2023-09-16
This commit is contained in:
parent
9dd2e49295
commit
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/* See LICENSE file for copyright and license details. */
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#include <stdarg.h> /* va_start(3), va_end(3), va_list */
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#include <stdio.h> /* fputc(3), perror(3) */
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#include <stdlib.h> /* calloc(3), exit(3) */
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#include <string.h> /* strlen(3) */
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#include "util.h" /* die(3) */
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void *
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ecalloc(size_t nmemb, size_t size)
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{
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void *p;
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if (!(p = calloc(nmemb, size)))
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die("calloc:");
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return p;
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}
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void
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die(const char *fmt, ...) {
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va_list ap;
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va_start(ap, fmt);
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vfprintf(stderr, fmt, ap);
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va_end(ap);
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if (fmt[0] && fmt[strlen(fmt)-1] == ':') {
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fputc(' ', stderr);
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perror(NULL);
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} else {
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fputc('\n', stderr);
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}
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exit(1);
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}
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@ -1,8 +0,0 @@
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/* See LICENSE file for copyright and license details. */
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#define MAX(A, B) ((A) > (B) ? (A) : (B))
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#define MIN(A, B) ((A) < (B) ? (A) : (B))
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#define BETWEEN(X, A, B) ((A) <= (X) && (X) <= (B))
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void die(const char *fmt, ...);
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void *ecalloc(size_t nmemb, size_t size);
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@ -1928,6 +1928,380 @@ If I don't, escalate the issue to the host of this site (this can also be found
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</HTML>
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/blah/2023-09-16.html
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The pages got disorganized in my backpack, so here they are as I dig them out.
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The View from Halfway Down is definitely from before any of the other pages, I
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decided to change the name after the person for which I went to Florida noted
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it was the name of a Bojack Horseman episode.
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---
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Homelessness is a crime few want to commit. Dear vagabonds and ruffians, the
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former being my category, do, though I thought carefully before deciding. Most
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don't. Human beings need creature comforts, consistency, safety. Maybe I'm not
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a __real__ vagabond. I'd like housing. I just can't fathom honest safety;
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acceptance.
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Salsa shark.
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I'm not a real programmer, not a real writer, not a real vagabond, not a real
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human, not a real woman, barely a cook - a bad one, and a burden on my loved
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ones. The voices in my head disagree. When did I become the negative one?
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I imagine if I don't catch a bus in 7 hours I will be swept into the ocean. I
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understand - no, kin - Dostoevsky.
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I will start asking others to help me. I sort of wish my ancestors stayed in
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Finland. But I wouldn't have met [...], [...], [...]...
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Draft kinlist
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- Patrick Bateman
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- Ryan Gosling
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- ANARCHY Stocking
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- IBUKI Maya
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- AMANE Misa
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- My friend Lily from Maine
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- Saul Goodman
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- Mike from Breaking Bad
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- Mr. Triangle from Gravity Falls
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- Charlie Chaplin
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- Dostoevsky
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- Franz Kafka
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- Abandoned Magic Outlet
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- Randall from Clerks
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- Rorshach
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---
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Rules for the road: charging
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Charge your biggest battery first. Use it last. Batteries before devices.
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If near a power source, use it. 1% is a text message.
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Charge as much as possible; if there are as many power sources as you have
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devices, all your devices should be charging.
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Use 1 device at a time, if necessary, if you can help it.
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Internet takes battery. Cell networks take more.
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2117: Departing Jacksonville
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---
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THE VIEW FROM HALFWAY DOWN (pg. 1)
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My job is to separate the bones. I stand at South Station in front of a
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conveyer belt - my conveyer belt, just for me - and dip my hands through the
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skim and pick the bones out of the line. The bones go to the vat to my right,
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to level twenty-something, where the marrow is extracted and they make the
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jelly. The meat, the fat, and most importantly, the blood, go further down the
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line and to level 31 which I can see below me. Level 31 is where the content is
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homogenized.
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I saw and talked to someone when I was in training. I don't remember its name.
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It handed me my scalpel and taught me where to cut. The torso is handled by
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those before me, whose work I admire. I admired the eyes to whose nose I
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talked. The stainless steel. Smell of warmth. Blood from limb.
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Those before me cut a Y into the chest and take the organs. My turn is already
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hollowed so I use my scalpel to - efficiently - extract the bones from the
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forearm, the upper arm, calves, thighs. Cut dip pull move. Cut dip pull move.
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I can tell when a new hire takes over. The cuts aren't as neat, more is taken
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with the organs than necessary.
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It's so loud. Something always needs chopping, grinding. I hear dremels above
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me sawing through bone. Everything is red.
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I separate the bones because I was told to do so, and separating the bones is
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how I am let live, let breathe, let sip, let eat the meat. My first day is my
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breath, my second water, my third my apartment, my fourth this. This meat.
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It is ground and turned to food. People beget people beget me. Simply. I
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remember it that begot me. My handcuffs were unlocked in front of a
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blue-painted skyscraper, my home.
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---
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Today I woke up next to [...]
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and the [...]
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oh, to think, since it's been 48 hours
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today's four days long shoulda already been home
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I can't remember yesterday, it's sure been a while
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Since I asked did we - did you - while reaching for my phone
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[...]
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it's been two days since yesterday and I still haven't seen [...]
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I missed my bus, shit, went to the wrong station
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the agent told me there wasn't any way to change it
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$250 down the drawin and I slept under a palm tree
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a friend booked the next ticket, owed me, now I'll pay the difference
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---
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machine
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and no there won't
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be a sequel
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---
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[grossly inaccurate drawing of the fifty United States
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---
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THE VIEW FROM HALFWAY DOWN (pg. 2)
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From the top of the skyscraper I heard the bellows of the heavens. The distance
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made the roar fade and twist into a melodious drone that seemed to be the tone
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of the local crimson soil and the resonance of being. I clutched the railing of
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the lift upwards, 33 stories minus none, that carried me into the low ashen
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clouds. The noise crescendoed.
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It was halfway up that lift, 16 stories or so, that I met my predecessor. We
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made eye contact, me slowly going up and it, stained all over in various films
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of scarlet, swiftly descending. In a second I heard vague yowls of excitement
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far below me.
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Suicide is the most natural way to die. By choice rather than by chance. In my
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opinion to die in such a way as to mix impure brain or spine with meat is to
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end in selfishness, to ensure death with one's calories.
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To say nothing of the crime. I stayed on the lift because that is my job and my
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duty, and I realize that now. I committed a heinous act. I don't remember it
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and naturally could not therefore defend myself. I now commit all my heinous
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acts to memory.
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I was a cook. My job was to render meat into meals; patties, stew, sausage, and
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sometimes delicacies if a person to me noble came to the kitchen. I thought the
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work was difficult.
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I like to think about dying. To be separating my own bones on line. When I die
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I'd like my cuts to be beautiful, sharp and clean, by those professional
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processors that have honed their craft with their blade.
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Sometimes the bones are broken. Sometimes all the bones are broken. Nothing was
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not deafening. But nothing, too, became deafening. The drone joined my silence,
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residue in my riddled brain. I lie awake at night, if for nothing else then the
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cacophony.
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---
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THE VIEW FROM HALFWAY DOWN (pg. 3)
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I have been chauffered from place to place, as if I am cattle, since I was very
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young. Perhaps it has been this way forever. I love my job. I love the smell.
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It may seem unbelievable but it's true, I was raised in the smell, I know the
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scent of blood better than flesh, I love the smell. I have also made my peace
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with the unending mechanical thunder. I can't hear much else. My fingers may as
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well have been tattooed red. Cut dip pull move.
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I don't know where the people came from. Nor do I know whom I would ask. I live
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just as well.
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---
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2023-08-19 T 1400
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ON A GREYHOUND...
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An hour or so ago, between Lewiston (Maine) & Portland (Maine), the driver
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stopped the bus, opened the door, stepped out, took some paces into Maine's
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ubiquitous forest, and out of our sight, pissed.
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There's something about commercial transit in this state that makes ya gotta
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go, I suppose.
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I'm sitting wedged against my pack and carryon, Lynn, never before mentioned
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stuffed IKEA shark, above me, wondering when I can smoke my next cigarette.
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I imagine Lynn is wondering when I'll again quit.
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Greyhound is comfortably, perhaps haphazardly, disorganized. I was hoping I
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could stow my pack under the bus. Funny thing about hope... I've been rereading
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Watchmen and listening to the driver's radio. 80s? 60s-80s?
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I wanna see [...]. 150mins down. 2790mins to go. At least by my small mental
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scratchpad. I'm embarrassed to do the math out on this real pad. I have 3
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calculators...
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---
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PHONE ATT.
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------------- -------------
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| INT SDA SCL | | SCL SDA INT |
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| DCIN 5V GND | | GND 5V DCIN |
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------------- -------------
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-------------
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| 1 _ DCIN ___|
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| 2 _ VOUT ___|
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| 3 _ GND ____|
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| 4 _ SCL ____|
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| 5 _ SDA ____|
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| 6 _ INT ____|
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-------------
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---
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2023年08月27日
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I SHOULD BE ON A GREYHOUND...
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Today is sunday so I guess I'll start from last Monday.
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On the 21st, 1300 or so, I arrived in Orlando Florida, city - city? - of dear
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hearts and weak knees. I was here to see a beloved someone and soak up some sun
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and have a good time. I've never been to Florida before - in fact, I'd only
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been as far as Virginia, which I didn't particularly like. I remember being
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disappointed we couldn't go to a Kentucky KFC. How goals change...
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I called an ex-roommate and we spoke about how things were up in Maine: not
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great. Then I called [...] who was on its way over to pick me up, on a car trip
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longer than I would expect (20mins? 30?). After confusion about where it was
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going (the nearest Family Dollar so I could get deodorant after spending 49
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hours on a bus) it arrived.
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It was shorter in meatspace than I expected. More beautiful. We met on-line in
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[...] after a video call in which I noticed it and got flustered at how hot it
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was and it got flustered at my calling it fucking stunningly gorgeous and
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everyone else in the video call in the programming community sat in silence. I
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threw my backpack and carry-on in the back of the car and got in the passenger
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seat and I got flustered and it got flustered still more than half a year later
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for the same reasons.
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Every siren makes me nervous. I know how this city treats its homeless. City?
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---
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Orlando isn't what I, a Mainer, imagine a city to be. Before Florida's
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colonization and sterilization it was just a swamp or something like that -
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every presence, as well as every absense, is deliberate. It's strange how much
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absence there is. Sprawling empty parking lots, five-lane roads, lines of palm
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trees and now cars and the empty Magic Outlet in front of me. A city is dense.
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You can walk to another restaurant in less than five minutes if you're not
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enjoying your meal. People talk to you, maybe not in your language but a little
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gesturing goes a long way. There is nobody in Orlando except the sun and the
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heat.
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1730. No new text messages. I'm considering pawning my sleeping bag.
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1804. 1 new text message.
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On the 21st, 1500 or so, after some typical affection - as in, the act, not as
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in what it meant to me - I took my first shower since about 2300-0100 between
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the 18th and 19th in Maine. The water in Orlando is excellent. Ice is a must as
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most taps only allow a selection between hot and lukewarm due to the
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temperature.
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Then I don't remember. And what I can remember doesn't belong here.
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I thought nechan was eye-chan, but eye is me [this is Japanese; pronounced
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"meh"]. Its eyes are beautiful. Much of this week I was paralyzed in awe at how
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beautiful my girlfriend is. It is also just in general an excellent person. We
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cooked dinner together nearly every night, it learning my rat bastard scarcity
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recipes and I learning what real food tastes like and how to pronounce
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jalape~no (hah lah peh nyo).
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"There's something inside you. It's hard to explain. They're talking about you,
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boy, but you're still the same."
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---
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I think it's going to rain and I have no shelter. Maybe I could figure a way
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into that Magic Outlet but I have too much in my backpack to hop a fence and no
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decent tools for lockpicking.
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1833. No new text messages.
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Received SMS from ??? ([...]) at 2023-08-27T17:07:38-0400:
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stay as safe as you can please
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TRINITY: Would you still love me if I was a worm?
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[...]: No.
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TRINITY: ...
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I would still love you if you were a worm.
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[...]: You love me?
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I'm sorry for not showing it with my actions. Of course I love you. That was
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what I was figuring out while I disappeared.
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I don't know how to ask for what I need.
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Magic Outlet Mall: Brand Names for Less
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says the sign's faded vestige on tan-gray bricks
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above palm trees yellow tape abandoned commerce sign
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the magic outlet tapped out ain't that just the way
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I don't miss my bed because I never had a bed
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I had an air mattress flattened every morning by seven
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then I got a foam slab but I'd still feel the bedframe
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I don't miss my bed, I miss having my own space.
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Magic Outlet Mall: Brand Names for Less
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now here we both lie in the dirt at sunset
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the light here is different prettier in many ways
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better home than my last home, no roaches or sleeping bag cat spray
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1-800-FL-LEGAL I just keyed a Tesla
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my magic outlet sleeping space saw a rich asshole intruder
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where will you deport me bitch barely of this earth
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I'm from an orbiter of mars and polycule network
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---
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2004. No new messages.
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I just heard a cicada for the first time. They're deafening. Like a car alarm
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in immediate proximity. They make a piezo buzz like they're charging up a
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missile and continue to target you with an otherworldly humm until the sun
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finishes its descent.
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The sun and his heat are gone. It is me and Luna and Gaia that remain. Lights
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are on at the magic outlet. I guess it had a little more power.
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I did not need my laptop, tech repair kit, phone parts, or two tablets. I
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should have brought 1 tablet, my phone, and that's it. I needed a UV5R with
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extended battery. I did not need the condoms. Gay sex is better anyway. I miss
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my 5.11 RUSH 48. The ALICE's organization isn't great and it's harder to pass
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unnoticed. Better would be TSA carry-on sized, then I wouldn't need to part
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with my luggage. Greyhound never searched me. I'm covered in mosquito bites.
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---
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2023年08月28日
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Hurricane Idalia - maybe only a tropical storm, I'm not sure - hits Florida
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tomorrow, and for that I will need to either stay with a friend or find a
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strong umbrella.
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My bivy didn't survive the night, kinda shit but makes good insulation from the
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ground. I could have roughed it but I wanted to be comfortable and I was
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worried about bugs. I'm really unfamiliar with the local flora and fauna.
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I had tickets to Billy Joel and Arctic Monkeys. I was only excited to see the
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friend with which I booked them. And now the plan is to go back to our
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hometown.
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I'm scruffy and my hair is wack. We - as in, my girlfriend and I, which is a
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delight for me to write - were planning on watching a lot of vampire movies:
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Nosferatu, Only Lovers Left Alive, and Shadow of the Vampire. We ended up
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watching the old classics American Psycho, Clerks, and Drive. It had never seen
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Clerks and I had never seen Drie. Nor had [...] who was there Saturday. I
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didn't catch a lot of the plot of Drive as I was distracted but [...] explained
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it in the morning and it seems like a good movie. I was surprised at how
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graphic [...]'s death in the movie was, it was a little triggering to be
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honest.
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It feels good to be bitten. Bitten hard. Bitten so hard you have a mark the
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next day, a bruise after a week. It feels good to bite. I bite weakly,
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cautiously. I bite worried about the mark and tearing flesh and the pain. It
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feels better to be bitten by one that does not care. But I feel bad when I
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don't care.
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/blah/2023-09-09.html
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western mysticism influencers stick
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dispensing business stickers onto crosswalk notices
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and say that mary jane is the merriest trick
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and that egotistic bourgouis corpos shouldn't be so rich
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/blah/2023-09-04.html
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Regarding something I read.
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Loading…
Reference in New Issue
Block a user