intentional massive.

above is a letter from bruce lee. it reads as follows:

I, Bruce Lee, will be the first highest paid Oriental super star in the United States. In return I will give the most exciting performances and render the best of quality in the capacity of an actor. Starting 1970 I will achieve world fame and from then onward till the end of 1980 I will have in my possession $10,000,000. I will live the way I please and achieve inner harmony and happiness.

that is how you set a fucking goal. i think currently, i have no goals or end points. no directed ambition, no target, no vaulting point. it's something i feel like i might have to start aligning myself with. i've essentially set some personal pieces of improvement i'd like to hit, and some general morals and values i'd like to stick by regularly. but there's nothing i'm aiming for, nothing that calls me back to the track. the last thing i can think of that was a set goal was the nanowrimo writing goal, and i fell off pretty quickly with it. i think setting and sticking to goals is something that ends up being a learned behavior as opposed to something you can just set for yourself and expect to follow. if everything becomes a plan, if everything becomes goal-oriented, i think you start to do your own microtracking, your own follow-ups on yourself.

if i wanted to lose thirty pounds in three months, i couldn't just set it and expect for it to all wind up okay because i've set it up in such a way. i wouldn't realize, at first, that if i didn't lose ten pounds by one month, i'd have to realign my plan to accelerate in the next. it's just a cloud goal i'd have, and by trying to make it all happen by the end date, the whole process would become a maelstrom of trying too hard or giving up altogether.

so when i say i'd like to have one writing project finished a month, i'm not going to be good at coaching myself, at maintaining the course, and doing the small check-ups that i'll have to do to ensure it all works out. and i think i'd like to get more into that practice, or at the very least, start HAVING a goal to aim towards so i can relate to a failure/success paradigm.

also.
shows coming up:
- omar rodriguez lopez on march 29.
- sidefires april 7.
- fairweather reunion on may 14th. [possibly most important show of my life thus far]
- portugal. the man on june 3rd.
- earth on june 16th.

and, um.
to kind of wrap this all up, here's a majorly appropos video.

a new beginning for ecosystems.

this is the most informative and the video that translated the situation to me most accurately. i've seen most of the others. this one actually has those moments of "i was JUST standing there" that have been time lapsed or more pulled back in other videos. this one screams authenticity.

volume, and damn the siren.

topographic analysis.

that
is
all.

urkenheuim hotel.

for the first time in what seems like years, but could just be months, i've been able to take multiple days off and call it a 'vacation'. i've known about it for a while, but didn't book a trip anywhere. there were a few concepts i'd had but one of them is nothing but brash begging for disappointment, one was something i'd wanted to save for a friend and i which didn't work out, and the last requires a car for multiple days, something i'm not currently able to acquire. so it's just me and the world here, brooklyn and long island. all the missed and ignored media i've had for months. some writing i've done. some thought lines to unravel. performing, essentially, what the body does during sleep. the kind of maintenance that requires little effort but sets all the pieces into regiments. defragging.

the first day of my 'vacation', though, saw me at a hospital for a decent portion of the day as my mother was having some respiratory issues. she's a heavy smoker, super serious about the addiction, really fairly major part of her character, and it's starting to catch up to her. it's sad to watch all the things you hear about in books and commercials and television and knowledge in general being acted out directly in front of you as opposed to diagnoses and diagrams and stock footage. while she was in with the doctors getting a ton of tests and what not, she told me i could take her car and go do something else, go home, etc.

i went record shopping. picked up the new lupe fiasco, the new get up kids, radiohead's kid a, minus the bear's omni, a record by sunn0))), and liquid swords by GZA. sick pull. a week prior i'd picked up this is hell's weight of the world, the new earth record, glos' harmonium and the recently disbanded depreciation guild's spirit youth. i think i posted last week about wanting to have a collection to be proud of, etc. i guess that's something that constantly changes with your taste and your growth, but these records all seem to be solid solid pulls. i have two boxes of CDs that i have to go through to see what are actually pieces i still want in there. needless to say, i spent a ton of time with all of those. the new lupe record, lasers, is going to be massive. i'm trying to get as many plays through it as i can before it becomes ubiquitous. though lately, i'm very much barred from all of the outside influence. it took me a couple weeks of listening to kanye's track "monster" before someone told me that the single had been played to death. good news, i guess? i'm also starting to take bands a lot less for granted. where at one point, when i'd see a band taking off, i used to kiss them goodbye, sort of like a minor league manager would shake hands with an upcoming ace, knowing full well he'd never be through the system again. now i know i have to see them as much as possible, appreciate them as largely as i can before they disappear. it's becoming almost an epidemic, bands who are doing the right thing, pushing boundaries or at the very least steeping themselves deeply in quality ideas and influences, deciding to call it quits after all of their invested time doesn't yield the same kinds of rewards that they used to. the underground is almost nonexistant. all indie means is it's not completely massive yet. it's a weird industry. but braid has reunited, is doing their thing again and i'm very excited to catch them a few times in their second wind. same with the get up kids, and even glassjaw. important bands are answering the absence. that can't be all, though. can't have the same old stuff on repeat. classics are and always will be classics, waiting on a shelf or on a harddrive for us. but it needs to stay fresh. there needs to be progress. and with lupe's record, i feel that. there's a little more digging that has to occur. but i'm willing to do it. eyes on the liner notes. hungry, always. internet wise, i just saw a new youtube trailer for the lead singer from misery signals' new project called solace which sounds incredible. and the guy who did the song "black and yellow", wiz khalifa has a pretty dope mix tape called kush & orange juice which is somewhat viral right now. with all of my free time, i've had the chance to check it ALL out, in depth, give it solid listens. give it the respect it deserves. very excited. even rediscovered a band called sweek that does the whole russian circles/explosions in the sky thing rather well. their record the unbelievable cinematic crash from '05 is legit!

watched a decent amount of movies as well, so far. mala noche by van sant, mister foe with jamie bell and i just rented four lions, a movie from britain that actually satirizes terrorism. i remember seeing the trailer a while back and it looked great.

finished reading fahrenheit 451, and completed both little big planet 2 and killzone 3.

also, will be printing copies of MMX: THE MOLESKINES starting tomorrow.

off 'til monday.
stoked.

of the earth.

wow. i only needed to see this photograph to need more, but this guy's story (myth or no) seems to be something that makes me want to be a floating phantom on his shoulder. in the introductory piece to the link i'm going to provide, it gave me these morsels of information, all of them more eye expanding than the last:

- he wore a suit made from leather boots he FOUND
- he slept in caves
- his race/origin is unknown, but portuguese or "black" has not been ruled out
- he was driven mad by either economic ruin or a broken heart or both

gold. i see titans of the street like this on a fairly regular basis during my commute. and there's something about sitting down and talking to them that gives me the vibe that i will take something from it, not valuable in any way other than rich, possifiction. because who knows. regardless of what may run rampant in my imagination, half of what these guys have seen or thought because of what they've seen, is probably just as good, if not better.

more:
“If there’s any place left where you can keep your secrets, with the Internet and everything out there, it should be your bones.”

slow to standing.

challenge yourself. it's something that we'd all put on a coffee mug if we could, sitting at our little dinette in our little apartment, something that we could look at and feel good about, just because we've seen it, and bought the mug, and think that way a little bit, and admire it, and quasi believe it. but really, there's a kind of fatalistic fire that i've been engulfed by over the course of the last few months as i've been staring around at me across the people who i know are capable of massive things and massive thought who are just sitting on it, and pouring the contents of their mugs into their stomach and going to work. and then we go to work. and it's very serious. and we get home. and put together little parties for ourself until we have to get up tomorrow and restring the puppets.

i have been the Messenger of the Great Excuse on a fairly constant basis. justine called me out on it in a pretty sterile moment in front of dan smith, something about me completely stopping my creative process while we were together. getting home, watching tv, accomplishing nothing. filling the mug. dave called me out on it i think it was during the onslaught of birthday facebook wall posts with something like, "here's to all of the projects that we should have started but have never finished" or something along those lines. i am fully accountable for that entire process. and in the last year, i've "put out" some things i've been proud of, stayed motivated and active, and have continued to build this kinetic force of building hands that i am a bit addicted to. not entirely looking for fame or infamy because i'd eventually fuck that up too. just want to leave behind a library to validate my existence and to chronicle the things i've thought and felt and been able to spawn. even if just amidst friends. to let them know that the possibility is there.

there are a few things that gripped the lower wrungs of my ribcage in this year in particular that didn't hurt or kill me or injure me, but they definitely had me full on by my entire frame and showed me a few things i might have been meant for or against.

my grandmother died in january, and to be honest, it's not even a matter of losing a human being who i'd had a history with. she was a woman related to me and a lot of the older pieces of my family have stories about her, but for my little branch of the family, it meant nothing. she gave birth to my father and walked away. his sisters and brother raised him in her household while she kind of watched from the outside. as i grew older and understood what kinds of implications that had on his entire life, and related a lot of the stories and events i had been present for and grasped the weight of, i started to realize that i had no built-in commitment to this person. i kind of allowed a lot of my contextual obligations to fall off and started to react accordingly. and i'm at where i'm at now, where out of respect for the family members i do honor, i made myself present at the first ever funeral i've ever been to. and i wasn't just that 29 year old oddity standing on the outskirts, i definitely approached people i haven't seen in a long time, paid my respects, engaged them in conversations about their lives, the particular context and so on. aortal bookkeeping, on some level. but in that room, i started to get a massive grip on mortality. not the idea, so much, that i was eventually going to die and would no longer get to do the things that i wanted to do or experience, but moreso that i would never get to allow the people around me to really know how i felt about them. and really, that's the kind of memories that i want to pass on to others. sheer validation. the concept that i've noticed what they're attempting, that they were appreciated, that they're beautiful in all the ways they had anything to do with. they're white hot intelligent when they went for it. that i recognize that they went for it. things of that nature. i want everyone to know their fullest potential, and i'll do whatever i can to bring them to it. i want to be the one holding back the sheet metal until the last fucking second while everyone's slipping underneath, moving forward, surviving on, against an oncoming horde or inferno. i want to make sure they're all going to make it.

i have personally always written letters or stories or put things out expecting a response. even just last night, when i was talking about the whole new stand-up comedy endeavor i'm going to start to approach soon, i guess i was sort of hoping someone would say, "i agree with your attempt. it resonates to me. i have high hopes in your endeavor." but i have never received the kind of echo that i'd hope to get. i can only do the best thing i can with what i've got. and if i'm going to try anything, i'm going to do it based on my own reaction to it. if i feel that it's shit, it's shit. and i'll create again, and improve. and again and again. bigger and sharper. carved up and more beautiful. irrefutable. i want it always to be something i'm proud of. i want it to be done because it's done and what i wanted and not because i had to. i'm seeing so many more opportunities out there, and not just things to be looked at and held up against. everything is interactive and small. and hilarious. there is no good day for anything to happen, no right moment. sometimes you just have to sit next to the fat guy on the bus. this is what's happening. i've always waited for the formula to solve itself and calmly insert the variable and have it smoothly coagulate. always. i'm exhausted with the waiting for the lead up, and the pause in a conversation for myself to insert what i'd been waiting a week to say. it's 2:45 in the afternoon and i think you're beautiful. you just might enjoy something i've got.

and last night, for the first time in what feels like a year, myself, dave, brian, and anthony were together in a quiet room in our own space, sharing these massive thoughts and concepts and ideas. we were starting with catching up, but actually spoke on and on about different themes and issues and so on and it's something that was completely unreal. the group of friends i've known has always existed just behind the doors for me. and it actually made me really sad to see that it's still in tact, it still exists, it's still a reality. but we've all kind of shut the doors a bit. it made me feel that every single one of my friends is too busy to pick up the phone to hear something i've got in store for them. i was told, "that's just how it goes, i guess." but i can't agree to it. i refuse to. i have a social life. i have a job that i work, and it's not some part time gig. i don't shirk responsibility or chores or requests or my cat or hygiene. i have the same amount of time in every day that every one else has to deal with. and i still have the time to put together these dream journals, the poem, the mix cd, to handwrite the tracklistings, to copy the stuff i'm handing out, to cut and compile it, and to keep working on more. to ingest films and records and to feel a way about them. i guess it kind of made me wonder about what i might be doing wrong, what i might be leaving out that everyone else is keeping in. i want to reflect things off of these people and build massive temples of light. but i end up feeling like that six year old neighbor knocking on the door to look at your baseball cards. again.

i wrote her a letter.
i compared you to her.
you will never hear your name.

bonita.

sometimes i wish i could put my head back against a surface and roll my eyes back really slowly and softly, like some kind of ocular trance condition. I'd groan deeply and gutteral like, almost animal in origin. the foam will pull and lull out of my mouth through gritted and tired teeth, and a slow machine of gyration would work through my chest cavity like some voodoo priestess shaking bone pouches to ward off a tribal war. I wish upon this action, i could reach out to all the ones i love, and all the ones who have seen the mind I've exposed to them, and they would know to listen, and deeply. and when i was collected there in my seat, knuckles now perched in a vulture's gnarl, i would transmit the audio around me, so rich in humanity, and pure untainted comedy. there are things that need to be heard. things that make me regret ever seeing them, because they are being seen alone.

"it was just a reg'lah day. juss a reg'lah day. I didn't feel no way, no body bought me nothin, nobody call me or nothin, it was juss a reg'lah day.

juss a reg'lah. day."

a poem.




I miss all of you.
I'll go foamy for you.

limbs to pompei.

so much has changed. it used to be that brooklyn was a novel concept. and for a while, it was this different type of place that was living up to all that it used to sound like. tons of weird folk, artist folk, who were into their own little things. i spent a lot of time at home, and then commuting to work with a car. drove everywhere, passed so many things as lane segmentors. these weren't locations, they were set pieces. as the summer starting waning, i began to walk a bit more, getting the slow realization that the sun would be disappearing soon. walking place to place made me start to take in so many more places. i think i learned more about the area i live in in a month or two of walking from point A to point everywhere than i did in the months that i did driving. and now that i'm without a car and i'm relying completely on the transit system, nothing seems too far, nothing seems out of reach. even things that are so close, down the block/around the block/under the block, it's all fully tangible. this place is meant for change, meant for me. so many options out here. and it looks like for now, i'm going to have to be taking it on alone. that's fine. because i know i don't want to leave. i know i want to stay out here. and the only thing i'm missing is my crew. the kind of love and respect and energy that comes from my people out on the island. i love this place and i'm hoping we stay right here. and i do plan on taking my opportunity a lot less for granted. this is the kind of place that a person like me can gel. let's do it. we out for the gusto, man. we tryin' to keep it raw.

also, for the time being, i've lost my entire music collection. wait. not really. kinda. see, i had it all on an external hard drive which was destroyed physically. but luckily just before that, i'd put everything onto an ipod which i had been using as my library. which, by the very same individual, is now wiped as well. so i'm now separated off into my own CD collection which i have to re-rip and relocate. it's all separated and in many different places since i moved out here. so i bought a bunch of CDs online the other day, something i haven't done in quite some time. mostly because i started to take that whole process for granted. the physical copy is such a requirement for me. the collection, the display, all of it. the last two places i've lived, i haven't gone too over the top with it. it's been very much an afterthought. but once we figure out where we're going to be in a month or two, i'm going to ensure that i have my CDs, DVDs and books displayed with respect. and i'll need a writing desk as well. and that portion, i don't care if it's some dismantled lumber pile arranged and attached with staples and paper clips. as long as it's something i can arrange myself in and be able to lean forward onto it at the ideal height and writing angle.

gotta gotta.
yeah.
just gotta gotta.

a body duct.

Babylon line. Departs Jamaica, 10:35a.

A woman behind me is talking about how she doesn't believe in christianity anymore. Comparing it all to oprah. Her mouth is outrageously full with food. And that she's going to be practicing buddha. Asking "where is that being a good god?" And as she's trying to figure out all of this stuff, she starts to stray off into a story about her husband or someone who spent time with her, got his citizen papers and now wants to bounce. Great! Priceless! And her mouth is so filled with whatever it is she's eating that i can't understand what she's saying 2 feet from her, let alone what this other person must be hearing across trainsound and cell phone clusternoise. She just asked what sign is he. Cool, that's great. "Let it be natural" she says. Ohhhh and she just brought up getting a divorce! And alimony. And!!!! She just said she's not sure how it's going to work, because you have to swear to god, but she swears to buddha. And since... she... I'm in love... since she is now buddhist, she will sleep better and think easier. And her spots in her skin are going away. Breast exam. Health plan. Yaddayadda. And her husband calls her on the call waiting. And oh god, she switches the line. And she's on the phone with him now. And when he was down and out, she made him go to "doctor school or whatever." And no, he doesn't understand. Not at all. It's not fair. And he's forgotten all the good that she's encouraged him to do. What does he mean by she's so emotional, asked 5 times successively. His name is luka. Loocha? Lukuh? Loo-ka. Silence, going on 3 minutes. And. He's hungup on her! The crowd. Goes. Wild.

cold webbing.

i was unbelievably afloat for about two hours today while commuting home and then resting when i returned to the apartment today. too much caffeine. far too much caffeine. the kind that made me feel boiled over and living weeks throughout my single moment to moment passing. i'm now out of the spell, but feeling bombed out and starry eyed, and begging for the effects to return. i get there sometimes. it spurns on creation unbelievable. i am massively inspired by just those golden moments, the ones where you're electrifying all of those points you'd wanted to comment about and the miracles you want to portrait onto maps and canvases. there's a demon who leads me back, though. one to escort me over the threshold i'd gone through.

i've made a new commitment for this year, and i can only thank my unbelievable crew of friends who are artists or who aren't. some of us create, some of us build, some of us charge onwards just for the sake of the forward momentum's existence.

for me, one of the funniest things on earth and in humanity is the act of taking one's self too seriously. however. it seems that most times when i'm pushing myself to be as confessional as possible, as earnest and pure as i can, i am taking myself more seriously than most people i interact with on a regular basis. i find myself blindtyping, not looking at any of the words coming out, not thinking or reconsidering or editing, and i feel alight with profundity and inertia. then i stop, if only for a second, and i look at what i've written, think about what i'm saying, think about my standards, think about those reading it, and i want to go back and dash it all away, ruin it, spit on it, mock it, spoof it, parody it... it's a fucked existence. not that i'm at all tortured. i've definitely started finding an okay meeting place between the two, and i think i've become aware at how hypocritical a lot of it can seem when i come down to being my most judgmental. i'm trying to keep present in that going forward, and i feel like it's my biggest opportunity to grow from.

really, there are few people i surround myself with who would oppose to me writing and being open as i am... and also few people who are in my circle who would be disappointed at me keeping even just a few of my judgments to myself.

no poet and no artist who has ever created something true and pure has ever stopped themselves because they felt it's coming across as too genuine or too honest. and anyone who's ever said anything to that extent about another's work is just another step outside of the kind of person who art has ever been created for or spoken to.

let's be this, all of you.

over here.

three star wars reimaginations from olly moss. outstanding.

alphionics.

fan.



click for more.

CHRONO-CUBISM.

i'm a resident.

so this guy went to haiti for zombies. it's something you'd think sounds one hundred percent absurd, unless you've read serpent and the rainbow, which... hold on... doesn't necessarily SOUND BELIEVABLE or PROVE zombies, but it's weird enough and has enough things that [appear to be] facts (especially before the age of irony) that it warrants some thought. at the very least for the pharmacology of it. and yeah, the whole haiti/voodoo zombie is only a bit of an inspiration for the romero zombie.

right?

regardless, zombies have had a huge influence on a lot of people i respect. i have always been intrigued by the dark piece of WHERE and WHAT zombies imply, which is a state of complete chaos, complete 0. post-apocalypse is one way to describe it on a worldly level, but anything, any moment of complete classlessness, complete need to survive based on your skill, your rationale... a grand leveler, and an absolute reset: this is the place that, regardless of source, regardless of cause, and especially regardless of scale, i feel you can really see self-empowerment and the rise of passionate, motivated individuals. right, but be that as it may, zombies have always been a massive subgenre of that setting. pieces like the 28 X Later series, The Walking Dead, Resident Evil, so on and so forth. there's just been something about all zombie fiction that no matter how horrible all of the inbetweens are, if i see something that claims zombies are involved, i at least have to give it a shot. which is what brought me here.

the host, Hamilton apparently, is cool. seems like he knows how to host a show. his voice gets a little obnoxious when he's narrating things for too long at a time or if he starts pronouncing things with the "OH MY GAWWWWD" drawl, but he's pretty funny, keeps it light. my favorite part, honestly, was seeing literally how serious the haitians took this stuff. just as a culture, how much they engulfed themselves in that culture. which is odd, considering when i see those in the more "western religions" get this passionately involved,i call the same dedication ridiculous. but yeah, for that reason MORESO than the zombie portion of that, it ended up seeing. the ceremony towards the beginning? worth it. the reveal of a zombie later on (through the pink door)? ALSO. TOTALLY WORTH IT. it's a little more than an hour long, so it's heavier than a quick youtube toss, but with the interest there and with the right kind of night (i had it bookmarked for about three weeks to a month or so?) it could be a good sit-down.

you learn a bit about puffer fish ingestion too. and they also mention things about scopolamine, something i've linked to a documentary about on this blog (maybe somewhere else?) which is essentially a drug that somewhat hypnotizes the user for hours at a time.

berlin.

been a fan of band of horses since i heard them on the zune that was in the first gamestop i worked in. i think they had two songs on the preloaded playlist which was a major distinction of the time. i had "everything all the time" downloaded, but purchased "cease to begin" and that really cemented the deal for me. i'm a fleeting fan, i don't pump them that hard, i don't really know the lyrics or the songs from to back, but i am a big fan of what they do. very very reminiscent of the shins. haven't heard their new record "infinite arms" yet. i wanted to bring this up many months ago (i'm guessing by the comments i'm linking to in may). this particular radio interview i was listening to really inspired me in such an unbelievably positive way. just the outlook, the stance, the gracious manner in which they presented themselves. i remember having this conversation with at the very least beetle, but it definitely might sound familiar to a couple others when i bring it up to them. i finally thought to look it up and have it embedded, and i realized that really, when listening to it, there's no sort of philosophy or suggested level of thought or approach that they go forward with. it's just, and i hate to say this, but the energy they're putting out there that's so believable. so genuine. and it was something, a moment, where really, i would really be happy to come across half as grateful, precise and crystalline as they are.

starts @ 6:20.
live performance of 'no one's gonna love you' @ 14:01.

shit.

idle chatting.

there's been a fury of positive energy, up from the hoarding cortex mostly, and it's been stored away for just a time as this season, the days when it gets dark early and obviously, the days when it isn't just cold by kelvin or celcius but by physiology. a time last year when i was downing what the doctors gave me with devices much frowned upon by the labels and status quo (and better judgment). taking things hard and in all the wrong ways, mistaking presence for intent. missing and longing. spurring on beautiful things, yes, but shivering and de-enlisting. it's a different day. i was guilty of misconception. and presently, i can't see this being the same.

i referred to a reaction i had a couple weeks ago, and it was so unbelievable that i could watch myself generate such a complex hive of emotion, and have the clarity to see through it. to have the vision to not sit within it, and let it conspire and devour me and all i've built up out of myself, some great defining line. i was given some possibility, some fraction of time to experience something that i'd been anticipating for months. and when i was finally given the window of time, the quantified measure of the experience, my first reaction was denial and almost a manner of scoffing. not enough, or not as substantial, or not some endless perpetuation. i'm not sure what the expectation had been. and this was something that i'd made certain to appreciate. a volume put aside for an hour when you get an hour. the kind of thing that i'd pause in any event of escape. the match you let burn your fingers.

sneaking out of your room at night,
stealing glances;
just one peak.

i couldn't believe i'd let myself get such a negative view on something i'd allowed to come so calmly. the disheartening was over in an hour or so, once the glow settled in.

the window came, it went just as quickly. the air of it rushed out in a gasp.
i remember the commute home. how many pieces i floated together as, some suspension of quartered gravity. i still feel that force humming me from place to place, the hands of clutter that laid me down once i got home.

i relive the shortest of contact,
[her heavy bags on her shoulders]
a brevity drawn in decimalspeak:
[our coats all buttons and ringing]
so short, there is no ending.

the hangers on hanging on,
nanoscopic for the promise of more.



she is fact
& more.

--

had a conversation with dad today.
never shared those kinds of words before.
the idea might be enough inspiration,
but the funding, no small bit of it.
researching soon.

lumet.

i kind of won't forgive myself for not shaking the dust off of my bent knees in front of my xbox360 and going to see an exhibit at the new museum on brion gysin's dream machine. it was there, i could have seen it. a member of the beats, something i claim to care about, something i claim to be tied to and connected to and inspired by... nah, i think i'd rather do something recreational and stationary. -- that right there, that's a pattern. that's something that i've done all too well. got me a nice worn path. circular, foot patterns driving in like trenches.

that's why i have to almost shove myself, through convenience or inconvenience, through tact or not, to go see william s. burroughs: a man within when it makes it to the IFC theater in november. it's a must. anyone willing to join, i'm completely down to make this a group effort.



also, i have an idea of what i want to do for my birthday. and i need everyone's participation.

nonconsequent.

this is more a reminder and a trailer, possibly, to a future post. late last week, i had an interesting emotional reaction to a certain piece of news i got. and i had my initial reaction, and then my actual reaction. there's a whole backdrop of that as well. and i want to see officially where that whole thing is once the case is closed. so interesting.

also, nanowrimo is on its way. i have no planning, and no outlining, just kind of running with a loose story i have in my head, and a few characters i've had hanging out for a while. so i figured i'd let them have their little stage time now. threw the 'word war' widget on the side bar over there (on the actual blog site for those who just read through RSS). myself, brian, and ernesto are all tracked. if you are participating, let me know. i'd love to buddy you, and also add you to the 'race'. to me, there's definitely not a competition but a brotherhood for it. but either way....

columbine.

you can know what's at the end
and grind right on through it,
'cause god fuck all else.

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?




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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.