Rants & Essays
By Marcus Pan
I at one point said that I wouldn't want to let a public
crowd too deep in my head. I think by now, however, I've gotten to the point
where I really don't give a shit. Some people wear chips on their shoulders,
some hearts on their sleeves. I'll wear my brain on my chest and see what
happens from there.
Journaling...a private thing. I have thousands upon
thousands of pages where I've said nothing of import, but was at least saying
something to myself. Backed up behind passwords and moving staircases and
hidden doorways...that eventually lead to a failure. Contextually, as a whole,
I don't care. Out-of-contextually, I'm a horrible person. So it goes. And
suddenly the pages that should never have been brought forth are now laid waste
to the light of the proverbial day and in the interim I have nothing I want to
say to myself anymore. I tried to keep it. I attempted to write it. Keep it
going. Part seven of whosallknows and such. Entry 32, a year to the day...dead
document. A tablet pulled from the sea still illegible.
What is fact and what is fiction here? You're all fiction.
I'm the only fact, and fuck you if you don't like it. Your figments of my
imagination, and when I decide to fart into a little window on my desktop
because I can...so shall it go.
Smell my fart. I can't stop smoking. But someday we'll learn
to grow new lungs. Or someday I'll day.
Am I suicidal? No. Do I think of suicide? Fairly often.
Submergance beneath the ice, 99% of the time, can I stay under or will I
flotsam float? Noosed gooses swing from the ceiling and I can see the bah bah's
trying to make sense of the verbiage in the window. Or maybe just
cloisterization behind a brick wall and just sit. I sit too much. I get up
sometimes but I look at the todo's and I feel I haven't done all that much. I
did the dishes today. As I fold the laundry I wonder if a twisted shirt would
be fun for the gooses. 3
I fart again. I can't help it. I return to look out the
window and it's all his fault, the man with the red pill. The squirrels in the
sky laugh as I swallow it down and follow the Brit bastard into a realm where I
once said I wouldn't go because it might hurt me. Or it might hurt you. Or it
might hurt nobody, is there anybody anyway or anything all the way? It doesn't
I think I'll throw this out the window. Then I'll twist more
shirts. Pass time until the next nicotine fix. The next caffeination. I haven't
slept in about thirty six hours. What here is true? That's up to you. Build
your own fantasy. Make your own story. It's a Build Your Own Adventure
storybook. Don't hit your head on the gooses. Don't fall in the pool. Stay in
front of the brick wall.
But there always is the attic. But the squirrels in the sky
would keep me awake as they laugh at the moth balls while my neighbor yabbers
nonsensically. If I went to work tonight maybe I wouldn't look like I do.
My head is a faucet. Sometimes it doesn't turn off.
Sometimes the valve gets stuck. I still can't figure out the mysterious woman's
When the barge blew up my first thought was will it
snarl traffic on my ride home today? When the truck hit I wondered are
the boxes ok? When the roads froze I was too busy not caring. When the fire
struck, I thought that was ok since I didn't like the band anyway. I am a bad
man. I am a not-nice person. I forgot to care about those things too.
Yes, there is some sense in this one. Which is good, because
I don't have cents anywhere else. The red numbers flash menacingly in the
night. Appalling, calling, debauchery of the decibel. I told my math teacher in
high school I would never need to know how to work with negative whole numbers.
Boy was I fucking wrong on that one...
The whole world wants a better part in my play. Recycle the
cards as the world turns from dawn to dusk and back again. And I'm still awake.
I can't concentrate on anything in a straight line. Lee wants a better part.
Congratulations Lee...I'm going to make you a star. I'm tired of being the only
As I hit 36 hours of consciousness (less a two hour couch
nap) a check arrives. It actually has my name on it. For a brief second, the
red lights flash green...and then they go away again. I'm too tired to sign my
name to it. It's time to make coffee again. My brain curdles.
At first I thought maybe I'd be mysterious. Stray. Not be
me. Another identity, another ego, a lasting ID, but to hell with that because
it seems to me that I have enough identities. I shall fuse, lumbar to the HNP
I gaze over the dead flesh as the baker provides the slabs.
I eat, therefore I am. Lunchtime. Tear the dead meat of the world with relish.
Or mayonnaise. Indeed. Phear.
I figured by now I'd see a little bit of green peeking out
from below the entombment of white. No, nothing. After the rain fell all night
and most of yesterday, and the temperature at least hung out above freezing, I
really though by now I'd see a bit of lawn. Having a pencil on the screen
floating about just begging me to dump shit into it is a really really
dangerous thing methinks.
Laura just informed me that the Grammy's [spit] did a Clash
tribute. I'm kind of annoyed that she didn't let me know since I was two rooms
away considering how she knew full well how mopey I was over Strummer knocking
off earlier this year. On one hand, it's the Grammys what the hell do
they know about punk? On the other, it was the Clash after all. Wonder what
Mini-CD...hope it doesn't get lost in the stack. Mini CDs
disappear easily and turn up years later under radiators and what-not.
The pig smiles lewdly as the squirrels in the sky nestle
with the moth balls. USA smokes on fire and the angels test the limits of my
psyche. It's an old iron that lies there, standing quietly before the
sharpener. Activity blinks and the green lights stare blankly. I wonder if I
should douse the lights and find my way in the dark where it is more wholesome,
but the halogen will burn bright casting eves of bulbous white. A blue dog lies
on the floor by the sneakers, but I barely notice. It's time to light another
world on fire and breathe in the addiction.
I wonder what I'm writing, words spilling out through the
window. Nonsensical yet if I read it back to myself I understand every word.
Nobody else will understand, but not everything here is for you. This whole
series is for me and it shall remain so. My own words, my own wisdom, my own
insane warblings passing out into the ether and spilling themselves onto
thousands of screens or more. A replacement for a broken valve that never fully
closes, not even in my dreams. In the words of the last alphabetical letter,
"Am I a man, or simply a butterfly that dreams I am a man?" Blue awashes the
atmosphere, or is it black? One never knows what color the zebra is.
The shirts twist and tumble, searching for the goose, hoping
to become a doorway to another place beyond life. The coal room is dark and
musty but would hide a body well I'm sure, but where will the smells go?
Suicide is not only a verb or an action but can sometimes be a noun. The naked
flesh tastes the bite of decay. Past three decades now and functions wind down,
begging for the release of a Kevorkian cycle. It's not time yet.
Choosing to go mad is a choice I must make myself. Denise
says she will break my brain, and through hypnosis all things are possible. But
analysis is as analysis does and they always come up with a different way to
talk about the shenanigans in my head. Always a new series of words and
conditions to describe the life I have Bipolar Disorder, Manic
Deppressive, Acute Depression take your pick and enjoy them with a warm
peanut butter and jelly sandwich for all I care. I am the normal one in my
world because that's what I've already decided.
Is it right that I sit here and type this crud knowing that
it's not going to make much of a difference at all? Shouldn't I be sleeping and
preparing for another week of 14+ hour days between a truck and a STAT? I can
still hear the sound of the Acromioblaster as it eats through the knee in room
one, tearing through bone like a hot Zimmer through muscle. But at least
tomorrow isn't a day of orthopedics and the most I will hear might only be the
gaping maw of the suction machine as it tears flesh from within, or the pencil
as it burns and eats through abdominal pains. Oscar isn't there to show me the
extra foot any longer.
Truly enough, the clock spins into another Monday. A one car
life as I am placed before the entrance to the ward. When I get the chance to
fart through the penciled window again I know not, so still I'll type as my
energy dwindles and the coffee ends and the world burns down to a nub after
midnight on February's Xmas Eve. The smoking tree is not watching as much as it
should now, so I must tell it to keep track. It isn't doing its job. It reports
wrongly...but what can I do? It's just a tree.
Go ahead and laugh at this. None of it makes sense to you.
It makes perfect sense to me. I have seen the squirrels in the sky and I gave
them the moth balls myself. I've seen the blue dog and I have grown the smoking
tree from a mere shrub on my own time. I set the USA on fire more often than I
should and I watch it burn. I know what colors the zebra is, but I don't know
if I'm a butterfly. Just because you can't see the green face on the wall
doesn't mean it isn't there. Zimmers live in my world and they can cut you deep
and I have seen the man they call Oscar with three feet. I can look and see the
blank green eyes now and the old iron lies heavily on my mind. You think I'm
making this shit up, but it's too strange to make up. And they say I'm the
I'm not making this up. Even the pig is real. It glares at
me and I think I must go now. ...enough with the hair-filled envelopes, they
make me gak when I open them. Air bubbles are not only pretty and non-gaking,
my 6 year old loves them. Pop pop pop. That's it for now...unless there's more
buried in here somewhere. Always a possibility, that...
Someone tell me how to give up this damn smoking habit. I
really don't want to smoke anymore. But it's become such an integral part of my
life that the thought of cutting it out really drives me somewhat crazy. I'm
looking at the option of hypnosis since cigarettes have become a
goal-oriented thing with me (i.e. finish a project, have a smoke...eat dinner,
have a smoke...etc.). I thought maybe if I cut the whole "time for a cigarette"
thing out of my head it might help. I'm two steps away from just using a
fucking cautery knife and doing it physically when I go to work tomorrow...
Nothing worthwhile is done. I'm about to go manic
depressive. Watch me spiral, wee! Wait. I have a few hours left. Maybe I
can...oh fuck it. I can't do shit's worth in a few hours.
Now I'm not a mechanic or anything...hell, I only recently
discovered that you gotta put all this different weird-colored liquid shit in
different places. But here's a thing... When your car forgets it has more than
one gear, that's bad...right?
I'm working on my pool right now, which is why I remembered
that type of chlorine they were marketing a few years back where if you peed in
the pool it would turn red or some other rainbow style color. I've never
seen it myself but you always heard of that "friend's cousin" or "friend
of a friend" in true urban myth style. The story where somebody peed in the
pool at a party, and a big cloud of fluorescence surrounded them forever
brandishing them thereafter as a pool pee-er.
I don't think I'll ever use that stuff. I mean, what if it's
my kids who got caught? Very likely considering it's my pool. I think that if a
kid wants to pee in the pool they're going to pee in the pool and that's pretty
much that. Let them, once or twice, pee in the pool and get away with it. Of
course you'll get those who talk about how it's yucky, and can make you sick,
and etc. ad nauseum. But it's only pee. Look up in the sky sometime and find a
cloud. Then look really hard at that cloud is it a cloud or smog?
Sometimes it's hard to tell. And this is only a little pee in a thousand
gallons of chlorinated water.
And I think kids should get away with something sometimes.
See what its like to get one over on The Man for once. Pee in the pool
knowing they're not supposed to and knowing that if they want to pee in the
face of authority just once there aren't any flags or water clouds
turning red on them. It's good to get away with it. And if you think
about it, if peeing in the pool is the worse my kids are getting away with,
then I'm ahead of the game.
Yes, indeed! Twurdle Scronk. Don't ask me, I didn't write
it... I really think I have to get my eyes checked. Maybe it's just lack of
sleep, but maybe it's because I need glasses. I think I'd look pretty cool in
glasses. Am I getting sick? Boy, that would suck
What's with the new idea of companies calling your house but
not being on the phone when you answer? Instead you get a canned recording
telling you it's an "important call" and "please hold." I always hang up. It's
happening more and more often just now in fact, and earlier today, and
I've been getting a few a week. I've never had this before. In the past, when
somebody called you and you answered, there was the person that called you on
the end of the line. If you're going to call my house, at least have the
fucking courtesy to be on the phone when I answer it. Calling me to put me on
hold is fucking absurd.
The hospital client finally coughed up a month's worth of
billings to me, so Laura can pay the bills. It's so nice to pay bills. It's
been a month since we could do that. There were even Doritoes in the house. And
I didn't have to pay for my smokes in change.
Oh, and house stuff. Laura just got into one of her moods
and decided to paint the living room. Because it's rainy, there's no paint up
yet. But she did the spackling. And now I got no television and everything's in
the center of the room. At 9:30 at night she tears apart the house. It's kind
of like the time she got bored while giving Felicia a bath and took the
bathroom apart. I came home that day to find my toilet in the hallway. She does
that. Strange chick, that Laura. I need a lawnmower. We're all jungly.
Grey is the color of the day, and that's kind of nice.
Nothing sunny. Sun has been ruining my pale white gaffick complexion as of late
what-with the coaching gigs and all. It's wet out, smells nice, and the
filtered light is muted and comfy. My arm is killing me. I don't know what I
did to it, but it isn't due to my masturbation techniques as I rarely use my
left arm for such. CDs pour in the mailbox like the unending wine of Jesus and
the stacks build. I have assigning to do, and crap to listen to. I have
websites to update and more designs to work on. I have decided to take the
entire weekend off doing nothing but this. I am sorry for babbling. No. I'm
So I stayed home from work last Thursday, because I seem to
have torn up my left shoulder somehow. How, I don't know, but I can't put my
arms up to high or turn my head without a lot of pain. Today is more dealable
than it has been in days though, so either it's getting better or just taking a
But it's the Thursday home that's the stick. You see, when I
stay home from work I end up on the computer working on other things. And
because of that, Laura's schedule is thrown off a bit because she can't do her
usual work. The problem with that is Thursday she got bored, so she decided to
"rearrange the furniture" in the living/sitting room.
That's not so bad. She does that fairly often. But it didn't
stop there. "Rearranging the furniture" became, "Well, I might as well paint
the living room." So she comes home with paint the next day. Of course,
painting the living room lead to "spackling" of course so at 10PM or so Friday
I think it was, she's fixing the walls.
Then "painting the living room" for the purpose of
"rearranging the furniture" becomes, "Well, I guess since I'm painting I'll
strip the molding." So she started sanding the walls and the molding and that,
of course lead to "removing the molding" to make things easier (supposedly) and
that of course lead to further items of note.
This is a compulsive disorder. Rearranging furniture is now
a major project that involves major renovations. And she wonders why I think
she's a bit off kilter in the head. We make a good couple methinks. My
shoulder's still in a shambles, but the living room is green.
I'm sublimely content today. I'm not quite sure why. Maybe
I'm just delirious from being ill for a week. Best not to second guess it I
guess. Six hours since my last cigarette.
Already the withdrawal is setting in. I can't think straight
and it's very hard to concentrate on anything. I've gone from pacing the floors
to standing out on my porch just hoping someone would come walking down Main
St. who happens to be smoking a cigarette so that I can buy one for a quarter.
Back to pacing the floors, watching Jeopardy and somehow being able to answer
questions I've never heard of, while at the same time unable to get the easy
ones I should know. It's weird. I'm all off kilter. Over a fucking cigarette
I'm all off kilter. Right now I have IRC open, FTP, HTML, E-Mail, Publisher and
more at once. I'm writing the entry while designing the Dragons site while
answering an e-mail to Chris while printing a PDF file for the next month
Legends issue while updating the Pan Pages while checking yesterday's site
My brain's all fucked up. And it's ONLY BEEN SIX HOURS. Holy
shit this ain't good. Time has this tendency to take off and leave you behind
if youre not careful.
It really irks me that I'm such a puppet to these cancer
sticks. I should be stronger than this but I'm not. It doesn't help that I
think of my days when I was putting lines of white powder up my nose and when
kicking that habit it was cigs that kept some of that withdrawal at bay. If I
can beat down cocaine I should be able to beat down this. I was always fond of
saying the only drug that I ever got whipped by was coke. But it's not true. I
am getting whipped by nicotine too. I HATE cigarettes.
Depressed for no reason is unexplainable and therefore even
more depressing... Even blasting Suicidal's "Lovely" isn't helping. It used to,
way back in the day. I guess I've gotten even more jaded in my third decade.
Interesting...I remember reading old journal entries that there's no way I can
get any more cynical.
I'm seeing gneetches. Those little things that float just on
the edge of your sight and when you turn to see them you never do. But you keep
trying. Over and over. I hate them. I'm posting crap way too much tonight. As I
said to the Z, more or less, yay manic time! I'm going to really suck at stuff
Having a rough time of it as many of you know, but nothing
serious really. But you'd swear I haven't paid a dime in a year to some of
these companies. I have companies that call me a day BEFORE some payments are
due to make sure I plan on paying them. That's kind of fun though,
because then I can tell them I was but now that I've been annoyed you can wait
You see, credit reports don't mean too much to me these
days. First off, I already have the house I wanted. So I don't need a credit
report to be nice for a mortgage. Secondly, the companies that don't annoy me
typically get paid and it's only a couple that annoy me enough to make them
wait. Thirdly, getting a car these days isn't all that difficult for
anybody...the last car I bought, the Grand Am, only gave me a problem when I
wanted to buy an older model. But because of all the YES YES YES car dealer
specials, I could buy a NEW one instead! Figure that one out. So I did.
So I'm not all that worried when they play the "credit
report" card on me. I just got off the phone with one of those. "Clifton" was
his name. He wanted me to stop eating dinner to go to my desk and give him a
check over the phone. He asked me why this loan was being paid late so I told
him his company annoyed me too much. So they end up on the low
priorities list...which means if I'm not sure whether to buy a new pair of
boots this week or pay them, I get the boots. It's kind of fun in a way...I
told him that Laura would take care of it Monday...which is tomorrow. But he
wanted it now...so he threw the "Why aren't you handling your own loan
responsibilities instead of some chick?" card at me, which is one of the ones
that really bothers me. So I told him then that maybe I'd have her take care of
You got to treat these companies like the children they are
sometimes. Send them to bed without dinner for an extra day when they annoy
Don't you hate when you find yourself to be bleeding for no
apparent reason? I'm doing it now. It's annoying.
Insomnia brews, like over ripened black coffee on the burner
of depression. Chillingly the air rolls about my feet, and I listen for the
buzz from the basement to spur me into another rapid succession of things. The
denial is evident but impossible, though the secrets stifle cunningly just
beyond my reach. The stapler clacks soundlessly in my direction.
Piling up, piling up, melding together and swaying about.
Onward it goes, growing, taunting. filling. Some pink, some white, some piss
yellow but they fill and pile and grow. I have to end this tonight. I
have to cut it short and slice it midways or the coming days with the trainer's
opera will fall into abysmal despair and lamentable wailings of incongruous
accompaniment. I must cut it midways...
I've said time and time again in here, to myself, and in my
head that this whole thing is for me. Not for anybody else. Any schmeckleheads
that want to actually read it, that's their problem. But this is for me.
VH-1 seems to have the ability to suck me into it. With the
80's retro look-back type programs, which I can't walk away from and must watch
like a train wreck, to the "100 Most Shocking Moments in Music" followed by
Ozzy's Behind The Music yesterday. Sucked right in, couldn't get away. More
time wasted by me with VH-1 than a pimple-faced 14 year old with a Playboy.
That reminds me...I could really use a hand job. I'll have to bring that up
Interesting day today. I thought I had another stalker on my
hands, and it's possible I do, but this one wears the face of an ex from
something like a decade back. 10+ years later she pops up with an AOL window:
"jerk." Well, "Ok" I said. I mean sure, I can be pretty good at being a jerk.
Didn't know who I was talking to though, but she went on to explain how one
time I gave a girl a neck rub while we were going out a girl I don't
even remember but can safely say without a doubt that the neck rub thing was
all that it ever went to and therefore I'm a dirtbag. I didn't know a
neck rub was sexual I know it could be, but I wasn't aware that it was,
in it's own right, a sexual act.
My whole life is a shambles. I've been a dirtbag for the
past 12 or so years and I didn't even know it! I live a LIE! She was fun. I
hope she comes back. I like stalkers. Strange day. I haven't been called a slut
in years! And it still feels good!
I'm babbling. I have a lot on my plate as always and it's
just that sometimes as I just sit here and type randomly for a little bit I
start remembering things I have to get done, which is good because then I add
it to my overpowering ToDo list and eventually like say within the month
or so it gets done.
I need my bipolar stuff to kick in. That's what I need.
Being manic depressive sucks when the only thing you can remember in recent
times is the "depressive" side of the coin. Where the fuck's the manic? Where's
the points where I do so much f'in work and get so much f'in shit done that it
can, at times, make the depression side worth it? Now granted, if you balance
it out and see that I do hardly anything when I'm depressive, and do twice as
much when I'm manic, it turns out that I do the same amount of work I would do
if I was normal. But when all you've got lately is the depression you
get so behind that all you can do is look at the piles of shite and realize
there's no way you're ever going to finish and then get MORE depressed.
Where the fuck's my manic period?
It's kind of the point that I don't have time to be
depressed, yet I am. Some days fade by and I get nothing done, and when you do
a lot of stuff getting nothing done really hurts. It's weird not being happy
when youre doing things you really want to be doing...go figure. I can't
figure that part out which is, again, kind of depressing. Yay the spiral!
Nobody tell anybody you saw me, because it seems there's a
warrant out for my arrest... That's right folks! Pan's on the Lamb...running
form the Law...fighting order...defining my very existence by living within the
shadows of society. A criminal mastermind not to be tussied with...huzzah and
have at ye!
In all seriousness, it seems we forgot to pay an
unregistered vehicle ticket (by about a week...the check actually went out a
day or three ago) and in response the Township of South River has issued a
warrant for my arrest for the crime of Contempt of Court. Time to fire up Guns
'n Roses and blast "Theyre Out to Get Me" again at stereo top
volume...just like in the old days. I haven't been arrested in years!
P.S. I just realized I'm listening to a CD by industrial
band Jailbird. Hah.
Strange, but I've been feeling somewhat stifled lately. Like
everyone in the house is watching me a lot. It's weird, I'm hoping it's my
paranoia acting out, but I'm almost afraid to write some of the new stories
I've been coming up with for fear of the content involved. Some of my more
brutal character creations are trying to get me to write new things about them,
and sometimes I feel like if I do some of the things that may come pouring out
once I open those cranial flood gates wouldn't be what one would call
"wholesome," if you know what I mean. Killings and murder are never fun
subjects to leave lying around and with some people the idea that they're
fiction is completely irrelevant. This troubles me. It troubles me a lot. If I
scratch my ass, is somebody watching?
I wonder how Thomas Harris or Stephen King or Sue Simpson or
other authors in those fields, styles and genres feel? Do they ever feel
stifled, or is it understood by everyone concerned with them that it's
This is a collection of unrelated ramblings
throughout my online LiveJournal (magman). They are put together in
order of writing, but they spill one to the other without warning. They are
therefore similar to Burroughsian cut-up style in a weird paragraph-at-a-time
sort of way. Sometimes only a snippet of an entry is used, sometimes the whole
entry is used. No rules
just write. This particular rant uses all MagMan
LiveJournal entries done for 2003.