Manual Drive – Journal 6/6/18

I’ve encountered an issue.

My HDD consumption has reached a point where even on this brand new laptop I have no memory left over if I have all the files of Radio Reality City onboard. I have to have it all on an expandable memory device. Which sucks because it’s not all readily accessible, but it also simply makes sense to archive the stuff I won’t be using.

Unfortunately, after March, I moved to the old model of posting where I manually post a poem in the morning. And today I’ve arrived at class without my HDD to plug in, find the poem I WOULD be posting this morning, and schedule/post the thing.

I’ve mentioned before, but after I got my SL1 and Phantom 3 my memory consumption exploded. A whole day’s outing can be up to 50GB of space now, and this laptop’s only got 500GB of space. So you might imagine that as long as I’m making videos, I’m going to take up a lot of space. Before, a poem could take up literally KILOBYTES of space. Up to 5KB for ONE poem. Outrageous. And then photos typically take up 30MB of space per shot. That used to be the spot I used the most memory in.

One of my biggest worries has been in being able to keep all this stuff in multiple places, safe. Even thinking so far as to make my own cloud server to host in my bedroom so I can access Radio Reality City anywhere, but I do not yet have that technical knowhow.

So here I sit, unable to post a poem. That’s pretty great. Instead, I’ve been able to furnish this little journal.

Given that opportunity, I’d like to talk about a piece of literature I came across a while ago, called ‘The Psychopath’s Bible’ by a Dr. Christopher Hyatt. When you pick up this book and start reading it, it comes off like some real paranoia-inducing stuff. It’s a book that would have you believe that it’s teaching you how to be a psychopath, but approaching it from any other lens reveals its other side.

It can almost read like satire, once you peel back the surface. Hyatt himself was a very strange man, but he understood what he was doing when he was writing this book. He describes the condition of a psychopath as one that’s more than frowned upon in modern society, but breaks down the walls between distinctions until the qualities of a ‘psychopath’ are at their barest form.

Hyatt posits that what society calls ‘psychopathy’ is really just a state in which the individual cares about themselves above all others, and thus are seen as voracious machines of will. For the good and the bad, of course.

When I think of a psychopath, I certainly think of people like Ajit Pai, commissioned salesmen, day traders with big portfolios, and telemarketers. Acting in their own self-interests and eschewing society’s expectations of them in the name of the ego. Ironically enough, I’m currently sitting in a Sociology class right now. But the argument is built on the idea that we call people psychopaths in the Western world when they’re only looking out for themselves, saying that particular quality is not a bad thing.

If you were looking out for only yourself, that wouldn’t be negative on its own, would it?

Granted, Hyatt is a fucking nutter. This guy was legitimately into the occult, wrote books on Afro-magic, and other books on how to manipulate. But he was also a doctor of clinical and experimental psychology, and had masters degrees in two other disciplines.

Hyatt makes a good point. The qualities of a psychopath are given a bad rap, but in some primal ways having those qualities is necessary to survive. Moments where you need to have self-respect and do what’s best for you.

However, reading this book doesn’t make you think of that. It makes you think of people you know who have these qualities, and specifically pings moments in your life to make you think about psychopaths in general. These aren’t people with cluster B personality disorders, these are people who are in all their right mind and willfully make their way through the world, damn the consequences as long as they make it out okay.

Eventually the ideas seem to be making sense. After the initial learning curve of breaking through that wall, you find yourself agreeing with the societal expectation of what a psychopath is. It feels kinda… icky. Especially if you know someone that you would happily call a psychopath with no second thought.

The book is a really odd ball, straddling the fence of teenangst and satire. I still can’t quite figure it out, but I’ve seen a few other people who interpret it as a thing meant to be internalized and moved on from. Changes your perspective a little bit, and might even make you think before passing judgement on someone.

Personally, I consider myself to be utilitarian as a philosopher, so this psychopathy stuff doesn’t gel well with my own beliefs, but it’s interesting to think about nonetheless.

Anyways, sorry about the lack of posting today. I’ve been really busy and just left that expandable memory unit at home. Dangerous to do, these days.

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Andromeda Over Pierce

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andromeda over pierce 2

Photo taken at Pierce College. Manipulated in GIMP. 7 layer stack with Andromeda galaxy replacing original sky, and two sets of cloud renders overlaying.

Hot Topic please hire me to design t-shirts.

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Same Planet

Fear does run deep into the heart
Of anything done while we’re
Inebriated by vulnerabilities

And without naming specific
Days, times, places, wonders
I struggle to find words as to why

I appreciate you so much

So to this I’ll say
I think of all the drives
To wherever we go

Holding a paper cup of hot coffee
And looking across the table
At you

Talking about shitty movies
And chatting about what we’re doing
While we procrastinate making art

Arsty and matching
Glasses and eyeliner

You’re showing me music I almost
Couldn’t care for
And I’m showing you some, too

We live on the same planet
But in entirely different worlds

Weeks becoming whirl
Winds sweeping us
Away to anyplace but here

We never seem to stay
In one moment
Or enjoy it for too long

Before we’re off and away
To a different place entirely

And I haven’t stood still
For long enough to
Be and appreciate

Until I’ve sat down after a
Day with you
And can take in what it meant

Kinetic Bombardment

Speed and power
Power and speed

Tungsten steel

Sat shot

Shooting so surreal

Satellite sent
Sword-like descent
Atmosphere dissent

Piercing through
Skies on relent

Smashing the ground
Earthquakes unbound

This weapon’s sound
Music that drowns

Orbiting around
Tungsten inbound

Flashing in the clouds

Speed and power
Power and speed

Thse are things in
Which I believe


Crickets in the night
By the beach in
Torchlight are overwhelmed
In sound by
Monkeys deep inland

Stars twinkle
They get louder

You’re in space
Flying through the
Black at mach six

The sounds and sensations
Of that beach follow
As you soar with

Drums from the seance

Yet the spitfire sound
Reached out so far

Pressure builds

Your mind collapses
And you’re in the void
You are the stars
You are the constellations

Running forever in the
Endless cold
Where the things stitched
Together are not what
They seam

You are
Seven billion suns
Five billion
Years old

Pieces of everything
A cosmos purity

While You Were Touching The Second Blackening Sea

While You Were Touching The Second Blackening Sea

A research team
At headquarters

In the operating room
On comm lines

Setting the stage
For a rocket’s take off

White coats running around
Files and phones in hand

Glasses pushed up to
The bridge of the nose

A cosmonaut strapped in
To a frame

An explorer of the galaxy

Solar sails lift
Jets burst

Upwards the chemtrails follow
Spilling smokey energy

To the stars
All the wonders zip by

Still in contact with

Picture the supernovas
The craft passes by

Imagine the
Mother of Invention


Asteroid belts pelting the

Purple cosmic glows
Of infinite zodiac lights

Planets of all kinds
Rings and ice worlds

Stars dotting the expanse
Of forever grasp

Lit like lamps laying
Lazily on their sides

The touch of the heat
In the palm of your hand

A celestial giant lost
To wander in no where

The touch of a human
A voyager on patrol

Solar sails hexagon up
Like honeycomb

When we’re out among
The glowing sea

Of blackening

A giant reaches
A giant touches

Those things that seem
So small so far away

Force the arms through
The cold space winds

Vaccum dust
Quantum atoms influx

Spitfire nebula out the
Left window

Dark matter engines
Who even knows how to work

Forever immersed
In that blackening sea

A consuming shadow
That takes travellers

Lost to wonder like a
Lovecraftian character

Mad, but happy
Crazy and zen

Then again there’s no
Going back home

Comm’s shut down
Long ago

Where’s next?
We drift with

The waves to take
And blacken

As a second coming
Of absolute nothing.

Something’s gone
Like the missing

Sense of songbirds
On a spring day

There’s dust on the
Consoles of a

Spaceship far out in
The ocean

A night flight with
The golden dust of

Far away astrohomes
Leaving behind the

World once known
To drift and see

Endlessly in this

Kinesthetically there
Blackening sea.

Upon Closer Inspection

Upon Closer Inspection

Here lies
A memorial
To commemorate




Among the stars
And old satellites
With the cameras
And sensors

That have long since

Fate has ordained
Those few who have
Gone among the stars
To star among the stars

When we look up
We shall not forget
The souls
Somewhere out there

Who valiantly

In expansion
Of humanity