antennae.

i've been on a crazy NPR kick lately. it really started with me having short-lived trouble with my zune, leaving me with only access to FM radio. THAT started in florida when i went through a car wash without being able to put my radio antenna down. i recently took the antenna off entirely, leaving AM radio a thing of the past, and intermittent signal pickup of the FM stations. the only one that does work on a regular basis is 93.9, WNYC. and with all the random things that i find on that station, i often will check out what's on there FIRST before going directly into music mode.

i've heard a lot about NPR, and i'd always sort of assumed i'd find my way to it somehow, but radio just isn't one of those things i'd ever really found myself getting excited about (except when Stephen A. Smith had a 1 hour slot on ESPN radio). but starting two or three saturdays ago, when driving home and hearing a broadcast of a prairie home companion, it's been something i keep finding myself coming back to.

some of it is hilariously overliberal. but for the most part, i enjoy the news that they give. my favorite moments usually end up during specific segments though. i listened to an interview the other day about a woman writing a book about cooking in gangster movies. WHAT. then two mornings ago or so there was a woman talking about republishing a french cookbook from the 1930s that weighed 5.5 pounds. so random. GTAIV actually had a station on their radio that mocked what these types of stations are about, and i'm surprised how accurate it actually was.

the point of this post though is to share a show i heard last night while driving home from work. the show is called Soundcheck, i guess, and the particular segment was highlighting the importance of mystery in music. they had a guest on by the name of carrie brownstein who was in sleater-kinney (i think the term riot-grrl applies here, but i'm not sure; it's been YEARS). well-spoken, intelligent, and very articulate towards many of the points that i found to be sectioning off music that i find LOVE for, and the rest of it. if you can, take a listen to the show, otherwise let me know if you want to talk about it. it definitely points to some issues that i know i've talked about making a clear divide between bands that i can love and bands that... well... you know me.

i want that world.

halloween is always an opportunity to see where your creativity can take you. some choose to be a SEXY _________, or a DEAD ________. or a witch. or a vampire. meh.

the ones i've always liked are references to media. specific rock stars, specific movie stars, more specifically movie characters. things of that nature yielded a few of my personal favorite costumes of my own, being bomberman and cosmo from the fairly oddparents. this year i was walking down that same road of hero worship, this time in the form of OSCAR THE GROUCH, who holds a whole world of amazement for me, someone who i could talk to you for probably a half hour straight about. the possibility of his world, his origins, his day to day, all of it.

i LOVE oscar the grouch.

but last second, my costume broke. the iconography of oscar has always been dominated by his trash can. and that's the one thing that i thought i had figured out. i tested it out, tried to on, etc. worked out perfectly. i had cut the bottom out, set up a harness with suspenders. but when i started walking with it, the "stress" must have been too much for it. i was sweating with frustration trying to reharness myself in, etc.

but i started thinking around the can once i realized i needed the costume by tonight. and i thought of doing the paper thing, maybe drawing it. i thought about being a little more conceptual with it, making a 'statement' by taping or carrying paper with me that said the words, "garbage can" on it. but as i started putting together my ideas, i invented a brand new character. and while i'm not going to go into COMPLETE detail here, i invented ROSCO the Grouch, a cousin of Oscar, who is actually a HOMELESS grouch, one without a garbage can. and i'm realizing (actually the point of this post) just how far i go for character development, at least in my mind, and the fact that i have a few props that no one might ever ask about, i know about each piece and why he has it, etc. too much. too much.

*EDIT, POST-PARTY:
the lighting in the house was either brightly smoked out strobe effected, or entirely red, depending on where you were standing. the only other option was outdoors. this party was in roosevelt. i had to explain that my face makeup was GREEN, not BROWN, the entire night. and that no, i was not tyrone, a dave chappelle character. several times. my costume was apparently a death wish. i think the ratio of people that i knew there was perfect, though, because for everyone who thought i'd shown up to crash the party as something entirely offensive, there was someone there who either knew what i was going for or knew that i would NEVER be going for what it appeared to be. the fact that i wore a red bandana around one of my shoes at one point didn't help either, because apparently, i was flying a gang flag. such new policies and procedures, man. unreal.

legs and language.

all of this,
seriously,
is amazing.

the photos alone tell a nightmare.
but when you read the love story,
it might make you feel a little differently.


then there's the broken, freshly learned english.
it's really admirable, i'm not being sarcastic.
it's impressive that these individuals have learned this amount of english, and know enough of it to get through message board posts about a post this far removed from standard regular conversation.

the users' love of the subject definitely comes through as well.

declare.

it bothers me when

someone who complains about the way things are doesn't celebrate change,

and when

someone can't answer the question "what does a GOOD DAY consist of for you?" without having to get back to you

and when

someone's first response to "what have you been up to?" begins with either 'nothing' or anything work related.

punch in the heart.

you want to see fucked up videos?
watch NATURE.



there's so much to describe, from the lifedump (and replay... and OTHER replay), to the corpsekicking, to the gasping humanlike face.

this happens everyday.

454a to Merrick.

330 in penn station, with an hour and a half until the next train is an unbelievable... unBELIEVABLE scene. It's friday night. Bars are vomiting up the waste, the putrid wretches of the early morning.

the ex-football players are clearly delineated by their massive size of men once pulled together as muscle but let go into a bulk of meshed fatty tissue and alcohol. shouting at each other in slurred tones reserved for workyards, cafeterias. mouthful of cinnamon twists, calling, "cutie with a bootie," words and sound getting caught up in empty carbs. passing out as he tells his friend about getting his weekend together, and complaining about his cell phone battery dying.

in-fighting between small groups of friends.
two drunk men in business suits helping each other up for a full two minutes.

women dressed in the tightest, most revealing skirts they own because it's FRIDAY NIGHT. walking around on cell phones, some crying to their boyfriends, or ex-boyfriends, or complicated situations that the next train is 4:54... i'm SORRY... it's FRIDAY NIGHT.

everyone watches the schedule board like something's going to change. like 4:54 is going to change, like this time is just a lie, like there's no way this is right -- there's no way this is true, i needs to be home.

and the crowd keeps growing,
the night preparing for the hangover.
there is nothing else for us to do here but wait in this arena.

there are no good girls here, there are no lingering conversations. there is nothing nonviolent here, no lack of vulgarity, a caligula scene. all fucking in the mind, eating what's edible, bodies sprawled where they can be sprawled.

this is what it's like to be alone.

and what i've been thinking is where do you go to be in rome? you maintain of self what you can as self but you do as romans do to maintain.

and here begins the other end of the conversation, the boyfriend, the ex-boyfriend, the complicated situation, the i can't talk about it, and he's yelling, "where ARE you?" and "that's not what you said... that's not what you said... that's not what you said you'd be doing before. that's NOT what you said you'd be doing before. where's christina? where's christina. fine. fine. bye. i'm NOT. GODDDD."

"nnnooOOOO... nnnoooOOO... i left a fucking message."

Please watch the gap when boarding the train.
Khaki pants, pink polo, black moccassins, small black shopping bag... talking to himself the entire time.

Brown pants, brown button up, khaki suit jacket, picking a fight with someone who gave him attitude, walking away, placing full bag of taco bell at his feet, shaking his head. rolling his neck, rocking it back, stretching his jaw. readjusting his sleeves. in the brush, this would be followed by pissing on nearby foliage, ramming tree trunks, baring teeth.

circling like hyenas.

girl in jogging suit eating ice cream.
asian girl in short skirt, drinking lemonade.

dryfucking on the pillar.
alphajawing around the promenade.
deadstaring in the stairwell.

403 in penn station with no sign of slowing, no sign of speeding, no sign of progressing, just the motions and the motions en route to the 454 to merrick.

jockmeat and fightstance battlestooging side by side. silent. Powerade. Powerade. Reps and Powerade. Bitches and The Game and Looking Undefeated.

broback to broback.

Let's get a beer. It's Friday night.

knuckle.

somehow, people get away with things like:
if i had all the days to live, i'd spend them finding you.
but it's something i'd want to say.
but not like that, not at all.
it's like saying,
"so many movies out there -- so many movies out there, DAWG."

along for the ride these days.

Just got up to leave the starbucks i was sitting at and there was a guy editing and writing in the margins of a screenplay with his head in one of his hands. It was at that moment that i wish i was actually able to finish something narrative that i was proud of to drop it off on his table on my way out and say, "hey man, if you have the time..." then walk out.

I wish i wasn't such a hobbyist.

work blog.

It's easy to see why some fail and some succeed. I normally don't try to drag work into the internet, whether it's flickr or twitter or here or any of those other portals, but sometimes the way it applies just makes too much sense.

For example,

Tonight i held a meeting for the store to show what the expectations of the store were from a numbers standpoint, a cleanliness standpoint, and a morale standpoint, and even once that entire spiel (it took about 30 minutes for me to go over everything) was through, people were instantly ready to walk out the door. People were looking at the ground, watching the in-store tv (which i am always hearing complaints about), and i'm sitting here giving information that's crucial to your position in the store as well as, when you break it down, their wallet.

I was told that as a manager, my first year, i would go way too late, take care of everything myself, and accept other's failures by taking them on myself without holding anyone else accountable, and that eventually, i would start going to the complete other side and start cracking down way too hard on people, holding people far too responsible for shortcomings based on nothing but the given day. I don't know if i see that tide starting to turn, but i also know that i am guilty of that first part, and am going to start turning it up a little more.

This is retail and it's hard to take seriously, but at the same time, i take everything that i start to do seriously. Otherwise, what's the point.

This has already gone on long enough.
Just needed to vent.

organs.

SO
much
has happened and it's unjustifying to put it into words.
but the internet is back up in some level of regularity, thanks to the productivity of air waves' ability to carry data.

- just started listening to winds of plague today, and it is probably the best NEW band i've heard all year.
- speaking of best _____ all year, batman: arkham asylum holds that slot for video game of the year. hands down. note: i am NEVER really into those stealth games, so if that's holding you back, at LEAST give it a shot. demo's up on the networks. and i could give a DAMN about the bat, usually.
- been reading, but not posting my underlines. i will.
- writing a book with ernesto. not sure when we're done. i guess we'll know.
- project witness went DOWN.HILL. but it got me to write in a way that's completely different from what i usually put out there, which is a challenge i hoped i'd present, at least to myself.
- bought a sketch book. drew on two pages.
- going to st. louis in october.
- went to vegas last month. left my mark.
- i, uhh, i live in queens now?
- love.

today's afternoon silence.

she left.
and so, we quiet it with drugs.
it was a steel tin, wrapped in brown paper. tied with gritty twine.
authentic to an underworld. smell and odor and aroma instant.
this was born into the earth - this was born unto the earth.
years of non-commitment. years of non-possibilities.
years of research, reading it out, analyzing it all, speculating it out.
dead texts, bloodless.

graded bungie cord safety. there is no overdose without the dose. the first, the pure, the virgin sweep of chemical or botanical lust swallowing you dead as a burnt wheat field. thick burnt vapor becomes your portrait. thinking through gestating murk. there is no flying without those wings.

all.

and oh yeah, it made sense.
to the nerves the synapse and the touch
it made sense.
they never stopped you.
it made sense
and while she loved you it made sense.

broken vows.
an invalid inclusion.
you never seemed to make it stop
and your priority was clear to those who
weren't there.
it made sense.

it all made sense.

climb those stairs, it made sense
you's a dead man, yeah it made sense
bye bye bye bye bye bye bye
bye bye bye bye bye bye bye
it made sense.

and in illegibles at quiet writing desks
and in scrawls on the walls of those haunts
and in quiet walls of abodes
yeah that name it makes sense.

runes of eyes and archs of hands
perfect posture and perfect stature
yeah it made sense.
i believe in you
and i believe in us
i don't believe in me
but i believe in our running
i believe in our escape
and i believe in our demise
yeah it's this faith that brings me back
and it's this faith that keeps me down,

the dead to the speech of strangers that are
familiar.

sloth roulette.

i've been falling asleep for the past hour or two and have had little bits of little dreams just long enough to create a story from the 3 to 6 seconds i spend with my eyes closed. the one i remember the most is the one that had me fully convinced that the girl i am currently crushing on is actually 1113 years old and has been waiting to come back to the surface of society because "the people are finally unlike what they used to be."

six seconds of dream.

i'm going to be starting another dream journal.

clockwork.

"There is a time when the operation of the machine becomes so odious, makes you so sick at heart that you can’t take part; you can’t even possibly take part, and you’ve got to put your bodies upon the gears and upon the wheels, upon the levers, upon all the apparatus, and you’ve got to make it stop. And you’ve got to indicate to the people who run it, to the people who own it, that unless you’re free, the machine will be prevented from working at all!"
- mario savio

apt.

short side of it is, breakup is official. need to look for a place.
kind of nervous how the dvds will be split up.
i'm fine, except when she's around. aka
when she is home and i am home.
moreactually, when she is home and i am home, then she goes out.
otherwise,
i'm fine.
inconsequential.

i have been trying to get an apartment, but haven't tried looking very hard until this morning. sent out two e-mails, both which asked about myself. i gave the run-down:
- NOT my first apartment
- SALARIED job
- living ALONE
- friends are respectful, NO PARTIES
- NO PETS/SMOKING
- NOT a MUSICIAN

though i did it in paragraph form.
with sentences.


what i really should write is:
"you'll never know i was there. i always want to catch up on reading, dvds, music, and video games. i rarely do, just point me at the internet. i have headphones. i'll pay the rent. hate smalltalk (weather, sports, celebrities) so conversations will be kept to a minimum. this is exactly what you're looking for."



we'll see.

i will tell you.

i'll be what i have to be.
i love you.
"ha! banishment! be merciful, say 'death;'"
"there is no world without Verona walls."

i will never be you.
in rain and in god's form, a faith unspoken and unpracticed.
i found you in soil undisturbed. silence was what you spoke.

the sun exhales.






mediums.





miles.
i'll
be
i'll be what i have to be.
i love you.

wilderness, jim morrisson.

i had heard that someone was surprised i hadn't been at all interested in jim morrisson's writing, seeing that i myself mess around here and there. i mean, i tried listening to the doors a couple times, and wasn't into them at all. for a band that was supposed to be so edgy and pushing the boundaries, it sounded way too safe for me. all that mysticism rubbish, gone by the wayside. but i decided to check out a book of specifically jim morrisson's, after hearing a few tracks from AN AMERICAN PRAYER, which was meant to be his spoken word. it was actually somewhat convincing. after noticing that there was a fairly clear line drawn between jim himself and the band the doors, i was definitely swayed in a new direction. i'm not passionately in love with the man or his work, but he definitely says some good stuff and had a talent and a drive that is certainly rare.

"
' have you ever seen god?'
-- a mandala, a symmetrical angel' "

"drugs are a bet with your mind."

"mouth fills with taste of copper.
chinese paper. foreign money. old posters."

"(panic in a horse's eye
that can spread & fill
an entire sky.)"

"she's selling news in the market
time in the hall
the girls of the factory
rolling cigars
they haven't invented musak yet
so i read to them
from THE BOOK OF DAYS
a horror story from the gothic age
a gruesome romance
from the LA
plague.

i have a vision of america
seen from the air:
28,000 ft. and going fast.


a one-armed man in a texas
parking labyrinth
a burnt tree like a giant primeval bird
in an empty lot in fresno
miles & miles of hotel corridors
& elevators, filled with citizens.

motel money murder madness
change the mood from glad to sadness.

play the ghost song baby."

"forgive me father for i know
what i do.
i want to hear the last poem
of the last poet."

the road, cormac mccarthy.

the road by cormac mccarthy was a trip. i noticed when i added it to my facebook CURRENTLY READING tab, that it was a winner of some oprah award, or that it was an oprah recommendation. nearly crushed my world. but cormac mccarthy wrote no country for old men, and i'll be damned if i don't fish out all that i can from the creator of that genius. the road follows a boy and a man through the wasteland of a post-apocalyptic somewhere. the people you see, the places you explore, and the skies you duck under all scream disastermath. i love the way that these two lived and the fashion in which it was narrated. a great book, and a quick read. i took no lesson from it, and i hope that it wasn't a form of metaphor for weight loss, jesus, finance, or love. i hope it was just a dark passage to continue carrying the fire.
-
"a blackness to hurt your ears with listening."

"an old chronicle. to seek out the upright."

"and the dreams so rich in color. how else would death call you? waking in the cold dawn it all turned to ash instantly. like certain ancient frescoes entombed for centuries suddenly exposed to day."

"in those first years the roads were peopled with refugees shrouded up in their clothing. wearing masks and goggles, sitting in their rags by the side of the road like ruined aviators."

"the color of it moved something in him long forgotten. make a list. recite a litany. remember."

"where you've nothing else construct ceremonies out of the air and breathe upon them."

"golden chalice, good to house a god. please don't tell me how the story ends."

"the world soon to be largely populated by men who would eat your children in front of your eyes and the cities themselves held by cores of blackened looters who tunneled among the ruins and crawled from the rubble white of tooth and eye carrying charred and anonymous tins of food in nylon nets like shoppers in the commissaries of hell."

"when your dreams are of some world that never was or of some world that never will be and you are happy again then you will have given up. do you understand? and you can't give up. i won't let you."

"he wanted to be able to see. look around you, he said. there is no prophet in earth's long chronicle who is not honored here today. whatever form you spoke of you were right."

the cardinal rule.

smoke made entirely of unravelled cassette tape. i become dark and ugly, covered in the age of rust. i fear the art of missing days, one less sequential than the last. there are no such things as ghosts, not since the insects moved in. headless body erupting hair. roses of dangling raw meat, hiding on the side of a rolling hill. they'll smell the poppies and move on.

i am properly introduced to morning.

altered states. +

i just signed up for netflix yesterday, something i've wanted to do since xb360 made it an option. i set up my instant play, and added a ton of movies to my queue and have sort of gotten addicted to rating and browsing the library. i watched my first movie today, starring william hurt called altered states. it followed a man deeply interested in the human mind's reaction to different stimulus, starting with sensory deprivation which then built into hallucinogenic drugs and things like that. the biggest of them all became a form of mushroom found amongst an indigenous mexican tribe who made a tea or beverage out of a form of mushroom which created a unified experience amongst all who drank the substance. amongst other things, one chemical found in the drink was scopolamine, a drug which i posted about more than a year ago on this blog. it was more or less an exhibition of the unborn soul. sounded pretty intense. we follow jessup (the professor) as he starts to experiment with sensory deprivation after this drug he's taken and how it's slowly devolving him each time he enters the chamber. it was made in 1980 so a lot of the special camera work necessary to exhibit some of the more psychedelic experiences felt a little corny, but i still appreciated everything they did with the movie. i think when directors have to be a little bit more creative and resourceful with what they have to work with, it tends to lend itself to some interesting results. see the difference between the original trilogy and the newer trilogy in star wars. overall, i thought the movie was great, definitely worth checking out if you're into hallucinogens or drug culture at all as well as more visually experimental film making.

in fact, i have actually been looking around for more experimental or just overtly visual films to play either on my computer or tv while listening to album. i'm not saying i want a full psychedelic trip or anything, but just something to have on that's NOT a "visualizer" on itunes or something of that nature. something with real imagery. sigur ros' HEIMA dvd comes to mind, though just the one isn't enough. i tried looking for silent films and things like that, though nothing really interesting came up. i know i've seen a few industrial bands and more experimental bands do things with films playing behind them as they're on stage. nine inch nails have done the same thing, on a huge scale... manson has too i think. something of that nature. i feel a little odd sitting around with headphones on staring at nothing. i'll be working on that. i just downloaded the battleship potemkin, and while it's not entirely visually stunning or anything, this was one of the earliest films that really was intentionally avant garde. i really liked watching it in a film appreciation class. i'll see if it translates.

what's up with this new TUMBLR blogging service? judging by the few that i've seen, it seems to be a little bit more aimed toward the twitter/flickr/facebook crowd which is more for the mass-sharing of information. that's great and all, but not really for me. it seems like it's going to get pretty large, i'd assume. it seems to tend to the bug that people get where they want to post an image or video to their myspace, but don't have anywhere to put it on their layout. i noticed that a big part of it, too, tends to be that you can openly reply and be replied to on that site and it will show up on your blog as well. there's a big blend of a lot of sites and ideas going on over there, and i think it's going to blow up if it already hasn't.

i picked up a bunch of books the other night at barnes and noble, one of which was superman: red son, a reimagining by mark millar (he wrote the original series wanted which the movie was based on, contributed to marvel civil war, etc.) in which Kal-L lands on earth 12 hours later, and in ukraine in the 1950s, and ends up in the hands of Stalin. a really good book, and while i'm not a fan of superman at all, i like what they did with the character, and there are a bunch of good cameos by other DC heroes. worth checking out.

miami in 6 days.

roomanitarian.

i just finished reading henry rollins' roomanitarian. it was enjoyable, but i think only if you know what rollins is about. it's not really written with any great style or skill, though it drives home what i know about the man, and his full-on hatred for republicans, yuppie white culture, drugs and abuse, and mostly himself, as a huge theme of his writing tends to reinforce complete and total isolation. here are some things:

"i have been dragging my past with me like it's a dying comrade and we're trying to make it back to the beach after a mission gone terribly wrong."

"when we fuck by the pool we bleed out of our mouths and can't finish. we are too toxic."

"came home and shot his wife and two small children. sat on the back porch with a beer. heard the sirens and put one through the roof of his mouth. what he couldn't control, he killed."

"i will admit this to you as long as you promise not to tell anyone. i do admit a sadness."

"he terrified them and they seemed dedicated to this fear."

"sad, mean brutal cycle. after awhile, if you want it bad enough, if you really need it -- anything will feel like love."

"feat of feast: don't drink the good stuff if you know you're gonna hurl. fear of famine: one more breath."

"i have felt it in the past. attraction to a woman. it always came with a certain measure of self-disgust. it happened recently. there i was with this woman. not letting anything show. not allowing one crippled display of vulnerability to register. years ago, fear of rejection and eventual, long burning humiliation kept my feelings in check. now it's different factors that keep my emotions stillborn. i have arrived at myself. i am beyond humiliation. failure falls off me. rejection is a given. the main thing that keeps me to myself is just knowing there's no way. there is just no way. at this point, what could my line possibly be? "hi, i'm dead. want to watch me sit silently in a small room? i can show you the parts of the ceiling my brains will most likely stick to." it is sad. to not need anyone."

"i know i am rusted metal scraping against sidewalks of forgotten cities, an unheard groan of a freezing pipe in a condemned building. i know, i know. believe me, i know. i know my words vaporize and lose all meaning as they evacuate my mouth. i know that all the years spent, all the miles traveled, all the sleep lost -- just time wasted. time wasted! like leaving a lamp burning in an unoccupied room. a waste! what a horrible thing, time wasted. the ravages of futility. inspiration's annihilating backhand. at the end of the trail, to find the pockets heavy with fool's gold, the ribs cracked from the last cheap shot and the heart helplessly empty... what a waste. and even though this is the cheaply woven fabric of my life, even though i am the hand that knocks unwelcome and uninvited on doors of empty houses, the cultivator of insufferable misery on hot endless nights of paranoia. ceaselessly unendurable and obsessive repetition. a life nailed to the ground by dulled cowardice and uninventive thought. in spite of all that, there was a time when i... when i thought something more than all this was in my grasp. there was a time when i could feel the ground underneath my feet and i walked forward into time isntead of standing still, stranded in semi-darkness with skewed memories of the past to keep me. i don't remember when i pulled back. i don't remember when i called it a day. i don't remember when i slipped underneath the surface of life and ended up here. i don't remember. i don't know."

"nothing can be recaptured. it can only be approximated and stood next to. it can only be lied into legend."

"still having the murder dreams?"

"their conversations rain down like hammers from a high place. their words jostle and crowd my brain. perhaps it's their thoughts i am thinking now. language is slavery. ...their sound all around me, this generic drone of collapse."

"it will never be love.... and it's not like your eyes aren't open arms. i am a ghost town with a ribcage, every abandoned car. i heard every word you said."

"after you were killed last june i quietly dismantled and disposed of my heart, parts of my nervous system and many of my thoughts."

"no one shoots the moon in the face."

"i used to be strong, but couldn't hold on to it. i hemorrhaged and bled out. now i'm just tough and weak, self=propelled into small rooms to endure time."

"casa to cairo. bangkok to paris. i got close to her in prague. but lost her for good. and found me for bad. and now i am a setting sun and closed road null."

"destruction will keep me alive for a few seasons yet."

"there is no shore. if i knew a name to call out, i would."

"when i talk to you, i turn to wood."

"walked past them all again. waited to sink with them. nothing happened. that's the fucked up thing. nothing happens until a nightmare erupts."

"i get used to throwing parts of myself away."

"we'll braid our secrets."

tal vez.

"
wandering around our america
has changed me more than i thought.
i am not me anymore.
at least i'm not the same as i was.
"






hello,
operator?

but, if you stay...

i finished a moleskine. it's not all for you.
here is some of it.
+

JULY 2008-MARCH 2009
new york
las vegas

not a spider on my lapel, that's a jellyfish, or anemone.
-
i had something for you while hanging lives on hooks but it slipped away inconveniently, so i'm thinking here of your painting and the words i'd put to it.
-
in a meeting, held together across four days by less than 10 hours of sleep, bottles upon bottles of alcohol, and poorly catered buffet food. i'm hallucinating. auditory. visual. but the smoke started last night.

seeing smoke where there is no smoke.

i'm at a round table with a chair pointing out. facing the podium. a young girl sits curled up in the chair next to me recoiled in terror from me. it's in the jaw drop and the eye expansion.

i hear creaking that no one hears. i ask paige and richie if they hear creaking. i make the mistake of offering the possibility of it being the ice in the pitcher.

ice in the pitcher.

i hear a woman's voice say, "ohhhhh" from above and behind my right shoulder.

i'm getting paranoid.

i hear full songs at the lowest volume. not distinct enough for identity. but it might be coheed or fairweather.

it's later today, still seeing smoke.

billy idol finally played dancing with myself. imperial palace: something about this place makes people want to dance.

leaning on a set of windows, feels like i'm on a conveyor belt.
still in vegas.

i saw a steward standing up and admiring or waiting for an answer from a girl who looked like jena, but he wasn't there at all. i'm still paranoid, thinking about how my pants look dirty, and are garnering attention fmor the passengers around me. it's a distraction. must be lack of sleep. i also have been closing my eyes and i'll open them after a while and it will seem that any of the people around me are pulling their gaze away. i worry maybe i'm talking in my sleep. oh, i'll never know. auditory hallucinations persist as well. i hear rick's giggling, chris talking, i just hear the girl next to me break into hysterical laughter. i don't know, we're still above utah. i have that song in my head that goes, "there she goes, there she goes again." i think a woman sings it. i keep hearing lighters being flicked. and i still see the smoke, really. a man holds a pen like a cigarette. life and some new layer of it. i'll be careful.

i just saw a static tv on the floor. i keep thinking the stewardess is trying to walk past me but i'm blocking her way.
-
foolish ones and dream rogues.
-

"there is no need for you to leave your house. stay at your table and listen. don't even listen, just wait. don't even wait, be completely quiet and alone. the world will offer itself to you unmasked; it can't do otherwise; in raptures it will writhe in front of you." - kafka

-
i understand more about myself through what i say and not only what i think! the most organic and internal sound (a thought) overthrow by filter and voice.

-
the essential mickey rourke
- rumble fish
- body heat
- diner
- the pope of greenwich village
- angel heart
- barfly
- sin city

-
i worry about playing what it is i play, speaking of human bodies and men as other things. who breathes? nothing is left. they told me as a levelled out city, see, it's worse that the men were there for the explosion. silhouettes always and always. dead men. plans for days and the rest of your life.

-
it's early. light's blue. waiting for the reason i'm awake.
i miss everyone.

-
i had a real, core thought that SHE was pregnant out there. it felt heavy.
-
the lips of this mouth, pure oldest of the ugly ones. dirty bones, fitted leather case. plays a dirty tune, but oh lord what a sound. color disks in elevated skin plains. "leave it to me, i'll die in this city in love, be it God or Harlot. this tempest hasn't yet torn me." the gift for a better vessel. all those wasted days, my muse silent in the glass hollows. the madman is speaking french. sounds like grace to me.
-

Henry Miller's "Tropic of..." Twins.

i read both of the books, and can't say that i enjoyed one moreso than the other. they both end up reading very much like the books of the beat generation that i've begun to fall in love with, though the internal dialogues seem to be played up a bit more in these. there seems to be less of an explorer, yet more of an observer in miller's words. where you'll find kerouac excited to find his feet planted on new soil, miller seems to take on an element of acceptance of his surroundings, though he's not quite sure what to do with himself now that he's found himself there. it's hard to explain these books to anyone who hasn't read them, though they seem to be the predecessors of the BLOG writing style, sort of capturing moments as you've witnessed them, presenting a bit of internal narrative as opposed to giving a story that you can follow with characters and plot. these both have moved quickly to the top of a list of my favorite books. great reads, though a little rambling at times (on several occasions, paragraphs found themselves running on from 5 to 7 pages.) as always, these quotes are more or less for my own archiving/note taking purpose, but also to give you an idea of his writing style. sometimes, i've just underlined words amid other words, not for the meaning necessarily, but more for the way that those words work as alchemy.

TROPIC OF CAPRICORN

"once you have given up the ghost, everything follows with dead certainty, even in the midst of chaos."

"everybody around me was a failure, or if not a failure, ridiculous. especially the successful ones. the successful ones bored me to tears."

"people usually took me to be good, to be kind, generous, loyal, faithful. perhaps i did possess these virtues but if so it was because i was indifferent; i could afford to be good, kind, generous, loyal, and so forth, since i was free of envy. envy was the one thing i was never a victim of."

"the present was only a bridge, and on this bridge, they are still groaning."

"i was the evil product of an evil soil."

"it's a wonder things didn't explode around me."

"what strikes me now as the most wonderful proof of my fitness, or unfitness, for the times is the fact that nothing people were writing or talking about had any real interest for me. only the object haunted me, the separate, detached, insignificant thing. it might be a part of the human body or a staircase in a vaudeville house; it might be a smokestack or a button i had found in the gutter. whatever it was it enabled me to open up, to surrender, to attach my signature. to the life about me, to the people who made up the world i knew, i could not attach my signature. i was as definitely outside their world as a cannibal is outside the bounds of civilized society. i was filled with a perverse love of the thing in itself -- not a philosophic attachment, but a passionate, desperately passionate hunger, as if in this discarded worthless thing which everyone ignored there was contained the secret of my own regeneration."

"living in the midst of a world where there was a plethora of the new i attached myself to the old."

"whatever set the object apart, or made it unserviceable, or gave it a date, attracted and endeared it to me."

"soon i too would become like these objects which i venerated, a thing apart, a non-useful member of society."

"somehow i had managed to sever my connection with the world that human hands and human minds were creating."

"but the way of the world is more insidious than that. instead of being punished you are undermined, hollowed out, the ground taken from under your feet. it isn't even treachery, what i have in mind. treachery is understandable and combatable. no, it is something worse, something less than treachery. it's a negativism that causes you to overreach yourself. you are perpetually spending your energy in the act of balancing yourself. you are seized with a sort of spiritual vertigo, you totter on the brink, your hair stands on end, you can't believe that beneath your feet lies an immeasurable abyss. it comes about through excess of enthusiasm, through a passionate desire to embrace people, to show them your love. the more you reach out toward the world the more the world retreats. nobody wants real love, real hatred. nobody wants you to put your hand in his sacred entrails -- that's only for the priest in the hour of sacrifice. while you live, while the blood's still warm, you are to pretend that there is no such things as blood and no such thing as a skeleton beneath the covering of flesh. keep off the grass! that's the motto by which people live."

"you will never die again but only pass away like the phenomena about you."

"to sleep listening, to dream listening."

"i wanted a metamorphosis, a chance to fish, to leviathan, to destroyer."

"i wanted to feel the blood running back into my veins, even at the cost of annihilation."

"durable as the atom, heartless as the earth itself."

"the dream of men before the flood."

"there is no solution for a man like myself, i being what i am, and the world being what it is."

"the spark that unsparks, the soft purr of the perfect mechanism."

"i am going to die as a city in order to become again a man. therefore i close my ears, my eyes, my mouth."

"confusion is a word we have invented for an order which is not understood."

"above us the gas tanks, and below the marine life."

"why do the skeletons dance so ecstatically, i wonder. is it the fall of the world?"

"seemed possessed of a weight unnaturally. she had a more than human gravity, the gravity, one might almost say, of a warm corpse."

"between the time she took off and the time she returned i lived the life of a full blooded schizerino. it was not an eternity which elapsed because somehow eternity has to do with peace and with victory, it is something man made, something earned: no, i experienced an entr'acte in which every hair turns white to the roots, in which every millimeter of skin itches and burns until the whole body becomes a running sore. i see myself sitting before a table in the dark, my hands and feet growing enormous, as though elephantitis were overtaking me at a gallop. i hear the blood rushing up to the brain and pounding at the eardrums like himalayan devils with sledge-hammers; i hear her flapping her huge wings, even in irkutsk, and i know she is pushing on and on, ever further away, ever further beyond reach. it is so quiet in the room and so frightfully empty that i shriek and howl just to make a little noise, a little human sound. i try to lift myself from the table but my feet are too heavy and my hands have become like shapeless feet of the rhinoceros. the heavier my body becomes the lighter the atmosphere of the room; i am going to spread and spread until i fill the room with one solid mass of stiff jelly. i shall fill up even the cracks in the wall; i shall grow through the wall like a parasitic plant, spreading and spreading until the whole house is an indescribable mass of flesh and hair and nails. i know that this is death, but i am powerless to kill the knowledge of it, or the consciousness persists, and, as the inert carcass expands, this flicker of life becomes sharper and sharper and gleams inside me like the cold fire of a gem. it lights up the whole gluey mass of pulp so that i am like a diver with a torch in the body of a dead marine monster. by some slender hidden filament i am still connected with the life above the surface of the deep, but it is so far away, the upper world, and the weight of the corpse so great that, even if it were possible, it would take years to reach the surface. i move around in my own dead body, exploring every nook and cranny of its huge, shapeless mass. it is an endless exploration, for with the ceaseless growth the whole topography changes, slipping and drifting like the hot magma of the earth. never for a minute is there terra firma, never for a minute does anything remain still and recognizable: it is a growth without landmarks, a voyage in which the destination changes with every least move or shudder. it is this interminable filling of space which kills all sense of space or time; the more the body expands the tinier becomes the world, until at least i feel that everything is concentrated on the head of a pin. despite the floundering of this enormous dead mass which i have become, i feel that what sustains it, the world out of which it grows, is no bigger than a pinhead. in the midst of pollution, in the very heart and gizzard of death, as it were, i sense the seed, the miraculous infinitesimal lever which balances the world. i have overspread the world like a syrup and the emptiness of it is terrifying but there is no dislodging the seed; the seed has become a little knot of cold fire which roars like a sun in the vast hollow of the dead carcass."

"sunday came like a thaw."

"in the shape and weight of skulls."

"an age with less instruments and stronger antennae... a different kind of suffering has to be experienced before such music can be appreciated."

"despite the outward appearance of coma."

"death is the automaton which rules the world of activity. death is silent, because it has no mouth. death has never expressed anything."

"each page must explode, either with the profoundly serious and heavy, the whirlwind, dizziness, the new, the eternal, with the overwhelming hoax, with an enthusiasm for principles or with the mode of typography."

"i had a marvelous sexual dream that ended with the guillotine."

"i remember the first time we were separated this idea of totality seized me by the hair. she pretended, when she left me, or maybe she believed it herself, that it was necessary for our welfare. i knew in my heart that she was trying to be free of me, but i was too cowardly to admit it to myself. but when i realized that she could do without me, even for a limited time, the truth which i had tried to shut out began to grow with alarming rapidity. it was more painful than anything i had ever experienced before, but it was also healing. when i was completely emptied, when the loneliness had reached such a point that it could not be sharpened any further, i suddenly felt that, to go on living, this intolerable truth had to be incorporated into something greater than the frame of personal misfortune. i felt that i had made an imperceptible switch into another realm, a realm of tougher, more elastic fiber, which the most horrible truth was powerless to destroy. i sat down to write her a letter telling her that i was so miserable over the through of losing her that i had decided to begin a book about her, a book which would immortalize her. it would be a book, i said, such as no one had ever seen before. i rambled on ecstatically, and in the midst of it i suddenly broke off to ask myself why i was so happy."

"i realized that the book i was planning was nothing more than a tomb in which to bury her--and the me which had belonged to her."

"...this atomic eternity..."

"the very sight of these papers, of the strange languages in which they were printed, was sufficient to dislocate me for the day."

"her talk is as formless as dream."

"i have the feeling of being drowned in a deep mesh of words."

"two hemispheres, two skies, two sets of everything."

"tack your womb up on my wall, so that i may remember you. we must get going. tomorrow, tomorrow...."


TROPIC OF CANCER

"my thoughts are spreading. the music is slipping away from me, now that the drums have ceased."

"sleep is the keynote. no one is listening any more."

"the grief from his breath."

"if i am a hyena, i am a lean and hungry one; i go forth to fatten myself."

"in the midst of his reveries he suddenly arrests himself, and grabbing my arm excitedly, he points to a whale of a woman who is just lowering herself into a seat. 'there's my danish cunt,' he grunts. 'see that ass? danish. how that woman loves it! she just begs me for it. come over here... look at her now, from the side! look at that ass, will you? it's enormous. i tell you, when she climbs over me i can hardly get my arms around it. it blots out the whole world. she makes me feel like a little bug crawling inside her. i don't know why i fall for her--i suppose it's that ass. it's so incongruous like. and the creases in it! you can't forget an ass like that. it's a fact... a solid fact. the others, they may bore you, or they may give you a moment's illusion, but this one--with her ass!--zowie, you can't obliterate her... it's like going to bed with a monument on top of you."

"it takes it out of you, that fucking job! i want to write my life, my thoughts. i want to get the dirt out of my belly."

"it's a pretentious place with one of those huge empty lobbies in which englishwomen sit for hours with a blank look."

"a huge mirror covered with green gauze and tipped at an angle of 45 degrees hangs directly opposite the entrance over a baby carriage which is filled with books."

" 'you think i like myself... that shows how little you know about me.' "

"and the more he reads, the more disdainful he becomes. none of them are satisfying; none of them arrive at that degree of perfection which he has imposed on himself. and forgetting completely that he has not written as much as a chapter he talks about them condescendingly, quite as though there existed a shelf of books bearing his name, books which everyone is familiar with and the titles of which it is therefore superfluous to mention."

"the day is sneaking in like a leper."

"the alchemy of sound and sense."

"no searching for formulae, no crucifixion of ideas, no compulsion other than to create."

"the wheel is falling apart, but the revolution is intact..."

"now and then, it's true, i did think of mona, not as of a person in a definite aura of time and space, but separately, detached, as though she had blown up into a great cloudlike form that blotted out the past. i couldn't allow myself to think about her very long; if i had i would have jumped off the bridge. it's strange. i had become so reconciled to this life without her, and yet if i thought about her only for a minute it was enough to pierce the bone and marrow of my contentment and shove me back again into the agonizing gutter of my wretched past. ...when i realize that she is gone, perhaps gone forever, a great void opens up and i feel that i am falling, falling, falling into deep, black space. and this is worse than tears, deeper than regret or pain or sorrow; there is no climbing back, no ray of light, no sound of human voice or human touch of hand."

"since then of course, i have learned what every madman in paris discovers sooner or later; that there are no ready-made infernos for the tormented."

"the language apocalyptic."

"that day a woman addressed her puppy in the apocalyptic language of the slaughterhouse, and the little bitch, she understood what this greasy slut of a midwife was saying. how that depressed me!"

"wherever there are walls, there are posters with bright venomous crabs heralding the approach of cancer."

"it has eaten into our souls and we are nothing but a dead thing like the moon."

"it's a name you give to an abstract idea..."

"how the hell can you climb over a woman when her mother's dying downstairs, perhaps right beneath you?"

"a climate that eats into your soul."

"[about whitman]: there is no equivalent in the languages of europe for the spirit which he immortalized. europe is saturated with art and her soil is full of dead bones and her museums are bursting with plundered treasures, but what europe has never had is a free, healthy spirit, what you might call a MAN."

"windmills overlooked by cervantes."

"gold is a night word belonging to the cthonian mind:it has dream in it and mythos."

"the dream slides into artifice."

"an arabian zero rather, the sign from which spring endless mathematical worlds, the fulcrum which balances the stars and the light dreams and the machines lighter than air and the lightweight limbs and the explosives that produced them. "

"dear, crazy, metallurgical eyes."

"the story of art whose roots lie in massacre."

"if now and then we encounter pages that explode, pages that wound and sear, that wring groans and tears and curses, know that they come from a man with his back up, a man whose only defenses left are his words and his words are always stronger than the lying, crushing weight of the world, stronger than all the racks and wheels which the cowardly invent to crush out the miracle of personality."

"she used to say to me, mona, in her fits of exaltation, 'you're a great human being,' and though she left me here to perish, though she put beneath my feet a great howling pit of emptiness, the words that lie at the bottom of my soul leap forth and they light the shadows below me."

"i believe that today more than ever a book should be sought after even it has only one great page in it: we must search for fragments , splinters, toenails, anything that has ore in it, anything that is capable of resuscitating the body and soul."

"yes, i said to myself, i too love everything that flows: rivers, sewers, lava, semen, blood, bile, words, sentences."

"the thought of such absolute privacy is enough to drive me mad. it's like a clean birth. everything cut away. separate, naked, alone. bliss and agony simultaneously. time on your hands. each second weighing on you like a mountain. you drown in it. deserts, seas, lakes, oceans. nothingness. the world. the me and the not-me. everything has to have a name. everything has to be learned, tested, experienced."

"he didn't seem exactly nuts to me -- just caved-in ilke. typical anglo-saxon crisis. an eruption of morals."

11:42.

plus sign oh no where an exclamation point would be

i see you everywhere. Even when i see you evil, I share things. With you the evil point across blue tacks and red tacks. I told one would be other hands in other hands. She sees it but doesn't speak it loud, some sunrise prior hollers in word form or music form. I trust this. She would never say in, so I'll have to know it. In the eyes she'll speak it in parting glances. Could've had you in less facts.

Could have made you love.

Thinking of all wandering of the mindhands,
thinking of all living in the undercircumstance:
it's you who are where we should be,
INDIVIDUALS,
it's you who are what we are.

It is so cold.

Things are better but they are not better. Appear better I should say, but I feel the same. Doesn't matter what she says in eyes in action or in voice, matters what I feel in life, in heart, in overgrown. What I'm thinking is waiting out what's happening here. She wants things comfortable with that job here (aqui) with that intermittent long-distance there, with that hot rod travelcase. Me, I want that longtime freedom, that silent four-wall breathroom, that sadmusic sadsong sadliving sadthinking ohbaby I miss you you are what I thought I could be! love affair. Ah but she stopped it without my chance to make it obvious. Ah I lost it without my chance to dip apart.

Zig when I
should have
zagged.

Population count ticking down in a timescale. Living through big experience, I'm not ready for what it would be for our arrival. Silence among arms and mouthwordkiss. I have nothing to say to you that is not friction, and I don't care if I feel nothing. I'd say wait for me, but I've already said wait for me. I didn't wait. I let that come and go. I'll have to start from bottom up, from grasp and go, from got me don't got me.

I lied to you,
and it was convenient.
I've showed you us in little becomings,
and i never meant it to be what it is now (ahora).

You come and leave and come and leave.
We touch for touching sake.
[removed]
But I doubt that it's you.

It's always you.
Old age, new age.

And there's a proximity love, a fire i can't ignore to the touch and to the hold; to the hear and to the say. it's from some source I never saw until I saw in her love and element, from some source I never saw until her origin. I'd tell her but it's an unsure thing and I've got no cure for the cowardly. I find her in mindplay, and I plan to make me know her more. Words she loves sounds she loves. And also. More for what she hates.
-

"Yesss, spanish soap operas are amazing for what I love to do. Find the right crew, ripe for dialogue. Free movie production. If u know nothing u say anything."

posit.

wandergone.

She was there!
In the mirror, I loved her, behind me arm over my right shoulder. She was my bride the one I could feel in the summer life, the one through storms and quiet conversations. I loved her and she left.

I don't know where they are and they were my life. No sight and little sound, we live the life as they do in France, small and unknown ones but not far far from celebrity.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

this! this epiphone!

Let's give it a go.

I've disappointed everyoe I've loved. No way don't stop me. Robot voices and not reall. I say what's written in books. You don't even know. It's too cold to feel all that we want to feel, distracted by nothing other than the body shaking. She wants to feel but doesn't feel, she wants to sing and sing and sing and sing.

HE DIGS AND DIGS AND DIGS.

There are friends of mine that still turn up Lil Wayne.

This is what I'm saying!
I'd live with you if it weren't for living!

There's no way to leave fast enough so I separate myself faster than actually possible. Where those thay speak 631 shout 631 I shout PORTUGAL AND FRANCE AND ENGLAND. -- by ship

they say bring a lot of weed because they know what I say is what I say AND I SAY IT LOUD!

There are no peers who know me and they see me as that kid. Some boy, some weirdo.

It's not so bad, it's not so bad.

I stay with her when she still hurts me
She still hurts me!

I need to be alone but she fit herself in the cracls, in the small places of my ego/self esteem/my life. She wants to stay going forward. Ohhh no.

Ohh no.

I'm still hurting.
It's that bad, it's that bad.

I'm lying to me.






What do I have to do?

ombrigo.

I have lost the appreciation for life and living. No particular distaste for it. I'm glad I exist, though that's all I've been making my days up of. The kind of thing we grow old to the sound of:

"
You know, same old.
Work, home, eat, sleep, repeat.
"

Since when?

I blame it almost entirely on the lack of music and alcohol, though alcohol plays much less of a role. It's the enhancement of different memories and the recall thereof that it really affects. Some writing, little finger singing.

[sweet, the driver lights her cigarette first with the console flame]

I'm not being stopped or held back by anything. Even by credit debt, or a lack of cash, or anything financial. I think it's that I have no idea where to go from here. Is it that I have no oath now? Just going to grow static on this gamestop paycheck? Really get invested in it? Dug in? No more Arizona, no more sunsets against clay? No more filling in the check boxes? I did lose that list, and I've forgotten most of it.

I think of downing bags of pills, each white and smooth like plastic furniture. They highlight all the senses and stimulate a new mechanical organ inside, puffing out the dust of atrophy. Breathing in a blue gray smoke elevating from some burning stick to mute out the entropy. Shoved syringes to the hilt full of the brown and the clear to rearrange the eyereception earreception. There would be no terror no loss of control no bending or electron pivot shaking. Just a lusting for vocabulary and words, a refresher for what's not to come and what's to be dead and what's to be born. Some calling no longer distant to what's been put to rest for years. Going everywhere again. Starting where it doesn't count, ending where no one cares.

I hate to say that I am a weird kid, an odd person or that sort of thing. But I do trace back a great deal of the lack of former luminescence to working with an all male staff, male to the degree of being vacant of any vibrancy or color outside of drinking stories the color of green glass, or bright red stories of women, lust, and the positions beyond positions and positing they find themselves in. Then, as always, the video games and the time they've spent with them. There is no one thirsty, hungry or pained like me. There is no one seeking, searching, or wandering like me. There are young men patient and comfortable. Existing with no need for improvement.

-

Facing the snow in manhattan, just for forty five seconds or so. Felt the need for it. Some odd craving to live. Reminded me of where she is where she could be and less importantly where she has been. I don't guess, or assume. I'm not sure if it's better or worse that I know she's out there.

Send me letters, impartial or complete.
Page, line, or word.

-

laughing hysterically, hard and genuine, I say, "yeah man, I'm really hitting bottom."

Jeff tells me to listen to Colors.

every little button.

MIDLINE
between
i don't think you understand!

[what i'm saying here]

a&nd
it just does not matter anymore.
i heard you [just fine].



time passes.

darker, as my love.

i wish my dad would write some book or journal about all of the grumblings he brings to the dinner table when he chooses to squash what it is we might be describing as things we enjoy or love. at least then it would have some value, and would be instantly relevant as soon as the reader opened the book instead of being the Monty Python 'God's Foot' that hurtles two dimensionally on our unsuspecting world. we're rarely met with screams or roars, just doused with negativity gas and ignited.

topics might include:
the Baltimore Ravens
any and all American presidents that are not JFK
Jim Carrey
the NHL not-Rangers
dogs
Mother & Brother


it wouldn't have to be a long book. even a page essay on each would do. there would be more topics as welll, though many chapters would be born in others. it might read like a manifesto.

if you needed it told to you:

Star Wars: Retold (by someone who hasn't seen it) from Joe Nicolosi on Vimeo.

waiting, walking, talking, ticking.

once i leave in a few minutes it's a one way road to do or don't. what'll more than likely happen is nothing. i couldn't even fire a stranger.

january, 2009.
most dense 11 days.

intersay.

i have so much going on behind the gory synth tonight.

1.
i ruined everything for absolutely nothing. i don't linger on it until i feel something about it. only then it's misery, and only then it's the only thing that matters at all. i don't think anyone really believes me when i say what i say about it. but it's true. she is. here's to futurewoe.

2.
so, what do i say when this whole ordeal is going on and how long do i wait until the scenario is faced head on. little time to breath it out or unpack and resettle. some ice ages would never end, given time. ohh it's not working out so well, is it. goddamn you, goddamn it, i want to know and i'll never know. am i wrong to bring it up? something needs to change, else there's no closure.

3.
where am i going to be living and who is it going to be with? so many / too many options.

4.
okay. if things end up going nowhere in the event that she comes home and we work this whole situation out and come to terms on everything and things are admitted and changed and amended to the point where if they went forward on a daily basis the way things should go in any healthy and appropriate relationship, how do i then eliminate the urges and desires to keep this activity in check? i think the best way to ask this (and then, more than likely, to answer this) is how does one cure a jealousy issue? my first response would be to say that you absolutely don't. it's something spoiled, an airtight fixture breached and its vacuum rendered irrelevant.

big tough guy, "emotional juggernaut".
i know i probably shouldn't drive tonight.
they're all out of town, anyway.

--

outside of all of these questions that i tried to filter out as i was floating around on the internet, i happened to find a handful of new bands that i currently believe, somehwere in the next two years, i will be telling you, "no, i don't think you understand" as i've been known to say when i love a band more than i can accurately describe to the best of my ability and you aren't having your eyes roll into the back of your head when you first hear it, looking at me as if you've had something largely important revealed to you.

thick paint, more texture than color.

so much
so
so
much
is happening right now, and is about to happen (or not happen) and it's not that i don't know what to do, because i do. at least, i know what i would matter-of-factly tell myself to do. it was such an easy thing to do,

to just wait

.

i think the next week (or month) will probably determine a few things, like how i allow myself to feel about myself, where i will be living and how, a certain level of self respect, and the ways that i continue to or no longer feel guilty about feeling.

it IS!
it's a crossroads!
been hearing about these for years, been plowing through them for years.
could be i have to not let it be this time.
the last three days or so have been spent surrounded by friends and me revealing facts that i've hid from them.

a sort of clarity and solitude is going to be lifted.
this is not a drill.

full well.

thinking about dying in a black hole?
the brochure.

my dad gave me his copy of tropic of cancer and i started reading that one instead of the copy that i'd bought and had been going through. a little bit of it has to do with the fact that it has a vintage feel to it, and seems to sound more the way it should without being aged and feeling a little classic, a little bit of it has to do with the dramatic level of credibility that i will no doubt gain amidst the microcentric circles of book clubs and esteemed undiscovered writers i surround myself with... uhhhhhhh but yeah the REAL reason is because i'm sort of hoping that i end up finding something that HE highlighted, or underlined or noted on in the margin. that's the kind of thing that i love to discover, even by accident. library books can be GOLDMINES for this sort of thing. someone thought that this was important or vital or interesting or noteworthy. go through books i've read and you'll find marks everywhere. in ways, i think it might mess with the real sense of things a little bit. it makes you read falsely ahead a bit, just out of distraction, stealing away any real chance you get to enjoy that line making its own footprint on you as it would without any sort of push in the right direction. i'm not very far into the book, but i've yet to see any pen hitting paper. waiting patiently.

ricky bailey called me today, and while i did fully intend to call him back, my phone died and i had his number on the phone and now it's way too late to call. but i'm going to give him a call tomorrow and work something out to hang with him, and make that happen, and hopefully make good on the only new year's revolution i've made thus far, and that is to not let trivial things (or NO things) come between me and people inviting me out to do things. i think i talked about it in the previous post.
-
i don't know why i didn't post this yesterday. it was written sunday night.

it's odd the sort of hatred that i get when i read the wrong sort of thing. i'm sure i never had this before late last year (or i could just say a few months ago). murderous emotions, the kind to tear apart a person or choke someone down to the ground with one hand, letting blood rush to my face, getting all light headed and heavy with rage. i need to know someone's not testing me. i have trouble trusting anyone anymore or relying on anyone anymore, and i think this could be some reflection of myself in ways, but also a result of everything that i've seen this past year, both affecting myself and not affecting myself. things i've done and things that have happened to me. the points, i guess they equal out, though it still doesn't ease the impact of it all, or the reality of the kind of thing. i've tried and have found no direct relation to any one event. there's stress there, but only lacing some of the discourse. i don't know if it's that i've lost the reins on something that i've had under control for a long time, or if it's some new sort of beast or thirst that i have no idea how to quell. i guess i'll learn with The Change.

my mind doesn't have its freeform anymore.
i can't relax enough to let it go where it goes.
thinking back to the summer of 2007, i remember coming home on a daily or nightly basis, ready to listen to the same music again and again and allowing it to figure me out and weaving little things with it. long or short, sensical or not. they came from different places that had once been tied up. i, uh, i don't have that anymore. or i don't have the time or opportunity to revisit it.

i don't listen much anymore, and that has a lot to do with it.

to follow up:
i didn't call ricky back today.
though i did get daryl a copy of the cd.
and still no notes from dad in the book before he was dad.

--

http://jamesjean.com/ --> sketch --> 2008 mole a/b

ali, adios.

i don't know how long i have chosen to play this card or how long i will continue to play this card, though i am resolving in 2009 to make the solo night at home alone the very last solution. granted, it wasn't until 6:30 or 7:00 tonight that i realized that i didn't have to be here alone, but at that point, i'd already purchased my mini marathon, and was ready to indulge in a night alone. that, of course, is when the messages come. the answers to the questions asked days, and even weeks ago. i don't know when i started this, or why, but i think it must be years. with some longer than others. and while there is a definite option at this point to leave and make this the beginning of a sealing issue. unless there's something significant going on, or something i find myself doing that's more enthralling than anything else might be, i should more than likely accept and embrace the invites of other people to go out and be a part of their lives as much as i want to be a part of their lives. i really don't know what's wrong with me.

i've done it with most [if not all] of my best friends.
not just acquaintances.
and it's embarassing.

it's like getting over anything else. an addiction, or a habit. a way home. a relationship. it's going to take time, and i'm going to hate it at first, and i'm going to need help. but it's for the best. and even if it's better eighty percent of the time, it's still progress. and it should be easier come february, because i'll be entirely alone with no easy out here for the first time in a few months. and while most of the time, it's been me being alone that i've done it, another person here has been an extremely potent excuse. and that'll be done soon.

let's go.
happy new year.

a piano actor: who they get when they need him.

i thought about last year and this time of year, and things are different but i feel like it was yesterday. not in the gap of time way of speaking, in that it seems like i just lived a day, and here we are. more like nothing has changed all so much. everyone's scattered about and in some new sort of mode or stasis. but it's all the same. outside looking in.

i could be poor again before we know it. maybe i'll work it out. i've got my eyes peeled for some new kind of opportunity. nothing active. but things happen.

thought about how i have no goals, just desires.

-
this is already turning out different than i anticipated.
what i wanted to start with was:
"it's odd how my fingers missed the keys. i never knew it until they hit them."

it seems the devil's got a grip on me.

aloe.

more style and less put together.
more collarbone and clavicle.
more the ready to run, so i've learned.
oh, you don't want to be there. it's your love and fire, but not your steady stream,

and i'm still looking, too.

i saw him the other day and how he's not good enough for you. i wanted to make sure he said the right things to you, and never took you for granted, and could never see the end of you, that big unwinding. i don't think i approve of how he does and does not look at you. but i don't know what's best.

i lied to you one too many times.
i should have told her, "why, yes i do."

some storm happened and you weren't there.

shaking, i suppose.

some story of color,
a streetlamp orange green still ocean [no wave].
presence on the floor, had shoes tied.

"i'd take you anywhere, we've suffered enough."

and would you believe it? they cut us short! just where we ended they told us this is where you're going and this is where you're anyone. no, i don't know anyone here. so you moved on out of here. i'll have your bags packed when i'm ready, keeping all that doesn't remind me of you, and fits the most convenient dreams of you. o', teeth and toe.

you have some load of blankets,
shut out to the world.

1. CBC 2. Blood Chemistry; on like that.

what i did today was make copies and mail out said copies of a summer's worth of dreams. standing in front of the copy machine with phone in hand, i went down a list and tried to figure out who would want to read it, and who would read it because they knew me. i went with the people who would read it if they came across it and will build from there. inside are some of the funniest things i've read written in one liners all by accident, manifested entirely while sleeping. i just happened to record them. i take no credit.

so, what i will say at the moment is that i will, eventually, tell the whole story of what i've referred to in the last update. i do hate alluding to things, and being vague about them, but this is the sort of thing that had to be talked about. i was there. once i know the full in and full out i'll get it all down. most of it never seems real when i think about it. i've already started to write it out. and some of it is pathetic, and some of it is typical, but some of it is the kind of thing you cock your head at.

And...
1. Tranquilization
2. Sedation
3. Restraint
, or so they kept saying.

calamity.

last night everything got just a little bit crazier than the tuesday before last. i can't process what is or what isn't. i assume, going forward, that day by day will have to do.

i'm back online via a new computer.
photos hope to be born soon.

i finished transcribing my dreams from this past summer. it's about 18 pages (i think) and will be printed on tuesday. copies go out then, as well.

i'm glad to be back.

we think aout our

symptomatic.

Hm.

Me: "yo, you saw that george wallace is the new mr. Vegas?"
Him: "yeah, I think it's cause someone's dead."

Indeed, vegas has some of its best and worst moments. I've had a few odd run-ins, mostly because

Oh I stopped typing for a couple of hours so I forgot what I was trying to say. I apologize.

to become this less often.

.
pretty soon, i'm going to hurt until it stops
.

Violins.

I saw her only that once but I wanted to see her again. I thought a little about her, only once as well. Just how she looked and how I imagined her to be. Couldn't have been older than 19. It wasn't that. She could have been 30 or 300 it wouldn't have meant a thing. Her hair was too dark to be natural, some kind of crazy black which could have looked so dark only because of the severity of her pale skin. It seems like a canvas to me now. Blue eyes i think, or green, or grey. Something that made her entire eye stand out against her impossible dark hair, as it dangled, covering half of her face.

I don't think she smiled.
She was with a friend.

Her knees were extremely knuckular. They looked way too gnarled and swollen to be on this person I hadn't met yet. It was definitely her first time here. And why don't I just go over to her and ask her a question, or humanize myself.

I was talking to Jeff, hardly a friend in the way that you traditionally think of a friend. Just a person that's come in enough that you feel relief that they've come in as opposed to a stranger, because you can follow up on old conversations. He was looking too, but we were both casual about it. It's hard with a friend-non-friend to non-overaggressively illustrate attraction and/or interest to a female or male in or outside the nearby area. So we said nothing to each other. Kept talking shop. I was genuinely interested, in one portion of my conscious brain, about what he was talking about (which I later followed up on and did get actually excited about), but some other fraction of my attention center was modulating and spinning around her, the bichromatic girl of silence with the bogus knees.

When she left, I tried to wll her back. Not in some active way, with magick or telepathy or reverse psychology but with deep internal thought and hope.

Although she did come back, I'm not a believer in some deep seeded undercurrent of the mind in which we are all recipients of mental callings from odd creepy strangers that saw us in their place of business weeks before they saw us. No, I assume she just lived in the area and was filling out applications everywhere in her proximity. So I see this application sitting on a desk in the back office and her name is her name and suddenly she's more than this girl who could only be described as physical features and who I thought she was.

Who did I think she was? Well. Probably a really shy but confident young lady who'd never been told that her art was incredible because it was just too abstract for the average male or female of her age outside of her demographic to fully grasp. And she had never seen anything outside of the surrounding two hour radius so she was anxious to get out, but never had anyone share that dream who would actually do it. And she loved to text.

But as I'm looking at this application, I'm thinking there is no other way to handle this situation than to move forward with it. So I called her cell phone and hung up when it asked me to leave a voice mail. And when she called back in 3 hours, I said I'd try to find out about setting up an interview.

She said that the next day she'd be busy and she'd definitely be okay to come back on Monday at 1030. That's fine, but my last day was two days prior to that, and oh well and oh no. She'll never be human now.

(you must be powerful;
for you have a more human face,
sad as the universe;
I abhor you with all my being;
and i would rather,
from the beginning of the centuries,
have had a serpent coiled around
my neck than look on your eyes.)

one clip.

Not getting enough sleep has always had the same effect on me. The distinct feeling that I am always forgetting something, or not retaining knowledge. Writing memoirs on some seismic etch-a-sketch. things going away, more things coming in. Some slide show.

Unrelated: I'm not sure if I'm just sad, or starting to give up.

Go-Getter.

I think while tearing through a taped box, I felt a vein or blood vessel erupt. It wasn't painful, but internally wet. Something thin and skin-soluble slowly gave way. Warm gave way to warmer. Some small flood engulfed by body.

But I'm almost positive this would have left a mark. I'm probably just elaborating.
-
I finished reading a few books this week, since down time has been at a pretty soaring high while babysitting the store (see <a href="http://www.flickr.com/iamnoimpact">my flickr</a>).

Spook by Mary Roach was great. It was essentially 'science tackles the afterlife,' as stated in the subtitle, though it did have quite a bit more history than experiment. Or, history of experiments. Either way. I expected (my first mistake) more modern interface with the way the afterlife was perceived, but as it was it held up very well. The author did do a good amount of hands on stuyff, but most of the meat of the text was in going over how it was relevant that she carry out what it was she was carrying out as well as a pretty good recounting of the people and inventions that others had used to question the existence of a soul and to prove its presence. I emailed the author and she emailed back which is great as well. I never fully expect to hear back from the people I send words to, so when I do, it's always very exciting. My initial goal, at all times when sending "I-checked-out-yo'-stuff" correspondence is simply to let one human know that another human is listening. Crucial.

The Drunkard's Walk was a book that was meant to explore randomness and how it affected our daily lives. It completed its task. However, without any level of conversationalism or much human element. In an e-mail to carissa, I explained, "I thought I was on a train to humanity town, but ended up in robot city." This was a book which proved itself via probabiliy, statistics, and mathematical history. I should have expected as much from a man who had worked with Stephen Hawking on a book (A Briefer History of Time). It was enjoyable, but more like reading a text book or an essay than a standard read. While unexpected, still good. I actually used the phrase, 'all things eventually deviate towards the mean' yesterday to a customer. Zero social skills.

Today, I actually cracked, and finished Coma by Alex Garland as well. It was fine. A little amateurish, in that I think I could do better but maybe not. I'm not very good at gauging my own skill outside of my own perspective. I might have delusions of grandeur for all I know. But it was a quick read, and had some good imagery towards the end, though the ending itself was wet hot garbage. And come to think of it, too, the actual events of the story were kind of floppy too. I'm a bit of a fan of Alex Garland, but mostly in the way that I'm a fan of The Mars Volta. One of the things that they've put together really showed me this vast, limitless amount of potential, and while their subsequent works haven't floored me and haven't even entertained me as a whole, there are passages and tracks that have given me glimpses of the strength of their past work as well as promise for that taste which I grew fond of coming back at some point in time.
-
I'm currently working on this premise; trying to prove it:

If I can not send images via email then I can not send images to flickr
AS OPPOSED TO/RATHER THAN
If I can not send images to flickr then I can not send images via email.
-
Mike Knoll came in yesterday and got me thinking about checking out a couple of bands. Ride and Mogwai (specifically, their second album). I'll try that.
-

Tornado invocate.

Show merit for the pathogenesis.

stud lise lise? shari earthmen.
stereo incisive incisive reflexive lise.
zen portraiture:reflexive hemingway.
part zodiac.

6179.

At first, it was because there was no internet connection to be had, but I thought I'd make due, and head to a starbucks or wireless hotspot from time to time and unspool that which had been spooled. Read. Keep tabs.

It turned out that this whole internet thing was very much a habit of convenience for me. The fact that it was there at the end or beginning of a day made it the reason I went to it, though it's apparently not so much a hunt or a chase of it that I'm finding worthwhile. Kind of upsetting, in a sense. I get lost in thinking what I used to actualy do online for the hours I'd spend there. I never would even attach myself to AIM. I guess a lot of wiki'ing and that sort of affair.

I have no laptop now. Hardware failure, etc., whatever. So this phone is it at this point. I set up mobile blogging to see if maybe this'd keep me connected. We'll see. I'd like it to.

Blog

Blog

FAR too comatose!

and how would they know?
far too gone, my face is their liver feeling.

grand theft auto iv is far too much like this addiction that won't stop a life that just won't stop these tasks that just won't stop.

m.

the saxophone sound. the drifting off needle in arm. won't she know me? it's words. ahhhghh, it's only words. you talk to it like it's something else. human! she/he human!

mod.

TO DAVE: ON LSD

a tweet:

awinedrowning: if you are blind and you take LSD... does anything happen?

my initial answer to this is you probably feel an extraordinary amount of different things, not just things you can SEE as we have come to know what SEEing is.

the blind SEE with their skin, their ears. their mouths, their noses. think of a pentagon equally divided into five sections, each shaded in a certain amount. remove one section, leaving four sections, but still distribute the area equally, this time between four sections instead of five. this is how i always understood the way that those with sensory disabilities adapt. i could be wrong.

my initial answer would be to say that they'll probably start to continue with the standard effects of LSD (hyperactive, lucid imagination) that plays itself out in the standard sorts of ways. new ideas, new experiences, free from the boundaries we're used to, and almost haunted in each new idea's life.

my initial answer would most likely continue through to say that they would probably feel things that weren't real on their skin, they'd hear things that weren't real in their ears. although with their other senses, they might smell or taste things that weren't real as well.

the initial answer changes a little bit when you throw the idea of someone who wasn't blind their entire life. which then gets more fine tuned when you think about how much of their life was spent with vision, and at what accuracy. did they lose their sight by way of degeneration, or an instant act?

i read up on the drug, though, when i got home tonight. apparently, albert hofmann, the father of LSD, experienced "fantastic pictures, extraordinary shapes with intense, kaleidoscopic play of colors" when he closed his eyes on one of the first days of accidentally stumbling upon the more 'psychedelic' uses of this drug. three days later, he went on a full-on TRIP, taking a theoretic "maximum dosage", and ended up experiencing a maelstrom of things, as you can imagine.

he began to speak unintelligibly, and on his assisted bike ride home felt that he was completely stationary while in reality he was actually moving at a "very rapid" pace. for several hours, he thought he was possessed, his neighbor was a witch, and that his furniture was threatening him. one key thing he mentioned (in specific reference to the blind) is every acoustic perception, such as the sound of a passing automobile, was transformed into optical perceptions. the next day, he mentions, though, (in contrast to the blindness) that his breakfast tasted unusually delicious, and all of his senses were "vibrating in a condition of highest sensitivity, which then persisted for the entire day".

to further color coordinate:
...an experience of radiant colors, objects and surfaces appearing to ripple or "breathe," colored patterns behind the eyes, a sense of time distorting (time seems to be stretching, repeating itself, changing speed or stopping), crawling geometric patterns overlaying walls and other objects, morphing objects, a sense that one's thoughts are spiraling into themselves, loss of a sense of identity or the ego (known as "ego death"), and powerful, and sometimes brutal, psycho-physical reactions interpreted by some users as reliving their own birth Many users experience a dissolution between themselves and the "outside world".

further breakdown:
VISUAL:
includes the illusion of movement of static surfaces ("walls breathing"), after image-like trails of moving objects ("tracers"), the appearance of moving colored geometric patterns (especially with closed eyes), an intensification of colors and brightness ("sparkling"), new textures on objects, blurred vision, and shape suggestibility. the inanimate world appears to animate in an unexplained way.

AURAL:
echo-like distortions of sounds, a mixing of all sounds which makes it harder to discern distinct sounds, the feeling that what you're hearing is your thought, a general intensification of the experience of music, and an increased discrimination of instruments and sounds.

--

so, i think my answer is close, although there seems to be a lot more going on with the visual end of things.

and what in those possibilities.

i wasn't sure if respite is the word, but it was.
for various things, at the moment.

it took me a few pages to say everything, and it was all disjointed until the end. there were a lot of small things i needed to say that didn't make sense in summary or conclusion. big liner notes. remember-the-time's. perspective. i don't even remember what it says. i get arrogant or egotistical or archival, and always find the need to have a copy of things that i've written to someone. i didn't this time. again, for various reasons.

-

SEEKING:
creative peers.

we're all very silly about our feelings. popping them up in the electronic field. let's feel good about what we're making and share it with each other instead of making it a VIP experience as part of a larger audience. call if you need to ask.

objects downstream propagate upstream.

what i need are really good headphones.
again.

i started thinking about who, exactly, i'm writing for. the perfect, "correct" answer would be myself. i write because i need to and i want to. i don't care who my audience is, what they think, how they react, or what they would like more or less of. i write to exorcise my own demons, and to manifest my own emotions into wellsprings of wordsplendor.

while this is true some of the time, it's not true all of the time. there are callings for both sorts of explorations, and i think that since i've just started to think a little bit more about these different facets as real functions, it starts to add a little bit more mechanic to the magic of the medium that i love most.

i've had more than a fair share of ideas for fiction that i thought i would start to unwind for my own love of the concept, and my own emotional output. the vision that i would have for a project would begin to collaborate with the ideas that i'd been inspired by and the collective surrounding environmental elements (background music, room noise, setting) to make a real product out of the raw skeletons that i were starting to collect muscle and skin in the brain. the more that i would get out the initial ideas, the more i would start to draw upon my peers and heroes for inspiration. what would THIS person do, or how would ANOTHER person write this? what would make SO AND SO love this?

and it becomes hard to retain that creative vacuum once you've gone that far.

i haven't written in a while, and it's certainly not because of a lack of ideas or emotions. there are plenty of both running completely rampant right behind the membranes of my fingers. my problem, at this point, is the idea that maybe no one would care. i think that's a very wrong outlook to have on any hobby, but especially one that tends to have such a relieving effect as a creative outlet.

i recently went through my old livejournal account and deleted much of what i read that i felt shouldn't exist. it was an odd thought process. i wasn't embarrassed of it or anything. well, i think i was. but i also just did to it what i think i want to do to anything that i read and don't approve of. approve may be too harsh a term. but looking back on those entries, i feel that there was this enormous imaginary audience that i felt i might have been speaking to. that concept sort of disgusted me. i'd start off entries by saying, "hey folks," and would apologize for "not writing as much" as if anyone noticed.

it's not something that i'm about. make the music you want to make, and the people who should find out about your music will. that's kind of the overall mindset i try to keep on all things. the whole "be yourself" ideal. if you try hard to impress someone by being something you're not and you succeed, you can either fail in the long run or become someone that you're not. there is no success here. if you live what you want to live, the others that live the way that you live (and therefore should be your peers, friends, associates, etc.) should become attracted to you. this goes for writing as well, and really, everything.

i feel like that whole concept is applied even in the distribution of this blog as a whole. livejournal and the myspace blog system just seem to become too watered down, and even when they aren't watered down, it almost becomes interpreted that you're trying to bring out a reaction or a response.

i've been having a hard time with that whole thought process for a little while. i thought maybe if i'd confront it by giving it a body of words it might be a little easier to tackle and eventually overcome.

--

i posted the poster for THERE WILL BE BLOOD back when i first saw the movie at the farmingdale theater during a matinee showing with about 7-10 other people, all at least twice my age. to me, that's always how this movie will feel perfectly viewed, and i've described it the same way every time:

it's a very silent, personal experience.

if i saw it in a packed theater with someone else, that might be how i'd feel it needed to be seen as well, but i'll never be sure.

i've since watched this movie twice. at first, i wasn't exactly sure what i'd taken from it aside from the fact that daniel day lewis crafted a masterpiece of the soul in daniel plainview. but after seeing it a third time overall, i know what it is.

it's the morals.
no new revolution.

the tweet i'd posted was meant to be about him:
a man of exquisite, relentless morals and no remorse.

i can get a sense of it, but can't quite define it at the moment.

moobout,

SOMEONE'S DEAD!
call me on it.

tonight had a sort of specific purpose which got shifted in the interest of media and awkward circumstance.

that place never was real
that face never was real.

i'm looking back "loading..." is what i'm getting but even without pure memory, textwords, i know what i was feeling in brackettime. i still love you.

relative.

i feel heavy like i need to carry myself.

the library; the garden.

i'm not that into it anymore.

i almost called in sick today. i was so into this weather and it brought back intense vibes of when i first came back and who i was seeing and what we were doing and what i was reading and listening to and writing. and so much has changed since then and i've mired myself down into this particular situation and have been working and coming inside and playing video games and not reading a word that didn't lead to shooting or cutting someone down but i have been earning a lot of achievement points which is more or less alright. i looked at the weather over the next few days and it's not more of the same, it goes back to what it was doing before it was doing this. but today is like a trailer. i'm okay with that, because i've been waiting long enough.

today makes me feel good.

this upcoming week, i get to legitimately find out some information which will affect the next months or years of my residential life. and romantic life.

i still haven't been paid, but they said it's coming.

channeling.

artist adie russell lip-synching ginsberg, and kerouac as well as others.
when you're done, go back and check out her other stuff.

on the road for the illiterate.

this is pretty wonderful.
the artist took the book ON THE ROAD and broke it down into colors and numbers, essentially. the color of the burst is the subject, and the size of the burst is the number of words.

not only is it impressive in vision and scope of the work, but for me, at least, it works as a great reminder of all of the different things i felt while reading this book.

outstanding.

subject.

when they come home, they steal all of my air and my silence and drive me back to my corner.

"slow motion."

http://jeremyharris.com

go to portfolios, and american asylums.
not sure how to direct link it.
those are pretty fantastic.