February 6th, 2022 9:28am pst

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Blood Audio

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"Yesterday had better not return. The beginning was ok, though. Coffee and the usual. Unfortunately, this morning I am feeling the weight of the entire day. Today is Saturday. No early routine. That is good, because I need to sort out a few items. Turn a corner, as it were. This will be a red-letter day. Plans. And the dress will be along for the ride. She has the weaponry to destroy whomever wishes to come along. All I have are words, and they seem to accomplish nothing. Force threatens, words float along and then disappear. Today I can rework. Also, there is a bit of a story here which may or may not end up interspersed with violent words and a threatening posture because I've fucking had it. I am sick of dealing with other people. Sick of it.

0701 on the fifth day of the second month. Friends up there again. I will make a concerted effort to avoid all the gushing like in that last essay. I really went on about her again but it is not healthy. It is obsessive and boring. I will do my best to leave that woman out of this entry.

'The industry's bible' is what the cover said. October of eighty-nine. I picked up the issue that month because fall always featured the annual equipment directory which was indispensable to me back then. I found it during a time when smaller bookstores were still dotting the landscape of the big indoor malls, like the one just south of the Evergreen. It was huge, two levels at each end and three in the center. Very unique. That was where the jewelry store was located... The one I stood outside waiting for her to finish work. I stood at the railing and perused the magazine. I can sort of picture the scene right now. She was in there with the other employees (that was before everyone had to be called 'associates' even though they were EMPLOYED by an EMPLOYER) finishing the work of closing. I read and learned. Waited. And I just found the exact issue of the magazine I was reading thirty-two and a half years ago in that mall. The big auction site never ceases to amaze.

Having a hard time leaving her out of this shit. Fuck.

We met in September, the same month as another meeting many years later which would eventually represent my slow decline from the strong and intelligent person I was prior to her and down into whatever I am now. The woman I met in eighty-nine was different. We were both younger. Anyway, rolling into the holiday season not long after meeting was very nice. I believe I've already overly gushed regarding the holidays during the glow, too. I need not belabor the point anymore. Eighty-nine. We hit it off and rolled straight into the last three months of the year and I soon learned that she loved Christmas as much as I did. Wonderful. Believe it or not, that magazine -- along with the same directory the following year -- remained in my possession for years. I loved the entire hobby. Some time ago I mentioned the electronics store in that other big mall and how we always wandered into it to see what new and exciting items were available. Portable audio and the like. I loved it.

Now? Everything in that industry which is mainstream has been reduced to the same shit everywhere... Speakers and audio players, the shrinking of components because no one wants to see anything, and a dramatic reduction in the ready availability of audio equipment in general. Wireless, smart, whatever-the-fuck happens to be easy and inexpensive. I guess no one gives a shit about the word 'stereo' anymore. Music is typically recorded in stereo, for fuck's sake. Now back to the other way.

Today. 0757 and third cup of coffee. The weather has been the same for days; cool in the morning and then sunny throughout the day. Warm sun, cool breeze. Not exactly ideal for the garage unless I have a specific plan. Unfortunately, I have not been able to calculate much lately due to being so fucked in the head. I have allowed myself to fall victim to the pull of other people and need to reign in shit so I can work on what I need to survive. That means caring for business around the house and pushing myself to improve things. With other people's need for an audience, I've become distracted. This reminds me of the cauliflower and blood being sprayed all over the place. I can only say so much, though. I might be too angry to adequately express what is going on inside right now, as well. Far too angry for clarity. I'll have to embrace the isolated comfort later this morning and see if it helps.

The stores lining the big mall. No, not the one where we met, the other one across town which I believe is now the largest in the state. The place is different now, though. We were there on a few occasions during the last two years or so, lunch and whatnot, and I couldn't help but notice the expansion and additional garages. That mall is enormous these days. During the glow it remained pretty much the same. At the time it was owned by Macy's, too. The Emporium at the west end eventually went away in favor of a second Macy's. They anchored each short end of the mall. In between was my favorite array of stores. I've discussed this before, but sometimes I feel it and have to go on a bit. Those stores were magical. That was a time when televisions were actually exciting. The technology had been exploding during the late eighties and culminated in some amazing models to see each time we visited. These days everything looks the same. Flat this and sound bar that. Whoopie. Nothing dramatic anymore, especially with audio. No one seems to give a shit, either. Maybe I am the only person who has noticed the difference. I don't know. The subject is dear to my heart, yet still makes me angry. So many wondrous discoveries and fantastic emerging technologies all gone by the wayside in favor of a little phone that has replaced everything. For fuck's sake, I've always like the appearance and mood of the restaurant in this scene, but as usual there is an uncredited hostess ('female host' is better, I suppose) in the background looking like a dream despite being out of focus. Basket case. Anyway, I can still see the way the walk looked all those years ago. I can see some of the storefronts. They are missed. There was hope and wonder. Everything is now generic and boring. Marvelous. Tony: 'You look around America today and everything looks the fuckin' same. Old Navy and Bed, Bath and whatever.' Amen, my friend. Generic.

There is no way to fight the changes. No one I've spoken with seems to give a shit, either. I don't understand, unless of course they have had their faces glued to the phones long enough to lose track of reality. Heh, and I live in a dream world. Which is worse? At least I'm not stuck on suck.

Four(?) severed carotid arteries. Read into that one, motherfucks. The cauliflower never fades away.

The earliest mention of Jamie's name on the site was April of twenty. Interesting.

'Garçon means boy.' Ninety four.

This day could be good. It really could. All I have to do is embrace a bit of the anger and hold tight through the hours. Garage, house, streamlining, fortification, whatever... Hold the anger inside and work along with purpose. We shall see forsooth. The alternative has been the norm for so long that I can't even remember a time when I was productive for more than a few minutes before falling backward onto my sorry ass. Either music in the background or through the MDRs can do the trick. Anger leads in one of two ways. Either I being nesting or I thrash stuff into order. Nesting is funny. Thrashing is entertaining. The more I think of the blood all over the floor, the more I need to force this house into good form. I have two hands, not one. Look it up. 'Historically, historical changes have come out of war.' You tell 'em, Carmine. Coffee is waning.



01

02

Take a guess


Reach and pull. Then push. 'Fukitol' is not just a medication anymore. 'Tony egg'.

Gold there. Right over there. The blue dress contrasts it nicely. Gold all over. Misco wire, too. Not square wire, but misco. Blinds and blinders. Blind. Blood. Burning blood. Hot and thin. All around. Gallons. The dress will soon be covered. The skates didn't work. The paneling did, yet not much. Holiday. Holiday(s). Rust.

[sic]

Oxidation of life.

0855. No more coffee, damn it. Soon I have to do something else. Dinner never materialized last night so the kitchen is little work today. I'll care for the usual. The morning has not been as difficult as most others, as well. I don't know why. Perhaps I am just too rankled lately. Not certain. Rosary. A medal. War. One older gentleman -- both within fiction and in real life -- garnering more respect than I can possibly convey here. Sadness. Empty dress. Distress. Prowess. Loveliness, I must confess. Bloodiest. One could land a fucking helicopter on Tina's lips. Geez. Background of wonder, foreground of familiarity. Prowess. No less. Meanness. Unless? Fortress. The background is not real.

Caverns again. Cold and damp, dark and foreboding. I live in the caverns. Knives. Cauliflower. Images of ultraviolence. Images of Angela. Images of red. Blood in the caverns. Big mess, no less. Fuckery. There is the girl with the huge hair.

I embraced the two-channel audio both at home and in the car. Eighty-nine was a period in which my buddy and I were deep into the mobile audio. Deep. We built everything, learned as much as we were able, and then enjoyed the fruits. His truck, my car. And then the other friend got wind of what we had been doing and asked for help. I helped. I turned his Thunderbird from a rolling automobile into a rolling audio system. The work was a complete pain in the ass but paid off when we first took a ride. The disc we used to test the system was none other than one of the first I had ever owned, and one she bought for me. A glowing disc. The music still glows in the present. I cannot forget. The two-channel audio went from my parents' living room to the truck, on to my car, eventually into the other car, and then around my head. Studio monitor headphones came at a premium but she said I was worth the cost, bless her generous heart. Along with the headphones? The most complex and expensive portable disc player in the world. That was a Christmas gift. And then the shortwave radio of which I had dreamed since inception a few years earlier. God damn was she ever sweet. Audio and music reproduction were the pillars of my life. Two channels only; the exact manner in which the music was recorded in the first place.

Now there is blood all over the audio equipment. Not like the past when it shined, but parallel to my mind. Whatever will we find when finally we unwind? Blind. Undermined. Twined to the rind. The fruit of life has been unkind.

0930 and all is quiet. Gangsters. Tina's frightening face. Chris being an idiot directly in front of his goddess sweetheart of a woman. Idiot. Idiot. Fucking blind asshole. Whatever. Still cold outside.

Futuretronics was the place. I spied the disc player. Two, actually. That was a time when single-bit processors were creeping in and replacing the units which oversampled. The Holy Grail of players was not single-bit, however. One of the last in a long line of oversampling units, actually near the peak number of sixteen. I fell in love, yet the price was four times more than the next unit in line. She didn't care. When Christmas rolled around, she picked up and wrapped BOTH of them due to being unsure of the correct model I wanted. The other was returned shortly after the holiday. I've written an entire entry around the model number of the one I owned up until eleven. So sad. Another regret. The radio is gone, too. Sometimes I chalk it up to bad timing, while other times I feel I betrayed some of my most prized possessions due to being blind and weak. That entire period was wrought with mistakes. The disc player was one victim out of many. I miss it to this very day. The portable audio landscape has changed so dramatically in the last several years that discs have gone mostly by the wayside. Generic. Digital, still, yet very generic.

Another guy in the trunk of a car with a golf club cover stuffed in his mouth. He should have known better. You don't mess with THOSE people. Not at all. Dumb fuck.

I have to plug this machine into the wall. Just to put a point on the disc player gifts, she paid more than nine hundred for two of them. Think about that for a moment. More than thirty-two years ago. Just think about it.

This scene makes my heart hurt. Others always think it's funny, but I cannot see such a stance. Another reason why I no longer fit into society. Every time this episode rolls around, I mute the sound during the scene in question. I can't listen anymore. Call me overly sensitive. I don't care. A product of circumstance, for the thousandth time. This is the way I am and the way I shall remain until the end. I still don't understand why we have developed as a people in such a fashion. I just don't fucking get it. The entire subject forces me to dream of the blood everywhere. Slice and dice, make a mess. An example, a lesson, no less. Distress? Prowess. Nothing left to bless or caress. I will never confess. That is a guess. Blood on the audio. Blood on the past. They should not last. Grim repast. Knives. The scene is over for this go-around.

Beer in the morning. Do you miss half-nude women in provocative poses? They will return if my mood improves. Not likely, but I have the images in reserve just in case of a miracle.

This is the second place I have lived in which there exists no analog audio. I had it in the garage while living in the valley, but that was the last time. I left all that equipment behind when I moved. I had been relegated to digital in the interest of saving space. I'd like to go back but the cost is high and I cannot throw money at problems anymore. Someday, perhaps. Honestly, if this house were only mine, the living room would appear quite different. A tower of components and a pair of massive floorstanding loudspeakers. I always have such things in mind. Right now the only overpowering music emanates from the garage. Four drivers up high and one huge powered subwoofer under my workbench. The setup gets the point across, believe me. Those evenings when the colored lighting is glowing and the doors are open go hand-in-hand with music. Sometimes very loud, other times in the background. That may be the place for the analog, too. Right now I don't know. As I said, everything takes money. Short supply and different choices mean nothing new on the audio front these days.

I used to dream of a house completely fortified with an enormous and very powerful audio system, so much so that people would hesitate to approach the door. I am referring to concert-worthy power which interferes with a person's heartbeat from fifty yards. I was young, though. Unrealistic. Even back then I wanted to keep others away. Interesting.



03


The audio equipment is full of blood because my head is full of the same. The cauliflower line... The tank yard. Knives sharpened regularly. Arteries.

I sat in the little hotel across the highway from my previous place of residence with that beautiful hunting knife sitting in its sheath and at the ready. I watched television and ate pizza. I went to the Horse and sat there trying to shut the mouth of the bothersome guy next to me. Newcastle and Jameson, just like the year prior to my attaining the apartment. He would not let up no matter how much I pushed back. Finally, and after a good hour of is attempts to force me into commenting upon the future of some business venture, I laid out the idea that I was not going to be alive much longer. Maybe a day or two, but not more. At that point he did leave me be, albeit after a short lecture about the precious nature of life and some related shit. I was not in the mood to hear it. The knife was calling me and only one person in the world knew where I was. Shortly thereafter, I walked across the bridge with the intention of approaching her door to ask for help. Stop. Back a few steps to the end of the strip mall. Out came the phone. 'Call the police', I told her. Nothing. 'I am in a bad way right now. Call.' Again, nothing. No rise whatsoever. I stumbled back to my hotel room and went to sleep. I had not the strength to be weak. The next night? The same. Another day and I drove back to my old home in the valley where I had been graciously invited to live until the turmoil ceased. The knife is now resting in my emergency bag in the office closet. It has never cut anything. Nice and shiny.

Blood everywhere. All over the machinery and cauliflower. All over the floor. The walls, too. Streams. I left that job. I went to the market and applied. And then I met Pam (she is on my right arm now). And then everything went to hell. And then I met Kim and we planned the trip. And then she demurred. And then I moved back home and wrote some of the story on my skin. Elizabeth tried to help, bless her kind heart. She is on my left arm. I was free for a time; free to do whatever or pursue anything. Eventually I forgot about the blood.

No longer.

1039 and I am losing thought cohesion. Maybe time for housework. Everything is so very sad these days. The analog gave way to the digital; two channels gave way to just one. The magic has been shoved aside in favor of convenience. The blood has faded out of a lack of constitution. It used to be seventeen, then twenty-five due to magical properties embedded within a ring. Now? I believe the number is a single digit. The world appears to have been covered by a semi-translucent scrim, leaving the landscape without contrast. Technology rose and fell, only to rise again with a distinct lack of wonder. Some history will never repeat. Very sad.

Society is vanilla. The ice skates may have been key. They are gone.

1140 with a nice glass of scotch. I took care of part of the routine and have some laundry going. We are supposed to go to the big wine store today, so if I don't wash clothes I'll be shopping in pajamas. Not good. I'm thinking about doing a pickup order, too. We can shop here and then head there to grab everything. Last time the order process was ideal. Very quick. Browsing the store can be cost prohibitive. Heh. I can smell the scotch sitting there. Splendid. Mazel Tov, just like those lovely women are singing through my six channels of home theatre audio. Yes... Again with the audio. Patterns of air movement rule my existence much of the time. Not just the wind anymore. Ah... Scotch.

Bloody memories swirling patterns of violence in my head this morning. The line was quiet, peaceful, yet inside me resided the noise and mayhem. Influence? Oh, yes, very much. I was pulled into a certain way of thinking -- one which cuts through the din and clarifies, like greed -- and remained in such a mindset for a few months. Arrgh, damn. There she is. Fuck. Anyway, prior to making the trip to the Midwest I had been very wary of people and society. Specifically the manner in which some will either push others down for their own gain or disregard others' needs entirely. I hated it. The violent mindedness remained for a while upon returning home two years later and then flared again upon working for the calibration lab. We had the trailer (mobile lab) to bring the workplace to the customer, meaning we traveled all over to many different cities quite often. Some areas were nice while others were questionable at best. I was split between weeping for the future of society and wishing it could be reset completely. Such a goal requires violence; the supreme authority from which all other authority is derived. Believe it. Two axioms: 'Those with the weapons make the rules', and 'history is invariably written by the victors'. There is simply no getting around such facts. I considered every possible facet of life and history whilst standing at the cauliflower line. Blood was the typical daily conclusion. Sometimes I am happy it ended, other times not so much.

'I had a few beers but it [sic] just made me sick.' Fucking moron.

One city in particular was the worst. We were told to avoid being in the area after dark, no matter what. Get the hell out before the sun sets. The situation could have been different had a third axiom been employed long before that city even existed... 'An armed society is a polite society.' Again, believe it.

Enough of that shit already. Blah, blah, blah bloodyweaponcakes.

I can see the ice skates hanging on a Macy's Christmas tree display, sans price tag. Their 'holiday lane' department was in the big home store just past the Cellar Cafe and electronics department. We strolled through just after the holiday to find some sale items, whatever seemed nice and affordable. We browsed, and then there they were. Beautiful beyond words. I have never seen their equal. Right smack dab in the middle of the fucking glow. Family gatherings, holidays, you know. I've said it how many times? The exact opposite of blood all over the cauliflower. Damn it all.

We had an old console television with a massive roof aerial for reception. Flatland out there, miles of it. Stations were crystal clear from eighty miles distant. The aerial had a rotor, too. The controller dial had little stickers with numerals for rotating the big antenna toward whatever network was desired. Five of them, in fact. Only five. I only lived with such a lack of choices for so long, though. Eventually I performed a bit of research and had 'wireless cable television' set up. Yes, I know the phrase is a severe oxymoron, however the point was a small, line-of-sight antenna receiving cable networks from a hub not far from home. Once that was finished, I took an old speaker from my truck and built a subwoofer column which stood behind the corner television. With my old Realistic loudspeakers and that woofer cabinet, we enjoyed decent audio in the living room. A funny? When I visited three years after moving back to California for the purpose of gathering some possessions I had left behind, that subwoofer was still there. Heh. The twin Realistics came with me, though. They are standing in the living room to my left at this very moment. The receiver and turntable are long gone, but I will hang on to the twins for as long as I draw breath. My parents purchased them when I was one year old. We sat in that room watching Christmas movies over my goofy sound system as the ice skates gleamed under multi-colored lights. Everything makes me sad. The memory of that ornament is fast becoming one of the defining aspects of my entire life.

This day may turn into nothing if she remains in bed much longer. Eh... I don't care. Not much ambition, anyway. Caring is very low on the list these days. The dermatology nurse on the screen is fucking gorgeous. Sixties hair, too. Doesn't matter.



04

04

05


Still angry. I am no one. Still vacillating about the watch, believe it or not. A few years ago I would have hit the button immediately, but I must remain mindful of the budget. Maybe, maybe not.

Adriana is shown split by mirrors quite often. There is a reason but I won't say. And ooh-fa, the fucking waddling hips that just dropped Tony a cocktail. Exposed midriff just above. Eh... You already know.

The knives were extremely sharp due to the fact that most accidents are due to dull knives in the kitchen or workplace. I spent enough time as a butcher to be wary of dullness. The same goes for a razor used to shave. I've never been cut by a new one. The cauliflower bowed to the power of the knives, and very quickly. Part of the job was to ensure consistent cuts and sized vegetables for packaging. I daydreamed of consistent cuts elsewhere. Blood on the line.

On Wednesday I finally reinstalled the fourth speaker and connected it to the jukebox at the bar. It's been down since the last remodel toward the beginning of the pandemic. Once up and running, I ran some tests to ensure balance, but the audio was not good. I had to physically open the jukebox (a ten-thousand dollar machine) and fuck with the service menu for the better part of an hour in order to finally have the sound squared away. Apparently, someone familiar with one of the bartenders had been in there jacking shit around, which left me to realign half the settings. I don't like it when people fuck with that sound system. I had gone to great lengths in the past to set up not only the music side of things, but the television audio as well. Large sporting events could be broadcast through the jukebox for better sound when the bar was busy. Well, all that was fucked up again so I had my head in the thing for the umpteenth time. Upon leaving the bar Wednesday, I had the system purring like a kitten, so to speak. I believe that jukebox is one of the very few audio aspects of my life which does not ask to be covered in blood. Scotch and gangsters, laundry and computer. Such is my life now.

I was stationed in Okinawa for more than two years during the mid-eighties. My favorite place in town to spend time was called the East Coast. I still have a drawing I made from upscaling precision measurements of their logo on a box of matches. The box is long gone, yet I still have the drawing as well as a scan of it. Years ago I tried to clean up the scan so it could be enlarged and printed into a wall hanging but never finished. That bar was called a 'rock house' due to the enormous sound system coupled with a projector and screen for broadcasting music videos (I will avoid getting into the shit way the original music television changed over many years). I spent so much time there that eventually I was paid as one of the video jockeys, believe it or not. Their audiovisual equipment was amazing to see and I felt special due to being chosen as an operator. I even befriended one of the owners (an Okinawan national) and visited other clubs with him for the purpose of keeping his club up to date with the times.

After months of spending nearly all of my off-work time in that rock house, I began to use my vast inborn creativity to design my own club. Yes, I said that, and I still have the drawings and technical plans from eighty-six. Believe it, baby. Anyway, the design was to be a massive castle with medieval theming, multiple rooms and bars, and even a restaurant. I can still see the facade all these years later. Power from experience at the rock house and theming inspired by my love for Disney. There is a life-sized platinum dragon standing in the center of a cavernous foyer. Waterfalls. Streams. Colored lighting. I can fucking SEE it right now.

Some of my time on that little island was difficult. I've never been the aggressive type, meaning others saw me as weak. Keep in mind that even as a US Marine I was picked on once in a while. Not often, but often enough to force me into daydreaming of being powerful. Combine that with years of extensive experience playing fantasy board and role-playing games, and the result was similar to the cauliflower room... Except replace the knives with swords and axes. There were days I felt so far beaten down that my brain manufactured scenarios involving fleeing from the barracks in hopes of flying home, leaving a swath of blood in my wake. That's right, kids, more violence. Blood everywhere. And believe me, those weapons -- flailed maces, battleaxes, and the like -- do much damage. Haphazard, ripping cuts from which there is no healing. They were in mind. My mind. I wanted out of there at times, yet I was finally able to find a balance and right myself before being rotated back to the states. There was much good food to be had on that island along with lots of enjoyment with friends, but when I reminisce about it now, what I see is blood-soaked audio. Suck on that one.

1301 and it looks as if I will be sitting here all fucking day. Splendid.

I just pushed the button on the watch. Insane. My mood should improve for a time when it arrives.

Back to the afterglow. That period was magical in a few different ways. One was simply being there, far from what I had always known. Another was my affinity for film. Music is up the scale, too, but still an entirely different animal. I felt closer to my dreams of the north due to both the climate and location. Not as far north as I had planned prior to moving, yet still up there quite a bit. The realization that I had come to a place more aligned with my dreaming took a while to sink in. [Jesus fucking Christ, the onset of dyslexia while writing with pencil and paper was bad enough. Lately I have been experiencing the same with this keyboard. Just another step down from who I once was. And there is TB's big-eyed, goofy woman again.] The landscape was somewhat barren when we arrived due to the time of year. Behind the house was a country block of farmland that had been sheared completely and left flat. The farmers rotated crops from one season to the next in order to keep the parasites from digging in. That is what I had been told, anyway. The only crop he planted with any decent grown height was corn. Everything else was pretty well low to the ground, thus opening up the view.

I don't know where I was going with that story. This is a new day, Sunday at 0637. The Midwest story will have to wait until I can recall the point. One thing, though... Up to this part of the entry, the entirety has been crafted in a matter of hours.

Sunday, indeed. I had to run to the market at 0600 straight up. No one there. That is the best time to go these days. I really don't need to be in a place like that during peak hours. It always goes bad one way or another. The big wine store yesterday was decent, too. Nothing much going on over there other than a bare Asian midriff in the parking lot. Sweat pants, of all things. Super cute but not a problem. The store was mostly empty. Upon returning home, the evening began and I worked in the kitchen while doing my best to consider what can be accomplished today.

Rotated crops. Hmm. I wonder what I was going to say up there. I remember looking out over the land behind the house quite often. The storms, too. The weather caught me off guard during the first winter but I worked on everything and was ready for the second. Maybe I was referring to the north dream as it related to my increasing disdain and disgust for society. Sitting there with the drawings and dreaming of being out and away from the din and downtrodden states of life was a daily situation. I believe I've gone into the feeling of those drawings and the entire time I worked on them. Dreaming of boats? Yachts? We went to a lot of boat shows in that state because her dad had one and loved to browse. Most likely I brought up the feeling of being closer to the north because leading up to moving to the Midwest was one of the strongest urges I ever had to get the fuck out. The books and planning. Have I discussed that already? Probably.

For whatever reason and at some point during the early glow, I grew into a tendency to really watch what society was doing at a given moment, cars on the road and the attitudes of those driving them, and the direction of television programming, although the latter was not a big deal until the zeros. Hmm. And there she is. I said I would try to avoid the usual floaty hearts and goo ga shit. God damn. Screen caps, and soon. Completely in love.



06

07


The cauliflower line and subsequent forced dreaming were much worse than any attitude toward society while I still resided in California. Much worse. I felt partially poised, honestly. And the influence still exists to this very day. Trying to understand such a mindset after leaving this state for a place much less populated and more peaceful is an exercise in futility, to be sure. One would think my shit view of everything would have eased up some while living in a rural area and feeling closer to exotic places I dreamed of visiting. I suppose the area had its pitfalls just like here, albeit involving different issues than I had understood were an integral part of a large populace. Something must have taken place during ninety-four and combined itself with my built-in experience of dealing with people here. I just don't know what it was. The following year when I took the job at the market was different, too. Not as angry. At least, that's what I remember. I caused my share of trouble, yet working there did not push me into the same type of violent thinking as the tank yard. Maybe I'll never understand.

The price of gas at a station in the background of this scene is $1.61/gal. Jesus. Down the street where I was this morning the price is $4.89/gal. Twenty years between, almost exactly.

I keep seeing that smiling face and I know she was an actor. That was the reason for the smile, although it did appear genuine. Sometimes I think about it and lose my way, leading to almost losing my mind. I just don't understand why some things are such a fucking pain in the ass while at the same time being a dire compulsion. She looked so pretty, too. Not very tall, hair not terribly dark, but eyes which expressed quite a bit and came across as kind and sweet. And yes, I know it was just acting, but I can't get her smile out of my head these days. I need to understand this. I really do. The alternative is remaining emotionally blocked for all time. And I am not referring to the one on the screen right now. Someone else. Just thinking.

The fact that I did not have Kim and her delicious little rear end in the truck next to me while driving across the country mean I had to focus upon other devices for entertainment and to pass the time. I had the two-way radio and the stalk radio. Stalk? Yes... Something I fell into during a trade some years earlier. It was perfect for the cab of the truck, too. A remote-mounted amplifier connected via long cabling to the control head which was up near the left side of my steering wheel. The controller was detachable and mounted on a very stiff, flexible holder which articulated for the best interface. Basically, the system was only radio due to my not having the proprietary cabling required for adding an auxiliary input source. Me being me, and knowing the amplifier's power would be wasted on nothing more than a pair of speakers in the metal doors, meant I had to do something more interesting, which ended up being the same drivers in a wood cabinet to ensure proper loading of the cones. The audio became greatly improved. Unfortunately, that box did not make it to the Midwest because we needed every inch of space to haul our stuff and the configuration of the cab meant if the box was present there could be no passenger. I had designed it for solo commuting, not long trips. Anyway, that speaker box rode along with me daily as I drove through the crappy towns between where I lived and work. I had become accustomed to the range and impact of my little system, meaning the drive back here from the Midwest had me primarily listening to talk radio and nothing else. That was the mid-nineties, anyway, so radio stations in the middle of the desert were not common.

Where is the blood? I guess that one aspect of my mobile audio adventures has no apparent connection with any violent thoughts other than those shitty neighborhoods through which I traveled for work each day. The opposite was built up soon after returning home in ninety-five. Up the page somewhere I referred to the car audio my buddy and I built into his truck, afterward the other system in the friend's car. About nine months back I wrote a bit of a recollection about my own car, being the first actual 'new' car I'd ever possessed:

'Within a year of completing the system (except I never carpeted the fucking door panels), people came over the hill from a shitty town and ravaged the car, taking everything except the smaller speakers. At that point -- and as one could imagine -- my mood went very far south. Very soon after that event I began to embrace much harsher music. Another use for the word 'ceaseless'... The anger which arose that morning when I realized my car had been robbed did not leave. Still there, in one form or another. Originally I blamed the bad people from the other side of the hill for causing such a mood, but over time I know I blame the whole of society, and by extension, every person making up that society. The more I considered all of the sweat and blood left in that little car for more than a year of building the most powerful and complex audio system I'd ever attempted, the more the disdain for others grew. None of it ever ceased. I have little to no regard for human beings, and remember that is but one tiny speck of an event throughout the whole of life. Just one.

You wanna talk about a bad mood? Go for it. The system meant more to me than I can convey here... Ever. And I am not referring to the material cost. I am speaking of the cost incurred to my being. One of the worst aspects to come of that time is the fact that I have not since worked with car audio at all. Not even for others. I dropped it entirely due to having my ambition destroyed and hope burned to death. When I think of those exciting trips to the merchants with their endless arrays of technical prowess, I recall the same with a dash of hatred.

I am more angry about it now than I was just hours after losing everything. And I do know that I left my car unprotected aside from locking the doors. I expected it to be fine. It didn't take long for those who knew me to tell me I was partially at fault for what happened. Really? Me? I am a person who expects only bad things to take place in life now, but then I still had some hope. Their reaction and subsequent bullshit about spending too much time and money on the audio system has never been accepted. In the end, and due to the shitty mood carrying on for more than twenty years, I now categorize those people closest to me as a part of the fucking problem. Read that again. Fucking sheep. Disagree with me and see what happens.'

Blood audio, and the highest order of my worst mood in life. Well, almost. As I sit here right now, the cauliflower line was but a crumb fallen off a planet-sized, decaying crust made up of people. They are all at fault in one fashion or another. Even me, yet I need to be here to tell stories, right? Fuck you. The audio memories are all splattered with MY OWN FUCKING BLOOD, assholes. Get it? Pissed off again.

Today I am going to run a test on the Realistic twins standing here in the living room. A few weeks back I had the cubes in stereo and played music for a while, yet the design of those little guys coupled with the subwoofer was meant for multi-channel audio from video. Home theatre, more or less. They simply do not perform as well as a stereo pair with some decent footprint. As much as people want huge sound from small packages, the fact of the matter is in order to move massive amounts of air, some fucking backing volume is required. No, not the 'volume control' on the equipment, you fucking imbeciles. I was referring to proper loading of drivers in a cabinet and the volume of air behind the cones. Eh... Fuck it. No one gives half a shit anymore. Basically I am going to pipe some audio through the very old speakers to learn if they still operate properly. I had to rebuild one of the passive crossovers (devices which direct different frequencies to the proper-sized drivers, i.e. treble to the tweeter and bass to the woofer) and did not have a problem with it afterward. When we bought the house in the valley many years later, I had them cranked pretty well while painting and did not run into problems. The only rub could be the fact that the cones are paper and the suspension is likely rubber, meaning they could begin to disintegrate but show no outward signs. The only way to know for sure is to run some power through. I need to know if they are alright. They have a special place in my heart. The speakers have resided in fourteen places I've lived throughout more than fifty-three years. Unreal.

There are nearly as many bad, violent memories attached to that time period as there are good. Some cannot be mentioned, however.



08

09


I wish I could comfort that woman on the screen. Just to hold her for a little while. Sorry. I said I'd leave her out of this. Compelled.

I see the smiling face again. All lovie-dovie and sweet. Enjoying. Generous. Damn it. This is a bad time. Oh, and the other one... Big, beautiful eyes. Brightness. Fuck. Whatever. Not only is this a bad time, but the dire feelings have the capability of driving me into very reckless and dangerous territory... Nearly as bad as the daydreams on the line in ninety-four. I am not referring to picturing the lovely Angela with her rear end up in the air, this is much worse. Dire and heading toward a hair trigger. Not good by any stretch of the word. I have to either find a way out or stop picturing that stunning smile. Every. Fucking. Day. Back to the grind.

Aside from the speaker experiment, this is a Sunday so I have my usual routine and the garbage. Hopefully the sun I see out there will warm the garage and enable me to organize a bit. She will be gone for a few hours beyond noon so I'll have the place to myself and my friends on the televisions. I have to go further, though, as I have been mentioning for weeks. There has been a bit of progress but always something to drive me down, be it earlier or later on a given day. As of yet I have not found a way around those tough times. I also need to find a manual for the garage door opener as one remote has failed and the other is on its way downhill. I have the smart switch which operates the door from my phone or the Echo, but her car is in need of a reliable remote. I'll see what I can find. The trip to the wine store yesterday means I can enjoy the usual mid-morning cocktail to settle my thinking processes. A crutch? I don't give a shit. Still in a bad mood, and than means removing ANYTHING I still enjoy would be ill-advised. Now is not the time to fuck with my comfort.

0846 and this entry began a mere twenty-six hours ago. I guess there have been some things to say. I used to consider the writing as it was attached to moods. The conclusion from years ago was that I had a tendency to write more clearly while angry or depressed. That may actually be true because I'm drowning in a bowl of both right fucking now, and this essay is rather lengthy considering the time involved. I may run out of stories.

Adriana's bra in this scene has two separate straps on each cup leading up to her shoulders. I know Chris made lots of money and bought her nice things, but that garment is both interesting and beautiful. It reminds me of the demi that Juliette picked up for God-only-knows how much money way back years ago at La Perla. Hmm... It looks as if the straps join at the back, but I can't be certain. There is nothing wrong with pricey or exotic lingerie in my opinion. I've been told by more than one woman that the feeling of knowing something pretty was underneath their clothing can be nice. I wouldn't know. Two straps. That's different, I suppose.

Aida Turturro is absolutely fantastic.

. Bloody memories. Blood on the audio. Some of the music is attached, although in the nineties I did not have the same taste as the present. The switch flipped when my system was ripped from the car and never went back the other way. That was not long before zero, if I recall correctly. I suppose I needed some sort of cathartic release once my passion was violated. Well, it did happen again upon rebuilding a less complex audio system in the same car. That incident was not nearly as crippling, though. The biggest hit was my tool case being a victim of theft. I won't go into detail on that set. We had been storing a truck within a yard on the opposite side of the flight line from the NASA facilities, and once in a while I would go there and do some work as the vehicle was in progress. One night I threw my tool case and some other stuff into the car so it was ready first thing in the morning. That shit disappeared within a few hours. My FM two-way alarm notified me while I was indoors, but I could not get out there fast enough to disrupt the thieves. This took place within a year of the first event, thus pushing my already-lowest possible opinion of society quite a measure lower. Hatred. I felt murderous rage over and over as I drove to work during the following months. The analogy of a thousand people in a room was formed during that period, as well. I didn't know who crossed me, so every single living, breathing soul was lumped into the same fucking category: Enemies, all.

That second shit situation was also the catalyst for me being told I should not have had anything in the car. Well, I cannot fully disagree because living near a pile of shit town as we did means being vigilant at the very least. But I refuse to take full responsibility when I was the person who worked, earned money, and tried to enjoy the fruits of my work. Fuck you. Fuck them. And fuck those who told me as much. Line them all up right there in my yard and I will decorate the cement with their blood. I believe I have as many bloody, negative memories attached to audio as I do clean, positive memories. Is that fact my fucking fault? Does any aspect of society work well? Nope. Nothing beyond the simplest.

I may have mentioned the audio system work I performed on the Slipper, but I can't remember. The only blood involved with that project was what I left inside the dash as a result of the work being a pain in my fucking fingers. Go ahead and laugh. The Slipper is gone.

The worst part of this perpetual, horrible mood is not the fact that it exists. It is the effort required in carrying a wall and making people believe I am just another average person. I am not. And the work is fucking exhausting. And I cannot do a fucking thing about it, either. Nothing. Believe me... I've worked for more than two decades trying to fit myself into something I hate. Not a Goddamned living soul or word from any source is going to make a lick of difference. All the other issues -- those four and the fact that I am completely unfulfilled in life -- cannot hold a barrel candle to this entry, nor can they be related to this worst of feelings, ever. I dreamed of possibilities. I dreamed of 'good'. I enjoyed whatever I could. No longer. All I have is the hatred which keeps me warm on cold mornings and the music which stemmed from being the victim of those very same people who need to bleed out. Still. Music and violent bloodletting go hand-in-hand. Don't fucking ask me anything.

Blood audio. Now you know.

Her."



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