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."