the calendar track.

this is happening. i plan on writing as much as possible within the parentheses of 11/1 and 11/30 though i'm not sure if i'll be able to grind through the 50,000 words. i'm curious to see where i end up. i'm dedicating time to it, though, whenever i can. this month is meant for this. i have a couple of ideas always floating around, and it seems that one of them makes a lot of sense for this project specifically. let's roll.


---
(oh, also:
)

these have always been monsters.

oh my god.
this is how you [re]imagine.



rhys has always been dope, but this is why you follow an artist. because when they finally do the project you love with the style that made you get the chills from the moment you saw anything they've done. there's something about an artist finding their voice and running with it without ever looking back that inspires me so far outside my skin, but so far within it. unreal.

terminal.

highly recommend you follow this blog.
more specifically, the photo portion.

i've linked to one collection already, but i think they may have topped it with the one posted yesterday, highlighting urban decay. below are a couple of examples, but how do you choose just one.

sumatra.

i blame the red bull [girls].
they came by last night around 10, couldn't have been later than 10:15 and dropped off a bunch of cans of red bull, one for each of us. 16oz. and for me, it's proven to be a day-remover. worked the midnight release, drove home, played games til 5 or so. laid down out of necessity. hit the pillows and tried to let monday sail into whatever comes in the umbral dreamscape that then becomes tuesday. nothing. just vibrating and gyrating nerve cells. they're feeling everything. barometric readings from elsewheres. gravity. they're feeling below the bed, pressing up towards the ceiling hoping to discover the hoverways. my brain is still on an REM train. there was no stopping that. it could be all the dreamjournalling i've been doing, but there was no way that a calendar page was going to go by blankly. so i'm thinking about somalian children and the gas and liquid that fills their hungry bellies and if it would be any worse to cut them open (in a dissection manner) than it would be if you were to cut open any other person. would there be a popping or a hissing? all this depressurization talk got me thinking about space and then gold disco balls, but i'm still not getting any closer to sleep.

seven o'clock comes.
i have to move the car.
or it's $40. is it worth it?
is it $40? is it more?
i'll move it.

the sound outside is the kind of sound that only makes sense in city 17. a repetitive loud metallic bang, like God smelting a weapon for a bigger God. and it echoes off of everything, massive or not. it's a sound you'd hunt down if you could find which sound wave is the original. like the hall of mirrors in conan without monster masks. and that guy was RIPPED. and now he's dead. but the sound is everywhere on the streets, and it's everywhere in the stairwell, and laying down again, it's everywhere in the bedroom. and who knows if it ever stopped. has this been there always? or did it even start? is this a retranslated toothache? is this a body no longer able to feel pain, only able to convert it into sound?

[/]cat counts still all have to be done today. or tomorrow. can i do it tomorrow? who works tomorrow? it's not bad. maybe i'll fake it. can't fake it. what's the point. if you're going to fake it, just don't do it. [\]

work at one. which means leaving at noon. where am i going to park thursday night? whole block's parking is shut down because they'll be filming "the sitter". did i see shannyn sassomon the other day? jesus christ, i looked up her imdb profile, and i just need you to read the description of her next movie, man without a head.

fuck, this can't all be real.
i know i lost a moleskine by accident again. i don't know if i lost it in the house or in the world. i have tons of info in there, phone number, this blog address, flickr, twitter... i wonder if there was anything horrifying in there. i wonder if i'd return it to me anyway. and i did get a phone call from a number i don't recognize. just google'd it. and it's up the block from where i work. but i wasn't on
the island
all weekend.

tuesday remains.

[edit: i forgot to mention that in the early moments of me laying down, i heard a female shout or scream THIS statement outside. which i... i guess i don't see why i didn't even react to it at the time, because wow:

"mercy! chris, please! mercy! you are not god! stop! don't touch me!"

and i continued to inarticulate words screamed as they were down the block. just the female though.

end bracket.]

fossileyes.

two projects completed today. took this weekend specifically to complete a couple things as well as get my plans down for a third. feeling good about all of the above.

A LETTER WEST is complete, I have 20 of them to go around. sort of have an idea who is getting them, but I'll expand (or contract) that as it goes. if you read this and are interested, let me know. more than likely, if you read this I have you in mind. but who knows, I've been surprised before. conversely, if you read this and could really care less, let me know. I'll save it for someone else or no one else. no offense, really.

&

MIX XVII: ONCE THE HOME OF ROCKETS is also done. tracklist method went back to the old school with song artist, title, then blurb of explanation showcasing why I've included it on the cd. last few have gone a more minimalist route (or have had none at all) but a couple requests to bring it back made it easy to oblige. I've always had ideas to get more creative with the presentation of those cds, and the one I tried with the mini CD-R should have been joined with a customer service #. as always, if anyone hearing these mixes enjoys and tracks down just one song or one artist from the collection, I feel accomlished. if you want one and don't feel you're getting one, again, throw me a heads up.

the last project I worked on this weekend was a supplement to the dream journals I've done. just tried to get a bit of a plan together. and now it's just manning up, charging the camera, and executing a tremendous piece, regardless of audience.

I'm often proud of the things I do, regardless of how it's received or by how many. I'm hungry for feedback regardless of who it's from, just so I know where to go and how to make the next bit that I do more enjoyable. I put hours into these things, and it's all to entertain my friends and acquaintances. for free. I'm doing all of this because this is what I want to see come back to me at some point. I want to be handed someone's creative output. It often comes in the form of music in my circle, but I'm always excited to see what else my rotate back.

forget fame.
I'd screw it up anyway.

throwback.

in 2009, i went to las vegas for the manager's conference. this is a memo i had in my old phone. it was a list of notes i was taking in real time watching rick, ioannis, and ricardo hit on TONS of women passing us by in a shithole casino. it's been about a year since i've looked at this.

-------
-Women in mobile chairs do not like ioannis

-english women don't like rick

-english women are scared of ioannis

-australian girls like rick
-and apparently think he's gay

-ricardo is mildly enjoyed by hookers

-bitchy women are bitches to everyone

-old women ignore ioannis

-100% of men i've met on gamestop tv sleep with people in my district

-english chicks want cock

-olde english men love all of us

-asian women treat rick like godzilla

-ricardo loses money regardless

-girls from guam will more than likely be split into mutliple pieces by ioannis and steve

-ioannis is polite

-who wants to deal with the wheelchair bound smoker

-it's not good to laugh

-looks first, drinks second, personality third

-californians don't get high fives from californians
------

also, with startling relevance, here is the first video to surface from san antonio, as promised when i first got back.

and you know it.

we did some discussing earlier today. got to a point i really couldn't explain my stance or perspective outside of exactly how it was. no more dancing around the point and using euphemisms instead of pragmatic solutions.

i just want some time alone. and if that means living alone, then so be it.
i'm kind of begging for it. and in the past couple weeks, i've realized that every girlfriend i've had has lived with me, whether the invitation was there or not, since i've been doing relationships. rarely have i had the calling back and forth, or the so-excited-to-see-you, or any of that business. i've never had to look further than my elbow, really, to find whoever she is. and it's clearly been an issue. i'm at my end now, where i can't even find a moment's peace in dead silence. the proximity of another individual creates a noise of its own. i'm definitely not saying this is okay, or that it's their problem... but i'm saying it needs to be dealt with.

but in this discussion i came to the realization that i'm playing video games MUCH more than i ever have before, mostly because i can't get the quiet i need to read or write or do anything progressive. mindlessly sort of disappearing into these games. i'm not sure if there's a direct relationship to it, but i'm sure it could be written into some study about the affects or reasons for playing games. a whole level of role-play or self-escapism. usually don't give too much merit to these kinds of studies or statements but in this instance, it at least seems to add up.

went back, exhumed some.
found a genuine curiosity and pressing unique to love and only love.

saw the devout and frantic nervous words of trying to capture the mass overthrow of mentality caused by hungry and ravenous hearts. needing and knowing nothing else. not just the visage but the all-around tidal velocity undertow of her.

i kept the other half too. words where i'd see the deception of intent there. forcing effort just to posture them on a platform that was suitable for communication. untrustworthy; vultures swarming.


i'm in neither here,
and i missed my ship.









stockholm syndrome is real.

design.

aside from stripping down to oil lamps and that whole process, i agree with what's being said here. it takes different styles, different moods etc. i know people who can't even imagine sitting down and writing in a notebook being anything more than an archaic waste of time. personally, 100%, i would feel absolutely nothing if i were filling word documents with the kinds of things found in my myriad moleskines. there's a catharsis to it. the feel of so much blood.

sci-fi author on writing.

-

mix cd almost done.
dream journal filling fast.
video project to accompany if i can commit.

the many men of one face.

as far as i'm concerned, i haven't been here in years.
i threw a girl down the orgasm hole, stared down into it like a biologist. spasms and muscle contractions again. science versus recorded science: proper. my eyes fixed through her energy. you aren't here, you aren't here, you aren't here, you aren't her. i remember the heat when we couldn't even lay close but there was the desertpact we'd made, a cobra in heat, wrapped and torn together like arteries, moving like an anthill from meters off, the pulsing mass, thoughts drawn to the place where monasteries chant.

scales and scaling.
you walking off and oh god your human shape.

terror of the weather at its coldest and where i'd been a year ago.
when the volume got eroded.
when there was the finale as a curtain emergency.
lights up.
audience liability.
fingerlightening: your story vs your life.
understood, it was your life or it was me.
it was years you'd built up or years you'd spent.
on a has been.

i told you things i'd told my witnesses
about your stance and the prints you'd
left across my intricates. i knew you.
i failed as this is still a bridge of gasoline:
the flint in museum vacuumed glass, the steel my fingernails.

i'm an approach in recognized delay,
the pendulum held in apexloft.
say go,
i mean it:



you tell me go,
i go.

oxygenarian.

written on the commute to work while on the four ninety five. please excuse grammatical imperfections.

I often have no idea what anyones talking about and thinking back I have no clue how they fill up the silent space. What the stories are describing or who the characters are, or what has stuck. I think about trying to reengage some of them, the ones who are my age range, somewhat within my generation... But there's no venn diagram thats fulled with much more than blood. Movies, tv, music, games, books, any media.. Social appetite dripped down to minimal priority. I got to watch my dad, drunk because he was bored, stand up to flip some burgers, stagger, then smack his head on an air conditioner this past weekend. Mom laughs, "my husband has had a little too much to drink." What the fuck is happening.

portly.

i have spent the last few days thinking about drunk regret. and i guess i can't really say i've gotten to the point where i've succumb to it very hard at any point in my life. though this weekend could be a candidate for such a moment, with the juvenile karaoke bit, then the dancing with the girls on stage bit, though those things are just moments. i saw a video the next day cold-sober and i felt nothing about it. though i guess i start to think about the different levels and waves of people seeing it and the various possible reactions. but the amount of energy i've spent on thinking about that doesn't even show on the scan compared to what my phone history told me. called that number 3 times. based on the call time, i don't think i left any voicemails or anything brutally detailed like that. but still. how my fingers and mind continuously stray to that place is uncanny. it's so trustworthy. i'm sure it's best that these calls went ignored or missed.

if i can remember to associate it here, i'll post a link to any/all incriminating evidence from that night here (some are below, though these are just tolerable moments).

.

--

the first night we were out, we went to this horrible horrible place called "dick's last resort" (this particular location), and were told we were going to eat. instead they paid for a ton of drinks, and let us watch the house band who was decent, but seemed to be manufactured from the sum of dragging some lake. to explain a major part of the restaurant's modus operandi, they try making you feel like shit about yourself blatantly. in fact, an ongoing theme is that they'll make a paper hat for you and write some level of ridiculous quote on it (such as "i miss prison sex!"). the tablecloths are paper, and i had written down a TON of ideas for MY hat, none of which were taken. unfortunately, i ran out of room in front of me and started writing ideas down in a moleskine. i lost the entire thing. it's okay... it was only half full and was only from a couple nights before, the plane ride, and that day. but i can throw some ideas at you:

- my cock is a fortress of solitude.
- why does my mom's birthday remind me of the boy's locker room?
- this is the disney land of cop-a-feelia.
- the last chick i banged looked like lost highway from the waist down.
- the only thing gayer than me is the guy that came in my ass.

each time i offered a hat idea to the staff, they looked at me like i was some kind of foul-mouthed hooligan.

go hard or go home.

jazzman worked his cold.

I wish I felt this lucid all the time. When it happened I'm not sure but I got jumpstarted and sat down and couldn't stand up. Two, three different books with different purposes. Can't ever do this at home. It's never quiet enough and I don't have a place to sit and lean forward and push down into the pages. I talked about needing a writing desk and not just a desk to put a computer on and what not. Cowboy bebop dubbed is trash. But yeah I thought that was just an excuse. The desk thing. It is, essentially. A real writer a real artist would write genius in the palm of his hand and take a shitty snapshot everyday just to make it really work, to make it really happen. It's less about the audience more about the output. the sun shines because it can't do any other goddamn thing. And it'll be done when it's done. Like when it goes nova it'll care about who is going to freeze. I stopped writing here because I started thinking about who's reading and what's worth sharing and started putting up filters from me to you and started becoming a filing system that organized thoughts into yes/no piles, not okay/totally okay... It's all bullshit anyway in the best way possible. If all you ever read was Asimov and it made you happy, then fuck what they're trying to tell you are the classics. If it's not digestible or reproductive it's worthless.
Evolution's going outward in branches.
Even the species has species.

I'll be in texas in seven and a half days. I stopped drinking as much as I used to not because I was drinking too much but because others around me were drinking too much. I live so far away from where I work that I get nervous to sleep late because I feel like I'll lose my job so I sleep early and am constantly worrying. I like when people think they look like celebrities they don't look like at all. I am still writing down my dreams as often as I have them but I've stopped writing everything else otherwise. What I've become is a video game playing homebody. I don't even listen to new music anymore. I crossed over into the place I was growing into where NOTHING new is impressing me. It's like having the scabbed veins of junky scum and just as fun to talk to. You know what tomorrow is? Another day less of summer.

chromo.

+ these are great.
+ these are great.
+ these are great.
[there's more, jump around].

wirewound.

A boy of around 7 came walking in today, slow and quiet, quick and calm to respond to the greeting. He walked the wall with bare eyes, a young scholarly gaze somewhat exploring the library as was prepared for him. His hands in his pockets, head bent back to the higher shelves that seemed to tower above him, he strafed in observation. Minutes later, the father walks in, calls looking for him and finds him in his pose. "You find anything buddy?" is the question, and three words into the slow response, the father is saying, "alright, alright. calm down, calm down."

Silence again, still the walking of the wall, the slow reading and picture translation. I hear the grown man reciting titles at what seems like dartboard relevance. "So what're you thinking, buddy?" is the question, and again, the response begins to come, case in hand, title at the ready and the father again warns, "okay. calm down now."

Somewhere in there I missed something drastic, some psychological disrhythmia. Who needs the calming? Is the boy shuddering where I can't see, his eyes rolling in the back of his head? Are his knees jerking and gyrating at an angle I couldn't see? Was he urinating on himself, unable to contain the urges he was subduing vocally? Or is the father here so terrified of his son's genuine interest that any gesture of free will sends the fear of rebellion through him?




Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

proud partner.

this was a thought that began at the beginning of a car ride home and expanded into a dialogue with myself for some time. something that got so large i was beginning to figure out the different ways to take it in a blog post. then after finding parking, and walking to the apartment, i've sort of lost my way with it.

but,
it's so unbelievable how far we've come with our heroes and our protagonists. look at superman, this unbeatable God of a humanoid. look at hulk hogan, this all-american, prayer spouting, vitamin taking, unending closet owning world champion. now, we look to the flawed and the humble to garner that immense inspiration. the greeks were really on to something by making their deity structure just as crushing as our social lives.

i'm tired, and i've been sleeping more than i ever have.

the outwoods.

i went to a 2 week sleepaway camp in 1992. we just found some post cards I sent home while away. these are presented in their entirety, verbatim. NO WORDS.

20 JUL 1992
Dear mom and dad, I miss you. Hope you like the tape. I can't wait till you right. My counceler is Dan. I gotta go now so bye! Love, Steve.

24 JUL 1992
Dear parents, [heart]xxoo Eugene sent me a letter and a sticker that said Marines. I got Christine's letter. It is raining right Now. I love righting to you. I have nothing more to say so bye! Love Steve.

24 JUL 1992
Dear mom and dad, did you get my other postcard? I hope so. Today we are going to Arts + Crafts, Drama, Volleyball, Softball and archery. I have to go eat chow so bye.

27 JUL 1992
(front of card has sad face drawn on it with tears rolling down cheeks, and the words DAN DO NOT READ!!)
Dear mom and dad, please come and pick me up. I am lonely. [another sad face with tears rolling down face. this one has hair on it's head, somewhat spiked] love steve. P.S. can't spend another day without you.

28 JUL 1992
xxooxxoo love steve,
Dear mom & dad, aunt olga and erica wrote to me. So did you dad. I love you both. I went boating today. I have to go to dinner now so bye! I also met Chris A. The food is great here. P.S. Don't call me chubba!!! Hee Hee!

29 JUL 1992
Wed. July 29, 1992. I [heart with words love you inside] love you dad!
xxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxooo
ooooooooooo
oooooo. [heart]. [periods actually included]
Dear dad, I miss you sooooo much. I'm sorry for telling you to pick me up early. I was so tired I didn't know what I was doing. I can't wait to see you again. Love steve.

29 JUL 1992
Wed. July 29, 1992
I [heart with the word love inside] you mom!
xxxxxx
xxxxxxxxooooo
ooooooooooooo
[heart]
Dear mom, sorry but I lost my splish splash hat. I feel so bad! Thanks for the nintendo book. I really love it. Don't come and pick me up early. Like I said. Love, steve.

1 AUG 1992
hi! I'm fine. Tusday we went to the boat docks. I went in the padll boats and wen it was time to go in the roboats I hade to go to the bathroom so bad I jumt in the water.

END.

gunned down eyes.

so I had an old copy of kerouac's "The Road" in my hands at this old used book store and I was excited about the history the hands that have held this copy may have thought. I leafed through it and started seeing highlights and underlines, and saw that the pieces that were captured seemed very remote and emotionless, as if I'd flipped through channels with closed captioning on, catching pieces of out of context subtitles. got me thinking about the way people read and what their brain attaches to different meanings of the little text pockets we mark to stand out to our future selves or other future individuals. the choice is almost always a story in

real!

so this just happened:

WOMAN
oh yeah! we're going away this weekend, but maybe intimate barbecue next weekend?

:pause:

OTHER VOICE FROM WINDOW ABOVE
(exact same delivery) oh yeah! we're going away this weekend, but maybe intimate barbecue next weekend?

wrencher.

pretty bad news:
long story short, my hard drive fell and the USB port physically snapped, breaking any and all possibility of connecting PC --> hard drive until it's repaired.

pretty good news:
my ipod had all of my music on it, and i can use it as a hard drive in the meantime.


+ new dream collection is completed. 17 pages of wtf.

+ the letter project is a couple of steps away from being completed.


www.bloodstreamcity.com

mucked in the mire of sloth.

can you think of a more
pathetic liar than he
who has the ability to
turn his filth into truth,
sin into retribution?

Wordplay.

I was asked to help try and come up with a name for a clothing line that was both polished and deconstructed. Stoic and chaotic. Came up with a few. These are the ones that were shot down:

Deadparty
Apocalite
Necrodancer
Poetricide
The Flood
Dissectia
Neunuke

New name is pretty good. Hopefully you'll see a wordcombo of my work opn labels soon. But maybe not.

hollywood stunts.

The move to brooklyn is complete. Days old, in fact more than a week has gone by. This is a place I can feel I want to be, and a place that I feel wants me for who I am. Some kind of welcome warm embrace, a home found, half of a reunion. Found a ton of cool stores around here, all of which are independent that are 100% worth frequenting, and the restaurants here are also on point. Some pictures already showing up on the Flickr.

Went to a bar called Coco 66 which always seems pretty bustling any night and during the day on weekends, but some random nights showcase an event called DUBSTEP which I've heard referenced on a british electro podcast. It essentially transforms the back open dance area into a thunderdome of powerful drum&bass, Prodigy/Dizzy Rascal industrial thudfest. Some of the stuff I heard in there was unbelievable. It had a vibe more similar to live music than a club, and the set was going for hours. I'll definitely be returning. RSVP. -- also worth noting, Dave came with me and our twitters reflected the kind of brain I eroded to. If you follow, I apologize. I also wrote a piece while on the dance floor that you'll be able to read in a collection of poetry/journal entries I'm compiling.

And the new dream journal will be done soon.

I got a new phone. Another blackberry, which is fine. I was happy with the last one, but I watched it shimmy off its last breath[e?]. One thing that hurts is that all of my old memos remain in that phone, and there is some truly memorable stuff in it. I'll probably post them on here at some point. I plan on handwriting them into a notebook soon just to have. Yes, I've tried emailing them to myself by transplanting the old SIM card back into the phone but the emails keep not sending. It's fine, it's not the end of the world. In related news, my browser already stopped responding on this phone, but with a little fuckery, I managed to restore it. Yeah knucklehead.

Coexisting with a female is easy.
Coexisting with THIS is difficult.
I've sort of started to pick up on the fact that maybe I wasn't meant for relationships. I ruin people. I take a good thing and try to rearrange it. I make rubik's cubes out of people. I've always sort of known that I was difficult to deal with, and my reasoning is flawed (utilizing logic to a fault) but when it starts putting pressure where I don't need pressure, I start to need to run and I start to get really atrocious.

Help. I still love Her.

Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

cadillacadaisical.

Departure.
Laying in bed, i'm still sore from all the moving yesterday. Beetle's here and sick, coughing something terrible, but her spirits are outstanding to a degree. Her things are in my room (and my car, and her car, and the garage) which makes my usual mental check for packing distracting. If i realize i'm missing something i'll be fine. Last night i couldn't even keep my body awake, let alone my mind. Fell asleep at 1230a, woke up at 1015a. Took a shower and she was already emptying the car to take me. Kerry was sleeping and i'm assuming so was Capone (a week old kitten we're trying to rescue; she is an adorable calico).

Flight 1.
US3157.
JFK to Charlotte, departing 12:59p.

Arrived at JFK, US Airways automated self check-in machines are all down, while the attendants stare at a line of potential passengers as if we are clueless in how to operate their touch screen replacements. Get tickets, stand in a security checkpoint line behind a drove of individuals headed to Tokyo. Proceed to retaurant area, choose a place called Boccelli's (instead of the alternative neighbor, Mcdonald's) and get a egg & croissant sandwich w/ OJ for just under $10. As expected, it's alright. Sitting by the gate now, reading Girlfriend In a Coma by Douglas Coupland. Looks like everyone else chose Mcdonald's.

Flight 2.
US1723.
Charlotte to Fort Lauderdale, departing 615p.

On the flight here, sat next to a guy who looked like he'd be fairly good natured. Opened up a conversation right away. The standard where you headed/where am i going decorum. Talked to him about FL for two minutes or so, asked about his trip. His response was, "headed to Charlotte, last stop. Gonna make the hour drive to North Carolina." Shut it down. Read a massive chunk of "...Coma". Two of the most attractive stewardesses i've seen. Started passing out around the time they gave the landing in 25 minutes announcement. Slept through the landing, woke up during taxiing. Kept having nanodreams that people were laughing at me or hissing at their neighbors. Had a dream tourist look me in the face and say "what's up with her?" pointing across my seatmate, into an imaginary third seat that would be located outside the plane. Landed, got out of the plane quicker than any other flight i've ever been on. Used the restroom which smelled of cinnamon, which is actually the legitimate polar opposite of the smell of rotting bodies. Visited a watering hole called A Taste of Carolina and started rolling back a beer called Carolina Blonde which is delicious. Sat at the bar ignoring the Mets/Cardinals game, finishing my book. Another guy around my age was sitting at the corner of the bar drinking what looked like an IPA reading a book called Writing Horror Screenplays. Wanted to talk, but he was buried in the book and his headphones. Heard two businesswomen going nuts about emails and meetings, and they used the phrase "no shit sherlock!" which was amazing. Also, across from me at the gate a woman was playing a DS and shaking her head shamefully at the screen. I start passing out in my seat, certainly drunker onboard than I'd been in the terminal. i'm sure i hear the pilot shout "bleeding, discernably" but this is a fable. I finish Girlfriend In a Coma in my seat (26D) and instantly jump to Nova Express by Burroughs. Pages in, i'm sure i'm in for a ride. An unreal tone. A man putting his luggage into the overhead would look like a shaman with facepaint. But now he looks dead.

Arrival.
Got to Fort Lauderdale airport and was scooped up almost instantly by Dave. Went to Blockbuster to return his movies (including New Moon!!) and rented Ong Bak 2. Grabbed beer, headed to his building after finding illegal parking. Was met in the elevator by a promiscuous woman named Tiffany who was insantly ready to 'find a good time' with either of us. Ate, watched dave harvest planets, drank and passed out watching Ong Bak. Happy hour, pool, Transit Lounge, and Electric Pickle tomorrow night. Double date Saturday night. You can smell the skies turning to formaldehyde.

Bienvenido.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

real.

sometimes i wish my store was unbelievably small, like a dry cleaners or something. this way when the lurkers came in to breathe on everything they'd feel the awkward silent waiting, and just how undeniably heavy their presence was.

/retail

carlisle.

it's actually been a while since i've shared.
it's all in books i carry with me.
i reach these shores less and less.
i'll find a space soon.

to sum:
i turned 28.
spend a lot of time in nyc.
moving to brooklyn in april.

oh.

As a drunk MAN i totally just found myself within the hold the complete
hold
of professional sports, FOOTBALL, to be precise and the playoffs which will be the grip of it all, which will be the final piece, the final elimination of all things.


It's irrelevant. It's the career of some professional... Irrelevant... Doesn't relate, like some movie star and his change, and i'm thinking OH SHIT!! it might be that he might be a game out of the playoff race and what is he doing at home?

and i'm shivering because it's so cold
because there aint much that's happening here
(3am by matchbook romance)
and oh wow... OH WOW...
WHERE AM I GOING AFTER THIS?

home.
wow.
No regret. No reward.

Shit.

And now i pay my tab
and hope to leave
with the correct tab/tip left
and driving home
is a bet with the kind of hope
like left/right
means that i made it home.

I shiver like no one knows what's
wrong.


and a guy with a motley crue
shirt tells me i'm the kind of guy
that will date lady gaga.








still
shivering.

is ink.

i talk about starving,
but i
devour and i hide
and i continue
to live,
Comfortably.

I am the fierce scum of the earth,
speaking an evil i can't commit to,
delaying an ideal,
slothing and glutting and lusting
and beholding a form of false idol.

I am the scum of the living days.
I will send you
out to war
from behind my
horrid veil.

once legendary, now legend.

will probably post later today about a new art/writing project i started earlier this week, but for now, please check out this photo gallery of 'Ethiopia's Vanishing Tribes.' the fact that these peoples still exist make me feel so many different things, believe it or not. i kind of like it, i kind of don't, i'm not really sure where to go with it. but their purity is beauty.

either way, these photos are GORGEOUS. 19 is my favorite, followed by 8 and 2.

africa.

dog eared.

found this just now.
it's from october 1st of this year.

--

you wouldn't.
you wouldn't.

but she did.

i get why and i get how and i get the process that brought here to be.

what was said was,
"if you love someone don't let them know; save it for the deathbed."
it's what i should have done.
i had my chance that i'd spoken about, my chance that i knew would get me back to where i needed to be in the situation i wanted ot be in. and i had it, and now i know that it will go nothing short of absolutely the most perfect way i could expect it to go.
except for
except for the fact that she left.
and she isn't coming baclkxxxxexx
and she isn't
and she isn't coming back.

it's an intolerable truth that i almost refuse to accept into reality.
and going forward, after the silence,
and after the revelation,
this is forever.
this is how it's going to be.
from now.
on.

all the roots in the ground, and they ain't
all the roots in the ground, and they ain't comin' up to make no plants, no
there ain't gon' be no trees, no not here.
no sir, not here.

i saw to it that night.
those nights.
those nights,
really.
the ones i was scared of.

i hurt her a few times,
and it's true:
that's enough.

these fingers have been quiet and i
can'
t
seem to get a solid thought together on an
action or a path
or a commitment
or a method
or a way out.

i am now an organism
with single cell forward progress.
won't find shade in the desert so i'm won't find shade in the desert so i've adapted to the burning.

these are things that needed to be said in ways,
possibly not directly in a language that you can read
or speak
but they are easy and necessary to express.
i'll reflect them in the ways i walk and the ways i'll meet all along the way.
the roads that i walk.
she'll be gone for good.
and she'll never know.
but i'll know we had our day.

granted reprieve.

100 word themed writing contest entry.
why not.

--

a lifeless stretch of quiet. the warbling of time and math. concepts eating concepts. gas the color of god or obtuse angles. there is no beauty in the vacuum light, just the substance of liquid black. no frost to build from moisture, no screams to hush. The Endless proceeds its surgery on the innards of a timeline. no womb, as this is motherless; no vector as there are no points.

pause.

and in the center of sudden ripples, a horror of organism billows forth. such is the moment of location. the We as We of planets and stars were born.

lost my first letter.

that would be the letter "a".
the only way that i now use this letter on my keyboard is by pasting it with ctrl+V.
seriously.
i don't know why i always have bad luck with things like this.
i don't "take good care" of all of my things, but i certainly don't trash them.

irrelevant.

i watched a documentary the other night about bukowski.
i have yet to read the man in depth. he's dirty and straight forward, and his poetry has no flourish, and his fiction is cold and poor and realistic. reminds me of the places selby has taken us. i didn't like the man, and i can't really say that i've found his genius yet. i only say yet because i know i'll find a line or two that unlocks a new image of him. something that makes me go back and reanalyze the things i'd written off. it's happened with dozens of records, and i'm almost positive it WILL happen with this author. i wait for it.

there was this one moment that i did completely connect with him on though, a moment that i know only too well, a moment that few people have seen, but people have seen. this is not my spotlight, though. he was reading a poem, one that found him in the shower with his version of her and she washed him. he reads this poem, and turns the page, reads a word or two and loses it, completely loses it. the kind of breakdown where you aren't sure if he's laughing or not. but he's not and you know he's not. he gets through the poem and he's rocked and he tries to play it off but he can't, he just can't.

i know that moment, that split-second,
that change of temperature, that feeling of her face between your palms,
that light in the room when you last saw her
and how it lights your blood up.

she's there and she will
always
be there.

he sums it up perfectly, and if i never understand the man's works, or never absorb the man's full repertoire, i can say that this is what i've taken from him and carried with me:

there are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it's too late
and there's nothing worse
than
too late.




i'm trying to keep it
together lately, but
i've been someone else
entirely.

clean colors.

jason graham

oh, wow.

[also: 1 & 2]
[[ryzhov & andreyev]]

i thought we'd moved past this.

i've been trying to think of ways to talk about this,
to text about this,
to write about this,
but all i can say is

WOW, MAINE.
fucking. WOW.


--

OH.
and here is a way to feel completely different about bears. really makes me rework their genetic makeup in my brainbook.

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.