the old ways.

talked with an old friend last night.
tried to keep an itinerary of where we headed.
hope to spend a lot more time with him.

regardless of who people are or what they do as they are, it's often the most genuine level of inspiration to be inspired by the person one chooses to be when they think someone isn't hoping to be inspired by them. collecting, churning, exhibiting utility nectar.

--

- the hell of thailand.
- dad pulling a mugger's arm through the car window and flooring it at a red light (flint, MI)
- genius of awful tattoos of your children
- "mana machine"
- j alfred, proof rock (this)
- "the free development of each is the condition for the free development of all."
- tarantino's realer than real world universe v. the movie movie universe.
- the real life parable of daniel mccarthy
- is our generation responsible for anything?
- elephants and the mourning of their dead.

urethrismus.

the envelope held a brown letter
and I had nothing else from you but some rest.
you are somewhere else and only spend some days looking back.
it's pitched completely desolate, a single speck of civilization on a planet's view from atmosphere.
you run the shape of my skull through your fingers and it barely shakes your penmanship.
the ink is unconventional and cheap. haphazard and makeshift.
you remember more than you let on. and fuck it.
i begged you back in words and in a way i told fiction.
there was a ditch you could have followed to where they lay me down at last.
you run the shape of my skull through your lips and it barely shakes your songs.
the notes are flat and disgusting. you laugh and drink wine.
they were meant for me but they're easier sent to shore.
for men with honor or less.
at least there are patient moments.
i found a way for you to take me back home, disassembled.
schematics scattered and written in masonic symbols.
almost religious the way you disbelieved it.
some ritual for the other ones more or less sacred based on how bad you needed it.
shape of my skull on your lips. you spoke in genuflections.
lay some flecks on the ground in seminal patterns.
a ceremony for ill conceived plans.
i left but you just left better.
for real this time.
except you don't leave.
you send me pictures of yourself sleeping.
the words of the letter, and the way you looked up from it.
and will you always keep the envelope?


this was submitted to two poetry blogs. both declined.

bailed beds.

now playing: caribou's record, swim.

 i don't want to spread myself too thin.

 i noticed yesterday that a major part of how i think and why i react and find myself in panics so often is that i don't focus on one thing and get strong results from it. instead, i take the time to notice everything and so many things at once and sprawl out trying to maximize my output on all of those different things at once and exhaust every mental and physical resource i have in the process. and while i wait, i hold my breath. i have nothing to go back to, no spine of what has been rooting all of those other things, those other spin-offs. the thing i keep coming back to is being the strongest and the best at the reactions to all of those other little things. without a stimulus, i feel a little lost. strongest antenna.

i can find concentration for concentrated moments. when i believe in a work or when i believe in a movement, i can keep myself focused on that particular entity for decent periods of time, coming back to it, keeping the cork board littered with the pieces of little trickle that find its way through during the other living i'm doing. i can keep notes, i can keep full themes present, almost like a sedimentary layer of my crust. but at some point, it tails off. usually once things have become difficult. it can range from a simple losing of interest to a full blown temper tantrum or panic attack that spreads in waves across everything else i have going on.

[i have to shave.]

i think about wanting to get into a one-a-day blog. picture a day, blog post a day, tumblr post a day; any of that. i don't think i can pull it off, though. at least at the level of quality i'd want to be able to claim from it. it's an idea i'm attracted to, though would my inability to follow through (and my extraordinary ability to create excuses and justifications) put itself in the way? but of course it would.

remarkably though, i see this in many of the people in my life. it doesn't make any of us any less willing to pursue what we say we will. or at least less willing to say that we will pursue that thing. it's a regulated, eager intention. and i think it's a beautiful thing. there are two people in mind that i have seen carry out their intention on a consistent basis, and i want to draw on those people as sources of inspiration, and if nothing else mimic their behaviors, patterns and mantras. the ability to remain a consistent pillar of action and not just empty cages or bags of art supplies is an incredible feat, even if for any of us who are outside of that consistency.

i'm an easily destructible mammal.
i'm the only one who can fix this.
i'm the only one who wants to fix this.

gall. proposition.

i've had one of the most emotional months. not much to report, unfortunately. drew some conclusions about the ways i've failed myself and others. it's all just me being hard on myself and drawing/finding similarities in all of the ways things are occurring and calling them the same thing.

 i'm finding myself moving back into sync, though, the division between my actual self and who i can find myself acting as sealing up. soldering the seams up.

 if i sit here long enough,
 maybe it'll figure itself out for me.


 expedition.

suzanna.

i lost another moleskine today.
just to the public.
these things happen and will continue to happen.


i'm only upset conditionally:
if someone is to keep it, even as comedy, i'm cool with that.
if someone is to pick it up, look around, ask "is this yours? you? no?"
then toss it, i'm appalled.


i'll someday get to the end of this.

1/17/2006.

this
record
is always
you.

i'm not competing with you, never.
you want it, take it.
ask ask ask or tell.

and pat it down.

bury.

from the desk of...

more found street love.

plugboard.

she has the heart of a Machine.
paced in constant revolutions
so efficient for the age.
little room for chaos little room for entropy
and always craving fuel for more.

decatonic.

make no excuse.

massive.

saw these incredible minimalist marvel posters done by marko manev.
really blew me away. wanted to share the power of the direct and poignant.

more.

smoking is...

wrote this november 9th on a whim.
wasn't sure if i'd wanted to share it.
two months later, i guess it's too cold for change.

I don’t feel this is a solution, though I don’t feel that I have a solution for very many things. being part of the ninety nine percent is not some sort of shameful thing or a definition that we are part of those that lack. we just happen to be the result of a broken system that we perpetuate. this is the system we all have trusted for years, and even if we didn’t trust it, we followed it. there’s been a kind of involuntary slavery to it. for every moment we felt control slipping away, we should have been questioning and recoordinating from that very moment. sitting down in wall street is not affecting their bottom line. there are always going to be people who are going to be able to ignore the fact that one, a few, a many, or even all, dislike their concept or their means of getting to an end. seeing those who are trying to represent us in wall street either through sitting, occupying, or marching isn’t affecting their day. their eyes don’t even register revolution. they don’t recognize a new progress. for every cluster of you that boycotts their product or service, there are millions who still engage. of the 99%, those of us who are active in utilizing our voice to demand change, whether it’s through written word, presence, violence or otherwise, you are not even 1% of that mass. this method doesn’t work if you don’t get everyone on board. and everyone isn’t going to get on board. we’re not all going to go to the big cities to speak to this motion. your occupation requires attendance. even for things that are enjoyable, there is no way to guarantee that people would show up for such a thing.

x

I wrote that at 0540 one morning before work. I wasn’t even dreaming of the whole thing. I think I read something on google reader, and the solution seemed obvious to me. if you don’t like the rules of a game, you can leave the game. there are so many people shouting about the gravel being hot lava. if we cross it, and throw back a middle finger, or even just walk back into the school or back into our houses, anywhere, enough of us will realize that the bully has been convincing us about hot lava just so we can’t be first on line for lunch.

this whole movement has been unavoidable, being part of the generation, the demographic. I started doing a bit of research on the whole thing, the whole open thought of it. I wholeheartedly support what’s going on. my major issue with the entire thing has become the process of trying to figure out what exactly we’re doing about change, and overall what we’re really fighting for. what it’s all seemed like is a bunch of people my age standing around to represent that “shit ain’t right.” got it. I think we’ve been saying and hearing that forever. but there’s one quote that I finally read that stated the one demand that started the whole procession:

“one simple demand—a presidential commission to separate money from politics—we start setting the agenda for a new America.”

fucking refreshing. it’s taken so long, so long for me to finally find that nugget of information. and the one issue I was having finding that information was that I was reading about it in the wrong places. in fact, what am I saying? I wasn’t reading about it at all. I was talking to people about it. people who related to it, who supported it. and they hadn’t even a real, solid clue as to where it started, what’s changing, what the demand is. what they were telling me was what was happening to it. it was an endless oroboros. “the police shot rubber bullets, the police broke down the tent village.” got it. but why was the village there? “well. um. the um. the police sprayed girls with pepper spray.”

this isn’t the race riots. this isn’t about the police hating these people. or being taught to hate these people. this is more reactionary. these are the same guys who we used to hate in high school, the sloping, mannish strong-arm types who if you start a group of people laughing, will demand the spotlight and do whatever it takes to steal it. stand in his way, he will forcefully move you or make you regret it. got it.

but finally reading that demand, that one demand, puts it into perspective. make it so that those who we are voting for will make decisions based on moral fiber, genuine interest or belief as opposed to who is providing the most money to their re-election. with it. got it.

there’s so much to this whole scenario that no one’s really talking about on the outside. much of it may be happening on the inside, but I’m kind of afraid that… wait. I’m not afraid. not for real. I am convinced that a lot of what’s going on on the inside is a lot of preaching to the quire. the choir, you know. it seems a lot of the talking that people who are walking that line aren’t hearing is being kept cushioned deep within the heart of the whole occupy movement.

for different reasons, I get that the movement is important. but I feel that at every chance this whole group gets to really make a giant leap in the right direction, they end up looking either worthless or terrified because they aren’t able to really demonstrate outwardly and openly because of various rules of where you can and can not protest and other things like how you can do it and what you can’t say and onward. i feel like there’s a big thing happening. a great thing where this mass of generic progressive young people are making enough of a rustling to get noticed by press and media and the thought structure, but once they get the camera turned to them, once they get the microphone time, they sort of blink their eyes and get nervous and throw together their best coy smile.

I want to believe that there will be change due to this standing about. or at least ignited by it. but there is no leader. no real spreading wave of effective stirring.

I think we all at the very least understand what’s happening. but whether or not this stand is building to revolution is another thing entirely. it’s a very positive thing that a lot of people polled or interviewed aren’t seeing the occupiers as pigeon holed fist-shakers who are making a big stink over nothing. I think they’re being taken pretty seriously. but the lack of a stance makes it hard to climb or progress. I think that’s mostly due to the lack of quantification we can see. who comes out of the Door of Imagery waving a white flag with a puppy dog face, saying, “alright you kids! we’ll do it, we’ll make this better!” ? no one. we can’t change any chair and watch things overturn, get overrun, and then all of the color returns to Pleasantville. rather, we have to use this moment of silence in the room caused by an urgent, somewhat shy, but forceful ahem as a chance to gain a representation and a voice in the room that continues to get louder and louder of big wigs hearing themselves speak.

as long as these guys are counting zeroes on their checks, they don’t care. they’re not afraid of us. they don’t even see us. we have to make a radical change. an entire structure has to collapse, and the only way to do that is to operate outside of them. the unique opportunity of cities of this size is that if enough of us are on the same side, we really can make some major dents. I am genuinely curious if all of us in the metro new york area didn’t pay our credit card bills, or closed our bank accounts in a slow and quiet gliding landing of a movement, how big of an impact we would have on those companies.

I’m spinning off a little bit. I’m not sure what my point is here.

but I guess I’m stating where I stand on it, and putting my fingers to keys on a laptop is the easiest way to do it for me. I love this moment. I love it. I just want to treat it preciously and importantly instead of like something that we will look back and remember fondly. I don’t want this moment to be remembered. I want it to be a start of a new look, with new eyes. because this is not enough. we need a leader or at the very least a representative. a voice that will be recognized. we need someone who knows our priorities, and they must be defined. we need someone who will see us, our demographic, our generation (and those that follow it) as a people. the scale needs to shift. somehow, we’re still going to these schools and building college debts that aren’t helping us get the jobs we want to build the world we love with the skills we’ve nurtured for our entire lives. we just want to trust the system. and we’ve never had a chance.

from where we’re standing, we’re going to keep following the rules that we hate because we’ll reluctantly take the cues from a hierarchy we never elected because we never had a chance to show we had the credentials to have our voice sound like an equal because we never bought the proverbial suit that looked nice enough to let us into their meeting. our ideas matter because we are our own ideal future. we’re walking in the one big kid’s hot lava, and there are a dozen of us meeting eyes and rolling them. no!

we need that one voice, that one trust, that one small victory to prove we have a say in the way that our tide sways. I believe in all of this, I do. but even my attention is faltering.

clay dries so so slowly. but yes, the clay will dry.

clarke st., sunrise.

there will be no je'taime, je'taime.
just puffs and deep woofs
and the covering of ears.
it will be wrong, so very wrong,
and while we're searching for a hero amid the strong and true
the looting will run dry.
a place which had seen so much good
now holding up the knees of those struggling
or weakened too deep to believe any longer.

wheezer.

i wouldn't consider myself an archivist, but honestly if i still lived in brooklyn and attached myself to that artist lifestyle, i more than likely would. what i can say is that i love finding people's written word. i almost obsessively collect it. even if it's just a shopping list or notes from a construction site. i collect them, and pin them up places, or stuff them into whatever notebook i happen to be filling at the time. it's almost proof or almost nothing. there's something about it that i get a warm feeling about.

this particular piece was in the next door neighbor's driveway. in the driveway itself. and i walked past it, almost intimidated by getting on that person's property, because already this is the kind of guy who we've been warned about, the kind of guy where if you're too loud in your own room at 11:36 at night, you feel like he's peering through the shades at you. the kind of guy, in fact, that knocked on our door at one thirty in the morning because someone parked in front of his house and heard that someone get into their car and "it disturbed him and his family".

but i went back and said fuck it, i'm taking it. which is no heroic gesture or maneuver, but still, while i'm walking into his driveway, the number of scenarios coming into my head are numerous and the explanations of excuses i'm building are hilarious and terrified. but i grab this and i see the first line of it and i know immediately that it's been worth it.

it's a story written by a child, and i can very memorably recall that feeling of writing stories on pieces of loose leaf, and thinking that a chapter can fill just one page, and then you put the illustration on the back of it, because obviously all books have illustration. i pinned it up under my adventure time logo because it makes perfect sense to. what follows is the transcription.


chapter 3
the transformation

Then Nachos came and then Something happened to steven. I couldn't believe it. was I transforming? Lets see my 1st transforming Power oh yeah It's called R.t.p. that stands for radioactive transforming powers Rtp for short. The power is I have blonde hair you can throw Powerballs, Lightning Strike, Lightning Balls, and Gigantic power balls. Then Someone Named Master dokoye He said the transformation has began! Rtp will live forever! Then Some bad creatures came they had Sharp teeth So I said I'll kick you butt!

construct.

these were in boxes, haphazardly scattered.
i was waiting for a bookshelf, but i stopped waiting.

posit.

wen[hhh]/.

i feel about you.

wing.

in the grand scheme of the whole nanowrimo, a major theme is to never look back and, in fact, to write headlong and to never stop. i forgot that what happened last year was not so much lack of interest, but lack of grindstone in the face of the retail holiday season's endless pummeling. i don't feel myself, really. not that it's a bad thing or that i'm slipping away or anything like that. but i think we all hit that notch in which you fall where nothing glows the way it should, and picking yourself up to do it all again, any of it, requires a crowbar and a hammer. i'm in the middle of that.

and i hear the other day, i hear someone say, "just another month," and that's until it goes back to the way it always is. which isn't something particular to look forward to.

gloat!

I had a very good dream last night. very good. it wasn’t really beneficial, so to speak? meaning it wasn’t a dream in which I was given a ton of money, or a ton of love or a ton of compliment in general. just that the world was very rich. I was at a show at first, and it was very dark, and we were in some kind of house that had a lot of little coves where you could tuck yourself in and watch where the bands would play. “this town again” was the band playing, and I was telling someone about watching them and when you watch them, you have to enjoy all of the really complex interesting stuff, but sometimes they go into these parts of their songs and they are just terrible. very bad. so you have to literally hold on and not get knocked over or knocked off of the shelf you’re on. because it’s so bad.

blur.



then I’m looking at the banister or the railing of a deck and I’m watching a cicada on it, and it’s crawling away from me, and its wings are those of a blue jay. and it was incredible. they folded flat against its back, but the color pattern was the light blue, the white, and the darker blue tones of a blue jay. and it was actually feathers. I wanted to grip it from the back of its wings and hold it and examine it. when I reached for it, it jumped away like a cricket. those big crickets, I think they call them camel crickets. it was gone, though. and they would appear again every so often.



and where I was, I was slowly building the world in my brain and the longer I stayed and understood the culture of that world, the more the world had detail. north south east and west was slowly established. things of that nature. I started to see there were different groups of people, but they were extravagant outlandish differences. like one group was full of pirates in full garb, others were ancient wizards, there were japanese school girls, and so on. but the most sought after groups, the groups that entire throngs of people would follow were the cicadas with the blue jay wings, who would eventually grow larger and larger and walk on two legs, but crouched over like the urRu from the dark crystal. they’d walk around slowly, but covered in robes almost like Gandalf type spell casters, and people would follow them and follow them. they seemed to still have that aimless insect gait. this village or world was somewhat like a tree village with lots of levels and branches and little places that were built into the tree or building to go into and live or shop.

headwind.

click the above picture to get a little glimpse at my profile for the work i'm doing for nanowrimo. it'll probably be very static save for the word count, which is something i plan to update as i take it on daily.

as i learned from reading brian martinez' piece from last year's nano (kissing you is like trying to punch a ghost) it doesn't have to be as demanding as it seems. it's about telling a story, almost like sitting down at a campfire with an idea and exciting yourself and anticipating your audience's moves a lot less than your characters'. each character has a voice and a path and you let them speak through you. almost a channeling piece.

bring me up.

so nanowrimo has begun again. i remember that i had begun during last year's in writing something i had somewhat shaped in my head and then started running at 12:01 on 11/1. it didn't come together as i'd thought as i got overwhelmed with the goal, word-wise and underwhelmed with the overall concept i had and the actual words that were coming out. (see what i'd written here)



this time around, it's all very random and a little more patchy (much like the beard i'm allowing to overtake my face) but it's more fun, and i feel more drawn to it than i have in the past. i'm not concentrating on word quantity, but more the act of getting down to write something all on one massive project. i'm generally more one to open up a piece of blank notebook paper, start with a line and run on randomly for whatever time it takes until the dagger hits the hilt. it's rare that one project makes sense to me for more than an hour. maybe this will go over well.

quandary.

i just thought this was a great film poster.
i'm sure the movie will be phenomenal as well.

crux.

i have been waiting forever to get a writing desk.
been looking for a good desk to sit down at and really get down to it.
just moved into a new house, and one was abandoned here.
the room i moved into had the perfect wall for it.
utility.

kierkegaard.

Leveling at its maximum
is like the stillness of death,
where one can hear one's own heartbeat,
a stillness like death,
into which nothing can penetrate,
in which everything sinks, powerless.

redgold.

i wish i could get as stoked for things as i used to.

like 2004 stoked.
or maybe 2006 stoked.
very different times.
such very different eyes.
i had a good feeling about a lot of it.
and a lot of it was just as vague.
"a lot of it" as a definite indefinite.

i've hit a point where nothing matters.
not in an empty way, i'd hope.

i think i've always had this vision of having an unbelievable crew of individuals who are this massive inspiration to each other. who write and create on a daily basis and who throw each others' work around back and forth at each other because while they can't wait to have their next piece done, they really, almost moreso, can't wait to read what's next from the guy down the hall. throwing opinions on each others' work back and forth and constantly building. like a massive lennon and mccartney thing, happening always. always.

if i had that, i wouldn't care what kind of money i'd be making or even who loved me.
but fuck it,
these are seeds to the wind,
and off to the rocks or the sea.


you left with him
and even when you didn't,
you said it's definitely someone else.

weak in the life.

yo.
i'll be
right back.

, but soundly.

so, this is done.
it took me a trip to office max and a few cutting jobs
to get furious about The Beach Boys' becoming Beach Boy's.
was trying too hard to keep everything contained on that size.

spherical evaporate, the.

i've lost something.
two things, really. one which wasn't as significant.

they were placed together in my old apartment while packing, and i put them together in a place i knew i'd be able to access easily once i got back to the house here. and now i can't recall where that place is. it's a whole book of poetry i'd been working on, a specific project. tons of notes. it was one of those composition notebooks as well. i've lost moleskines before. those seemed random, though. i've lost two or three. and while the realization that it is no longer going to be found is a massive heart breaker, it ends up being kind of okay. i feel like it's sort of a gift to someone. the 1/10 chance that someone might find it and appreciate it (vs the 8/10 chance someone will simply toss it, or the 1/10 chance someone will find it pathetic) is good enough for me. but this is a pretty big deal. i'm feeling a great weight of it. i don't feel i've ever had a major tie to anything that i could really lose. i tend to feel most things are replaceable.

there was a letter in that book as well.
and drawings.

-

new mix cd is done.
mix xix: ", but soundly."
track list up in a week or so.

species pieces.

could be the best night of my life.
just broke a horse's neck.
could be the worst night of my life.
that's a dead fucking horse.

RIP MMVI-MMXI (2006-2011)

district of columbia.

had i been guilty of those fabrications,
i'd have left me too, by god and Gods.
many fictions have been donned by myself,
and none so much as the character who could show you
such adoration.

painter, o', i looked at you as sun on breathless acres,
though in passing seasons as light fractured in panes of plated glass.
and the silhouette meant you still showed up.

i heard the rain, you know it.

the bathtub filled with bottles
where there once were hands instead,
which cupped the stories.
they bang together ungraciously,
no concept of what will sound a proper cadence,
all hollow space filled with merciless spinning
where there once were maps of every coast and in between.
i never heard you sigh again, i only heard you breathe.

the bottles floating endlessly, you tied them sweetly,

addressed to home.

had i been your greatest fear,
at least i would remain inside your backwards glance.
but i know you're sleeping soundly now,
no light to pale your face.



i have only loved survivors.

you said.

i believed you, and you weren't even the only one.
you talked about how i filled a vacancy and with hope.
i could wake up flattened and dried all wrong, and still
you never admitted that you were just a figment.
you never spooled up on the projection room floor.
you never hissed at the end of your final song,
intermittently puffing with no sound to release
despite the perpetual spinning.
i believed you, with your hand on my heart
and talking about being lost in nameless cities,
talking about being old and storied.
your hands on my face, watching your tear pass down your cheek
titled: "this would be years and decades"; still framed.

i'm fairly sure it happened, and it's simple to never be fragile again.

locustoms.

you can be no one and still escape nothing.
in barred windows, their faces are catalogued in longing portraits.
no wilderness here in hindsight, boy.
there's no one willing to petrify your presence.
you're out, in league with the antiquities, and ain't that a thing or two?


we waited you out, The Flood and I, in winter's berth.
it's easier to pique with no one watching, and the eager half as willing.

i could never work this genius shit out,
for it was always lack of courage.

well, you could breathe.

fully uninspired.
brutal.
smoking with the windows up.

i've had these visions the past few days of being stabbed repeatedly. in the head, through the skull. no one having the humane rationale to stop it, so they all scatter or stare like no life is at stake, just a playground scrap. i imagine my blood on my driver's license. i think about building a graveyard stare to keep the wolves at bay. i think of men of no consequence. i think of their bearing down on me. nothing lost in their attack, though nothing gained. a violence to contribute to their sin, a pelt for their collection. my life dominated by fear for a solid three months. shame and nothing else. this is the dynamic.

feels like i left a record playing in the next room.

remendeleev.

d
on't change now into
somethi
ng you can't handle,
because when it's
done i
t's done,
and whe
n
it's through it's through.

esmé.

i feel awash.
awash.
words on a page
sworn by ink in western pictograph.

make no promises

their own self resonance
and she won't answer.
it's not as if i turn her away.
fruitwine;
alone for volumes and more.
the passing and passing of an evolution of imperfect wrecks.

we pace in a dream state,
halls, halls,
and then company.
dreams of sex with her in hell
aside broken wine glasses on sidewalks.
eyes passing by the windows.

we are false, for real.

wanna share an epoch?
or communion?
real spirit, but o' nothing promised or true.
the dead in your dreams are your questioned breaths,
a want to be good, alone and unique.
strong because you are art without premiere.

hands, idol.

i have spent a lot of time in 2011 playing video games. i wouldn't say it's one of my passions, but it's definitely a story telling medium that i've come to appreciate since i was younger, and beyond that, they can be entertaining on SO many levels beyond telling a story. in fact, sometimes it's a relief to be blasting dudes with guns bigger than my torso because of some vague shadow group they belonged to or were hired on by. and they were in my way.

i spent forty something hours on mass effect 2. as commander shephard, i was trying to save the human universe from collectors who were stealing human beings and using their bodies as husks and as a model on which to build a gigantic reaper, which would then be consumed with destroying all organic life within the galaxy. ya know. that's what i did. i think what got me so deeply involved in this game was the fact that a massive portion of the game is spent building your team. which was a throwback to possibly my favorite game of all time, final fantasy vi. building this pretty major relationship with the various men and women you pick up and aid ends up coming to a massive head in the final drive towards the final goal, when you have to select different individuals to lead parties, perform specific tasks, and fight alongside you based on their previous and current training. you're also given the option to go on character-specific loyalty missions which are requested specifically by the individual characters which can bring them closer to you by showing you're willing to go to another level for your crew. dope game. third one is coming out next year, probably around march. whole thing looks a little different. i've heard there is going to be a smaller crew overall, so that you can build richer relationships with those with you. i was a little bummed to hear that the other characters who i'd just fought side by side with wouldn't be playable in the new one, but bioware announced that they'd be back in some level. stoked. gameplay in the game actually wasn't all that great, to be honest. it was standard cover based shooting, accented with different powers like fireballs, shockwaves, gravity altering singularities, etc. but what kept this game a staple in my daily life was the size and depth of that universe, and the ever building and changing relationship with everyone i'd met and brought along in the game. phenomenal.

one thing i really admire about bioware is the fact that they are almost tolkienian in their chronicling of their worlds. even within the dragon age series, i felt i was reading pieces of information on races, areas and individuals that i'd never meet or be affected by. wars happened in which the result barely affected the present any longer. but they wrote about them. created heroes. killed heroes and kingdoms. and in mass effect, they've done the same. entire races are described in pain staking detail. information about the gravity of the planets are provided, the evolution of those races to their current appearance and economy, interactions with other races. and even in little ways, it will always be accurately portrayed in the dialog between two characters. when a character doesn't react or interact in a way you'd expect with another character of another race, you're not put off or calling it out. you can see within the choice of words that this whole process is one of distinction. the way the conversation plays out is completely believable.

the only reason i didn't dive directly into a second play through of mass effect, was because as i was finding myself concluding that story, another one was coming out. and this next undertaking was l.a. noire. it's a 40s detective story told in the motif of a lot of the books and films of the time. i don't have to illustrate it to you. the major part about this game was its innovation. and it all began at the visual level. they did this entirely using motion scan technology, which is used to capture the real actors facial expressions from a multitude of angles to really flesh out and embody the entire visage of the character. i can tell you with no exaggeration (possibly from the hype that i'd been building for it on my own) that when i saw in-game footage of it more than half a year before its release (and the first that many had ever been exposed to) i got a little choked up. legitimate body tension. i was floored. but still, i was unsure how they were going to actually pull the game off. sure it was pretty, but what am i going to be doing? how is this going to happen?

and that's actually what stole the show once the game was in my hands. an hour or two in, you quickly forget about the visual innovations and all the ground they're breaking there, because the gameplay is unlike anything i've done in a game before. your cases involve you finding clues within a crime scene, followed by interrogations of witnesses or people of interest. occasionally, there will be a more traditional chase sequence or some kind of action event that will finish up the case. this is fine. it brings you back to a place you're comfortable, you feel in control once more, and also, what's more, it makes sense when they throw it in there. it feels like an honest, pivotal moment.

you're a veteran who's become one of the last good police officers in the city. you're also a human being. the cases you see affect you, bring you different places in your life. but more importantly, you're doing your job with integrity, the right way, and diligently, regardless of the trouble you're given while it's going down. good, solid story.

the thing that i genuinely loved this game for was the way that it made people talk and think about the medium. i talk to people all day about these games. all day. and in a landscape that is completely dominated by first person shooters (namely the call of duty series), this one stepped up to the forefront and fearlessly threw most of the guns to the side. even many games within this sandbox genre are more open ended random encounter based shooters. but not l.a. noire. you thought about these cases while you were playing them. you were retaining detailed information not only to get a better idea of the story line, but also to succeed within the narrative. the best story was told when you were properly interrogating your witnesses, using every clue at your disposal, and recognizing the ticks that your questions had spawned, and knowing when and where to pull your ace in the hole.

a lot of times, i felt beaten down by this game, even though i was still getting to the root of a lot of the crimes at hand. and so were many others. many people genuinely wanted to get better at examining the crime scenes for every clue, to get as much information from each spoken eye witness account. you could hear people wanting to get better at what had become their virtual job because it was almost making them feel a dedication and an obligation to the city and its inhabitants. the pulse of this game was rich. something has to be said for the writers of this game, and how they had to think and speak directly to los angeles, and to the set piece that had been laid out for them, and not worry about what video gamers were going to think. this wasn't a game written or produced for gamers. it's for people who want a virtual experience, and all that comes from it. this was an entirely new type of storytelling.

i then played infamous 2 which is a much more traditional entry into the sandbox genre. it's a sequel, which lends itself to following a ton of already laid down mechanics, and even plot points and story arcs. this was not much different than any other sequel that the genre tends to offer up. though there's something about this type of gameplay that i cannot deny. the endless collecting, the massive scale, and the continuous character skill development makes me want to perpetually check in to the game, although i'm essentially repeating many of the same actions.

had i simply carried through with the core storyline, i could have had it buried in about 7 hours. you learn more mysteries about your powers (lightning and electricity based control, as set up in the first game of the series; a fantastic superhero origin story) and how to continuously upgrade them to charge a device which is meant to be able to strip powers from a massive "conduit", which is what they call human beings who are capable of wielding such powers, in the event that their inherent powers are eventually awakened. this one antagonistic conduit is titled "the beast" (lame) and is about the size of several buildings and is laying waste to the entire east coast. all the while, a preacher turned warlord is commanding gangs of mercenaries to stop you and is enslaving the faux new orlean's populace as well. you eventually get enough power to stop these villains, but consequences abound. depending on whether you've followed the good or evil storyline, the outcomes are vastly different, and have ripple effects, worldwide.

being the type of player, though, that isn't content to just follow the 20% of the video game that the story encompassed, i needed to recapture every piece of the city, i needed to gain the respect of the people (i played through the good storyline), and i needed to comb every corner of every street to make sure that i had obtained every piece of the underground, parallel story line that you can uncover by pieces together recorded messages between the support characters. i could find things to do forever in that game. something about that core gameplay style screams out to me, and i can't put it down. i'd say this game wasn't as good as its original, but its plot points were a little larger, and had a much bigger impact.

something that stood out to me in a big way was the fact that so many who had played and enjoyed the first one and didn't like the second would cite the character's new voice as a major reason they couldn't relate to the game. it's interesting that they had meshed, and gotten invested in cole (ironically named the same first name as the protagonist in noire) on such a level that something as minor as a voice could turn someone away from a game overall. this is a place that i'm sure many felt video games could never reach. a common case of "the other darrin."

and this is what i'm playing now. fear 3. i don't think i like it. i'll probably finish it, just to know what's going on with the storyline in the series. i'll try to break it down, but i'm not even sure i'm following it very closely. you play nameless "point man" who was sent in months ago to take down paxton fettel (who ends up being your brother) who had set up a psychic link with a hired mercenary squad. also helping fettel is a paranormal entity, little girl alma. in the second game, you control another guy, who alma is strangely drawn to, and she ends up somehow psychically getting impregnated by him. and now in the third game, you return to where these actions occur, and are trying to subdue alma from having this child. she's having massive contractions which are crushing the city. and if she has this child, it will be the embodiment of massive evil and suffering, and mankind will be ravaged by the child.

alright?

this is the perfect example of a game that didn't need to be made. i genuinely loved fear 2. from a gameplay standpoint, it was a very tight first person shooter with a nice bullet time mechanic, had great set pieces and well-balanced weapons and enemies. aside from being a shooter, it also was going for a survival-horror type thing which was pulled off perfectly. i can remember many conversations with friends about the school, wherein while they were playing that particular level, they genuinely wanted to go no further, knowing things were going to be messing with their mind. the game borrows a lot of themes from japanese horror, from the timing, to the off-angle shots of what is coming for you. also, misdirects and false reliefs were a major part of what made the game so stressful. a great, true fear experience, if you allow yourself to get immersed.

and what it comes down to is ideas, and the desire to pull them off. playing this game feels like you're hearing a story told by someone who read that it might have been told to someone who thought it was an okay story from someone who somewhat liked it.

there's guns and a ghost? here's alma? oh, and sometimes, you go slow.

this game had one solid moment, and it came in one turn of a corner about 3 hours into the game. the idea was then reused throughout the next few levels. they introduce enemies who act more as obstacles than functional inhabitants of the game world. if your ideas aren't strong enough to fill a concept from birth until conclusion, keep building ideas. what this game could have been is the remainder of the final pieces of an idea that barely came together in the end, or a full 10 hour experience built around a few neat ideas a writer had floating around. but what's more than likely the truth is they wanted to cash in on a franchise that has a fairly loyal fanbase that still had an open ended story with a few more chapters to be adlibbed. strong ideas only look strong when they're complete. beyond that, i've always felt that they get dragged down by the mediocre ideas you've used to vehicle them outward.

akimbo.

not sure what to do with myself,
so i'm standing on top of my doubts.

in swaths.

i'm generally not INTO art pieces or visual artists in general, and the only reason that is true is because i, myself, haven't come across very many that i can get into by name. the medium is so silent, very reflective. it often doesn't elicit very much from me, other than inspiration for greater, farther reaching ideas. also, having never studied art, or had any friends who have, i'm again a bit of a guerilla style fan, picking up what i can from environment and in passing. oftentimes, this has served me better than word of mouth. my path sort of devises itself.

the above artist is gustav klimt and much of what i'm seeing from him is very densely populated by color and thought. seems very huddled together. i enjoy it, to a degree. sort of slowly looking for more.

i love that the above painting is entitled mermaids.
there's something very wrong about them.

cuniculus.

i am not a photographer.
but i do photograph.

went to brooklyn this past week to take some photos and walk the streets that i miss. got inspired, saw some friends, started missing the place in a major way. would love to make the place my home again, get a job out there, and really get established. even if not immediately, i have to start making a push to have myself happen out there more often.

claustrophobia has become the mode.

again, some pictures from the visit, the rest (and the full sizes) to be found on the flickr.

visit.

justine and dan came back to new york to visit for justine's birthday. dan lived here for his whole life. and justine did want to see the beach (which wasn't in the meterological cards). but i like to tell myself that some percentage of why they came here was to see me. so i will have to repay them with a trip to west virginia, somewhere in my temporary relocation exploits.

i wrote her a birthday letter that was written expressly, very deliberately.
the words came quickly.
having her in my life is a pretty big deal.
there are some people that i want to sync myself with,
have our sensory traffic interweave.
she is one of them.

here are some pictures i took that i enjoyed while she was here. the rest are on my flickr.






and here is a picture of capone,
exhausted from the weight of reason:

sull.

the canon powershot elph 300 hs.

as if that means any damn thing.
i bought that camera today.
i'm stoked. it's super small.
i have a good amount of friends who do a good amount of things.
i've never had a digital camera.
glad to add it to my crew.

about a year or two ago, i was thinking about buying a digital SLR camera on the recommendation of a friend who is really into technology, and also a friend who graduated with a degree in photography. the more i looked into it, the less i felt i was going to use it for its true purpose. so i got a small little camera that i thought was cute, and knew i would use.

i started feeling bad, and almost fearing the fallout from my tech friend.
i still kind of do.
i'm worried that when he reads this, he will know at least three glaring reviews off the top of his head that he will CITE FROM MEMORY once he sees it.

i'm still stoked to take pitchers though.

straight lined jacket.

this is a project being undertaken by the frontman from a recently dismantled band called the depreciation guild who were also incredible. very direct premise for the songs, not going outside of what the theme is. 1980s inspired synthpop. had a track on a mix cd a few months ago (dream about me) which had me captured for a few weeks, along with the rest of the record, spirit youth.

these five tracks are all listed as demos, and i have yet to find an opportunity to officially digitally download them or to purchase a physical copy of it. tried to get in touch with him today, haven't heard back from him. until then, i figured i'd share it here. get the exposure up a bit. see what some of you guys think.

have four creative writing pieces in the process of coming together.
two of them are not poems.

savlo.

pricing tickets for chicago to get to the braid show got me amped. it will be followed shortly by a week in vegas. oregon in july and a day or two in florida if i can swindle it.

don't give me up.

stabadabadingdong.

some phenomenal works of art here.
some of it kind of runs together, but the style is marvelous.



arthur, michel