nothingbutaspaceman-writings - Tumblr blog

[nothingbutaspaceman-writings]

[Sex work is science

I’m not just a scientist

I’m head researcher]

Peachtree in bloom, 1888

Van Gogh Haiku 45

[nothingbutaspaceman-writings]

[I’m the Sysiphus

Of eating in the shower

Looped bowls of Froot Loops]

The rock, 1888

Van Gogh Haiku 44

[nothingbutaspaceman-writings]

It's Always Supernatural in Philadelphia (chapter 1/? WIP)

[Perhaps the dumbest project I've ever started. This idea has infested my head for over a decade. A couple years ago, I posted a pic of the cold open but recently decided to pick it back up. At about 1400 words, this is far more a proof of concept than anything. I've never written/read a fanfic. I know I need to look into posting this on a site more formatted for this stuff. I'll be mapping out the story soon so posted chapters can have some consistency. Should edit this chapter a bit too. I also haven't watched either of these shows in a long time. The story ostensibly takes place in 2016 but what's happening in either canon continuity at the time? I've no clue. AU, I guess.]

11 AM.

October 28th, 2016.

On a Friday.

Philadelphia.

Dennis made small talk while finding a clean glass.

“You guys from around here?”

“Nah. Passing through.”

“Don’t get a lot of suits in here. Don’t mind me askin’, what’s your business, fellas?”

Sam cleared his throat. “We’re, uh... P.I’s.”

“Any interesting pic-”

With a clatter, Charlie stumbles to the counter. “Dennis. It’s not dying. I keep whacking and-”

Shushing, “Did you use the spiked bat?”

Offendedly stammering, “Of course! Never seen a rat like this. And you know I’ve seen a lot-”

“Like what?” Dean interjected.

“Oh, hey guys. Green.”

_________________________________

The Gang Hunts El Chupacabra

_________________________________

Chapter 1

Charlie leads Dean toward the basement door.

“Okay, I guess it’s fair to warn you, seeing as how you’re a guest and all-”

“Warn me of what?”

“I have a shit-ton of crows down here. So, like. Please don’t spook them?” Charlie opens the door and leads the way down the stairs. “Ya know they’re more afraid of you than you are of them. Also, like, crows are super smart. I once saw one smoke a cigarette.”

“Cool. Now show me that rat.”

Blood pools in a spot a bit over a foot in diameter a couple steps away from the bottom of the stairs. Charlie is chuckling to himself repeating, “That rat, that rat, that rat” under his breath.

Dean crouches down with a flashlight to examine the blood then does a 360 checking for escape routes under pallets and cabinets. No tracks. He lightly dips his finger into the blood as he catches Charlie doing the same. “So you’re say-”

“What?”

“Did you taste the blood?”

“Nah, man. I’m just... Chewing my nails. Protein.” He stands up and puts his hands in his jacket pockets.

“This was a rat but not a rat?”

“Ima level with you,” Barely keeping his balance, Charlie hunches down and continues in a hush, “I’ve seen a lot of rats. A lot of rats in my day. But this was something else. Actually,” he claps his hands once and the crows squawk in a frenzy, “can I interest you in some Crow-Nog?”

“What?!”

Upstairs, Sam is trying to get his laptop working. He’s looking under each booth for a socket with power. The only one is being used by a couple charging their phones.

“Hey, do you guys mind if I borrow your socket for a minute? I can charge your phones on my laptop.” The young couple look across at each other waiting for the other to say something. “Alright. Um. Sir? If you wouldn’t mind swapping sides. Your lovely date would appreciate it, I’m sure.”

The young man gets up. “I’ll go order us a couple more drinks.”

“I’m okay,” Sams blurts before realizing his social faux pas. He makes eye contact with the woman and she smiles. He taps his fingers nervously and his eyes look to the table.

“Actually. I think the two of us are leaving. Come on.” The non-descript couple leaves with one rushing the other.

Dennis, watching the situation unfold, stands at the table. “Did you- was that intentional?”

“I’m sorry...”

“Dennis.”

“I’m sorry, Dennis, but I need to get to work.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Go ahead.” Dennis lingers a couple seconds longer than Sam would like but goes back behind the bar. As he does, Dean and Charlie emerge from the basement. Dean’s eyes quickly meet Sam’s and he slides into the booth.

Sam exhales, half annoyed he’s being interrupted again, half in preparation for what Dean is gonna reveal. “So what happened?”

“I think we’re on the right track. Freddy Got Fingered over there told me he has seen weird things around here. He tried to get me to drink something called Crow-Nog but there’s other witnesses.”

“Other witnesses? Friends with that guy?” Sam points to Charlie trying to open a bottle of super glue with his mouth.

“Yeah, why?” Dean returns assuredly. “Anything good in there?”

“Well, nothing to report as of yet.  I don’t know if this place even has internet.”

“Did you ask your friend over there?” Dennis is failing to look natural as he wipes and re-wipes the bar top.

“I’ll ask mine when you ask yours.” Charlie is trying to open a bottle of nail polish remover with his glued shut jaw.

“Fair enough. Didn’t we order drinks already?”

“Yeah. I’m going to let mine go. I wouldn’t drink anything here even if it was out of a bottle.”

“What do you mean? Alcohol kills all the germs.” Dean smirks. “Yo! Two beers. Your worst and your best.”

With a thumbs up, “You got it.” Dennis turns to the taps and rambles to himself unsure of how to fulfill the request. In one pint glass, he pours a pungent lager. He once read that good lager smells like rotten egg so, even if it is spoiled, he has the plausible deniability of it being fancy. “Charlie.”

Charlie is already right behind him, wiping nail polish remover from his lips in embarrassment.

“I’m not even going to ask. Charlie, what’s the best beer here?”

“Crow-Nog, duh, Dennis.”

“I’m not!” Hushing himself, “I’m not giving anybody your bird moonshine, okay?”

“Then whatever is in that third tap. I’ve been,” his eyes dart back and forth, “metaphorically sucking the spout.”

Another pint glass is grabbed and filled with a brick red tinted liquid. “This better be beer.” Dennis places the two glasses on the table. The lager in front of Dean. Charlie’s pick spilling over onto Sam’s laptop.

“They’re both for me, buddy.” The lager is already half-drank before the final syllable escapes.

“Sorry about my janitor over there. He can get a wee excited for guests.” They all look at Charlie as he licks a nail polish brush. “Let’s ignore him. So what are you guys working on?”

“Mr...”

“Reynolds.”

“Mr. Reynolds,” his empty pint is scooted towards the wall as he lowers his voice, “have you seen anything out of the ordinary around here.”

“Out of the ordinary,” a million flashbacks, “around here?”

“Yeah. You know. Strange. Unnatural.”

Ready to follow their monsters-are-real scripts, Sam and Dean both focus on Dennis

“Did Charlie put you up to this?” Dennis gulps and flatly repeats, “Did Charlie put you up to this, huh?” He chuckles, puts his hands on his waist, and looks at the ground before looking through Dean. “Wow. Okay guys. How about you finish your drinks and,” he clicks his tongue, “hit the old dusty trail.”

“We’re being serious.”

“So am I. It was nice, guys.” Walking away, Dennis scolds Charlie for eating nail polish. As Dean begins to drink the mystery drink, “And quit putting your whole mouth on the beer taps. I’m not going to tell you again.”

Deans spits out his drink and Sam laughs. “Let’s get out of here, Sammy.”

Mac holds the door as the brothers exit. He lets them by, straightens his posture, and sizes them up.

“Who were those guys?”

“Assholes,” replied Dennis.

“I thought they were kinda cool. Didn’t wanna try my nog but that’s okay. Can’t all be winners.”

“Dude, we need to move the nog.”

“Man, I know. Those guys were cool too. They were also super packing.”

Mac’s eyes widened. “No shit?”

“Definitely. The shorter guy,” he whistles, “was in the basement with me.”

“And?”

“And what. He had ‘I’m packing’ energy, dude!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Dennis interrupts, pouring a red beer for Mac to get him to sit down, “Maybe that guy you talked with. Tall guy, nah. Don’t buy it.”

“I do. I buy it, Charlie. I was checking those- I was,” Mac takes a quick sip, “ assessing those guys. Tall guy. I bet he’s packing. I mean, did you see his hands?”

“Oh yeah. I was glad he stayed up here with Dennis.”

“Why were you in the basement together? Is it about the crows?”

“The murder?”

“The what?!” Almost spilling his drink, Mac stumbles to his feet. “I actually. I just remembered a thing. I gotta go.” Mac leaves the bar.

“You gonna finish that?”

“Mac’s beer that is infested with whatever diseases hide in your saliva glands?”

“Yeah.”

“Take it.”

Charlie pulls a plastic mini-bottle out of his jacket and pours the white substance into the beer. “I’ll be in the basement. Call me up if Frank comes by, yeah?”

[nothingbutaspaceman-writings]

I made a lyric video for an old song. This probably isn’t the best of the 4 I’ve made. And it’s probably the worst thumbnail of the bunch. But this song means a lot to me. It’s got some pretty dark subject matter.

The central theme being the cycle of self-harm.

I’m incredibly open for commissions. If it’s for a queer song/artist, it’s probably free. I’m, like, actually proud of these videos. Using free software and clips, I think they’re fun. Even if this vid has been sitting at 20 views for 3 months. See below for a little more detail on the subject matter and why this song has haunted me for almost decade.

So. What could “Ideation” be about? You get 3 guesses.

This song serves as the thematic closer to my old band’s 2016 EP Bipolar. The whole EP is about self-harm, suicide, depression, psychosis, cognitive dissonance, imposter syndrome, codependence, and looking to art for answers. Among other themes. Ideation is mostly self-harm. A subject I think is still uncomfortable for most audiences. More so than hopelessness, depression, anxiety, nihilism, and other “dark” matters. It isn’t explicit, I think. I don’t sing about hitting myself for hours with PVC pipe. It’s a bit more subtle.

I could very easily write an essay going like by line explaining the song. But I’ll try not to.

The opening stanza is about getting lost in your own negative thinking. “Apathetic anxiety.” Mindlessly pacing for hours, avoiding sleep, wishing you could care about anything. Only negative thoughts over and over and over.

The next stanza is about losing faith. Faith in humanity, gods, altruism, reality. Life is meaningless. And the martyrs who’re burdened with unselfish concern will be forgotten and lost in the malevolent waves of the universe. Even if you’re a good person and want to be a good person, you’ll be forgotten.

The next stanza is where the self-harm is first made explicit though still bordering on metaphor. It’s about rapidly cycling between being bored with existence then afraid of not having it. The oscillating is numbing. You lose touch with your place in the universe. Anxious, you chew your nails until they bleed. And in the blood flood comes the sharks: the suicidal thoughts.

The next couple stanzas are riddled with double entendre and biblical references. Settling into your place as a martyr. Drowning. Sacrificing your capacity for love so you can swallow more water. Soon you are the water and the water is you. It’s literally in your blood. All this pressure becomes too much to bear and you intentionally fail to take your life. And when you survive, you realize it’s the only thing you have control over. When you’re dead, nobody can tell you you’re wrong. The crux of the whole EP, “Who are you to tell me how I feel?” Your whole life, everyone has known what’s best for you. And they love to tell you that your own feelings are wrong. They gaslight you. They never let you forget all the times you’ve hurt others. They tell you you're beyond redemption. You’re incapable and unworthy of love. You’re in a desolate world. Your efforts to help others were a lie. The ones you trusted are the ones telling you you’re worthless.

And the sharks surround. And you have trouble differentiating between negative thoughts, untrue thoughts, and reality. And the sharks start making some really good points.

You’re in constant pain. Constant confusion. Constant remorse. You only want one person to truly care for you. And in this hell you’ve created, this person cannot exist. They have to exist beyond this mortal realm.

Things cannot be clearer. If you die, there’s only 2 possibilities. Either there’s nothing. Or. There’s an angel. But no matter what, the pain is gone. And that’s all that matters.

That’s Ideation. It means a lot to me. I wrote it in 2016 while beating myself nightly. Awake for hours and hours, I’d pace past the point of exhaustion. Completely unable to stand, I’d bruise my legs for hours. Once the sun came up, I’d try to sleep. The next day, I’d pace around more. I’d feel the bruising in every step. I loved it. Nobody knew. The people I eventually let know didn’t care. They said nothing to help. Only to make things worse. To remind me that I’m wrong for having my own feelings. The main culprit is no longer in my life. And I haven’t self-harmed in a while.

This song has lots of queer elements though it was before my egg cracked. Feeling cursed with a certain role in society. Thinking the only escape is a place without people. Finding nobody to relate your issues to. Hating your identity and not having words for why. Only because it’s wrong in a way that has to be felt.

This poem and rant has left me feeling quite vulnerable. I’d like to make jokes about all this but it’s tough. I wrote this EP because I resolved to end my life. If you read this, I thank you. If you checked out the video, I thank you again. The song isn’t a masterpiece. My vocal performance isn’t my best. But I’m glad it exists. I could rant for pages on this particular song. I worked hard on it. And it was a super bummer to write. When we shared it back in 2016, I was inundated with more comments than ever and they were all about how bad my vocal skills were/are.

[nothingbutaspaceman-writings]

[Bell ring the routine

Slaved, Pavloved, salivating.

Requite: Pavhated]

Pollardbirches and shepherd, 1885

Van Gogh Haiku 43

[nothingbutaspaceman-writings]

[Guardian Angel,

Why are the skies always blue

When I most need you?]

Fields and blue sky, 1890

Van Gogh Haiku 42

[nothingbutaspaceman-writings]

A sun refusing to set:

Terminally tired and waking.

Forced to beacon in a darkness I serve to forget.

A cancerous optimism reddening your skin.

A warm caress of saccharine.

Sweat until it drowns my regrets.

Grow happy, my sapling!

Take it all until you love me

Then you can rest.

[nothingbutaspaceman-writings]

started working on a new poem for the first time in...

It’s about stuffed animals. But. Like. Dark? I’ve had the idea for a while. It’s based on a tweet I’ll link with the finished poem whenever that is.

[nothingbutaspaceman-writings]

just got off the phone with my first ever call to the suicide hotline #milestone

[nothingbutaspaceman-writings]

At the end of the best day,

I’ll think of your eyes and your laughter.

As I’m staring down a train,

I’ll remember how easy you made it to be brave.

Close my eyes and hear the sound of you sleeping.

Steading my heartbeat.

Calming me.

It’s calling me.

I’m sorry I didn’t revise this.

Choo-choo. Boo-hoo.

[nothingbutaspaceman-writings]

Brewing reality.

Bitter naturally.

Sweetened sacrificing identity,

I like coffee best when it doesn’t taste like coffee.

But if anyone is asking,

I like it like I like my inevitability:

Blacker than eternity.

But really…

I’d rather

be sleeping.

Dreaming.

Unthinking.

Undrinking.

But it keeps steeping.

Caffeine.

Don’t talk to me until I’ve had my second helping.

Then I’ll tolerate the weakening of its potency.

I’m not even thirsty.

I’d rather be sleeping.

I don’t like coffee.

I don’t like reality.

“It’s an acquired taste. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

[nothingbutaspaceman-writings]

A thought experiment. Not sure if this is wholly original but nothing is.

You’re seated at a desk in a small room. There’s one door. You’re not sure how you got there.

On the desk is a touchscreen that reads, “There are 100 others in the same situation as you. You will never know the ramifications of this outside of your experience. There’s only one way to guarantee the door opens for you. The amount of time you have is not for you to know. You only get to answer once. Your question: should those voting no or refusing to answer die?”

How do you vote?

[nothingbutaspaceman-writings]

Newest single by my metal project. A song about ghosts, depersonalization, and regret.

.

.

.

A toast:

“To ignoring, to ambivalence; to underscoring, to rest; to a past haunting; to a future to forget: Only Regrets.”

Fitted sheets. My entire being underneath. Repelling warmth. Don’t breathe. I’m a ghost. That’s what I believe. Unrelenting saddening. Relentlessly maddening. Existing on the periphery of humanity. Paralyzed by loneliness, by sadness. But not. I’ll move on when I’m ready. Still learning of living and death. And that they’re one in the same.

Melancholic apathy: hopelessly hopeful for a hope that can’t be conceived; no promise of promising promises promising promise to be perceived.

I’m an echo. Dissonant cognition masquerading as a bias of confirmation. Repeating. Interminably.

“…everything is nothing is everything is nothing is everything is...” When does it end? Did it ever begin?

Fitted sheets. An expanse of a canvas enveloping a consciousness; developing subconsciousness. A dream without edges, a universe without borders, a mind greater than the self: an imperfect god’s perfect hell.

I’m a ghost. Haunted by my future. Haunted by my past. Haunted by what’s become. Haunted by what wasn’t done. Give me a chance. Give me a second chance. I did nothing. I tried everything. Why can’t I move on? Why should I move on? Haunted by a haunting of an undying death, of a nonliving self.

And that’s what I am: a solipsistic nonexistence. And that’s what I am: a solipsistic nonexistence. And that’s what I am: a solipsistic nonexistence.

[nothingbutaspaceman-writings]

[We’ll look back, laughing,

To before tech took over...

Before... Ticklebots!]

The plough (after Millet), 1889

Van Gogh haiku 41

[nothingbutaspaceman-writings]

I think I think depersonalization’s weird.

- 6 word story

[nothingbutaspaceman-writings]

“They Were Just Called Copters Until Chloe Price Saw One.”

So punk,

So cool,

I wish...

So punk,

So cool,

I wish I was you.

I want be of an Arc

I want to be a Jett

I want a “Bridge to Cross”

I want pants without pockets. (ending at 57)

Burn me at the stake.

Make me demand “More Weight!”

Call me a martyr

Just don’t call me Sir

I hate looking at family photos

I hate the face I’ll grow into

I said I was a determinist

I really never meant like this

I want to change myself

Something short of mutilation

Auto save incomplete:

Reset simulation

All my nightmares

Are in third person

I know I am a problem.

But I don't know what the fix is.

I don’t want a dress. I don’t want to exist.

I’d be killed for Jess Abbot’s “Poise.”

Fuck! I fucking hate my voice!

I’m the sadistic eugenist for only wanting daughters.

I’d rather masticate the limb than rip the bandage!

I make jokes,

About wanting to be in an

All-girl radfem punk band.

About going shopping,

With all my favorite singers.

But in reality,

It’s an existential burden.

Hahaha. So fucking funny.

(Dysphoric, Dysthimic, Borderline, Bulimic)

Does my dysthymia make me dysphoric or does my dysphoria make me dysthymic?

(Dysphoric, Dysthimic, Borderline, Bulimic)

Make up my mind ‘til I’m pretty on the inside!

I just fucking hate my body.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I just fucking my body.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

Just let me sit in my hoodie.

I can’t do with all the staring.

I just fucking hate my body.

My therapist won’t say anything.

So tired of all the questioning.

I want simplicity.

There’s no silence.

“Best thing is: keep singing.”

I don’t even want a body.

I don’t even want a body.

Changing me won’t change anything. (It’s still me!)

Changing me won’t change anything. (It’s still me!)

Changing me won’t change anything.

I don’t even want a body.

I don’t even want a body.

I don’t even want a body.

I don’t even want a body.

[nothingbutaspaceman-writings]

“Imagine my shock!”

- person in a hospital waking up to learn lightning can strike twice