pull pull young riptide

Anticipation then presence. Before I get to whatever I am expecting, I am interjecting my own tale of it. I am shaping my lines, crafting the reactions of others, and often I am really just resigning myself to the obvious script. I think I learned the reality of this approach for me when I used to write jokes. I got a sense of the give and take, I learned to target like a magician who wants their tricks to astound. Disbelief through confidence? Dunno. My dad is a salesman through and through, a real charmer, he wants to sweep you off your feet, direct you, smack of engagement, and he wants it to feel like it's not happening at all. This isn't some tour guide, standing up with a party cone on their head, this is life breathed into conversation, this is the steady camera making layers upon layers of image, suggesting the striking-ness of its own frames with the seductiveness of a hot whisper. This is control. If you're not in the business of controlling, then you don't know it yet. I am, and I am often ashamed. I am formulating how it's going to go down, I am wondering what will rub you the right away, and I am drafting it up, throwing away attempts in my head, something can strike a particular disposition so well, so right, that it's worth it to shape accordingly. To ponder to yourself what will establish your rapport, what interview bullshit tactics are gonna sweep someone off their feet who so casually, aplomb like, just assumes they know you. You don't know me half as much as I make us know each other in a way that I am perceiving, all of you. Ha listen to that ego'd control, if that was a bell and you struck it, what on earth would come back at you?

What the fuck am I talking about? Read the first three word of this and then watch this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z9mvTHSVsEo&feature=related I am talking about being very very bored. I am talking about your established normalcy. The routine that has the right exchanges at the right time, the restrained playfulness, the decorum, the ways we know how to talk to one another and then the subsequent perversion, again the control. I can at will summon what's next for me, I can put the players in reasonable position and then I can direct, I can play. It is terribly painful to feel assured enough to let this happen. My most vivid, countless dreams revolve around encountering the figures of my past, the lines I would be ready to say and my control over their reactions. What infuriating definition, it makes me never want to see these figures of my past ever again. I can't believe that I feel so capable of penetrating people to people exchanges that I am brewing with their lines inside my dreams, that I am shaping their reactions, their typicality and calling it my own to do with as I please. This is the limitation of the isolated life I feel I so easily lead sometimes. Where you swallow up all the world around you, put people in their stations, in their regard for you and themselves, and then let it all get filthy. Let it all defy you in a way that doesn't surprise you, let all the unexpected, spontaneous fury of the restraints you see all around you, only remind you of the cruelty with which you understand people's function, their class, their desires, their disruptions of their own routines.

This is all too much to play upon, to write about really. It is a fearful discovery I have in myself. I mean look at the way I just type feeling like a broken spout, an absent plug, a flood of potential thoughts that lack staying power, that only indicate my own inner workings that are too disparate, unfocused and unhelpful. These ideas have been dripping off my insides, falling into my brain for longer than a week, what a difficult lapse in myself over time. So the thoughts on anticipation/presence (definition/suggestion, control of our assumed surroundings) culminated in me asking my favorite coworker if she thought that the people she was closest to were predictable....awkward out of the blue style, forcing it upon people is probably one way I have tried to deal with my constant framing of potential conversation, although that has become its own sort of expectation of RYAN G. Anyhow, like I said, I asked her what she thought about closeness and predictability, assuring her this was a thought, this wasn't misdirected self help I was asking her for, it was clarification. She said that she didn't think they lived predictable lives in general, but that they were predictable to her. Ahh what a relief to hear that! What sweet reminders of the familiar world we build, like a cruise ship we get to staff and captain ourselves on an ocean that lacks land! Of course you know your friends, of course I know what to say to my boss in the morning. It's the adapting to those others that begin as undefined blobs of people begging to be seen by someone else, all over again, that makes the thrill, the constant of the learning life so astounding. Yet, who wants to settle into knowing the predictable traits of all the people they consider to be around them until something funny or painful enough happens that you have to pickup some sawdust and build a new boat. What the fuck is up with the language I spew, I have no interest in public clarity so much. I just want to force upon the eyes of others the style that spits the most of my noise! What a bitch to move on from that. RP is really actively learning this alongside me, what a nice time! Everyone is gesturing towards access and then digging further into themselves for that diamond that other people just get, beyond the formal constraints of the message. Like pouring a glass of yourself all over the face of someone who is looking up at you. Their mouth pursed at first, while you miss, water running all over their face, making eyes water, nose squawk. And then, if you are serving the right shit, that face will respond to the liquid all over them, the won't push you away, throw your glass in the air, and look for the nearest towel. The pursed mouth will pucker and expand, your pouring hand will get steady, regardless not all of the water is going straight into their mouths, but motherfucker they won't care, you can even trick them into thinking that they did drink everything you served them, bah impossible, that's not how pouring out your PRODUCTIONS works. Watch them get refreshed. Try to make the access drinkable. The next time might be too diluted, or you might try to reach for the face and knock the water over with your own untrustworthy limbs. But as of right now, I am a brewer who has had too many empty tanks, too many mishaps, and too much thinking about serving up tiny vials of my concentrated social self. I need something frothy, believe me this is my frothy side writing here on this page. Enough, I am blowing this feeling into an unreadable proportion. I am done with this thought today, time to experiment a whole hell of a lot.

Final image: Downtown Seattle McDonalds. Giant island in the middle of the place, bar style tables surround it. There is an aquarium thrust into the middle of the island, eye level. Flimsy salt water scene. Kelp tendrils sway, broken coral like a scrap yard. There's frantic blue and yellow fish, born in a McDonalds I'd wager, wondering what the hell they are, bumping into sea vegetation and glass, eyes rolling around in a state of emptiness, scaled bumper cars. And then there's old man scorpion fish, he gets a gender because all the quills look like some far reaching wispy beard, think Asian Combat Master. Think curvature of the spine, the fear of that plight still sticks with me past childhood. Think deep fried MCFISH, KING AND QUEEN OF THE CRISPY SEA. Old man scorpion says it all. He is so hunched, so drooping. He literally looks like he could be melting and dissolving into the water, ready to vanish into a sea ghost, into sea litter, at any second. I mean you got to see this fish. The threat of barbs is long gone, doesn't have one erect quill, one sharpened needle, one deadly prick left in him, he is combed back, he is bobbing in a aquatic shaped cell. In spite of this, scorpion remains thoughtful, he scorns the frantic Finding Nemo cast and sets his ponderous eyes upon the frantic humans stuffing their faces with instantaneous meals, the ones that surround his watery island. He looks at the staff of minorities who hang all over themselves, covered in headsets and deep colored uniforms. He watches them playfully serve a nonexistent line, watches them await their money by the hour. I had to leave McDonalds, can't stomach this sort of fish for long. Argh Seattle, what you getting at, I don't want to go anywhere, you've been showing me much, and there's more to store in me that is happening here. I walk past MICKEY DEES and see through the glass of the window the glass of the aquarium, and there's old scorp bobbin up and down. Maybe they have a stock of his kind somewhere in the fast food headquarters, maybe he's delicious deep fried, maybe his limp quills are remarkable pens. All right folks, time to watch me get poisoned with writing. Somethings going down with me like it hasn't before, I am right with it.