staff single highhandedly by solving problems myself and doing it so well that morale saves everyone from a failure.

Anyone can see that I struggle with some form of occasional mood disorder, possibly milder dissociative personality disorders, having episodic occasions of delirium and pre-psychosis that is so far been only ever temporary if it gets that bad, and never to a degree where I cannot tell that I’m hallucinating and what isn’t real. Well, not very often has that ever happened. The first times I was confused but I learned how to know through logical reasoning based on a lot of things hat is likely that vividly imagined things are present but not a need for concern because they are not real.

I want to write in this, but there may be times where I just seem to radically change without transition or acknowledgement of it even ever happening in my own mind.

This will often result in disappearances that you can’t explain, if it gets to be out of control.

I know I almost started working on literature called, “Unionists Against Communism,” which was intended to be directed at places like Texas, where fear of any form of social thing is viewed as intrinsicly dangerous, to the point that the entire state has refusded to facilitate good unions for anyone working there, but has also convinced the common man living there that the union is a disadvantage to him, by allowing a system of unions that have no chance of any success at all.

Working in the industry I work in, the need for unions is a bnig deal. I know a lot of people in my real life whose stories of their abuse at the hands of employers.

I also don’t want to turn this into talk about work corner, but ther point is that unions can be good and a thing workers deserve to have in their corner. And, that just because we are for some socialized programs and things that are paid for by taxes, that doesn’t mean we’re all, “PRIVATE ENTERPRISE SHOULD DIE TODAY FOR THE GOOD OF ALL
In general, Americanns and probably other similar places have a difficult time understanding that a socialized program doesn’t rabbit hole into absolute communist extremist, no more the opposite is true of people who see the value of capitalism but still understand that there needs to a government to check the power of the other.

A lot of good ideas in government get shut down in this place. The neighborhood in the city I live in is a fairly liberal one surrounded by the red. We’re too small a district of course and are drawn out to fail on maps, because black people live here. Gerrymandering, I believe it’s called: when the drawing of district lines uses population demographics to decide where the lines gop, thus making irrelevant entire areas of people. And yeah, common people here in San Antonio (the liberals you never hear about and the conservatives everywhere) can be very all or nothing and fervently all for something without any actual sound reasoning beyond just a profound sense of pride and greatnmess that for some reason is all important to some people.

So, my point is there are people who need a voice here in San Antonio, Texas, that for many reasons, people in the world don’t know exist. And it’s really time someone started to explain how we can be for unions and not communists to people who are too simple and from the country to understand it.

I confessed at length many different feelings for someone that’s my friend who already knows I’m super intense. I feel like I’m annoying to her. But, she’s been my friend a long time, knows me well, and puts up with me even if she can’t find the words to say to how fucked up I am.

I used to write a lot about my love life in my old livejournals. Now, I only occasionally have one and I’m just not interested enough in the game of it all to obsess over it enough.

The types of feelings I confess are vert fucking intense and forward, but they aren’t desperate and weak. It’s just the truth. And I know it’s probably just me who would go all that far with it and probably seem so delirious and insane to her (because I am), but it’s okay. I know for sure that she loves me enough that I could never complain at life or ask for more than that. She tolerates me. And she’s so sweet in her own way for that, because other people don’t do that.

I just wanted to tell her. And, I guess I told her a little too much. I guess that’s my trademark.

So, I’m not writing about any of the things I was writing about before. There are other things I recall vaguely writing that I didn’t mention, or post, but will probably find somewhere eventually.

It is getting more difficult to manage (functioning like productive person) but… maybe I’m just determined enough to make it happen. Lately I’ve been growing in that direction, and even if there are spikes of hard times, it’s overall getting better with my life over the last few years.

This post will serve to transition into something else, after a few weeks of not logging in.

This Post Does Not Contain Thing Ignorant People Fear

We’re going to be talking about the genres of my writing. If you are new to my writing, you may not have seen the things I am talking about yet. I plan to to change that if you continue visiting my zine written.

The first thing I probably need to address is the GOS conundrum (a graphomanic obsession session), which this does not count as though it be strikingly similar in some ways. In order to identify what makes a writing labeled as such, we must say what writings cannot be labeled so; otherwise, all writings would appear to be graphomanic.

Without further adieu, here is the writing, originally printed in July 2016.


This is a “wall-of-manifesto” piece I wrote and originally posted to DadaNoise or an Instagram as a caption to a photograph. I edited it slightly and saved it to a graphic, because why not. Writings like this also have characteristics I categorize as, “ran on ranting clauses” and “non-poem prosaics.” These are all often types of my “graphomanic obsession sessions,” which it is important to note that this does not qualify as. While it could have been one such, it lacks the qualifying factor that is,

–GOS (graphomanic obsession session) documents are always characterized by–

…a repetition of the same words, phrases, thoughts, and ideas; occurring more than twice, and interrupting the movement from one thought into the next without insistence to further elaborate the same thing.

It need not be ongoing completely without transition to anything else, but in the text, an eventual return to the point already made must characterize the development of points from sense into seeming nonsense; or, seemingly unrelated points that meld together and…

the document may be a wall of text or a line break prosaic poem or almost anything at all, but it must perpetuate itself into an unending loop of characteristic mania…

Lastly, the characteristics described need not characterize the beginning of a document; it is only that they eventually can be identified in the text that is important to categorizing the work.

Though the style is similar to many writings I will call graphomanic, …thing that sounds bad to the all knowing consumer!, is lacking in the way of being an obsessive compulsive inability to break out of the the mental state that makes for such writing.

What makes it a “ran on rant” might seem obvious until you have observed more pure and clear examples of this genre. There are not nearly enough semicolons, parentheses, and em-dashes to truly show off what I mean when I call it the “ran on ranting clauses.” But, it still is.

The “non-poem prosaic” is essentially a thing that is not designed to be interpreted as a poem, or a lyric, which expresses itself in a style of diction that is less straight forward than prose typically is and found more often in poetry. Often times it will be a wall of text, as if to intentionally forego line breaks or a sense of metre, because it isn’t a poem. Other times it will have arbitrary line breaks thrown in haphazardly in the same intent, as if to mock its non-poem status as a thing altogether too prosaic.

It is not a “manifesto”; rather, it is a “diatribe.” In the genres of my writing, a manifesto describes a complete depiction of how and why. A diatribe expresses emotion and does not bother; though, logic characterizes neither necessarily and may or may not be present.

I will present more examples of what I am talking about in other posts.