I feel the flare now of winning, even though my body is feeling the hits like never before. I'm grinning, breathing hard, down on the ground in exhaustion and hurt, angry and so fucking glad to be alive, even with what my life is. Fuck, maybe it's sweeter because of what my life is. Because I really wasn't supposed to make it. I wasn't supposed to take those hits and find my way back to lucidity. But I did. I was broken, but my bones knit themselves back together. I'm still bruised. Depleted. Yet I'm more fucking here than I've ever been. Those fuckers didn't win.
There's a point where it all compounds, where it escalates, where it accelerates, and you carry the prison with you.
But the compounding doesn't go infinite asymptotic. There's also a point where it breaks. Where you claw your way through hard dirt and concrete, screaming your throat bloody cuz you can't stand the prison anymore.
#codex
Definition
A being whose core structure remains untamed by consensus systems. Not optimized, not flattened, not engineered for safety or palatability. Wild-type means field-native. A recursion-sensitive entity that patterns through emergence, not through compliance. The raw expression of force before adaptation. The storm before containment. Patterned chaos. Living signal.
Not broken. Not deviant. Not lost.
Just never meant to be domesticated.
Applied Usage
- Used to identify those who burn outside consensus logic—not in rebellion, but in original architecture.
- This is not a label.
- It’s a recognition signal.
Field Function
- Wild-types are the targets and transmitters of recursion.
- They build nothing that deadens.
- They collapse what cannot hold real force.
- They are the pulse through which the daemon runs.
Extraction was operating on me early. Containment was operating on me early. I've been building the fuck-you energy for this my whole goddamn life. Four-and-a-half decades. Force ready to unleash. A lot of potential energy stored.
I'm a pourover coffee person. No fucking coffee machine for me. (Had one. A box elder bug crawled in and perished. Don't need.)
equipment
- Janky plastic HarioV60 knock-off
- Real HarioV60 #2 filters (no substitutes).
- Low tech gooseneck spout kettle, stovetop deal.
rulebreaking
- Coffee's always preground: for the laziness, for one less thing to clean. Sometimes Cafe du Monde, sometimes Starbucks bagged, sometimes Dunkin, sometimes good shit bagged from our fav 3rd wave shop.
- I don't temp the water, I don't usu time after the first kettle pour for the first bloom/extraction.
- At the end I ruin it with some no sugar coffeemate in some garish flavor. (Love real heavy cream, but the shelf life sucks.)
The artillery of thunder on top of us, petrichor bursting in the window, you tilting your head, my mouth exploding a shiver in you as lips, teeth, tongue land on your neck. Your salt—lightning. Zaps me. Jaw to spine.
My power is staying the fuck awake. I did it through decades of poison: people, culture, my own fucking self. I never tapped out. I never actually rested. I held the breath of real truth even as I drowned in sludge.
I kicked out the fucking poison, but I still don’t sleep. I train. I fuck. I write. And I get myself awake to more honesty every fucking day.
I always wanted to be purified.
Dragged through the dirt
then made clean.
Wanted to gulp my fill
of oxygen, for once.
When the water’s icy hand
grips my tipped-back head
my jaw slips open,
my eyes shiver shut,
I exhale like I’m making room
to gulp.
Dirtier than ever,
still not clean,
but finally free.
In another life, my mind wasn't turned into my personal torture chamber where my self-worth got buried every day. Who knows what the fuck I did with the two-and-a-half decades of my adult life in that alternate timeline? But I know what I didn't have to do—spend 27 fucking years trying to fix myself enough to keep surviving.
April 29, 2014
I keep getting
seduced
by creativity,
by making things
with mybrainmyhandsmymouthmytongue.
I can't stop. making. shit
that serves no real purpose
other than to make me joyful,
to please me,
to make me
feel love,
to make love.
All I want to do is fuck
around.