Gauging

I hate being an orphan.  Holidays, so many of them are a myth.  I wish there was a setting on the dial between killing them and existing.  I would suppose you must embrace the indecision each and every day.  24 hours at a time; side by each.




///Beach House - Space Song ~ however lovely it would be to staple their skin to the walls of your domicile, it will never work.  Fantasia will.  Wait.

Time To Shed, Or What They Call Its

Molt.  Molting.  It takes some time.

We have backed ourselves into a new corner.

Bare teeth.  You know I can always see

what you really are!

Scared?  Of course.  Unimaginably so.

Conscious?  Yes.  The pain scale is new.

Familiar?  No.  Unfortunately no.





///to be continued

Fireflies for the Child In Me

I know I have to get back to writing.  I've been feeling sexual pins and needles, like a blanket in a dry room with a fireplace.  It's been a very confusing sensation.  Electric and warm and immaginary, though sensate.  The land of a half million new pairs of knit socks rubbed along a tightly curled rug by one million feet, except I feel that warmth running through my hips and arm pits and around my nips and ribs and the backs of my knees and my tailbone and right behind my ears.  For days.  I know I have to get back to writing.  I know this isn't what it feels like to not write.  I don't know what this sensation is, but I want to bury my mouth and eyes and nose in it and wrap my whole body up tight in it like a cigarillo, light the end, and pitch myself into a twinkling sunset from the lip of a bridge.  I will get back to writing.  The awareness of sexual solitary confinement is blitzingly real and oddly ember drift.

I want to watch and feel the fireflies depart with the breeze.  Little by one.  One by little.  Until the only light is from the evening sky and the threat of sunrise.  I think it is the only part of that spectrum I'll get to know and share with other people in a reasonable way.

Why not enjoy it?

Will you ever have sex again?  I don't know, but I hope it feels something like this.

The Ethos of The Project

As projects continue to mount up incomplete the motor pool continues to grow.  The airfield continues to sprawl.  The docks, the compounds, the factories, the underground sites, the developers, the researchers, the caf staff, the janitors, the resource department, the policing, the eateries, the sourcing, the contractors, the licensing, it all sprawls and becomes their own cities.  Their own threaded lives to live each birth to death.  Transportation hubs and power grids.  Interlaced reasons and reasoning.

All of them existing in suspended animation.  Adjusting a blade of grass here.  Striking a cloud there.  Moving the sun a few degrees and running over every detail on that continent's sunsetting side.  Moving the sun a few degrees back and seeing it again for reference before putting it back where it was and tilting its axis a half degree so the flock of early evening moths make a little more sense.  I want to live in them in a universe of suspended animation.  I have to finish them.  As you work on them and take on new ones that universe reaches higher and higher resolutions and once they cross into the realized that's the end.

The generator stops and something new exists.  The snow globe must collapse.  The means must see their end.  Everything that was in there is now in there.  I can't keep joyriding through the suspended animation universe.   It's time for them to go.  Time to take apart the cities that sprang up around them.  There'll be other cities to build and populate.  I tell myself "it'll be fun."




///Nina Simone - "Feeling Good (Bassnectar Remix)"

Stand Up Act 1

Hi,

This is all improvised. I'll probably never get up in front of a mic because I am an impossibly shy guy, unlike the actual shyguys from the Mario universe. They were pretty in your face and aggressive. Actually I'm kind of like that too. So never mind that whole thing. I guess I'm just self conscious like everyone else who doesn't have enough money to ignore the rest of the world from the second they get pushed out of the womb like that little donut hole that pops out of a whole puncher. Who knew that those things grew up to be people. Or maybe people are just loose leaf paper. Waiting to be hole punched or something. How fun was using that thing. I must have ruined at least three acres of forests punching holes in paper. But I guess it wasn't really my fault. The teacher's were the ones who wouldn't accept paper with holes punched in the middle of it and around the corners and across the sides like St. Valentines day. Stick figures aren't going to shoot themselves. That's what meth and coke is for. Or something. Well anyway, I should probably explain a little more:

I've listened to a lot of stand up on the radio, well, on my computer. Which is the radio of my generation. Or I suppose, just my segment of my generation. The poorer people who got birthday cards with ten dollars in them from their parents. The kind of thing you'd expect from a grandparent who still believed ten cents could get you a sucker and copy of the latest Action comics in color and a trolley ride to the carnival next to the board walk made of gold and pixie dust and where the hell is that dish of Werther's I left to keep my copy of the TV Guide cross word I tore out of that magazine at the doctor's office, because I may be old and out of touch, but I'm still sharp enough to know when to steal shit instead of buying it. Thrifty. Like listening to radio on your computer instead of going to the club and seeing it live, because your poor and, shit, with that much money you could buy a whole mess of bacon and the good orange juice with the pulp in it instead of the food coloring.

Listening to all of this has basically made me as a largely failed occupational, but still pathological, writer want to express things that are funny to me too and hope that maybe like two other people will also think so. I say two, because I always like my stuff and my friend who doesn't really exist, the person who is basically holding down a time share in my head sometimes likes my stuff too so we need at least one more person in on this before it'll get good. Kind of like having sex with that person in the office that everyone has already had sex with, or actually no, it's more like picking up a copy of the latest nude mag, whatever they call, Juggs, or Juggs for black guys who apparently can only be aroused by large jewelry and x and y and z that we already featured in this magazine, but now it's earth toned and somehow more street, well whatever they call it, it's like picking that up and then you realize that "yeah, it's still just glossy paper and your left hand, dumbass. We coulda bought booze with that money you ass. Then, we could have at least forgotten that we were horny in the first place and also apparently do not have internet access." So at least me and two other people. Because one of you is imaginary.

So I'm gonna take some stabs at being funny until the acts kind of peter out, wherever that is. Maybe it'll be a continuing thing to go with my art. The problem with the world today, one of the many problems with the world today, possibly the largest problem with the world today is that there is so much to do and keep up with and pay for that there simply is not enough time to use these two hands, this one mouth, and these two eyes to generate everything that well's up inside. Which is why massive population extinction will be swell. Less stuff to do. More time to spend drawing on caves. Or at least exploring caves. How fun would that be? Screw this fucking phone bill. Who the hell am I going to call? Dave? He's ten states away for fucks sake. And the only other person alive on the east coast. My geography sucks by the way so if there are less than ten states on the east coast, I don't want to know, because I'll forget and be a forgetful jerk, but really it's your fault for giving me that information to hang on to with the expectation that I would actually commit it to essential memory where I put things like "how to breath" and "do not sleep underwater because that shit will drown you". Well I'm not calling Dave, because last time I schlepped up there it turned out he hadn't found the last post apocalyptic brewery still functioning. It was a fat rendering plant. So fuck this phone, fuck this phone bill, I'm gonna go draw on walls for the next month and get really good at growing shit." And so I figured I would take a stab at it. I mean what could it hurt.

I had this joke actually already in mind on my way home this morning. It was a fictional conversation. Happened in my head. Not fictional. Fictional to you. But this actually happened: "you smell like dog farts again."

"shut up"

"dude you smell like dog farts."

"well, shit. I have been slinging bags of dog food around for the last two hours to feed you"

"dog farts, dude. You better shower when you get home. I don't want you in my bed fartin up the sheets."

"well, shit on a stick, I'm tired as hell."

"have you been fisting dogs all night?"

"no, but that's kind of funny."

"I know, right?"

"Yes, I have been fisting dogs for the last eight hours and that is why I smell like Alpo gas. It's tough, but if I don't fist these dogs, who will? Who will fist these dogs for $7.75 an hour? Do I like it? Frankly that's none of your business. Other job skills? No. Just the fisting. Yes we do get a half hour to eat lunch. Alright then, thanks for your time. Should I wait for a follow up call for that second interview? Alright then, you take care too. Bitch. Click."

That last part was the joke. It was this thing that just struck me as hilarious. How would I explain to someone, because sometimes I am very much compelled to defend my various conditions of dress and stench and dishevelry to people I have to share public transportation with. And that's part of why I hate the bus. It's not like the subway where you can just look outside once in a while and know where you are or count the stops, unless you ride a particular bus line all the time. Your head has to always be on the gopher swivel trying to assess how much longer you can press your luck. Is this the stop I need to get off at or can I save myself another hundred yards, but if there is no stop in the next hundred yards I risk riding this thing all the way to the stop right before the depot because for some reason no one lives or works anywhere near this road for the next two and a half miles, but if I do get off here I'll have pit stains by the time I hit that meeting and I think there was a bridge with no sidewalks after this stop light, oh shit, I should have gotten off. So you're always looking around and making dodgy eye contact and in those few seconds you can read a lot once you've done it enough times.

Yeah I reek of cheap beer, but hey, at least it's not puke. And yes I did sleep somewhere without toiletries so my pits stink, but hey, at least it's not puke. I'm sorry, do I smell like I've just taken a bath in coffee creamer and fisted dogs for the last six hours? Well, guess what? I did. Boys gotta eat lady and quite frankly I'd rather smell like I just did something than like I just crawled out of a vase at the funeral parlor. I don't know where they get that scent, but they all have it. Probably from failed Mary Kay pyramid scheming or is it Amway still? Aren't those the same thing? I bet they were both founded by the same married couple. Rich wives. Pyramid schemes. Started by the richest wife who needed something to do that would still stroke her ego. God, that's depressing. And now part of the cando American fabric. Along with dog fisting for near minimum wage and listening to the radio on your computer. Which is actually not listening to the radio at all. When it's pre-recorded. But what's the difference. The difference is the radio is live. Sort of. What the hell is the difference?

Fruits of a Labor and Where We Left the Bodies

I drew some pictures for you. I like the colors. I was in a kind of bloody soil mood and the taste was not to be denied so I didn't.

I don't know what to say today. It happens. I don't really know what I'm thinking tonight either, but I'm doing it with clothes on. Oh there it is. Found what I was asking for. There really is a certain security in sleeping with clothes on. It's a completely different quality of sleep. I feel a real security in the closeness of the clothing that at the same time can grow to be entrapping. Whatever. That's kind of stupid. When I sleep with clothes on I get hotter and hotter and then my dreamworld flies seriously out of whack and scary things happen in there and, not that I've been able to exercise control over the individuals and things that happen, but what security I do feel in the reality of the landscape dissolves into chaos.

Across the bridge of consciousness, the ground is just as firm and even more comforting in its expansiveness and unrestricted isness. Much more so than here. I prefer to be there. So when things get screwed up there by what happens here it becomes particular upsetting. Especially when the solution is as easy as taking off my pajamas and going back to sleep. Because the only limitation on the place is that I can't be there forever, I can't get stuck there like I get stuck here, its particularly aggravating to end up wasting valuable time. Its enraging.

At any rate, the public transportation there is strange. Not really screwy as much as it is that things come and go on the subway system that I sometimes prefer not to meet or see. Usually everyone minds there own business. I never used the trains there by myself because whenever I do I end up getting lost. Just the other day I spent the entire time I was there lost in the subway system. At one point I got so sick of trying to get the right train I climbed down off of the platform and decided to walk it and I don't know if those trains run at the speed of sound or what, but it took me five hours to walk between train stops and then, of course, by the time I got back to the stop I wanted near the apartment complexes I nearly get my legs cut off by the train I was tired of waiting for. I think that's really my only complaint about the place.

I was thinking about the best way to burn down a house with the people inside it without giving them a way out. It would take a lot of effort. It wouldn't be easy for the logistics of a floor plan and unless they were stone asleep they would probably hear you hoofing around in the grass with your arson kit and caboodle. Definitely low on the list of ways to solve problems.

We're altogether now and I'm happy for that. I hope it lasts forever, but I know it won't. Actually that's not even true. I don't hope it lasts forever. It just felt like the right thing to say to express the glowing feeling in the pit of my stomach. I know things have died up there in my head. But when they die they don't get buried. There's no cemetery up there. I should probably take care of that at some point. I wonder if that's the thing. When you finally die it's because your head is full of bodies and there's no more space for anything else to live. The casualties, relationships, dreams, efforts, ideas, whatever, all the bullshit that mattered to you and no one else that no one, including you, could resurrect with Dr. Frank and a million volts of Earth's pulse pile up and some people bury them one by one and some people have to bury them in mass graves, but they're there. I'm just glad they don't talk too.

The poetry has cut off in a new direction that I'm enjoying. It's stumbled on a rhythm I'm rather liking. Answers are as far away today as they were yesterday, but I'm not really looking for specifics anymore. I'm not sure if I should be. It's not that I want to care about concrete details of living a life, it's that I already care so much about things that so often stand defiant in the face of description and I'm focused on trying anyway because that's what is worthwhile. Maybe it's what I'm here for. That should count as something important. The cats came back. In lesser numbers this time. There was a day I thought I could see individual molecules of air. Turns out it was a whole bunch of blood vessels in my oculars. Is that a word? Things here would probably be so much more important if things across the bridge weren't equally so.



No fruits of the labor yet. Or maybe there is and I just have no idea where it lands. At any rate I'm content to keep doing dream work where the wild things are. Where up is up and down is down and I'm remembered by the people I've seen and I can go anywhere and the only limitation is my body and sometimes not even that.

Still planning the suicide diary. I know right. It is taking forever. I'm not putting it off. I just haven't been here to do it. Promise.

///Unkle feat. Big In Japan - "The Answer" ...perfect weather...

Beautiful Image and Music Launch (@ Factory Lube)

Hai,

I've got something special for you today :D "The Music that Makes the Living" is the music chronicling blog. I tried to make a feed of last.fm and it didn't track it over time. So this will. That's it. the background was more difficult to make than I thought it would be and then it took another hour to set up the colors to play nice with it, but easy isn't worth wasting time on. Had to hit the dimmer switch. The original was like a unicorn came on an automated welding machine. Which was awesome, but unreadable. And easy isn't worth doing unless it's video games. Hard video games make me want to kill other people. Next up is suicide diary. Productivity is sometimes it's own reward. Spoken like a truly conceited fuck. I definitely take that back. Sometimes distraction is it's own reward. And that reward is only as good as the alternative is potentially bad. That is what I meant to say. Suiterate.

///Four Tet - "Love Cry"

Worst Song Ever, Part 3:

Worst song ever # GHQQPXC1333298K6 Moby - Whispering Wind:

I suppose I probably shouldn't go as hard on people as I do when it comes to creative production mainly because I am so familiar with the inherent problems in content generation, especially when the requirement of said generation is that there be a certain amount of freshness. In fact I almost feel bad even including this because I know that every artist has a certain thematic vein that runs through their careers and even the widely disparate U.N.K.L.E albums do have a certain genealogy to them that is absolutely traceable from one offering to the next even though the actual sounds appear on their surface to be absolutely different. This song by Moby is almost able to fit itself into that thematic category. Where does it fall short? Everywhere. I even don't even feel the urge to describe so bland a thing here. In fact, even talking about it here has made this entry extremely bland. And now I hate myself for allowing myself to be distracted by so bland a blanding. I've been blanded. God damn it. I have to undo this. Immediately. But how??? Shuffle button. Clicking. Searching.

I once talked to a friend of mine about the symbolism of the search and shuffle buttons in music players and their usage. He basically told me I was complicating what amounts to a human impulse that is no more or less than the urge to stuff our faces when we're hungry and drink when we're thirsty. There's no subtext. It's simply the satisfaction of a basic impulse to feed our brains with variety. I'm inclined to believe him. I took some convincing back then, but I came on board. I still think he's probably correct.

I suppose the main thing is I'm standing at the edge of the abyssal plain again and trying to distract myself from another night of searching, but I know I have to go down there and look for my missing part whether I like it or not. He's still out there. He hasn't come back yet. I feel ridiculous going through the motions as though things are okay when they're not. I don't want to go. I'm lolly gagging. Just come back! I wish I could say that and make it happen, but I have to go and look. What's the plan then? Where do we industrialize? Bits. That's where. Maybe not. That might be shooting too high. I am so fucking angry right now. If I didn't need my face I would cut it up like a ham. Smash my keyboard into it till the keys stuck in my skin. Thinking about carving up my stomach again. It's getting hard to convince myself not to. Not hard as much as its becoming more unreasonable not to. I don't get it. What's inside of there. I want to turn out my pockets so bad.



///The Future Sound of London - "Vit Drowning / Through Your Gills I Breathe"

Completely Sidetracked

Okay, I got completely sidetracked, but look what I made in the meantime!



Worth the detour?

///B. Fleischmann - "Composure" Ride the notes all the way to your mattress and lay down your sleepy head.

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.

pic of the night 3

this is what i did yesterday instead of sleep. im not sure im unhappy that i didnt hit the hay.

creative pointers

when it comes to creative pursuits, just as in sports, there are the people who can do it without trying. there are the people who can only do it when someones foot is in their ass to get it done... ...NOW.... and then there are people who have to make at least a semi-conscious effort to produce who also gain no benefit from extreme deadlines. the practicers. or to draw the sports analogy a little tighter... the everyday starters. the guys and girls who dont miss a day, who dont have spectacular highlights every game, but who impress with consistent performance on a day to day basis. the people who you can build a team around.

not that im that guy. i kind of fluctuate between vomiting out work and working consistently. and my consistent work is sometimes consistently good and sometimes consistently bad. i guess im a streaker, more or less. but thats beside the point. speaking of which... heres the point

creative pointers...

i thought about our talk the other day and i think you might be righter. or at least more correct than you were yesterday. which is to say: ill be helpful if i can. if what im about to do counts as helpfulness. i think it does. i feel like it does. it should. well anyway

so im at a point where i know for a fact that im procrastinating. i should be working on a background and general design for the front page of a story blog site i would really like to see materialize as well as do some work on the production company a friend of mine is trying to start up (design wise... we havent even started to consider the legal paperwork and what exactly a production company does when its not tagging its name all over movies). how do i know im procrastinating? easy.... i have all the elements i want to work with... i have the programs installed... i have the web space... aaand for some reason im trying to figure out if i want to take a nap before i get started.

okay.... well that was the worst pointer ever.

was that a pointer?

i dont think i pointed you to anything even remotely useful.

well ... how about this

to rev up motivation for doing one thing it often times helps me to talk about what exactly i am doing even though i know what im doing, but when i get stuck with no one to talk about my poor time management with except myself i get trapped in a loop of thinking ab...

... bored with that. well not bored... but you get the idea. if you get stuck drawing, go paint. if you get stuck painting, go craft something. if you get stuck crafting, go write. if you get stuck writing, go kill yourself. if you get stuck killing yourself, go draw.

and thats my helpful tip. pointer.

and thats my helpful creative pointer.

///Air - "talisman" i dunno if i pointed you this way yet... but this is one of the greatest rainy day songs ever. it swings with a dark jazziness that slides down your consciousness like water down a window pane in light rain while the streets shine and the gutters talk. gorgeously composed and ... thick is the word that comes to mind. thick but not over whelming. you can hear the whole song, whereas some songs are so thick you can only real hear one part or section at a time unless you have like music in your blood or something. anyway. ill tell you what the other one is next time around.