January - MF Doom - Lightworks
February - Beck - Soldier Jane
March - Starkey - New Cities (feat. Hitomi)
April - Big Sean - Paradise (extended)
May - AWOL Nation - Hollowmoon (Bad Wolf)
June - Odesza - Memories That You Call (feat. Monsoonsiren)
July - Dan Deacon - Wham City
August - Dem Gettaway Boyz - Imma G (Memory Tapes remix)
September - Hot Chip - No Fit State
October - Gorillaz - Dracula
November - Drax & Scott - Sublime (Darkstar Mix)
December - JJ Doom - Guv'nor
The honorable mentions in very particular order. The higher up, the closer to the final cut.
Dirty Projectors & Bjork - When the World Comes to an End
Kodak to Graph - Pleistocene
Deltron 3030 - Stardate (feat. Joseph Gordon Levitt)
Kendrick Lamar - Backseat Freestyle
The Knife - Rock Classics
This was the year of the wolf divining new methods of self governance. Rewriting it's own rules and amending it's doctrine. Enjoy. Honorable mentions tell no tales and get no links. If you want to talk to them, you can find them in the clink. A little place where we keep half ideas. Things we fear. Say it three times and they'll appear. The body you thought stayed buried is floating by the pier. Next time, put more concrete in the socks. Everyone stopping by is not a bot.
It was, though, one of the roughest and strangest and smoothest to date. With the year end look and this, the bookend to 2015, the only thing to do is look ahead to two thousand oh one and six.
///the year is written. let it go. thank you for loving me. thank you for being there. one of these days we may be eating at the big table. in the meantime, you know you have a place at mine where the reeds are just high enough and the shade just thick enough for no one to notice we're there by their fire too.
Clean with alcohol only. Do not attempt to replace blown fuses. Do not remove access panels. Return to certified mechanic for regular maintenance. Made in the USA.
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
1/23/16
7/29/15
Summer Days Are Beautiful
Summer days are beautiful. Walk around in the grass that probably should have been cut yesterday and feel how fluffy and wet it is before the sun dries it out. Take time away from watering the garden to blow a bubble of mist around you and spin yourself around to see the rainbow halo around your waist. The birds are off on their errands. By now you do not hear their 5:30 A.M. alarm, but you will miss it a lot when it is gone and cold water chills instead of refreshes.
Sit in the wet grass and feel it soak through your shorts and underwear to the hairs and through to your skin. Wiggle down a little and lean back on your elbows and wait for the sun and the breeze to start drying your hair for you. Blowing kisses on the backs of your ears and neck and every few minutes a touch of lips to cheek and eyebrow, no more. A slip of hands around your wet hips and up your back until you cannot help a giggle, no more.
I am just like you, though we are different. Thinking about what my insides look like after patching things, jumping circuits, replacing parts, swapping connections, and fabricating new ones over and over again to keep on going, to function in place of everything that was torn out or never mounted or heavily damaged from the beginning. Thinking about the engineering and trial and error and discovery it took to get there, sitting in a backyard, watering a garden, and laughing at the sun, cooing in the palm of earth's hand, content.
Though we are different. The obstacles are unbelievable sometimes. Taking responsibility sometimes crosses into blaming myself for everything and hating myself and my make up more and more and more until all I can feel or think about is killing myself and it feels so good, so great, to remember the afternoon, even as obstacles to continued or increased or even maintained success close the horizon in every direction like the lips around an enormous crater.
It makes me smile wry: 30 years old, crippling social anxieties, manic depression, paranoid schizophrenia, anger management "problems," bringing in a whopping $12,000 a year, and ... what? I don't know. I don't know what is next. I've been lied to again and lost all confidence in what I thought I would do until I retired or never retired. That sweet sweet 12k paycheck. It is a joke. At 30? Is that really the best I am going to be able to do?
After I discovered that I had no job security whatsoever and a friend explained to me how my job has allowed me to stay in place and build a foundation for my life, but that the very nature of my job would not allow me to grow much further than that, she asked me about what I wanted to do.
I always want to write, but that's not a career for me for the foreseeable future. That's for fun. My passion and deep rooted connection to writing has its origins in my inabilities to communicate and express myself and my ideas through normal everyday means a lot, I would say most, people enjoy. It is a love and desire best described as an unexpected, exceptionally useful, child of the continuous process of patching and repairing and placing new equipment where normal/standard/necessary/"born with" equipment was never mounted to begin with or ripped away or smashed in. I don't love and pursue writing as a career, I have come to realize. I love and pursue writing because it is the best developed, low loss, way I know how to communicate like a normal person. When it works the way I need it to, it allows me to bridge myself to friends and people and know that I am not howling at my otherwise mashed, screwed, and missing communications centers and abilities with nothing coming across the interface at all in line with what is being spoken from inside.
The question was strange to me and it shouldn't have been. I had to think very hard. Being used to doing whatever I had to and was allowed to do for so many years after college flamed out against my will and things fell swiftly to pieces, taking whatever work would have me and clinging to what work would have me that I could also do and do well, the thought of what I wanted to do was foreign.
After an evening, I thought "master electrician" or "master plumber," since an MLS is completely unrealistic for the next decade or two at the least and I have loved the under the table work I've been able to do to help ends meet working on peoples homes for years. I thought "how great would it be to actually be paid the way you should for what you have in the skill files inside your head." After another day thinking about it, I knew it wasn't what I really wanted to do. It is something that I am good at that I like doing that fits well around my psyche, but not at all what I really want to do. Auto-mechanic.
The realization dawned on me. All of the schematics books I used to take from the library diagramming aircraft and race cars and automobiles. The perfect mix of tinkering and testing and results and giving life to machines and mechanisms. The smiles on folks faces. The tools and machines that allow the systems to be manipulated and molded to various functions. The solitude. All there. After so many years of being forced or trying to force so many paths in an effort to put food in my mouth and stay connected to life and society and have enough to sit in a backyard and smile at a garden, I forgot that I've wanted to be a mechanic for decades. I've only been alive for three, but I'm pretty sure I knew after decade one.
Thirty years old and getting no younger. A foundation finally established in this life, though shaky at times, an undeniable starting point. I am starting to see it as leaving a dying world. You have finally broken gravity's hold, do not concern yourself with trying to undo everything and erase everyone on the world's surface that brought it to its demise. Worry about what comes next in the stars. I have to try to find some security while there is a foundation. With no real job security, what was built could go away at a moments notice, a flash, a bang, some confetti, and a "thanks for playing, best of luck." So what? One more step through the yards to the next fence further away from the cell than you have ever been. Slip your fingers through the diamond wire links. Squeeze them until your fingers hurt and sniff the air on the other side.
It tastes different doesn't it. Oh it does! When the answer to the question "what do you want to do" is longer than "live another month." I cannot be happy living in the shadow of annihilation. I do not know if I will ever escape its reach entirely the way my insides are wired, dealing with, fighting, embracing, irreparable mental dysfunction. Will I ever make living money? Money that allows me to keep growing instead of treading water? Hold a standard 40 hour a week job without exploding into fragments or medicating? I have to find out.
Summer days are so beautiful. Even with warships of uncertainty hovering in orbit and peace negotiations fraying, feeling the tiny cool pricks of water landing on every inch of exposed skin feels absolutely wonderful. Chew a dandelion stem. As far back as can be remembered, love for the outdoors. The mysteriousness of the shadows infecting the gaps in the greens of the tree canopy smothering a hill across the river. Walk fingertips through blades of grass and poke a beetle's glimmering carapace. It is pretending to sleep. T-shirts almost dry. The garden dirt probably is too. One more go 'round. It is going to be a hot one today.
///The Future Sound of London - "Among Myselves"
Sit in the wet grass and feel it soak through your shorts and underwear to the hairs and through to your skin. Wiggle down a little and lean back on your elbows and wait for the sun and the breeze to start drying your hair for you. Blowing kisses on the backs of your ears and neck and every few minutes a touch of lips to cheek and eyebrow, no more. A slip of hands around your wet hips and up your back until you cannot help a giggle, no more.
I am just like you, though we are different. Thinking about what my insides look like after patching things, jumping circuits, replacing parts, swapping connections, and fabricating new ones over and over again to keep on going, to function in place of everything that was torn out or never mounted or heavily damaged from the beginning. Thinking about the engineering and trial and error and discovery it took to get there, sitting in a backyard, watering a garden, and laughing at the sun, cooing in the palm of earth's hand, content.
Though we are different. The obstacles are unbelievable sometimes. Taking responsibility sometimes crosses into blaming myself for everything and hating myself and my make up more and more and more until all I can feel or think about is killing myself and it feels so good, so great, to remember the afternoon, even as obstacles to continued or increased or even maintained success close the horizon in every direction like the lips around an enormous crater.
It makes me smile wry: 30 years old, crippling social anxieties, manic depression, paranoid schizophrenia, anger management "problems," bringing in a whopping $12,000 a year, and ... what? I don't know. I don't know what is next. I've been lied to again and lost all confidence in what I thought I would do until I retired or never retired. That sweet sweet 12k paycheck. It is a joke. At 30? Is that really the best I am going to be able to do?
After I discovered that I had no job security whatsoever and a friend explained to me how my job has allowed me to stay in place and build a foundation for my life, but that the very nature of my job would not allow me to grow much further than that, she asked me about what I wanted to do.
I always want to write, but that's not a career for me for the foreseeable future. That's for fun. My passion and deep rooted connection to writing has its origins in my inabilities to communicate and express myself and my ideas through normal everyday means a lot, I would say most, people enjoy. It is a love and desire best described as an unexpected, exceptionally useful, child of the continuous process of patching and repairing and placing new equipment where normal/standard/necessary/"born with" equipment was never mounted to begin with or ripped away or smashed in. I don't love and pursue writing as a career, I have come to realize. I love and pursue writing because it is the best developed, low loss, way I know how to communicate like a normal person. When it works the way I need it to, it allows me to bridge myself to friends and people and know that I am not howling at my otherwise mashed, screwed, and missing communications centers and abilities with nothing coming across the interface at all in line with what is being spoken from inside.
The question was strange to me and it shouldn't have been. I had to think very hard. Being used to doing whatever I had to and was allowed to do for so many years after college flamed out against my will and things fell swiftly to pieces, taking whatever work would have me and clinging to what work would have me that I could also do and do well, the thought of what I wanted to do was foreign.
After an evening, I thought "master electrician" or "master plumber," since an MLS is completely unrealistic for the next decade or two at the least and I have loved the under the table work I've been able to do to help ends meet working on peoples homes for years. I thought "how great would it be to actually be paid the way you should for what you have in the skill files inside your head." After another day thinking about it, I knew it wasn't what I really wanted to do. It is something that I am good at that I like doing that fits well around my psyche, but not at all what I really want to do. Auto-mechanic.
The realization dawned on me. All of the schematics books I used to take from the library diagramming aircraft and race cars and automobiles. The perfect mix of tinkering and testing and results and giving life to machines and mechanisms. The smiles on folks faces. The tools and machines that allow the systems to be manipulated and molded to various functions. The solitude. All there. After so many years of being forced or trying to force so many paths in an effort to put food in my mouth and stay connected to life and society and have enough to sit in a backyard and smile at a garden, I forgot that I've wanted to be a mechanic for decades. I've only been alive for three, but I'm pretty sure I knew after decade one.
Thirty years old and getting no younger. A foundation finally established in this life, though shaky at times, an undeniable starting point. I am starting to see it as leaving a dying world. You have finally broken gravity's hold, do not concern yourself with trying to undo everything and erase everyone on the world's surface that brought it to its demise. Worry about what comes next in the stars. I have to try to find some security while there is a foundation. With no real job security, what was built could go away at a moments notice, a flash, a bang, some confetti, and a "thanks for playing, best of luck." So what? One more step through the yards to the next fence further away from the cell than you have ever been. Slip your fingers through the diamond wire links. Squeeze them until your fingers hurt and sniff the air on the other side.
It tastes different doesn't it. Oh it does! When the answer to the question "what do you want to do" is longer than "live another month." I cannot be happy living in the shadow of annihilation. I do not know if I will ever escape its reach entirely the way my insides are wired, dealing with, fighting, embracing, irreparable mental dysfunction. Will I ever make living money? Money that allows me to keep growing instead of treading water? Hold a standard 40 hour a week job without exploding into fragments or medicating? I have to find out.
Summer days are so beautiful. Even with warships of uncertainty hovering in orbit and peace negotiations fraying, feeling the tiny cool pricks of water landing on every inch of exposed skin feels absolutely wonderful. Chew a dandelion stem. As far back as can be remembered, love for the outdoors. The mysteriousness of the shadows infecting the gaps in the greens of the tree canopy smothering a hill across the river. Walk fingertips through blades of grass and poke a beetle's glimmering carapace. It is pretending to sleep. T-shirts almost dry. The garden dirt probably is too. One more go 'round. It is going to be a hot one today.
///The Future Sound of London - "Among Myselves"
3/14/15
Bah
Engage the suppo meta super chim gank ja ja ja hahaha ckck la la la jhjh gohgoh fukjj aooao uiw way of looking at things. Or make a hard break, no?
It's been a very long time, we know. All of us know. It's been a long time for a reason and we support that reason whatever that reason may be and however that reason came to be. We support it. It has taken a lot of force to bring everyone to the table. Hell, it's taken a lot of brute force simply to bring us all to the table, let alone a table.
Some of us want to wave around our individuals flags. I am fighting, as the selected individual to represent our collective passport, to wave a single one, but everyone wants to be heard so, I guess I will step away for the song, it's a rarity, but feels appropriate:
well that did not take long to fail. As soon as the spotlight descended they scattered like cockroaches. Big surprise. Machinations of my brain. Faults and artifacts you say. I say. Could it be that the prices I would have to pay should they be named may be so high that I cannot let their names loose anymore or must erase the names as soon as I have let them loose should they be known and summoned on an account other than my own I and I alone should feel the repercussions or should I say that even having mentioned them I should now fall under their disgrace and suffer the consequences in utter paranoia and I should I now tell you that having disclosed that much information the knowledge alone will tell the body and mind collective to brace for impact that other worldly souls should be (this is all in a Britton accent) coming down upon my head?
No. Some of that's true. Most of it's not. I know a lot of what happens inside my head is my own fault. I know a lot of it is not and if I could pluck your eye balls out of your head and implant them into mine you'd want to kill yourself to. Every day. Maybe not every hour. Sometimes some hours people you surround yourself with help you to forget what is all around.
You can all laugh and drink and I drink to forget but not to forget my circumstances or anything like that. I get it. I didn't do good in school and I missed out on trade school by going to learning school and I couldve jumped out of it if I'd known or had the balls to do it instead of taking everything I was force fed, because being a mechanic is tip top, but I didn't so... whatever.
Look up in the sky, it's a bird, it's a plane, it's whatever man! Rimshot.
I drink to forget my father and the senseless beatings and I drink to forget the fact that I can't see straight into a vagina and I drink that I cant see straight at children because they give me the heebee jeebees every time I'm alone with them and I can't stop imagining what a giant penis feels like in a tiny weewee or if a tiny wenis gets hard or if they know or if I knew back then if someone was cleaning me or just being fucking weird or if there's someone who should be on my end of days "I'm going to scoop your motherfucking eyeball out with a margerine plastic knife" or not or if patting one of them bastards on the back is too much contact or too little or if I should shuffle on down to Maryland and kill my father and just have it out, take my time, and have a happy weird time with a kid of my own eventually and explain to him or her that you'll never meet your father because he's dead because I killed him.
Look up in the sky, it's a bird, it's a plane, it's whatever man! Rimshot.
A friend of mine keeps saying "bah" and I think he's doing it in part because I told him saying "it is what it is" is the Pittsburgher, PAer, way of saying "I dunno" northeaster-ish. Northeaster shit. You could just say ellipsis but that's too many penstrokes, yeah? Yeah is an ellipsis too. Dot dot doooooooooooooooooooooooooooot. To other thoughts along the same train, not quite a hard break, however hard enough to change the frames position along the wall to be noticeable. Hard enough to be, should someone visit, a highlight in the tour to the tune of "you've changed."
So we're here and we've arrived and I will borrow in the meantime a "bah."
I cannot tell you how much I've loved you but I can tell you how much I've missed you.
It's good to work. It's good to work at what you love. It's better when the work brings me closer to you.
Breaking trail. Breaking silence. Breaking my heart for you. I miss you every day. You have no idea how much I wish multitasking was an actual thing.
Keep streamlined. Stay feathered. The wind is screaming aginst your nose and mine too. Feather through the days and weeks.
///Unkle & Sparklehorse - (Maria Gur Cover [Insane Lullaby]) ....upon a podium.... you're charming and you're brave
It's been a very long time, we know. All of us know. It's been a long time for a reason and we support that reason whatever that reason may be and however that reason came to be. We support it. It has taken a lot of force to bring everyone to the table. Hell, it's taken a lot of brute force simply to bring us all to the table, let alone a table.
Some of us want to wave around our individuals flags. I am fighting, as the selected individual to represent our collective passport, to wave a single one, but everyone wants to be heard so, I guess I will step away for the song, it's a rarity, but feels appropriate:
well that did not take long to fail. As soon as the spotlight descended they scattered like cockroaches. Big surprise. Machinations of my brain. Faults and artifacts you say. I say. Could it be that the prices I would have to pay should they be named may be so high that I cannot let their names loose anymore or must erase the names as soon as I have let them loose should they be known and summoned on an account other than my own I and I alone should feel the repercussions or should I say that even having mentioned them I should now fall under their disgrace and suffer the consequences in utter paranoia and I should I now tell you that having disclosed that much information the knowledge alone will tell the body and mind collective to brace for impact that other worldly souls should be (this is all in a Britton accent) coming down upon my head?
No. Some of that's true. Most of it's not. I know a lot of what happens inside my head is my own fault. I know a lot of it is not and if I could pluck your eye balls out of your head and implant them into mine you'd want to kill yourself to. Every day. Maybe not every hour. Sometimes some hours people you surround yourself with help you to forget what is all around.
You can all laugh and drink and I drink to forget but not to forget my circumstances or anything like that. I get it. I didn't do good in school and I missed out on trade school by going to learning school and I couldve jumped out of it if I'd known or had the balls to do it instead of taking everything I was force fed, because being a mechanic is tip top, but I didn't so... whatever.
Look up in the sky, it's a bird, it's a plane, it's whatever man! Rimshot.
I drink to forget my father and the senseless beatings and I drink to forget the fact that I can't see straight into a vagina and I drink that I cant see straight at children because they give me the heebee jeebees every time I'm alone with them and I can't stop imagining what a giant penis feels like in a tiny weewee or if a tiny wenis gets hard or if they know or if I knew back then if someone was cleaning me or just being fucking weird or if there's someone who should be on my end of days "I'm going to scoop your motherfucking eyeball out with a margerine plastic knife" or not or if patting one of them bastards on the back is too much contact or too little or if I should shuffle on down to Maryland and kill my father and just have it out, take my time, and have a happy weird time with a kid of my own eventually and explain to him or her that you'll never meet your father because he's dead because I killed him.
Look up in the sky, it's a bird, it's a plane, it's whatever man! Rimshot.
A friend of mine keeps saying "bah" and I think he's doing it in part because I told him saying "it is what it is" is the Pittsburgher, PAer, way of saying "I dunno" northeaster-ish. Northeaster shit. You could just say ellipsis but that's too many penstrokes, yeah? Yeah is an ellipsis too. Dot dot doooooooooooooooooooooooooooot. To other thoughts along the same train, not quite a hard break, however hard enough to change the frames position along the wall to be noticeable. Hard enough to be, should someone visit, a highlight in the tour to the tune of "you've changed."
So we're here and we've arrived and I will borrow in the meantime a "bah."
I cannot tell you how much I've loved you but I can tell you how much I've missed you.
It's good to work. It's good to work at what you love. It's better when the work brings me closer to you.
Breaking trail. Breaking silence. Breaking my heart for you. I miss you every day. You have no idea how much I wish multitasking was an actual thing.
Keep streamlined. Stay feathered. The wind is screaming aginst your nose and mine too. Feather through the days and weeks.
///Unkle & Sparklehorse - (Maria Gur Cover [Insane Lullaby]) ....upon a podium.... you're charming and you're brave
12/4/12
Thinking Around Yourself Is Not Easy (fear)
I have been trying to think around myself. It has not been easy. To say the least. Part of what has made it so difficult is realizing that I am occupying so much of my own space. Where as space time is largely infinite, I have had a hard time parsing my own space and my own time in that webbing. Experience is infinite. Infinitely divergent and convergent on the same scale. The difference comes when you start to look at a person as fragment or a single stitch, a wave particle behaving more particulate than wave, on the scale of outcomes. Something that you can cure me of. No, not really. Nothing that I wouldn't do for you differently.
I have been trying to think around myself. I have been trying to dig myself out of the weird hole of self absorption and have experienced some success. There has been some allure in exploring the dark side of the moon and what have you, but that has come as quite ancillary to everything else I would like to do, but has also occupied so many cycles, it's almost become laughable.
The standoffs between my drawing tablet and my gaming remote have grown to epic proportions. As they should. Given the variables. I knew they would. There are so many usb ports and only so many preoccupations. I've grown a little sad though. Not because I can't get everyone of me to work in concert. Not because the voices have been so gotdamn loud I can't hear myself think sometimes. Not because I want time to flow in reverse. Not because I am stupidly heart broken too often and no amount of huffed paint will make it feel better long enough. Not because four hour masturbation sessions laden me with enough shame to bury an elephant with no trace of a corpse or burial ground.
I've grown a little sad, because I know, with the pills available, my outcomes might be entirely different, and I've given them not a lick of a try. Not that I don't want to. I absolutely do. It's not like I'm going to magically lose my creativity or penchant for metaphor. Might lose some sex drive, but it's not like I'm getting laid every five seconds. It's a choice and I understand that. It's a choice I'm not comfortable making. What if I don't like the new me?
Better question: what if the new me is less acceptable than the old me. I don't mean in terms of dalliances and persuasions or anything like that, but how hilarious would it be if the new me was completely straight? I just don't want, in a big way to rediscover myself. At some point you get too old for that and I don't want to be in a position where I'm okay with being fucked up constantly and managing, but I also don't want to be in a completely artificial position that I can love because it's artificial and enjoyable and normal, because as much as I love fitting in, I love being genuine.
It has value. Being genuine. How far around myself am I supposed to think? How far around themselves do other people think? That's the much larger question. I guess the greater difficulty comes in when I try to measure myself against other points of normalcy and I fail to get a reading. It breaks my heart. It really does. It still does. Not blaming anyone. Not finding fault. It just burns my heart steadily. Day to day. Am I that weird? The answer keeps coming back yes and no. And everyone gets to go through life, well, the vast majority, with answers to that question. And I don't.
Maybe I'm not far enough outside myself to answer or maybe I just don't have an answer or maybe the answer is just kind of crappy and I have to deal with it until I die. I don't know. I'll still try. To enjoy what life I got still comin' my way. What else would you expect me to do.
///RJD2 - "Moonlit Skies" Sometimes you just want to be right about something. Just anything. Just get it and nail it dead on for once. It stays a luxury you can't afford, all you can do is convince yourself you were close enough.
I have been trying to think around myself. I have been trying to dig myself out of the weird hole of self absorption and have experienced some success. There has been some allure in exploring the dark side of the moon and what have you, but that has come as quite ancillary to everything else I would like to do, but has also occupied so many cycles, it's almost become laughable.
The standoffs between my drawing tablet and my gaming remote have grown to epic proportions. As they should. Given the variables. I knew they would. There are so many usb ports and only so many preoccupations. I've grown a little sad though. Not because I can't get everyone of me to work in concert. Not because the voices have been so gotdamn loud I can't hear myself think sometimes. Not because I want time to flow in reverse. Not because I am stupidly heart broken too often and no amount of huffed paint will make it feel better long enough. Not because four hour masturbation sessions laden me with enough shame to bury an elephant with no trace of a corpse or burial ground.
I've grown a little sad, because I know, with the pills available, my outcomes might be entirely different, and I've given them not a lick of a try. Not that I don't want to. I absolutely do. It's not like I'm going to magically lose my creativity or penchant for metaphor. Might lose some sex drive, but it's not like I'm getting laid every five seconds. It's a choice and I understand that. It's a choice I'm not comfortable making. What if I don't like the new me?
Better question: what if the new me is less acceptable than the old me. I don't mean in terms of dalliances and persuasions or anything like that, but how hilarious would it be if the new me was completely straight? I just don't want, in a big way to rediscover myself. At some point you get too old for that and I don't want to be in a position where I'm okay with being fucked up constantly and managing, but I also don't want to be in a completely artificial position that I can love because it's artificial and enjoyable and normal, because as much as I love fitting in, I love being genuine.
It has value. Being genuine. How far around myself am I supposed to think? How far around themselves do other people think? That's the much larger question. I guess the greater difficulty comes in when I try to measure myself against other points of normalcy and I fail to get a reading. It breaks my heart. It really does. It still does. Not blaming anyone. Not finding fault. It just burns my heart steadily. Day to day. Am I that weird? The answer keeps coming back yes and no. And everyone gets to go through life, well, the vast majority, with answers to that question. And I don't.
Maybe I'm not far enough outside myself to answer or maybe I just don't have an answer or maybe the answer is just kind of crappy and I have to deal with it until I die. I don't know. I'll still try. To enjoy what life I got still comin' my way. What else would you expect me to do.
///RJD2 - "Moonlit Skies" Sometimes you just want to be right about something. Just anything. Just get it and nail it dead on for once. It stays a luxury you can't afford, all you can do is convince yourself you were close enough.
8/12/11
Good Things and Some Updates
I've updated the Auralport. I'm liking it. A little more grimy to fit the tone of what I've been putting out. It's the autumn look.
Header:
teh header. That's right; teh. Trying to capture some urban swell. Some of that urbany grungery.
Background:
the verbal refinery
Summer's gonna hurt you. It hurts me. Pretty much every year. But, insufferable bastards make poor friends. As we all know. I'm glad I put the hours in to make it happen. It was long overdue. And God knows I've been trying to brush up my design language and delivery. There's an aerospace themed remix of oem coming soon as well. I want to say it'll be hammered out this coming Saturday, but there are a lot of things I want to say that never make it to the light of day. I'm workin. Trying not to be some kind of insufferable bastard, because those sorts of people make shitay friends. So looking forward to the cool of day and cooler night.
So much to say that I haven't yet. But I'm composing. Every hour of every waking day is spent, part way, in composition and refinement. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't. Maybe that's what makes the job interviewing process difficult. Every time they ask me where I see myself in five years the answer is always "retired to a ranch and spending every waking minute writing and thinking and getting outside to do the things industrial society left behind." I'm a terrible liar.
Anyway, hello as always. Do I really have to tell you I love you after all these months and years? Well I'll do it anyway, because I have so much love and so few faces to spit it to. I love you.
Ciao. Is that how that's spelled? Well, let's safety dance it: chow. Also I'm pretty hungry. My fridge is mostly empty, but I'm happy, so who cares. Not I.
///Gorillaz - "To Binge" ...love yourself some, they're not going to forgive you. You can do another day, but don't be afraid to help yourself make that day a little more "fukyeh". We've all fallen out of favor some way some how. Details are for mooks. Sunshine is for kooks. Moonlight is for spooks. But you, you just are in the sunshine and the moonshine and the details and the broad visions and that is something. Who's really keeping score in this economy?
Header:
teh header. That's right; teh. Trying to capture some urban swell. Some of that urbany grungery.Background:
the verbal refinerySummer's gonna hurt you. It hurts me. Pretty much every year. But, insufferable bastards make poor friends. As we all know. I'm glad I put the hours in to make it happen. It was long overdue. And God knows I've been trying to brush up my design language and delivery. There's an aerospace themed remix of oem coming soon as well. I want to say it'll be hammered out this coming Saturday, but there are a lot of things I want to say that never make it to the light of day. I'm workin. Trying not to be some kind of insufferable bastard, because those sorts of people make shitay friends. So looking forward to the cool of day and cooler night.
So much to say that I haven't yet. But I'm composing. Every hour of every waking day is spent, part way, in composition and refinement. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't. Maybe that's what makes the job interviewing process difficult. Every time they ask me where I see myself in five years the answer is always "retired to a ranch and spending every waking minute writing and thinking and getting outside to do the things industrial society left behind." I'm a terrible liar.
Anyway, hello as always. Do I really have to tell you I love you after all these months and years? Well I'll do it anyway, because I have so much love and so few faces to spit it to. I love you.
Ciao. Is that how that's spelled? Well, let's safety dance it: chow. Also I'm pretty hungry. My fridge is mostly empty, but I'm happy, so who cares. Not I.
///Gorillaz - "To Binge" ...love yourself some, they're not going to forgive you. You can do another day, but don't be afraid to help yourself make that day a little more "fukyeh". We've all fallen out of favor some way some how. Details are for mooks. Sunshine is for kooks. Moonlight is for spooks. But you, you just are in the sunshine and the moonshine and the details and the broad visions and that is something. Who's really keeping score in this economy?
6/20/11
All Your Base, Repair, and an Album
So I wasn't sure if I'd have time to stop by today and of course the debate ran right up to the last minute so I figured it would be alright to do this while I wait for my dinner to cool off before I jam it in my face and run off to the labor camp to receive the minimum amount of pay allowable by law for the maximum amount of human labor they can yank out of me. In a bizarro sense it's like paying your life savings for the worst imaginable hand job the human mind can devise. Go nuts with that.
I was over the bridge again and, wow, I wish you could of seen it. I don't know what happened between my last visit and this one, but whatever action was being prepared for happened. The entire place was gouged to hell. There was not a train to be seen or car or bus and there was ash on the ground everywhere thick enough to cup a fist in and still lose your hand all the way to the wrist. The sun was out when I got there and I was able to eventually find a bicycle. Actually I tripped over it while walking through a wide street and it kicked loose from the thick gray and ultra fine sand and the air was so still that the cloud it raised just sort of hung there like ghost moss. I rode around for hours and the tires were thin enough to cut through the ash where it wasn't mixed with gutter water into a paste. There was no ash in the air until my eyes traveled all the way up the sides of the ruined buildings rising up glassless and skeletal here and there and saw that the atmosphere way up where the cotton balls of clouds should be was just one big fluxing shifting mass of brownish black and tan where the sun tried and failed to poke through. Everywhere there were the shapes of people. That was the creepy thing. It was as if every person not killed or fled, or almost every person, was turned into some hunched mass of iron pipe or some caught rag work in a chain link fence or a collection of boxes and broken timbers lumped in an alleyway or crawling along atop the ash in a collection of black and white and torn trash bags being tugged along by a stray's leash. It was all very wide and very hard to take it all in at once. The few people I thought I saw ended up being these cruel heaps of shapes and material and rust and broken pipe so I started to give it up and tried to find my way to more broken down and open areas so I could at least feel less claustrophobic when night fell. As I resolved to look no further and to get clear of places where other things that I probably did not want to meet might be hiding in the high iron and burned out rises around me I came across a tablet that I picked up and started watching on and off as I rode out. For some reason Jerry Seinfeld was all that it could play and he kept going on and on about restaurant appetizers and how they come up with all sorts of gimmicks, but in reality we would eat them right out of the bulk freezer bags they're shipped in because we don't care. We just want our taste buds to feel good for a while. I guess he had a point. I tossed it away and it skipped in the dust like a frisbee. I rode for several more hours, but the city kept stretching on and when I stopped to sit on a fire hydrant, after dusting the several inches of gray off of it that piled like a dunce cap I heard his voice cut on again and it scared the living shit out of me. So much so that I lost the connection and woke up back here.
Whatever happened, all their base are now belong to something I didn't think could happen or at least haven't seen before. Possibly evil Jerry Seinfeld. But, I'm sort of looking forward to going back. Sort of wary. Not at all enthusiastic. I'm looking forward to it the way you look forward to going to see a doctor when you have a persistent headache that won't quit and you just need to sleep that badly.
Also yesterday was a day off. Or a night off. This job is really taking it to my shoulders. Over worked and under sexed. No way to limp through life. I spent that day asleep. Well mostly asleep. That and I put in the serious effort to eat three times in one day. Surprisingly difficult. I mean, the thing really is if you sleep you don't need to eat. So if you sleep all the time, you never need to eat. You'll die at an accelerated rate to the average death spans of so many decades, but in sleep things accelerate anyway so you could potentially live much longer asleep than awake eating and trying to prolong this side of things. Of course you wouldn't have to worry about things randomly breaking down around you, but then again things randomly break down in this world all the damn time, so I'm not even sure that's particularly valid. At any rate. I spent most of that day sleeping and eating and trying to feel my muscles knit back together. I don't think I succeeded. I didn't front load enough material for my body to work with before it needed it and now the spaces that should be bridged with proteins and whatever else are now probably jammed with garbage or just left as empty tears... frustrating.... but that's what happens when you blow up your mileage and your engine and don't have the convenience of laying that load on a car and have to lay it on your body. But that'll change.
I started writing another album. Horsemen of the Sun. Released the single earlier on. The full length album is rolling out tomorrow at some point (I hope). It's been gestating long enough. Flash the Firmware was the first album. I wanted it to tell a story of personal mutation and sea change. This one will focus more on the desolation of knowing who you are. Exciting. Depressing. Exploration. Strange territory. Part of the life I'm building apart from the life that has sustained the effort required to do the building. If that makes sense.
///Daedelus - "You're the One" I love you. Not in case no one tells you that. Not in case no one has told you that in a while. Just cause I do. Where would I be without the oft imagined you/me. Try, if you want, to slap How to Operate With a Blown Mind and Northern Stomp together with Love to Make Music To in one playlist and set it to shuffle. It's like black fireworks at night so close to the ground they'll burn you if you watch too close, but too pretty to look away and worth every second of skin peeling flying metal and rock shards.
I was over the bridge again and, wow, I wish you could of seen it. I don't know what happened between my last visit and this one, but whatever action was being prepared for happened. The entire place was gouged to hell. There was not a train to be seen or car or bus and there was ash on the ground everywhere thick enough to cup a fist in and still lose your hand all the way to the wrist. The sun was out when I got there and I was able to eventually find a bicycle. Actually I tripped over it while walking through a wide street and it kicked loose from the thick gray and ultra fine sand and the air was so still that the cloud it raised just sort of hung there like ghost moss. I rode around for hours and the tires were thin enough to cut through the ash where it wasn't mixed with gutter water into a paste. There was no ash in the air until my eyes traveled all the way up the sides of the ruined buildings rising up glassless and skeletal here and there and saw that the atmosphere way up where the cotton balls of clouds should be was just one big fluxing shifting mass of brownish black and tan where the sun tried and failed to poke through. Everywhere there were the shapes of people. That was the creepy thing. It was as if every person not killed or fled, or almost every person, was turned into some hunched mass of iron pipe or some caught rag work in a chain link fence or a collection of boxes and broken timbers lumped in an alleyway or crawling along atop the ash in a collection of black and white and torn trash bags being tugged along by a stray's leash. It was all very wide and very hard to take it all in at once. The few people I thought I saw ended up being these cruel heaps of shapes and material and rust and broken pipe so I started to give it up and tried to find my way to more broken down and open areas so I could at least feel less claustrophobic when night fell. As I resolved to look no further and to get clear of places where other things that I probably did not want to meet might be hiding in the high iron and burned out rises around me I came across a tablet that I picked up and started watching on and off as I rode out. For some reason Jerry Seinfeld was all that it could play and he kept going on and on about restaurant appetizers and how they come up with all sorts of gimmicks, but in reality we would eat them right out of the bulk freezer bags they're shipped in because we don't care. We just want our taste buds to feel good for a while. I guess he had a point. I tossed it away and it skipped in the dust like a frisbee. I rode for several more hours, but the city kept stretching on and when I stopped to sit on a fire hydrant, after dusting the several inches of gray off of it that piled like a dunce cap I heard his voice cut on again and it scared the living shit out of me. So much so that I lost the connection and woke up back here.
Whatever happened, all their base are now belong to something I didn't think could happen or at least haven't seen before. Possibly evil Jerry Seinfeld. But, I'm sort of looking forward to going back. Sort of wary. Not at all enthusiastic. I'm looking forward to it the way you look forward to going to see a doctor when you have a persistent headache that won't quit and you just need to sleep that badly.
Also yesterday was a day off. Or a night off. This job is really taking it to my shoulders. Over worked and under sexed. No way to limp through life. I spent that day asleep. Well mostly asleep. That and I put in the serious effort to eat three times in one day. Surprisingly difficult. I mean, the thing really is if you sleep you don't need to eat. So if you sleep all the time, you never need to eat. You'll die at an accelerated rate to the average death spans of so many decades, but in sleep things accelerate anyway so you could potentially live much longer asleep than awake eating and trying to prolong this side of things. Of course you wouldn't have to worry about things randomly breaking down around you, but then again things randomly break down in this world all the damn time, so I'm not even sure that's particularly valid. At any rate. I spent most of that day sleeping and eating and trying to feel my muscles knit back together. I don't think I succeeded. I didn't front load enough material for my body to work with before it needed it and now the spaces that should be bridged with proteins and whatever else are now probably jammed with garbage or just left as empty tears... frustrating.... but that's what happens when you blow up your mileage and your engine and don't have the convenience of laying that load on a car and have to lay it on your body. But that'll change.
I started writing another album. Horsemen of the Sun. Released the single earlier on. The full length album is rolling out tomorrow at some point (I hope). It's been gestating long enough. Flash the Firmware was the first album. I wanted it to tell a story of personal mutation and sea change. This one will focus more on the desolation of knowing who you are. Exciting. Depressing. Exploration. Strange territory. Part of the life I'm building apart from the life that has sustained the effort required to do the building. If that makes sense.
///Daedelus - "You're the One" I love you. Not in case no one tells you that. Not in case no one has told you that in a while. Just cause I do. Where would I be without the oft imagined you/me. Try, if you want, to slap How to Operate With a Blown Mind and Northern Stomp together with Love to Make Music To in one playlist and set it to shuffle. It's like black fireworks at night so close to the ground they'll burn you if you watch too close, but too pretty to look away and worth every second of skin peeling flying metal and rock shards.
10/24/10
Take it Down a Notch and Classroom Politics
Does the word "it" get capitalized in that title. I'm not totally sure, but I don't think so. So what's new today that was not news yesterday? Not a whole lot. Trying to keep the language clean as a habit. The F word was mingled in there two sentences ago, one sentence before this one, and I had to perform a mental edit. I guess the thing about the mental editing is that while I may be making myself more readable I feel like I am nailing doilies to walls that I have clearly punched holes in to hide the fact that there was an extremely violent outburst and it feels stupid to do. Almost as stupid as dancing with myself in a tutu in the mirror and pretending that I, outside of the mirror, am not wearing one. That was too much.
So the poetry has gotten a little out of hand this week. This is true and entirely my own fault. Or actually, I should say, entirely my chemistry's fault. I had nothing to do with it. I should be so fortunate as to be able to assemble and plan days of literary vomit, and the thing is some of it really is just vomit, but the best thing about throwing up is that the only thing left when your bled out is the thing that matters the most. The thing that giving up in words takes away from your interior and is thus valuable beyond price tags or comparisons or in any other way that value can be assigned except in time and energy lost (the purest value).
I was thinking the other day about models of punishment and something occurred to me (I hate spelling that word). Do you remember in elementary school when the teacher would hold the entire class responsible for some little shits antics? Do you remember how no amount of collective loathing changed his ways and more often than not had the opposite effect on the little shits reasoning? I still do. I still remember not being allowed to line up for recess until everyone shut the hell up and there was always that one bastard who just would not shut his mouth and the teacher would let us go after half of the recess was gone out of sheer pity for what he/she thought the repercussions might be. Sometimes, thinking about that, I wonder if he/she would have ever let us go if she knew that unlike the 40s or 50s or whatever older and more violent and more liberal years he/she grew up in (in terms of acceptable violations of the myth of personal space) the little bastard did not receive any sort of mobocratic beat down. Sometimes the world today feels that way.
Somehow it seems that everyone should be holding someone responsible for their behavior that is damaging everyone's ability to go to recess on time, but no one does. I don't know why that it is. I guess the thing about it might be that "how far is to far" comes into play. If someone bullies you but they never make you cry and then you eventually take the time out of your day to beat the hell out of them and kick their limp body into a puddle of mud is that too far? Your cumulative suffering is still probably greater than their momentary shaming. Isn't that not going far enough. Sorry Brian. I still fucking hate you. If I ever build a time machine rest assured one of my stops will be 6th grade, Maryland, south Bowie, 12:15, my fist, your fucking face. Sorry. I just hate how that whole idea of every member of the group is responsible for every other member of the group has been and continues to be twisted in on itself in perverted ways that make the workplace hell and how it starts at so young an age that it's difficult to imagine any other way for things to be.
I'm taking the poetry down a notch from this week. I basically doubled my output in one night as a result of ... I'm not sure. It happens from time to time. Things just blow out of me like a shotgun to the back at point black range and I actually do apologize. Stability is the cornerstone of something. Just nothing I make. Here's a one liner for your next cocktail party: stability needs capitalism like capitalism needs classim. Haw. Get it? Do you see what I did there? Okay, bye :)
///Aphex Twin - "Bucephalus Bouncing Ball" I am playful tonight in ways I wish I could feel every single night of my life and share with the universe and it's bastard long faced serious denizens who think so much of .... wow that turned really angry. I am playful tonight. Stop. Love you, Aphex.
p.s. I'll draw you a picture next time.
So the poetry has gotten a little out of hand this week. This is true and entirely my own fault. Or actually, I should say, entirely my chemistry's fault. I had nothing to do with it. I should be so fortunate as to be able to assemble and plan days of literary vomit, and the thing is some of it really is just vomit, but the best thing about throwing up is that the only thing left when your bled out is the thing that matters the most. The thing that giving up in words takes away from your interior and is thus valuable beyond price tags or comparisons or in any other way that value can be assigned except in time and energy lost (the purest value).
I was thinking the other day about models of punishment and something occurred to me (I hate spelling that word). Do you remember in elementary school when the teacher would hold the entire class responsible for some little shits antics? Do you remember how no amount of collective loathing changed his ways and more often than not had the opposite effect on the little shits reasoning? I still do. I still remember not being allowed to line up for recess until everyone shut the hell up and there was always that one bastard who just would not shut his mouth and the teacher would let us go after half of the recess was gone out of sheer pity for what he/she thought the repercussions might be. Sometimes, thinking about that, I wonder if he/she would have ever let us go if she knew that unlike the 40s or 50s or whatever older and more violent and more liberal years he/she grew up in (in terms of acceptable violations of the myth of personal space) the little bastard did not receive any sort of mobocratic beat down. Sometimes the world today feels that way.
Somehow it seems that everyone should be holding someone responsible for their behavior that is damaging everyone's ability to go to recess on time, but no one does. I don't know why that it is. I guess the thing about it might be that "how far is to far" comes into play. If someone bullies you but they never make you cry and then you eventually take the time out of your day to beat the hell out of them and kick their limp body into a puddle of mud is that too far? Your cumulative suffering is still probably greater than their momentary shaming. Isn't that not going far enough. Sorry Brian. I still fucking hate you. If I ever build a time machine rest assured one of my stops will be 6th grade, Maryland, south Bowie, 12:15, my fist, your fucking face. Sorry. I just hate how that whole idea of every member of the group is responsible for every other member of the group has been and continues to be twisted in on itself in perverted ways that make the workplace hell and how it starts at so young an age that it's difficult to imagine any other way for things to be.
I'm taking the poetry down a notch from this week. I basically doubled my output in one night as a result of ... I'm not sure. It happens from time to time. Things just blow out of me like a shotgun to the back at point black range and I actually do apologize. Stability is the cornerstone of something. Just nothing I make. Here's a one liner for your next cocktail party: stability needs capitalism like capitalism needs classim. Haw. Get it? Do you see what I did there? Okay, bye :)
///Aphex Twin - "Bucephalus Bouncing Ball" I am playful tonight in ways I wish I could feel every single night of my life and share with the universe and it's bastard long faced serious denizens who think so much of .... wow that turned really angry. I am playful tonight. Stop. Love you, Aphex.
p.s. I'll draw you a picture next time.
9/4/10
Cum, the Internet, Other Disappointments (Plus 200), and Friends
200th entry. Glad I got that announcement out of the way before I forgot. It's been five years with you. That ties the record for the longest relationship I've ever had. They've been pretty good years, but this isn't a retrospective so I won't dwell on it.
You should know I tried to write a poem with the title "Cum", but I couldn't create anything more charged than the title, so I didn't. Sometimes you run into words like that in the English language, words that command so much attention and make people perk up and look for context clues instead of actually reading the text and before you know it you've completely lost them because, for whatever reason,you're content doesn't line up with whatever expectations they've come to harbor in connection with your title. I'll write a retrospective for the next entry mainly because I'm pretty sure I won't have much else to say as I've been gripped by the past recently. Maybe I'll write that poem anyway and just make it light hearted. I think that's a good way to both combat the "must read for juicy bits" response and also reward both the readers and the flybys.
On to my terrible internet connection. It was so bad over the past two days that I literally was not even able to open my email. You know when you get so mad that actually mash your fist into your keyboard hard enough to break the fucking thing. That's how mad I was. If I was not head over heels in love with my computer monitor and also too poor to replace it I probably would have hurled it straight out of the window hard enough to lay a 22" square dent in the door of the shed behind my house. A friend commented that though the speed is slow I "have done a lot with it" and I wanted to say well "for fucks sake, just imagine what I could fucking do if I didn't have to settle for third rate everything in this fucking world." Seriously. I was enraged, not by his efforts to offer encouragement, but by the framing of what has become typical of my life. Ghetto rigs. McGuyver set ups. Pulling magic out of my ass hole. Call it what you will, but I cannot wait for a phase of my life when I actually have the god damn tools I want and need already at hand to do the things I want to fucking do. No more of this having to work a three mile solution out of a 100 yard walk because no one is willing to give me the god damn keys to the front gate.
I've had some really fucked up dreams lately. I'll curb the swear words from here on out, or at least try to.
So the original Cum poem was going to be about how self destruction creeps into life, but is a necessary element of life. Self destruction, I think, prevents wholesale destruction if the person purposefully destroying their self can be isolated or at least properly contained. I'm pretty sure if I left myself to its own devices it would turn into a thing bent on dismantling life and civilization as we know it. To prevent this from happening I have to actively dismantle its constructions through every means necessary. Think of it as an atom bomb. Every single day my brain is refining fissible materials and building detonators and stranding wires and explosive plates and turning bomb housings and working out the science of sending the world to its grave and every day I have to go in and turn out all the filing cabinets and shred the research and trash the labs and sabotage the refineries and explode the stockpiles. My self hasn't gotten it right yet and I'm happy for that, but also ashamed that its even become a necessity. Sometimes continued success is thanks to my own efforts and sometimes it's due to bomb range and laboratory accidents and machine malfunctions. The result is the same though. Furious action leading up to an explosive and small and temporary victory and phenomenally steep come down, because I've both succeeded and failed yet again. I suppose the easiest solution would be to simply have all of the technicians brought before a firing squad and kill them outright, but unfortunately the crew working the device committee and labor union are also responsible for the non-lethal non-destructive life sustaining committees. So when is the need to eliminate a threat greater than the need to preserve a life? I don't have an answer for that, but I'll let you know when I do.
I'm sad now. I don't know why. I do know why. Part of me just left. He was disgusted. I'm disgusted too and angry and now sad that I'm by myself again. He'll be back later. We can't really stay mad at each other. No, wait we can. I just realized that we're usually pretty mad at each other. It just so happens that we're also usually in agreement on most things, with the exception of this and some other stuff. I'm the optimist. He's the deterministic pessimist. The realist. The public relations manager is not in at the moment, but should be back shortly.
I sometimes wish my friends would tell me what they think and why they don't tell me when their visiting, but then I remember that they must have their reasons and that I don't know what those reasons are because no one has ever fucking told me. When I think about the spectrum of existence I get the feeling that there's nothing in the middle of mine and I think that hole is what makes people apprehensive. I don't have a hard time feeling. I have a hard time feeling by degrees.
I dream about things. About tiny rooms and lying in bed with someone and sadism and being awful and being loved regardless and making something, making anything, with another person and being naked and great and taking off the mask that hides the teeth and the showing the smile behind that stretches from ear to ear for all of the reasons that are on their face unacceptable for reasons I'll never agree with and I wake up from the dream and wonder if I will really be single. And then I wonder if the rest of me will allow that to change. I know the answer is no, but can you fault me for wanting it to. I tear myself apart, but they're there. The upside is I'm always in orgy. The downside is none of the attendees are there because they love each other. And I'm rambling so I'll go do something else because I already know I'm running straight for a dead end and I have an irrepressible fear of corners.
///30 Seconds to Mars - "From Yesterday" Sometimes when I fall asleep and wake up into dreaming the world is big and beautiful and unlike the life I left I am moved to a state of utter bliss and so thankful that a thing like sleep is a part of day to day life.
You should know I tried to write a poem with the title "Cum", but I couldn't create anything more charged than the title, so I didn't. Sometimes you run into words like that in the English language, words that command so much attention and make people perk up and look for context clues instead of actually reading the text and before you know it you've completely lost them because, for whatever reason,you're content doesn't line up with whatever expectations they've come to harbor in connection with your title. I'll write a retrospective for the next entry mainly because I'm pretty sure I won't have much else to say as I've been gripped by the past recently. Maybe I'll write that poem anyway and just make it light hearted. I think that's a good way to both combat the "must read for juicy bits" response and also reward both the readers and the flybys.
On to my terrible internet connection. It was so bad over the past two days that I literally was not even able to open my email. You know when you get so mad that actually mash your fist into your keyboard hard enough to break the fucking thing. That's how mad I was. If I was not head over heels in love with my computer monitor and also too poor to replace it I probably would have hurled it straight out of the window hard enough to lay a 22" square dent in the door of the shed behind my house. A friend commented that though the speed is slow I "have done a lot with it" and I wanted to say well "for fucks sake, just imagine what I could fucking do if I didn't have to settle for third rate everything in this fucking world." Seriously. I was enraged, not by his efforts to offer encouragement, but by the framing of what has become typical of my life. Ghetto rigs. McGuyver set ups. Pulling magic out of my ass hole. Call it what you will, but I cannot wait for a phase of my life when I actually have the god damn tools I want and need already at hand to do the things I want to fucking do. No more of this having to work a three mile solution out of a 100 yard walk because no one is willing to give me the god damn keys to the front gate.
I've had some really fucked up dreams lately. I'll curb the swear words from here on out, or at least try to.
So the original Cum poem was going to be about how self destruction creeps into life, but is a necessary element of life. Self destruction, I think, prevents wholesale destruction if the person purposefully destroying their self can be isolated or at least properly contained. I'm pretty sure if I left myself to its own devices it would turn into a thing bent on dismantling life and civilization as we know it. To prevent this from happening I have to actively dismantle its constructions through every means necessary. Think of it as an atom bomb. Every single day my brain is refining fissible materials and building detonators and stranding wires and explosive plates and turning bomb housings and working out the science of sending the world to its grave and every day I have to go in and turn out all the filing cabinets and shred the research and trash the labs and sabotage the refineries and explode the stockpiles. My self hasn't gotten it right yet and I'm happy for that, but also ashamed that its even become a necessity. Sometimes continued success is thanks to my own efforts and sometimes it's due to bomb range and laboratory accidents and machine malfunctions. The result is the same though. Furious action leading up to an explosive and small and temporary victory and phenomenally steep come down, because I've both succeeded and failed yet again. I suppose the easiest solution would be to simply have all of the technicians brought before a firing squad and kill them outright, but unfortunately the crew working the device committee and labor union are also responsible for the non-lethal non-destructive life sustaining committees. So when is the need to eliminate a threat greater than the need to preserve a life? I don't have an answer for that, but I'll let you know when I do.
I'm sad now. I don't know why. I do know why. Part of me just left. He was disgusted. I'm disgusted too and angry and now sad that I'm by myself again. He'll be back later. We can't really stay mad at each other. No, wait we can. I just realized that we're usually pretty mad at each other. It just so happens that we're also usually in agreement on most things, with the exception of this and some other stuff. I'm the optimist. He's the deterministic pessimist. The realist. The public relations manager is not in at the moment, but should be back shortly.
I sometimes wish my friends would tell me what they think and why they don't tell me when their visiting, but then I remember that they must have their reasons and that I don't know what those reasons are because no one has ever fucking told me. When I think about the spectrum of existence I get the feeling that there's nothing in the middle of mine and I think that hole is what makes people apprehensive. I don't have a hard time feeling. I have a hard time feeling by degrees.
I dream about things. About tiny rooms and lying in bed with someone and sadism and being awful and being loved regardless and making something, making anything, with another person and being naked and great and taking off the mask that hides the teeth and the showing the smile behind that stretches from ear to ear for all of the reasons that are on their face unacceptable for reasons I'll never agree with and I wake up from the dream and wonder if I will really be single. And then I wonder if the rest of me will allow that to change. I know the answer is no, but can you fault me for wanting it to. I tear myself apart, but they're there. The upside is I'm always in orgy. The downside is none of the attendees are there because they love each other. And I'm rambling so I'll go do something else because I already know I'm running straight for a dead end and I have an irrepressible fear of corners.
///30 Seconds to Mars - "From Yesterday" Sometimes when I fall asleep and wake up into dreaming the world is big and beautiful and unlike the life I left I am moved to a state of utter bliss and so thankful that a thing like sleep is a part of day to day life.
8/30/10
Fifth Grade Word Finds and (Sort of) Free Art
Remember fifth grade and the substitute teachers and their mountains of copies of crossword puzzles with subject themed words to keep all the kids busy and the game all of the smart kids played where they competed to see who could finish all of the copies and win their free time first? Remember the other game the smart kids who didn't give a shit about extra time to do their homework in class because having homework to do was a great excuse to get away from having to spend time around their shitty parents played where instead of finishing crosswords they tried to find legitimate instances of curse words, the more rank the better? That just came to mind as I was thinking about myself (as usual) and I was thinking about the things in me that are different, which led to thoughts about picture finds where you look at two pictures and try to find what's different between them and that lead to thinking about word finds and that led to all of the wonderful hours in fifth and sixth grade I spent doing word find puzzles and circling "ass" instead of being taught anything by anyone because the teacher called in sick again because the kids are a bunch of bastards. They were still passing out crosswords and word finds in 7th grade and 8th grade now that I think about it. I raced through the pile a few times, but it was bullshit. It was not uncommon to have a teacher say "put your head down and take a nap if you like" as though I didn't get sent to bed without dinner often enough. Napping wasn't high on my list of favorite things to work hard for.
There really was no satisfying conclusion to finishing all of the crosswords besides the pride of knowing that I beat the pants of Annette with her stupid times table finger counting trick that I didn't learn until last year and promptly forgot. Fuck you Annette. You looked like Meg Griffin five years before Seth McFarlane dreamt her up. Suck on that coaster thick glasses. I hated her when she beat me at anything because she was a total douche about it. To this day when I beat people at anything I can't help but feel that I should have been more encouraging or at least explain to them why they might have lost and how they could have won. That might be even more annoying than simply sticking a finger in their face and saying a hearty "booyah".
Where was I. Crosswords, check. Annette was really smart, but a total bitch, check. Oh yeah, what's different about me. So here's what's different about me now from the me of five years ago in order of importance to me (sorry, this is so me themed today, but I'm not really, but I'd feel guilty if I didn't say something to acknowledge the fact that I'm being really really narcissistic [sort of]):
1: I don't think of myself as a funny person anymore. I used to think I was funny, but I'm not. I'm easy to laugh at and I think I'm fine with that.
2: I'm weird. No two ways about it. I am one of the weird ones and will probably be thought of as one of the creepy ones when I get too old to be weird and when I'm too old to be creepy I'll be one of the pleasantly eccentric ones you try to ignore, but who somehow end up miles away from their home health aide at a highway rest stop asking you for change so they can buy a colostomy bag from the potato chip vending machine.
3: I will probably never be married or will not have kids of my own. This will happen because I've realized I am impossible to start a family with. No really. I dare you to try. My heart is fucking Thunderdome. Raising kids and being with me will be like trying to keep track of the lost kids of never never land. If you were to combine Bill Cosby's sagely aspects, Peter Griffin's story telling, Homer's scheming, Seinfeld's eye for human interaction, and a middle aged Golden Retriever's eagerness to do everything, with a Bull's eagerness to do nothing except watch the world go by and bone constantly you'd roughly have an approximation of day to day life with me. Throw in "unconventional" tastes in design and home decor and art and general errata and my home probably won't even be a safe place to raise a kid from one hour to the next.
4: I will never be a kept man. I'm too damn old. Missed that boat, but it was fun to imagine what could have been had I really stepped up the training back when I first starting writing this and my biggest concern was beards and whether or not to shave my nuts.
5: I share my work openly. In the past I sat on it because I was somewhat embarrassed by it. Now, even better than simply not giving a fuck what people think of it, I honestly feel that it is worth sharing. It's become worth more time and attention than my own. How much time and attention is absolutely up for debate (whether its 1.01 person's T&A or 100 it's still greater than 1). Why more time is needed is also up for debate. Dear universe: I am at a highly impressionable point in my writing career... send me mentors or something. Jesus does not count as a mentor.
6: I've sort of come to understand that the people I grew up with, by and large, did not grow up "with" me. That's taken a lot of getting used to. How the hell to I grow myself into their circles if, apparently, I didn't do it successfully when they were right next to me. Frustrating. It's like everybody I knew went into a hall of mirrors together and somehow I ended up outside of the building in the alley with the alley cats and half eaten funnel cakes and everyone else went out the exit proper and I have no fucking clue how I ended up on the outside of everything.
7: I don't think there's a seven, but it's there for balances sake.
I've got an idea. Send me your address and I'll send you a handwritten poem on heavy stock plain white paper. Seriously. No scheme. No game. No angle. Just some art that'll only cost you the time and effort it takes to shoot me an email. You're address won't get shared (not just because I have no one to share it with but because if I gave someone my address I would want it destroyed immediately after it was no longer in use by the specific person I loaned it to). You won't suddenly have spam roll into your mailbox. I won't randomly show up your door with a handle of Vodka and tell you to drink as you run out to go to work in the morning. You won't get signed up for... well shit I could go on for another thirty lines about what won't happen.
What will happen: I'll send you a poem. That's it. A new fresh from my mental presses poem and maybe a scribble too. Bam, done. inacinch@gmail.com. and actually, by putting that there I will probably get a ton of spam, but I'm not mad about it. I just like to send people art. It's fun.
Or don't. It's not like I'm going to kill myself or anything if no one does this. I'll just keep doing what I usually do: write poetry, whack off till I fall asleep, wake up in the middle of the night in tears, write a story, knock myself unconscious with five shots of whiskey, wake up at a reasonable hour and repeat. The question is: how much of that is true. The answer is: most of it. Lulz. Anyway. Don't forget to see if you can fill out the crossword puzzle with all expletives. What is life if not a challenge to be more awesome than you were yesterday.
///Cowboy Bebop OST - "Blue" I think my opinion still holds that some of the best music is written and heard and felt in languages that you can't understand specifically because the worst thing anyway can do to some art is make it readily understandable and take away the pleasure of dawning reason and the avenue of organic access each person has to make when no person can make an inroad for the masses. The idea of masslessness comes to mind, but I'm pretty sure that's just more errata and artifice and artifacting. Sometimes I need a good paint chipper for my brain.
There really was no satisfying conclusion to finishing all of the crosswords besides the pride of knowing that I beat the pants of Annette with her stupid times table finger counting trick that I didn't learn until last year and promptly forgot. Fuck you Annette. You looked like Meg Griffin five years before Seth McFarlane dreamt her up. Suck on that coaster thick glasses. I hated her when she beat me at anything because she was a total douche about it. To this day when I beat people at anything I can't help but feel that I should have been more encouraging or at least explain to them why they might have lost and how they could have won. That might be even more annoying than simply sticking a finger in their face and saying a hearty "booyah".
Where was I. Crosswords, check. Annette was really smart, but a total bitch, check. Oh yeah, what's different about me. So here's what's different about me now from the me of five years ago in order of importance to me (sorry, this is so me themed today, but I'm not really, but I'd feel guilty if I didn't say something to acknowledge the fact that I'm being really really narcissistic [sort of]):
1: I don't think of myself as a funny person anymore. I used to think I was funny, but I'm not. I'm easy to laugh at and I think I'm fine with that.
2: I'm weird. No two ways about it. I am one of the weird ones and will probably be thought of as one of the creepy ones when I get too old to be weird and when I'm too old to be creepy I'll be one of the pleasantly eccentric ones you try to ignore, but who somehow end up miles away from their home health aide at a highway rest stop asking you for change so they can buy a colostomy bag from the potato chip vending machine.
3: I will probably never be married or will not have kids of my own. This will happen because I've realized I am impossible to start a family with. No really. I dare you to try. My heart is fucking Thunderdome. Raising kids and being with me will be like trying to keep track of the lost kids of never never land. If you were to combine Bill Cosby's sagely aspects, Peter Griffin's story telling, Homer's scheming, Seinfeld's eye for human interaction, and a middle aged Golden Retriever's eagerness to do everything, with a Bull's eagerness to do nothing except watch the world go by and bone constantly you'd roughly have an approximation of day to day life with me. Throw in "unconventional" tastes in design and home decor and art and general errata and my home probably won't even be a safe place to raise a kid from one hour to the next.
4: I will never be a kept man. I'm too damn old. Missed that boat, but it was fun to imagine what could have been had I really stepped up the training back when I first starting writing this and my biggest concern was beards and whether or not to shave my nuts.
5: I share my work openly. In the past I sat on it because I was somewhat embarrassed by it. Now, even better than simply not giving a fuck what people think of it, I honestly feel that it is worth sharing. It's become worth more time and attention than my own. How much time and attention is absolutely up for debate (whether its 1.01 person's T&A or 100 it's still greater than 1). Why more time is needed is also up for debate. Dear universe: I am at a highly impressionable point in my writing career... send me mentors or something. Jesus does not count as a mentor.
6: I've sort of come to understand that the people I grew up with, by and large, did not grow up "with" me. That's taken a lot of getting used to. How the hell to I grow myself into their circles if, apparently, I didn't do it successfully when they were right next to me. Frustrating. It's like everybody I knew went into a hall of mirrors together and somehow I ended up outside of the building in the alley with the alley cats and half eaten funnel cakes and everyone else went out the exit proper and I have no fucking clue how I ended up on the outside of everything.
7: I don't think there's a seven, but it's there for balances sake.
I've got an idea. Send me your address and I'll send you a handwritten poem on heavy stock plain white paper. Seriously. No scheme. No game. No angle. Just some art that'll only cost you the time and effort it takes to shoot me an email. You're address won't get shared (not just because I have no one to share it with but because if I gave someone my address I would want it destroyed immediately after it was no longer in use by the specific person I loaned it to). You won't suddenly have spam roll into your mailbox. I won't randomly show up your door with a handle of Vodka and tell you to drink as you run out to go to work in the morning. You won't get signed up for... well shit I could go on for another thirty lines about what won't happen.
What will happen: I'll send you a poem. That's it. A new fresh from my mental presses poem and maybe a scribble too. Bam, done. inacinch@gmail.com. and actually, by putting that there I will probably get a ton of spam, but I'm not mad about it. I just like to send people art. It's fun.
Or don't. It's not like I'm going to kill myself or anything if no one does this. I'll just keep doing what I usually do: write poetry, whack off till I fall asleep, wake up in the middle of the night in tears, write a story, knock myself unconscious with five shots of whiskey, wake up at a reasonable hour and repeat. The question is: how much of that is true. The answer is: most of it. Lulz. Anyway. Don't forget to see if you can fill out the crossword puzzle with all expletives. What is life if not a challenge to be more awesome than you were yesterday.
///Cowboy Bebop OST - "Blue" I think my opinion still holds that some of the best music is written and heard and felt in languages that you can't understand specifically because the worst thing anyway can do to some art is make it readily understandable and take away the pleasure of dawning reason and the avenue of organic access each person has to make when no person can make an inroad for the masses. The idea of masslessness comes to mind, but I'm pretty sure that's just more errata and artifice and artifacting. Sometimes I need a good paint chipper for my brain.
7/1/10
Behold Yall
The Auralport
Bang! It's sort of up and running. It Still needs some minor tweaks and twists, but for the most part that will be the look. I feel good about where it's going.
I didn't get to redesigning the banner here, I know, but on the bright side I did manage to create a whole new layout over yonder at the nexus of poetry so it's not a total loss. In fact it's not even a major loss. If anything it's kind of like a 40/60 split decision win.
We'll find the time to redo this page's banner tomorrow for certain. That is a guarantee I can get behind. I hope I didn't guarantee that last time (that would put a serious dent in my truthiness).
///Mono - "Penguin Freud" I don't know if I told you, but this was the song I was listening to when the towers fell all those years ago.
Bang! It's sort of up and running. It Still needs some minor tweaks and twists, but for the most part that will be the look. I feel good about where it's going.
I didn't get to redesigning the banner here, I know, but on the bright side I did manage to create a whole new layout over yonder at the nexus of poetry so it's not a total loss. In fact it's not even a major loss. If anything it's kind of like a 40/60 split decision win.
We'll find the time to redo this page's banner tomorrow for certain. That is a guarantee I can get behind. I hope I didn't guarantee that last time (that would put a serious dent in my truthiness).
///Mono - "Penguin Freud" I don't know if I told you, but this was the song I was listening to when the towers fell all those years ago.
6/22/10
lit channel and ladytron and poetry
poetry channel is open @ auralport.rss on the right hand side of oem fail. the feed carries the latest bit of poetry ive shared. ill post one a day of all the old ones i wrote up through highschool and into college and then ill start writing and sharing some new ones. the radio dial finally has something else to listen to. im not all questions and rantswers. 7/10ths promise.
doin it this way for two reasons. one: looking back on my old work all i can think is how cheesy and sentimental and terrible it was. but if you ask most writers thats what theyll say about most of their old stuff rereading it years removed. hindsight is 20/20 sure, but it also makes you forget the things that were good about ... well whatever. some of it really is just shitty, but im losing focus again. REASON ONE: (im yelling at myself, yes) i get all the embarrassment out of the way first. reason two: having embarrassed myself beyond repair itll be way easier to write and share new things.
so what else is new? fuck you thats what else. nah im kidding. thats just self loathing pushing out of my throat like a half pound burger bubbling on a pony keg of warm beer. not that i had that today. what did i have today? i had a dream about murder and betrayal and a big orange and black cat. there was a lot of blood. i didnt mean to rat them out, but i didnt want to get shot either. i mean if i had to choose... ill tell you about it. ill write about it. rss for the story site is coming soon. that is 9/10ths a promise. id go so far as to say 10/10ths. we're wonderful together. or dysfunctional. maladjusted. i dont fear god. i fear what god makes people do.
///ladytron - "skools out" you know, movin on from the academic promised land and the baggage and the rails and the contracts and the debts of it all... its been freeing. like truly freeing. like the last time i felt this free was the end of highschool almost a decade ago. the simplicity of this song. the tiny keyboard. the graininess. it captures that feeling. that whiff of undeveloped potential to be and do anything or nothing while you watch the sun set and touch a flame to a cigarette you didnt really earn but are gonna smoke anyway because the moment is right and no one can tell you different because they know it too. its good to let go when you actually have the power to make the choice.
doin it this way for two reasons. one: looking back on my old work all i can think is how cheesy and sentimental and terrible it was. but if you ask most writers thats what theyll say about most of their old stuff rereading it years removed. hindsight is 20/20 sure, but it also makes you forget the things that were good about ... well whatever. some of it really is just shitty, but im losing focus again. REASON ONE: (im yelling at myself, yes) i get all the embarrassment out of the way first. reason two: having embarrassed myself beyond repair itll be way easier to write and share new things.
so what else is new? fuck you thats what else. nah im kidding. thats just self loathing pushing out of my throat like a half pound burger bubbling on a pony keg of warm beer. not that i had that today. what did i have today? i had a dream about murder and betrayal and a big orange and black cat. there was a lot of blood. i didnt mean to rat them out, but i didnt want to get shot either. i mean if i had to choose... ill tell you about it. ill write about it. rss for the story site is coming soon. that is 9/10ths a promise. id go so far as to say 10/10ths. we're wonderful together. or dysfunctional. maladjusted. i dont fear god. i fear what god makes people do.
///ladytron - "skools out" you know, movin on from the academic promised land and the baggage and the rails and the contracts and the debts of it all... its been freeing. like truly freeing. like the last time i felt this free was the end of highschool almost a decade ago. the simplicity of this song. the tiny keyboard. the graininess. it captures that feeling. that whiff of undeveloped potential to be and do anything or nothing while you watch the sun set and touch a flame to a cigarette you didnt really earn but are gonna smoke anyway because the moment is right and no one can tell you different because they know it too. its good to let go when you actually have the power to make the choice.
6/13/10
industry, power, respect.
today kicks off a week of industry. my life in its current format leaves very little time (relatively speaking, since if i were an expert in any of this stuff it would probably take me half as much time) for me to actually work on the things i, meeeee, wants to work on. if i could i would love to spend 8 hours doing markup and 4 hours doing art, but unfortunately the litany of job applications and form after form after form after form that has to be filled out leaves me with probably half as much time as i would like.
throw in cooking for sedentary people (two hours minimum average) cleaning up after said people (one hour minimum) plus other inbetween projects as assigned and what do you get? you get not very much time left at all. thats what you get. plus headaches. and rage boners. yeah, i thought it was weird at first too but ill get into that more later.
so anyway. at the risk of having all of my available free time ripped away from me for having jinxed myself i hereby declare this week to be industrialization week.
what this means to you? it means you shoulda bought that rain coat last thursday cuz its about to rain harder than a methane storm on titan. or harder than the main floor at a strip club on 25 cent lap dance night. whichever is more unpleasant in your mind. but thats a good thing though. because its like a dad who goes to beat his kid and the kid cringes but then the dad realizes he forgot to wear a belt to the museum that day so the kid is off the hook... but not like that. better? hmmm lemme start that over.....
what this means to you: this means that this running account will soon feature links to my works of fictions and poetry. maybe through rss... not really sure... but i will learn and when i do you will know because itll be up here. of course with anything i do theres a certain reserved shyness at first. well not everything. that is definitely not true. i love talking about sex. sex sex sex.... whatever im a guy. that just comes with the territory. seeeeex. penis penis penis penis LOL sorry . .... uhm where was oh yeah... so with sharing the fiction though, thats always a difficult thing for me. mainly because i failed the fiction segment of the degree i didnt get. go figure. i shoulda been a mechanic. its not too late though. actually when i do get a job i will probably go to technical school and just keep writing because i love it and would be doing it anyway.
sooo uhmmmmmm that is some seriously loose thinking up there.
recap? is that even necessary? probably. in summation
over the next 5 - 7 days i hope to give you access to my fiction, because i love you, thats why. i would be not telling the truth if i said i didnt care if you liked it or not. but i would also be not not telling the truth if i said ... what would i say there ... i thought i had a contrast going. apparently not.
time to move my third world media country into my second world. with strippers. and black jack. and cotton candy... but mostly cotton candy.
///bonobo - "pickup" thats that shiiiit. that beat and that flute together that just make you wish you coulda been at a house party in a sweaty basement with some young dj who had an ear and no cred who ripped it up every night with class and panache and who now graced you with rhythm so fresh you could have swore he knew you'd meet the girl you were dancing with that very night out on the porch and that she would love that song just as much as you did and that right when things were about to get awkward it would be the perfect spell to cast on her body. i dunno. lol. this song just puts me in a flow coma. whatever i was doing before it came on temporarily ceases so i can give my brain full capacity to bounce from beat to beat and dip in between the bass trees chasing after the flighty notes of the flute.
throw in cooking for sedentary people (two hours minimum average) cleaning up after said people (one hour minimum) plus other inbetween projects as assigned and what do you get? you get not very much time left at all. thats what you get. plus headaches. and rage boners. yeah, i thought it was weird at first too but ill get into that more later.
so anyway. at the risk of having all of my available free time ripped away from me for having jinxed myself i hereby declare this week to be industrialization week.
what this means to you? it means you shoulda bought that rain coat last thursday cuz its about to rain harder than a methane storm on titan. or harder than the main floor at a strip club on 25 cent lap dance night. whichever is more unpleasant in your mind. but thats a good thing though. because its like a dad who goes to beat his kid and the kid cringes but then the dad realizes he forgot to wear a belt to the museum that day so the kid is off the hook... but not like that. better? hmmm lemme start that over.....
what this means to you: this means that this running account will soon feature links to my works of fictions and poetry. maybe through rss... not really sure... but i will learn and when i do you will know because itll be up here. of course with anything i do theres a certain reserved shyness at first. well not everything. that is definitely not true. i love talking about sex. sex sex sex.... whatever im a guy. that just comes with the territory. seeeeex. penis penis penis penis LOL sorry . .... uhm where was oh yeah... so with sharing the fiction though, thats always a difficult thing for me. mainly because i failed the fiction segment of the degree i didnt get. go figure. i shoulda been a mechanic. its not too late though. actually when i do get a job i will probably go to technical school and just keep writing because i love it and would be doing it anyway.
sooo uhmmmmmm that is some seriously loose thinking up there.
recap? is that even necessary? probably. in summation
over the next 5 - 7 days i hope to give you access to my fiction, because i love you, thats why. i would be not telling the truth if i said i didnt care if you liked it or not. but i would also be not not telling the truth if i said ... what would i say there ... i thought i had a contrast going. apparently not.time to move my third world media country into my second world. with strippers. and black jack. and cotton candy... but mostly cotton candy.
///bonobo - "pickup" thats that shiiiit. that beat and that flute together that just make you wish you coulda been at a house party in a sweaty basement with some young dj who had an ear and no cred who ripped it up every night with class and panache and who now graced you with rhythm so fresh you could have swore he knew you'd meet the girl you were dancing with that very night out on the porch and that she would love that song just as much as you did and that right when things were about to get awkward it would be the perfect spell to cast on her body. i dunno. lol. this song just puts me in a flow coma. whatever i was doing before it came on temporarily ceases so i can give my brain full capacity to bounce from beat to beat and dip in between the bass trees chasing after the flighty notes of the flute.
7/30/08
six chords 07/30/08
Subject : The Six Chords I Strummed While We Lived
Posted Date: : Jul 30, 2008 6:31 AM
You, a monolith of Grecian manliness, tuned by an athletic ear both formidable in its endowments & remorseless in its tasks, whose shadow could no longer accommodate my pluck & pithiness.
Anticlimaxes flow like sex in a tub brimming with insecurity. That was the last thought in my mind as we fought, you, bare to the hips, & me, just bare as I conjoined our skulls in a final pathetic head butt.
"Pounds of force, how many?" Drunken calculus flew between us, under-armored bombers, spotlighted, on night raids over Berlin as we closed our eyes & leapt, scalps punching dual holes in the drywall ceiling.
What was I to do with a red box of 2200 bright orange Cheez-Its? I don't know. Who could with half a 30 rack under their belt? Going out your 2nd story window with them, just to spite you, was not my best idea.
I watched you fuck her; granted we all wanted a piece of Chang that year. I never waxed prolific as I did that night, but the problem with having a Crayola heart is that the best colors tend to run out first.
"Quick! Eat all the tangerines before they open the door!" Wednesdays were the best; do you remember those as clearly as I do? Clear as Sunday's sun breaching Saturday's tented & rain washed scrap metal?
///Vangelis - "Song of White" timeless vangelis at his usual best. thin synth and a drum line that is minimal in its composure, but collected in its execution make this a very tight track with little room for wild variation. there's more to life than drinking the entire liquor cabinet.
Posted Date: : Jul 30, 2008 6:31 AM
You, a monolith of Grecian manliness, tuned by an athletic ear both formidable in its endowments & remorseless in its tasks, whose shadow could no longer accommodate my pluck & pithiness.
Anticlimaxes flow like sex in a tub brimming with insecurity. That was the last thought in my mind as we fought, you, bare to the hips, & me, just bare as I conjoined our skulls in a final pathetic head butt.
"Pounds of force, how many?" Drunken calculus flew between us, under-armored bombers, spotlighted, on night raids over Berlin as we closed our eyes & leapt, scalps punching dual holes in the drywall ceiling.
What was I to do with a red box of 2200 bright orange Cheez-Its? I don't know. Who could with half a 30 rack under their belt? Going out your 2nd story window with them, just to spite you, was not my best idea.
I watched you fuck her; granted we all wanted a piece of Chang that year. I never waxed prolific as I did that night, but the problem with having a Crayola heart is that the best colors tend to run out first.
"Quick! Eat all the tangerines before they open the door!" Wednesdays were the best; do you remember those as clearly as I do? Clear as Sunday's sun breaching Saturday's tented & rain washed scrap metal?
///Vangelis - "Song of White" timeless vangelis at his usual best. thin synth and a drum line that is minimal in its composure, but collected in its execution make this a very tight track with little room for wild variation. there's more to life than drinking the entire liquor cabinet.
2/11/08
a tribute able 02/11/08
Subject : a tribute able
Posted Date: : Mar 11, 2008 9:11 AM
i scrubbed the floor with comet. and had half a mind to mix a glass for my brother's lunch. why should anyone get all the bragging rights anyway. grades came in this week. and had i half the mind to do so i would have burned. motivation into my two little hands back when it could have meant something. its the kind of thing that makes you. me. want to say its no big deal. but turning life around is not so easy as cleaning up spilled blood.
there's little glamour in cutting. ive realized since this morning. because im still just as miserable as the stain on the floor. or the paper towels. i wrapped my arm with. its hard to believe its only saturday. and loneliness is having no one to miss. me. ive been told my feelings are attributable to chemical imbalances. nothing a little elbow grease can't fix. its no big deal. when there's so much to be done. in other worlds.
get down on your knees. and pray to god for help. maybe everything will work itself out between strokes. nothing to it but to do it. right? the hard part about cleaning tile floor. is that the grout stains easily. something to do with the acids in DNA. people will be waking up soon. invading my world. and me. i am not ready.
Posted Date: : Mar 11, 2008 9:11 AM
i scrubbed the floor with comet. and had half a mind to mix a glass for my brother's lunch. why should anyone get all the bragging rights anyway. grades came in this week. and had i half the mind to do so i would have burned. motivation into my two little hands back when it could have meant something. its the kind of thing that makes you. me. want to say its no big deal. but turning life around is not so easy as cleaning up spilled blood.
there's little glamour in cutting. ive realized since this morning. because im still just as miserable as the stain on the floor. or the paper towels. i wrapped my arm with. its hard to believe its only saturday. and loneliness is having no one to miss. me. ive been told my feelings are attributable to chemical imbalances. nothing a little elbow grease can't fix. its no big deal. when there's so much to be done. in other worlds.
get down on your knees. and pray to god for help. maybe everything will work itself out between strokes. nothing to it but to do it. right? the hard part about cleaning tile floor. is that the grout stains easily. something to do with the acids in DNA. people will be waking up soon. invading my world. and me. i am not ready.
2/10/08
shit is wack 02/10/08
Subject : shit is wack
Posted Date: : Mar 10, 2008 5:27 PM
so im trying to figure out a name for my book that im working on. yes i am working on a book of 300 poems. oh i didnt tell you? hah! thats cuz it was a triple double secret effort that i am only now making public. there will be no illustrations in this book either. i am not an artist. but actually i am trying to be one in a webcomic that i am attempting to kick start with a good friend of mine you might know as the illkahn. but that aside...
im trying to think of a name for my book... something that says: these poems arent necessarily poems, but not theyre not stories either. something that says that what i am about to read will change me, but not necessarily profoundly... maybe just adjust how i see things in the world around me. something that says that what is contained herein is not really political as much as it is introspective... not seriously world opinion as an opinion lost in the world. i was thinking something like forced cadence.... or maybe... quiet down... down time... something with two words is what i am leaning on.
i know that i still want to be an author and i know that i still want to have a masters degree.... im just not sure what i want that masters degree to be in. i am having serious second thoughts about teaching as a career. maybe ill be a professional librarian.... thatll give me time to write and its something i have kind of enjoyed over the years (i work at a library right now). who the fuck knows... not me. that shit is wack. i hate not knowing things. ill keep working though. sorry ive been away for so long. again. hopefully the gaps will get smaller.
Posted Date: : Mar 10, 2008 5:27 PM
so im trying to figure out a name for my book that im working on. yes i am working on a book of 300 poems. oh i didnt tell you? hah! thats cuz it was a triple double secret effort that i am only now making public. there will be no illustrations in this book either. i am not an artist. but actually i am trying to be one in a webcomic that i am attempting to kick start with a good friend of mine you might know as the illkahn. but that aside...
im trying to think of a name for my book... something that says: these poems arent necessarily poems, but not theyre not stories either. something that says that what i am about to read will change me, but not necessarily profoundly... maybe just adjust how i see things in the world around me. something that says that what is contained herein is not really political as much as it is introspective... not seriously world opinion as an opinion lost in the world. i was thinking something like forced cadence.... or maybe... quiet down... down time... something with two words is what i am leaning on.
i know that i still want to be an author and i know that i still want to have a masters degree.... im just not sure what i want that masters degree to be in. i am having serious second thoughts about teaching as a career. maybe ill be a professional librarian.... thatll give me time to write and its something i have kind of enjoyed over the years (i work at a library right now). who the fuck knows... not me. that shit is wack. i hate not knowing things. ill keep working though. sorry ive been away for so long. again. hopefully the gaps will get smaller.
6/4/07
move your pen 06/04/07
Subject : move your pen
Posted Date: : Jun 4, 2007 11:09 PM
tonight... its too warm to sleep easily and i have a boner that refuses to resolve itself. so instead of trying to pleasure myself till the bright hours of the morning and going to work tired im gonna just try to sweat it out. not really sweat it out persay, but more like lay here till i feel sleepy.
while i wait for sleep i will write some stream of concious stuff that may or may not be true. basically im entertaining myself.
i picked apart my sandwich today while considering the things i like to imagine are important. the seeds in the wheat bread. there were seeds in the wheat bread and they reminded me of gothic homes. kitchen floors dusted with flour. flour that falls deeper. pressed by footsteps between the dulled boards. sprinkling down to the cellar where Tigris died. after birthing her litter. of still borns.
it was tuna fish again. not that i have anything against dolphins. or fishermen. theres a show on called deadliest catch featuring the dancing talents of a thing. i forget which talent im supposed to say. the tuna was old. i could taste it. the can. i could taste the can between bites. and i noticed the refrigerator door was still open.
the cool touch of air around my ankles just like the last time. i showered, but left my bedroom window open. i couldnt help thinking how gorgeous i looked. for the first minutes. before i realized there was a man standing beneath the street lights. just to the left of the oak tree that nearly died last winter. knowing the uncertainty. the measured seconds before my fingers shut the window. was the same.
a mouthful of tin shards and dry oats. mixed and mashed together with the smoked guts of some thing i'd never before laid. eyes on and probably never would. i picked that sandwich. for forty minutes. watching the sun and staring it down till it hid behind the big easy hills. and cast its shadows where my hands couldnt interfere. someone should probably. throw it out.
///the dust brothers - "jacks smirking revenge" not much to say here. the dust brothers are the chemical brothers. i think thats good enough if it matters at all. bbye for now.
Posted Date: : Jun 4, 2007 11:09 PM
tonight... its too warm to sleep easily and i have a boner that refuses to resolve itself. so instead of trying to pleasure myself till the bright hours of the morning and going to work tired im gonna just try to sweat it out. not really sweat it out persay, but more like lay here till i feel sleepy.
while i wait for sleep i will write some stream of concious stuff that may or may not be true. basically im entertaining myself.
i picked apart my sandwich today while considering the things i like to imagine are important. the seeds in the wheat bread. there were seeds in the wheat bread and they reminded me of gothic homes. kitchen floors dusted with flour. flour that falls deeper. pressed by footsteps between the dulled boards. sprinkling down to the cellar where Tigris died. after birthing her litter. of still borns.
it was tuna fish again. not that i have anything against dolphins. or fishermen. theres a show on called deadliest catch featuring the dancing talents of a thing. i forget which talent im supposed to say. the tuna was old. i could taste it. the can. i could taste the can between bites. and i noticed the refrigerator door was still open.
the cool touch of air around my ankles just like the last time. i showered, but left my bedroom window open. i couldnt help thinking how gorgeous i looked. for the first minutes. before i realized there was a man standing beneath the street lights. just to the left of the oak tree that nearly died last winter. knowing the uncertainty. the measured seconds before my fingers shut the window. was the same.
a mouthful of tin shards and dry oats. mixed and mashed together with the smoked guts of some thing i'd never before laid. eyes on and probably never would. i picked that sandwich. for forty minutes. watching the sun and staring it down till it hid behind the big easy hills. and cast its shadows where my hands couldnt interfere. someone should probably. throw it out.
///the dust brothers - "jacks smirking revenge" not much to say here. the dust brothers are the chemical brothers. i think thats good enough if it matters at all. bbye for now.
5/31/07
the starvation diet 05/31/07
Subject : the starvation diet continues
Posted Date: : May 31, 2007 3:39 PM
more and more i ask myself "is it worth it" less and less. kind of a disjoint sentence, but there are worse things, like having your tongue fall out. in the grand mother fucking scheme of things a few months is like a few months. in a decade there are 120 months. three months. one hundred. and twenty. months. three months. 3 months not so big. in lieu of the beautacious anne to bounce my lunacy off of ive taken up reading. you would think that a writer would read a lot, but a writer, namely me, dont necessasarily do that.
dont get me wrong, i read a lot. just not a lot of the things i would prefer to be reading at any given moment in time. im thinking once i finish my american beauty | donnie darko parody i'll post it here.... and then start on a 14 page poem to my lover. yeah thats right. romantic, i know. whats that? not what you were thinking? you put another word in front of the "i know?" well good for you. you should probably congratulate yourself if you haven't already. you have? well, fine job. anyway, i want to do this because i want to mail her something. i've never mailed anything to spain before so this is somewhat of an exhillirating idea for me. probably not so much, you. i also want to get started writing a poem everyday. just because its healthy. in a very healthful way. to be in a very healthful way.
i really reallllly want to go to spain to be with her. i would potentially ride in a crate with a single airhole on a cut rate airline and assuming i didnt get there dead it would all have been worth it. but since i would probably not survive the trip ill just wait for her to come back, possibly twiddle my thumbs, and also possibly get a tatoo and another ear piercing. a tatoo of what is the question. i really wanted a snowflake, but now i feel like there are better symbols to describe myself to people who dont know me who might see me shirtless at the beach or something. im still leaning toward a snowflake but i could also go for animals (real or imagined), other elemental/weather symbols, and possibly man made objects, excluding crosses. i could also go for names... maybe. i should probably wait on names till knots have been tied... which may or may not happen. you never know how things will go when you're just 22. im trying not to over run myself to the point of being delusional about love. im pretty sure my results are mixed.
ive taken to shouting at my guinea pig. he doesnt understand anyway. more on our relationship next time. ill try to include more illegally copied internet pictures too. no one likes a dry martini unless theyre pretending to.
///mum - "there is a number of small things" a classic builder song. elements are added and added as what i would call the chorus... maybe just the chore chords cycle round and round... until the song reaches its peak 4 and a half minutes in. from there it begins to slowly unravel into a number of small things, each one precious and vital as a gem stone in a black velvet pouch. give it a listen on a tuesday night. yes. a tuesday night.
Posted Date: : May 31, 2007 3:39 PM
more and more i ask myself "is it worth it" less and less. kind of a disjoint sentence, but there are worse things, like having your tongue fall out. in the grand mother fucking scheme of things a few months is like a few months. in a decade there are 120 months. three months. one hundred. and twenty. months. three months. 3 months not so big. in lieu of the beautacious anne to bounce my lunacy off of ive taken up reading. you would think that a writer would read a lot, but a writer, namely me, dont necessasarily do that.
dont get me wrong, i read a lot. just not a lot of the things i would prefer to be reading at any given moment in time. im thinking once i finish my american beauty | donnie darko parody i'll post it here.... and then start on a 14 page poem to my lover. yeah thats right. romantic, i know. whats that? not what you were thinking? you put another word in front of the "i know?" well good for you. you should probably congratulate yourself if you haven't already. you have? well, fine job. anyway, i want to do this because i want to mail her something. i've never mailed anything to spain before so this is somewhat of an exhillirating idea for me. probably not so much, you. i also want to get started writing a poem everyday. just because its healthy. in a very healthful way. to be in a very healthful way.
i really reallllly want to go to spain to be with her. i would potentially ride in a crate with a single airhole on a cut rate airline and assuming i didnt get there dead it would all have been worth it. but since i would probably not survive the trip ill just wait for her to come back, possibly twiddle my thumbs, and also possibly get a tatoo and another ear piercing. a tatoo of what is the question. i really wanted a snowflake, but now i feel like there are better symbols to describe myself to people who dont know me who might see me shirtless at the beach or something. im still leaning toward a snowflake but i could also go for animals (real or imagined), other elemental/weather symbols, and possibly man made objects, excluding crosses. i could also go for names... maybe. i should probably wait on names till knots have been tied... which may or may not happen. you never know how things will go when you're just 22. im trying not to over run myself to the point of being delusional about love. im pretty sure my results are mixed.
ive taken to shouting at my guinea pig. he doesnt understand anyway. more on our relationship next time. ill try to include more illegally copied internet pictures too. no one likes a dry martini unless theyre pretending to.
///mum - "there is a number of small things" a classic builder song. elements are added and added as what i would call the chorus... maybe just the chore chords cycle round and round... until the song reaches its peak 4 and a half minutes in. from there it begins to slowly unravel into a number of small things, each one precious and vital as a gem stone in a black velvet pouch. give it a listen on a tuesday night. yes. a tuesday night.
12/21/06
a poem 12/21/06
Subject : a poem
Posted Date: : Dec 21, 2006 4:22 AM
(so i insist that i have some chops when it comes to poetry so im going to compose a poem as my blog entry. ignore the double spacing. it means nothing, i just couldnt find out how to turn it off when i hit the enter key. it kind of fucks up the form, but try to bear with it. my style of choice has been deemed prose by some older folks [i actually chewed out a woman 30 years my senior with as many of those years spent writing, but she had the nerve to disqualify one of my entries to her contest as "not poetry at all"] but it is poetry. its my poetry.)
"Food Groups"
he turned his head. to see if he was still bleeding
in the mirror. "nothing to worry about"
i told my hands while they zipped me up. the urinal chuckled,
full of fluid and more satisfied than i can remember being.
i washed my hands to get myself off
but the color stuck. i shot my eyes over my shoulder
to see if i could get a last look at his insides.
i only saw porcelain. later we consumated
our first real fight with rounds of drinks.
the brown leather at his elbow chafed my bare skin
where our arms met on the bar. i didnt mind
his jacket as much as his friendship, but it looked good
on him. i kept my mouth mostly shut
to ease my anger into the weight of the wide bar stool.
my arms refused to move when he suggested
we take it outside. i used his empty coaster
to write down the bartender's number.
she said she was half irish too after smoking his
unfinished cigarette. the amber pool in my
fragile glass didn't go down easy when i finally swallowed.
thats it. thats what ive written. as i typed i could feel chips of rust flying off my knuckles, but i still think its kind of good poem. i should write more. i felt like the seasoned rider who, after going on a vacation to the bahamas, finds themself tangled in their familiar harness when they got home and tried to mount up. its embarassing. but i like it. call it internalized favoritism for myself. or call it shit.
Posted Date: : Dec 21, 2006 4:22 AM
(so i insist that i have some chops when it comes to poetry so im going to compose a poem as my blog entry. ignore the double spacing. it means nothing, i just couldnt find out how to turn it off when i hit the enter key. it kind of fucks up the form, but try to bear with it. my style of choice has been deemed prose by some older folks [i actually chewed out a woman 30 years my senior with as many of those years spent writing, but she had the nerve to disqualify one of my entries to her contest as "not poetry at all"] but it is poetry. its my poetry.)
"Food Groups"
he turned his head. to see if he was still bleeding
in the mirror. "nothing to worry about"
i told my hands while they zipped me up. the urinal chuckled,
full of fluid and more satisfied than i can remember being.
i washed my hands to get myself off
but the color stuck. i shot my eyes over my shoulder
to see if i could get a last look at his insides.
i only saw porcelain. later we consumated
our first real fight with rounds of drinks.
the brown leather at his elbow chafed my bare skin
where our arms met on the bar. i didnt mind
his jacket as much as his friendship, but it looked good
on him. i kept my mouth mostly shut
to ease my anger into the weight of the wide bar stool.
my arms refused to move when he suggested
we take it outside. i used his empty coaster
to write down the bartender's number.
she said she was half irish too after smoking his
unfinished cigarette. the amber pool in my
fragile glass didn't go down easy when i finally swallowed.
thats it. thats what ive written. as i typed i could feel chips of rust flying off my knuckles, but i still think its kind of good poem. i should write more. i felt like the seasoned rider who, after going on a vacation to the bahamas, finds themself tangled in their familiar harness when they got home and tried to mount up. its embarassing. but i like it. call it internalized favoritism for myself. or call it shit.
12/1/06
katamari fortissimo damacy 12/01/06
Subject : katamari fortissimo damacy
Posted Date: : Dec 1, 2006 7:09 PM
katamari damacy is one of the most incredible video games ever.
the best song on the soundtrack is "angel flavor's present," and whats more is that every song has something to do with rolling things up into balls. the story goes that your daddy, the king of the universe, somehow fucked things up and accidentally destroyed every star in the sky. so... being the good natured guy he is (however, very busy because he has a universe to run) he decides to let you take a crack at fixing things. he gives you this ball called a katamari and your job is to roll it around and pick up progressively larger and larger things (starting with thumbtacks, chewing gum, paper clips, and moving through the course of the game to buildings, cars, and trees). the last level of the game is picking up continents on earth. if your katamari becomes massive enough by the end it ignites into a star. pretty bad ass and one of the best and most diverse gaming soundtracks ever. play it.
against my better judgement, ive started watching inuyasha. fuedal drama is okay (champloo) but this stuff is just shitty. its addicting in the way lost, or MTV made, or even everybody loves raymond is addicting. my shame knows no bounds.
on a side note... im pretty sure my professor is screwing me over by giving me an additional assignment in the same vein of a previous assignment. he just made the kill list.
on a further askew side note... i think im going to save up some money and buy some badass sex toys. if i can drink when i want to and smoke when i want to why cant i have sex with inanimate objects when i want to? so i will. it sounds bad, but its really not. if you can isolate yourself so far from your hand that masturbation gets you off quickly you might as well spring for one. im also thinking about having someone interview my alter self. i was really thinking about it the other day because if theres one thing ive always wanted to know its who's at the controls when i black out. so im going to have someone strap me down and feed me shots till i switch over then record an interview. i guess ill have to cathetize myself so i dont piss my pants or something during the process.
im kind of looking forward to it.
im also considering freestyling a poem here at some point. for more poetry can be kind of embarassing... like ejaculating... except that its really awesome when you can free up a good one... like ejaculating... then there's the fear of inadequacy... like ejaculating... and being completely misunderstood... like pre-mature ejaculation... and then the other thing is once its out there its out there and theres no bringing it back... like nuclear missles. so im considering it. knowing me ill do it. cuz i love words.
Posted Date: : Dec 1, 2006 7:09 PM
katamari damacy is one of the most incredible video games ever.
the best song on the soundtrack is "angel flavor's present," and whats more is that every song has something to do with rolling things up into balls. the story goes that your daddy, the king of the universe, somehow fucked things up and accidentally destroyed every star in the sky. so... being the good natured guy he is (however, very busy because he has a universe to run) he decides to let you take a crack at fixing things. he gives you this ball called a katamari and your job is to roll it around and pick up progressively larger and larger things (starting with thumbtacks, chewing gum, paper clips, and moving through the course of the game to buildings, cars, and trees). the last level of the game is picking up continents on earth. if your katamari becomes massive enough by the end it ignites into a star. pretty bad ass and one of the best and most diverse gaming soundtracks ever. play it.
against my better judgement, ive started watching inuyasha. fuedal drama is okay (champloo) but this stuff is just shitty. its addicting in the way lost, or MTV made, or even everybody loves raymond is addicting. my shame knows no bounds.
on a side note... im pretty sure my professor is screwing me over by giving me an additional assignment in the same vein of a previous assignment. he just made the kill list.
on a further askew side note... i think im going to save up some money and buy some badass sex toys. if i can drink when i want to and smoke when i want to why cant i have sex with inanimate objects when i want to? so i will. it sounds bad, but its really not. if you can isolate yourself so far from your hand that masturbation gets you off quickly you might as well spring for one. im also thinking about having someone interview my alter self. i was really thinking about it the other day because if theres one thing ive always wanted to know its who's at the controls when i black out. so im going to have someone strap me down and feed me shots till i switch over then record an interview. i guess ill have to cathetize myself so i dont piss my pants or something during the process.
im kind of looking forward to it.
im also considering freestyling a poem here at some point. for more poetry can be kind of embarassing... like ejaculating... except that its really awesome when you can free up a good one... like ejaculating... then there's the fear of inadequacy... like ejaculating... and being completely misunderstood... like pre-mature ejaculation... and then the other thing is once its out there its out there and theres no bringing it back... like nuclear missles. so im considering it. knowing me ill do it. cuz i love words.
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