Musashi Mix Inq

Ouroboros: it gets Brighter

Posted on October 28, 2010


Step 1: Take one minute and look
ttttttttttttinto a mirror. Get up close.
Step 2: Breath
Step 3: Reflect

I am graphic designer to support the habit. Pain, drugs, love, and ontology are my enablers. I am powerless to my need to create. Madness, if anything, is encouraged.

My patron saint is Ouroboros, the self-eating snake. Each creation is a small death; I bathe in the ashes of the Phoenix. Each project begins at the epic conclusion of a narcissistic battle between the rational and the etherial.

When posting a new piece, I am the one hand clapping, hoping for the universe to clap back; Synchronicity with the beat of the open void shouting out the statically fried messages of a poetic radio-operator. Everything is subject to entropy, even creativity.

When I stare at a digital canvas, I envision that if I were to paint every possible stroke, a black page would remain. In the darkness I see my flat world reflected in gloss. I find comfort in this. It means that in a way, we are all connected through the vail of the floating void; the dark-canvas-mirror live-video-feed into each other's souls. Welcome to the inner depths.

Know this:

You are not alone

• ∞ λ ∞ •

Be brave. Stand strong. Be proud. Reach out. It gets brighter.


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Palliativity 103: Phantom Pain

Posted on October 21, 2010


I hear this word for the first time and my body goes cold. Long months of recovery, rehab and healing have brought me here; to the medical chopping block. I am 15 years old, t+2years since my surgery, and host to a chronic pain more powerful than the slice of a scalpel...

I am sitting in my neuro-doctor's office seeking to find my way to the path of ever-elusive progress. Every exercise, every minute my testosterone filled body gets stronger, the pain gets worse. At the time, I still looked to the labcoats for hope and answers:

"Phantom Pain" was the offered diagnosis, "There is nothing more we can do for you —".

Terminal suffering; there is no path.

Doc, are you telling me that a ghostly apparition of a body bound poltergeist haunts my nerves and tendons? This is science? Don't you offer exorcisms?

I learn in that moment that it is I who must take pilot's seat and steer this burning wreckage toward a better land on the far-side of self-distruction and the impulse to end it all.

We are all victims of our biology. Through the tears I find a tiny glimmer of strength and resolve, like the lone-star hovering in the red-glow-black of a city night's sky. Fuck physics and Fuck physicians; I am the ocean, the sky and the stars. I pull back on the yolk and ram forward the throttle with a roaring tail made of fire.

This is my life and I've got places to be —

"What doesn't kill you, defines you" *



*The Zero Effect

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Palliativity 102: M357 — Moderate Abuse Potential

Posted on October 7, 2010


Medication Details*

  • Imprint(s): M357
  • Strength(s): 500 mg / 5 mg
  • Color: White
  • Shape: Elliptical / Oval
  • Size (mm): 17 X 7 X 5
  • Drug Class: Narcotic analgesic combinations
  • CSA Schedule: 3 - Moderate abuse potential

My happiness runs on manual only. The endorphin compounds constantly coursing through my body to fight the chronic pain merely serve as a bandage on an open wound. My biology has given up on fixing the problem on its own; its only recourse is to lead me to distraction.

Endorphins are the filter through which our bodies can experience the world, acting as a safety net for when the world hits back. When the spinal cord transmits data for excitement, exertion, pain or love, the pituitary gland releases a burst of pure happy before it hits the brain. For me this is like a travel-pillow strapped to the front of a pick-up truck.

My chronic condition monopolizes most of my endorphins, leaving me feeling like Dorothy stuck in black and white. Depression is the inevitable state of being; I am the rock in the field. After 13 years of living like this, I am finally able to appreciate a long-lens view of how I've managed to stay afloat.

Four years ago, M357 came into my life. My first hit was a rocket blast Dark-Side-of-the-Moon ride over the rainbow, radiant in glorious over-saturated Technicolor. This is what happiness feels like. This is what it feels like to have control over my existence; to feel elation for being alive.

While medicated, I began allowing myself to feel all of the things that had been buried under years of distracting myself from pain; you are now free to roam about the cabin. Sadly the flight is only four hours long and the drug isn't a cure. M357 helps me look into the abyss and salvage my dark reflection.

Am I an addict? Yes. I am addicted to feeling alive.

The Buddha said, "life is suffering". Miles Vorkosigan said, "biology is destiny". I say, get over it —



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Palliativity 101: in medias res

Posted on September 28, 2010

Chronic pain is not merely a physical condition— it's a state of mind.

October, 1998

I wake up to the sound of helicopters. I find myself in bed, lying on my back as my mind aches from what I would later come to know as the morphine/opioid afterburn; where dreams and memories fight the demons of consciousness somewhere behind my throbbing eyes. I turn to find the source of the roaring rotors as the strings and horns join in. "Saigon... it's Miss Saigon," on top of my radiator, a My-First-Sony tapedeck/soundmachine plays on as only analog plastic 90's tech could provide.

I look down to survey the salvage operation performed on my re-located shoulder three-thousand eons ago. The battlefield is quiet and and bandaged. White gauze can be very reassuring sometimes. I drop my head back down as my drawn-and-quartered tendons seem only to remember what pain feels like. I'm in no place to argue with them.

I'm 13 years old and these are the first few minutes of my new life.


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