January - Run the Jewels - Sea Legs
February - Sleigh Bells - Rachel Remix
March - Run the Jewels - No Come Down
April - Matt and Kim - Lessons Learned
May - The Sabres of Paradise - Smoke Belch
June - Deathgrips - Blackjack you don't pay attention, you're going to get whacked
July - Machinedrum - Loveking
August - Starfucker - Rawnald Gregory
September - Various - Listen to the Animals
October - Nneka - Heartbeats fuck when you want me
November - Miss Kittin - Happy Violentine oscar foxtrot november
December - Sylvan Esso - Hey Mami
Fault of circumstance. Blood blood blood blood blood. Machinedrum almost made it for a two'fer, but Loveking was pushed off of the list for Nneka. The list is in a particular order. I should offer honorable mentions and I will:
in no particular order
Junkie XL - Zero to Nine
Machinedrum - Loveking
Macklemore - Whitewalls
Junkie XL - Blackjack
Goldie - Mother
Meaghan Trainor - All About That Bass
Daft Punk - Giorgio By Moroder
My brother tells me often "love and peace". I appreciate the words. I do. Conscientious objection is not an option for some. Draft dodger maybe. Acceptable? Yes. For another time? Yes.
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 nobility. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nobility. Show all posts
2/22/15
7/6/13
Cliffside Funeral Wedding Dream
Massive dream. There was a procession across a hill side and on that hill side there were hundreds of tombstones. The hill side was a little over grown and as it sloped down the entire thing was cut off at the far edge by a cliff. There was a procession happening there, the women dressed in gowns with all kinds of frillies and big brimmed hats with white flowers in them and all of the men dressed in tuxedos with black ties and shiny shoes
I was watching it from where the birds sit in the air and I wanted to get a closer look so I dove down and sat on one of the tomb stones to watch them walk. They were hiking on a narrow trail that led around the curve of the hill top and I couldn't see where they were going or from where they walked. I noticed some of the men wearing top hats and it was kind of cool. It made me want to have a top hat of my own, but not enough to actually make one. There was no music, only the sound of their feet kicking up dirt, but it rained the day before so there was no dust.
Some of the women had really thin canes and used them to help themselves push farther up the hill while they walked. Everyone there looked so stately and I wanted to be a part of it so I pressed myself into the grid, but I wasn't thinking and ended up there with a football and shorts and a dirty tee once I got the address right. That was the only hard part.
I kept throwing the football at people, but my resolution wasn't good enough and it kept passing through their bodies like they weren't even there. It would take a bounce or two and go off the side of the cliff and I felt worse and worse trying to make it happen and every time I kept saying "I'll go get it" and I would hike down the hill, navigating the gray and black and mossed over tombstones to the cliff side and then start the climb down. The view was incredible. There were birds flying beneath my feet dipping in and out of the canyon and there were trees growing down there where the cliff would ledge for a few feet and then drop down hundreds.
I fast forwarded the climb and return and clicked back on when I got back to the top. The procession must have been miles long. I was doing it all day. Another pass, another pass through, another climb. "I'll go get it." And they kept on walking. Some of the men had taxidermy turtles on the tops of their hats, spray painted black. I started to follow the procession to see where it was going. I liked being up in the air, but I liked being in shorts better and the football felt good to hold and toss even though I couldn't make anyone in the procession catch it. It felt good to walk.
I got distracted though. One of the tombs was a mausoleum. I wandered off of the trail because I was really interested in the iron work of the gates. They rusted over beautifully and I wondered about the hands that made them so pretty. The tomb itself was a simple white box of big blocks. No angels or ridiculous adornments. No saints. Nothing grew on it. The gate was unlocked so I walked inside.
The floor sloped down and into the hill side. There was nothing inside of it except a stone work tunnel. Inside of the tunnel there was a waterfall that arched through it. Thinking back the water probably was blown up from the right side and across the roof to terminate in the left side gutter. I started walking down it and then running because the air smelled so good and earth filled and wet and oxygen rich and I wanted to blow as much of it down my lungs as I could. I wanted to take my shirt off so it dissolved in bits of dust, pixel for pixel, and while I was running my friend started running too and caught up to me. I heard him and his shoes going step for step, but he still caught up to me because his stride was longer and I was thinking I could beat him to the end. I started off with quick feet, the same tempo, but we both got to our top gears and once you're there the only thing that matters is how far your footfalls can distance themselves from the one coming before.
He said "do you want to race?" I said "Hell yes." We booked it toward the light, running underneath the procession. I still had the football in the crook of my arm. I beat him out by a step and came to a skidding halt. The tunnel was a field of gravel on the other side. All of the pebbles we kicked up stopping went over the other side of the cliff and made little pock pock noises on their way down. I looked over my shoulder and the hill top was still dotted with tombstones. Some of them broken and graffiti on them. The procession was gone though.
Catching my breath I realized I was breathing hard outside of dreamland and it woke me up before I was ready to leave that place.
/// Lionrock - "Packet of Peace (Chemical Brothers Mix)"
I was watching it from where the birds sit in the air and I wanted to get a closer look so I dove down and sat on one of the tomb stones to watch them walk. They were hiking on a narrow trail that led around the curve of the hill top and I couldn't see where they were going or from where they walked. I noticed some of the men wearing top hats and it was kind of cool. It made me want to have a top hat of my own, but not enough to actually make one. There was no music, only the sound of their feet kicking up dirt, but it rained the day before so there was no dust.
Some of the women had really thin canes and used them to help themselves push farther up the hill while they walked. Everyone there looked so stately and I wanted to be a part of it so I pressed myself into the grid, but I wasn't thinking and ended up there with a football and shorts and a dirty tee once I got the address right. That was the only hard part.
I kept throwing the football at people, but my resolution wasn't good enough and it kept passing through their bodies like they weren't even there. It would take a bounce or two and go off the side of the cliff and I felt worse and worse trying to make it happen and every time I kept saying "I'll go get it" and I would hike down the hill, navigating the gray and black and mossed over tombstones to the cliff side and then start the climb down. The view was incredible. There were birds flying beneath my feet dipping in and out of the canyon and there were trees growing down there where the cliff would ledge for a few feet and then drop down hundreds.
I fast forwarded the climb and return and clicked back on when I got back to the top. The procession must have been miles long. I was doing it all day. Another pass, another pass through, another climb. "I'll go get it." And they kept on walking. Some of the men had taxidermy turtles on the tops of their hats, spray painted black. I started to follow the procession to see where it was going. I liked being up in the air, but I liked being in shorts better and the football felt good to hold and toss even though I couldn't make anyone in the procession catch it. It felt good to walk.
I got distracted though. One of the tombs was a mausoleum. I wandered off of the trail because I was really interested in the iron work of the gates. They rusted over beautifully and I wondered about the hands that made them so pretty. The tomb itself was a simple white box of big blocks. No angels or ridiculous adornments. No saints. Nothing grew on it. The gate was unlocked so I walked inside.
The floor sloped down and into the hill side. There was nothing inside of it except a stone work tunnel. Inside of the tunnel there was a waterfall that arched through it. Thinking back the water probably was blown up from the right side and across the roof to terminate in the left side gutter. I started walking down it and then running because the air smelled so good and earth filled and wet and oxygen rich and I wanted to blow as much of it down my lungs as I could. I wanted to take my shirt off so it dissolved in bits of dust, pixel for pixel, and while I was running my friend started running too and caught up to me. I heard him and his shoes going step for step, but he still caught up to me because his stride was longer and I was thinking I could beat him to the end. I started off with quick feet, the same tempo, but we both got to our top gears and once you're there the only thing that matters is how far your footfalls can distance themselves from the one coming before.
He said "do you want to race?" I said "Hell yes." We booked it toward the light, running underneath the procession. I still had the football in the crook of my arm. I beat him out by a step and came to a skidding halt. The tunnel was a field of gravel on the other side. All of the pebbles we kicked up stopping went over the other side of the cliff and made little pock pock noises on their way down. I looked over my shoulder and the hill top was still dotted with tombstones. Some of them broken and graffiti on them. The procession was gone though.
Catching my breath I realized I was breathing hard outside of dreamland and it woke me up before I was ready to leave that place.
/// Lionrock - "Packet of Peace (Chemical Brothers Mix)"
7/27/12
Communications Fault: Line 446890-C0-CC1 (circuit a1 >> branch 9)
I've had a very difficult time with communication. The heat hasn't helped. The pressure cooker of my apartment hasn't helped. I know what it's an extension of, and yes, I don't want to talk about it directly because it has been all consuming. Requiring maximum effort to distance myself from and hide from others, but even the lack of communication is telling enough for the people that know me, so even the hiding has been a full time occupation. Let alone maintaining myself. That has also been a full time occupation. Missing too many consecutive days of eating. Not too many in the personal book of what too many days is, as I once went a solid week without eating until a friend intervened. But, I've come to understand that one day of not eating when the option is available, is too many days. A new standard that makes me feel glutinous, but shouldn't by any means do so, but it's a hold over from another time and another segment of my life that refuses to go away.
Communications have been strained. Within myself. Production is down. Simply not happening. Close to zero cooperation from the parties involved, but that happens. Hallucinations are up. Managing them has sucked up a lot of "up" time. Sleep is off the charts.14 to 16 hours. Cross bridge explorations, however have been phenomenal. For quite some time I couldn't remember anything and then I started coming back with pieces and parts. It got to a point yesterday where I woke up and reached for a pocket watch I found after I asked a dead body in a half crushed fully rusted barge (it was an interstate race across a state made up of only islands arranged in a rapids a half continent wide [the waves were high enough to bury the Petronas towers if they were perched on top of the Dover cliffs, and then some], but I got off course and ended up trapped in an island surrounded by weirs that made it impossible to get off it without something with an engine) if there was anything of value and he woke up and pointed to a muddy box with a finger that had a key ring dangling from it. I opened the box and there was a spring loaded clock as big as my fist with a vest fob attached to it, and I was honestly surprised that it wasn't there and I realized I was dreaming again.
There was a very large bear in my room yesterday. A very large, unusually square shaped, bear. Which tipped me off that I was probably dreaming, but then my cat popped up on my pillow and poked me in the face and the bear was still there and I realized I was symptomatic again and so I pulled up my covers, rolled over, and tried to shut it out. The sun came up, though, so everything was resolved well enough. Daylight has its uses. My sleep cycle went completely out of whack. As far as it could possibly go without looping over on itself. And then I got sick. And slept for 36 hours. I needed to. Things have been righting since. A little bit on their own, a little bit through my own efforts to force them to.
What comes next is a re-assumption of some kind of routine to protect the balance. Shield myself from the bad wiring. That's really all I am trying to do. Remake the failsafes. It was one of those rare times when one breaker fail set up the ability for the next one to fault. And the next fault set up the next two to fail. The next two set up the next four. A large part of the mental restructuring is redeveloping the system to avoid that kind of expansion. That kind of breakage leads to zero to atmosphere times that feel like blinks of the eye. I was still talking about today as though today were Sunday. With the understanding that today was Sunday. Functionally that was where I left off. Imagine your body is a car. You jump in after dreaming and turn the key and halfway to your friend's house you realize there are 30,000 more miles on it than the last time you can remember driving it. Not fun. A little scary. Where the hell have I been?
So much unmounted rage. Learning all over again how to deal with it. How to manage it effectively. How to operate within a range of reason and reasonable values. Your base language is either violence or love and the communicator operating system between them either works or it doesn't. 1 or 0. I envy the analog. They really are a different species of human being. A holdover from another time that still procreates and propagates with great success. Us digital human beings still propagate, often despite ourselves. I don't mean digital in the respect of the how our communications are moved between people. We're all digital enough to make that not matter in that respect. The step before digitization though is a separate story. A separate breakdown for another time, but it's there. Digital communication at its root is violence or love. Extreme to extreme and the methods and ways, the words and letters provide the ability to create shades of the experience. For some. For others there is an increasingly fine number of ways to say things and the translation to digital fields is easier to the point of effortlessness. It's like an exam paper. Every paper being different depending on who you are and how you were engineered. Some people receive a paper where every question has twenty boxes. Some people receive a paper with two boxes. They both have the right answer to the question on them. Expressing that answer is a lot easier when you have twenty boxes to choose from instead of two boxes and a bunch of blank space to try to scrawl in explanations and clarifications and other junk to help the twenty boxers understand what you meant.
Established frameworks of communications. No one's to blame. At least I'm not blaming anyone. I'm just frustrated with my machinery. But I already explained, you can't build new machinery with bad tools. Perhaps I didn't. A lot of things do not make it passed the cutting floor, believe it or not. The idea was this: if the tools that make new tools are broken already or offset somehow, the new tools those tools make will be off by even more. And those tools will build structures off by that much more. And those structures will house tools constructed with that offset and be poor to look at to begin with and it just continues rolling up until it all collapses and you start again with the same crappy hammer and chisel and furnace trying to build a lathe to turn some sense out of something and you end up with nothing all over again. So I dunno. I do not know. Maybe just try to enjoy the work more than the product? Maybe? Anthem of my life if I ever had to write one. Probably needs more gunshots. And more cowbell. A little more clap hands and foot stomping and a little less dirge. A little more "remember the mission and all you might do" and a little less "quarterly review for the noble and 'a societal remove' sorts of moves. Nobility, much less nobelity, is passing and as beholden to the eye as anything ever was.
///Bjork - "Pluto" ... a little bit tired, but brand new
Communications have been strained. Within myself. Production is down. Simply not happening. Close to zero cooperation from the parties involved, but that happens. Hallucinations are up. Managing them has sucked up a lot of "up" time. Sleep is off the charts.14 to 16 hours. Cross bridge explorations, however have been phenomenal. For quite some time I couldn't remember anything and then I started coming back with pieces and parts. It got to a point yesterday where I woke up and reached for a pocket watch I found after I asked a dead body in a half crushed fully rusted barge (it was an interstate race across a state made up of only islands arranged in a rapids a half continent wide [the waves were high enough to bury the Petronas towers if they were perched on top of the Dover cliffs, and then some], but I got off course and ended up trapped in an island surrounded by weirs that made it impossible to get off it without something with an engine) if there was anything of value and he woke up and pointed to a muddy box with a finger that had a key ring dangling from it. I opened the box and there was a spring loaded clock as big as my fist with a vest fob attached to it, and I was honestly surprised that it wasn't there and I realized I was dreaming again.
There was a very large bear in my room yesterday. A very large, unusually square shaped, bear. Which tipped me off that I was probably dreaming, but then my cat popped up on my pillow and poked me in the face and the bear was still there and I realized I was symptomatic again and so I pulled up my covers, rolled over, and tried to shut it out. The sun came up, though, so everything was resolved well enough. Daylight has its uses. My sleep cycle went completely out of whack. As far as it could possibly go without looping over on itself. And then I got sick. And slept for 36 hours. I needed to. Things have been righting since. A little bit on their own, a little bit through my own efforts to force them to.
What comes next is a re-assumption of some kind of routine to protect the balance. Shield myself from the bad wiring. That's really all I am trying to do. Remake the failsafes. It was one of those rare times when one breaker fail set up the ability for the next one to fault. And the next fault set up the next two to fail. The next two set up the next four. A large part of the mental restructuring is redeveloping the system to avoid that kind of expansion. That kind of breakage leads to zero to atmosphere times that feel like blinks of the eye. I was still talking about today as though today were Sunday. With the understanding that today was Sunday. Functionally that was where I left off. Imagine your body is a car. You jump in after dreaming and turn the key and halfway to your friend's house you realize there are 30,000 more miles on it than the last time you can remember driving it. Not fun. A little scary. Where the hell have I been?
So much unmounted rage. Learning all over again how to deal with it. How to manage it effectively. How to operate within a range of reason and reasonable values. Your base language is either violence or love and the communicator operating system between them either works or it doesn't. 1 or 0. I envy the analog. They really are a different species of human being. A holdover from another time that still procreates and propagates with great success. Us digital human beings still propagate, often despite ourselves. I don't mean digital in the respect of the how our communications are moved between people. We're all digital enough to make that not matter in that respect. The step before digitization though is a separate story. A separate breakdown for another time, but it's there. Digital communication at its root is violence or love. Extreme to extreme and the methods and ways, the words and letters provide the ability to create shades of the experience. For some. For others there is an increasingly fine number of ways to say things and the translation to digital fields is easier to the point of effortlessness. It's like an exam paper. Every paper being different depending on who you are and how you were engineered. Some people receive a paper where every question has twenty boxes. Some people receive a paper with two boxes. They both have the right answer to the question on them. Expressing that answer is a lot easier when you have twenty boxes to choose from instead of two boxes and a bunch of blank space to try to scrawl in explanations and clarifications and other junk to help the twenty boxers understand what you meant.
Established frameworks of communications. No one's to blame. At least I'm not blaming anyone. I'm just frustrated with my machinery. But I already explained, you can't build new machinery with bad tools. Perhaps I didn't. A lot of things do not make it passed the cutting floor, believe it or not. The idea was this: if the tools that make new tools are broken already or offset somehow, the new tools those tools make will be off by even more. And those tools will build structures off by that much more. And those structures will house tools constructed with that offset and be poor to look at to begin with and it just continues rolling up until it all collapses and you start again with the same crappy hammer and chisel and furnace trying to build a lathe to turn some sense out of something and you end up with nothing all over again. So I dunno. I do not know. Maybe just try to enjoy the work more than the product? Maybe? Anthem of my life if I ever had to write one. Probably needs more gunshots. And more cowbell. A little more clap hands and foot stomping and a little less dirge. A little more "remember the mission and all you might do" and a little less "quarterly review for the noble and 'a societal remove' sorts of moves. Nobility, much less nobelity, is passing and as beholden to the eye as anything ever was.
///Bjork - "Pluto" ... a little bit tired, but brand new
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