You realize you've been gunning through the years, slipshod, but doing the best you could and it's still not good enough for the people who know you, but good enough for you.
And the qualifier is still hanging.
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.
8/27/12
Ramping Up
I have been ramping up to this, and I have been a little bit absentee as well. Side by each. It has been tough getting back to here. Circuitous. Among other words and expletives. It has been a very difficult cycle of days. I do not know how else to place it. Everything is back where it belongs. A lot of argumentation internal. It catches up with you and before you know it you are dying while still breathing.
It;s been tough though. But what hasn't? Production has lapsed, but what is avoidable? Art is up however. Graphics. Graphics and graphic design. It;s tough sometimes when people talk to you and say they/re artists, but you know in their hearts they are not. It ruffles feathers and rumples collars. It's difficult to tell them otherwise because, in the telling, you are admitting skill and I have a hard time, still, admitting that I know what I'm trying to do, for the most part, on easels. Given easels.
If you look at your reflection, sometimes what you see is not what you know you could be, given everything that came before; that hesitation, those devils and those guns, are what keeps me from being a shameless self promoter, but are you hiding in the trees?
The point is that it is all an elaborate dream and there is no way you can spin manslaughter 2 into mistaken identities and a lack of coverage or maybe it's just black town. I don't know. Hard decisions. I know how much you are supposed to take, but how much am I supposed to take. Against the wall. Am I supposed to want sex or is sex supposed to want me. Is the BIC pipe a one hitter in the sense that you use it once or is it a one hitter in the sense that you can't light crack twice?
I don't know where to go from here, but I'm not quite sure if I should be so entertained with the idea of the opportunity to leave. Cash money, mother nucca. It just drives the nerves sometimes. It's hard to admit failed suicide attempts. What you can do though is tape up your wrists and throw some fists.
Not to get oxygen necessarily, but just to get inside your britches. Feel your (can't spell it) huch spa. Feel your id on the outside and taste a little blood, instead of digesting it. There's too much blood and sunlight to go around. I am trying to draw a line between pretending and good acting and I am having a difficult time of it.
Sometimes things go down in a fashion that breaks your heart. Sometimes your older sister whiffs on painting your nails. Sometimes things go down in a way that throws shit out of whack. Sometimes the throwing is enough to reframe ideas about things you've been mulling. I don't know if this is better or worse than talking in third person. It is difficult to be concerned.
What was I going for? Chronic masturbation. No, Laughter. Nod your head because I know that I;m right. I'm not the capital G. I'm not nothing either. Hang out with me in the middle ground. I swear I'll love you like I've never loved myself. Andd I won't promise to make you happy. And I won't promise anything more than 18 hours out, but I will. I won't, but I will give you one year with the dragon in one day and rape is a device of the lesser and if you would be considering kissing me now I would not be opposed
to standing there
///track not found - lets get back up on that horse. I'm sorry I left you. Please be kind. I'm coming out of left field in a full sprint out of the clear blue sky
It;s been tough though. But what hasn't? Production has lapsed, but what is avoidable? Art is up however. Graphics. Graphics and graphic design. It;s tough sometimes when people talk to you and say they/re artists, but you know in their hearts they are not. It ruffles feathers and rumples collars. It's difficult to tell them otherwise because, in the telling, you are admitting skill and I have a hard time, still, admitting that I know what I'm trying to do, for the most part, on easels. Given easels.
If you look at your reflection, sometimes what you see is not what you know you could be, given everything that came before; that hesitation, those devils and those guns, are what keeps me from being a shameless self promoter, but are you hiding in the trees?
The point is that it is all an elaborate dream and there is no way you can spin manslaughter 2 into mistaken identities and a lack of coverage or maybe it's just black town. I don't know. Hard decisions. I know how much you are supposed to take, but how much am I supposed to take. Against the wall. Am I supposed to want sex or is sex supposed to want me. Is the BIC pipe a one hitter in the sense that you use it once or is it a one hitter in the sense that you can't light crack twice?
I don't know where to go from here, but I'm not quite sure if I should be so entertained with the idea of the opportunity to leave. Cash money, mother nucca. It just drives the nerves sometimes. It's hard to admit failed suicide attempts. What you can do though is tape up your wrists and throw some fists.
Not to get oxygen necessarily, but just to get inside your britches. Feel your (can't spell it) huch spa. Feel your id on the outside and taste a little blood, instead of digesting it. There's too much blood and sunlight to go around. I am trying to draw a line between pretending and good acting and I am having a difficult time of it.
Sometimes things go down in a fashion that breaks your heart. Sometimes your older sister whiffs on painting your nails. Sometimes things go down in a way that throws shit out of whack. Sometimes the throwing is enough to reframe ideas about things you've been mulling. I don't know if this is better or worse than talking in third person. It is difficult to be concerned.
What was I going for? Chronic masturbation. No, Laughter. Nod your head because I know that I;m right. I'm not the capital G. I'm not nothing either. Hang out with me in the middle ground. I swear I'll love you like I've never loved myself. Andd I won't promise to make you happy. And I won't promise anything more than 18 hours out, but I will. I won't, but I will give you one year with the dragon in one day and rape is a device of the lesser and if you would be considering kissing me now I would not be opposed
to standing there
///track not found - lets get back up on that horse. I'm sorry I left you. Please be kind. I'm coming out of left field in a full sprint out of the clear blue sky
8/25/12
8/9/12
8/8/12
Redesign (stealth mode, but not really)
So I'll make this short and sweet. Some updates (hooray changes). I haven't been sitting around scratching my bum and picking my nose and wishing for things to change. Well I have, but that's only half of my day. I'm on the "wish it, want it, do it" plan from the book of the same title as reviewed by Bill Maher on that show about the dog and the baby and the bad father and their crazy antics. I don't know why I did that to such detail. I think it was supposed to be funny. Progressively funnier as the details got more specific and more vague. Reverse comedy crash zoom. What was I talking about?
Oh yeah, so some updates:
The Auralport is wearing it's summer best. It looks a lot better over there (pictured here it's tinted gray) and the cloud bank drawn inside the letters really pops out bright. The design actually turned out completely different from the idea I had in my head of summer fields and woodlands. I wanted it to come out in deep greens and golds and purple and pink and as I was working on it I became more and more consumed with the steeliness of summer skies and the way power lines and telephones poles cut everything up when the sun goes down until it's too dark to see. And then the links became these bits of flame salmon that kind of reminded me of how the clouds kind of catch fire bit by bit at sunrise and sunset. So I wanted to capture some of that without making it unreadable. I'm pretty sure it's borderline unreadable as it is, but it's the right kind of hardness I was looking for. That same hardness that makes the summer sky hard to stare into some days because it is so bright and black at once.
I'm looking forward to doing the fall redesign though. I think I just do better with darker pallets and color arrays and lower contrast over there. OEMFail will always be a high contrast affair.
Bits for Flames received a little infusion of life in the form of two short short stories: The Hills at Wallston Park and Cement Head. Obvs they're not for kids. One is drama and the other is curio. I still want to do more with it, but haven't really had the courage or drive to really sit down and tear something big off there. I almost toyed with the idea of doing a redesign, but then I remembered I still have to do header art for the various sub sections, not to mention finish populating them from my stock piles of google docs. Anyway, they're there for your consideration.
Times have been tough. Times have been fun. Finally regained the ability to do somethings, and learned to do some new things. It's never all bad. It's going to be a tough month though. Then again, when is it never not a tough month? I don't know. Still popping off the works over at Auralport though the traffic stats are down, but I don't particularly mind. I remember when I first started over there I was afraid someone would see it. Funny how things flip around. I'm not particularly happy with the subjects and themes lately, but I'm not sure what I'm turning toward as of yet, so I'm going to keep shaking my head like I've got swimmers ear and writing down what comes out until I hit on what it is I've been trying to say this season.
May be time to just sit down and grind out an album.
Anyway. Unannounced changes that are now announced so they're stealthy, but not really. I'm rambling. Anyway, uhm... I lived, I loved, I laughed, and then slept for 14 hours. Gnite :P
///the item you are searching for has been moved. for no particular reason at all. because sometimes that happens. bonus track available next time around. i promise (maybe).
Oh yeah, so some updates:
The Auralport is wearing it's summer best. It looks a lot better over there (pictured here it's tinted gray) and the cloud bank drawn inside the letters really pops out bright. The design actually turned out completely different from the idea I had in my head of summer fields and woodlands. I wanted it to come out in deep greens and golds and purple and pink and as I was working on it I became more and more consumed with the steeliness of summer skies and the way power lines and telephones poles cut everything up when the sun goes down until it's too dark to see. And then the links became these bits of flame salmon that kind of reminded me of how the clouds kind of catch fire bit by bit at sunrise and sunset. So I wanted to capture some of that without making it unreadable. I'm pretty sure it's borderline unreadable as it is, but it's the right kind of hardness I was looking for. That same hardness that makes the summer sky hard to stare into some days because it is so bright and black at once.
I'm looking forward to doing the fall redesign though. I think I just do better with darker pallets and color arrays and lower contrast over there. OEMFail will always be a high contrast affair.
Bits for Flames received a little infusion of life in the form of two short short stories: The Hills at Wallston Park and Cement Head. Obvs they're not for kids. One is drama and the other is curio. I still want to do more with it, but haven't really had the courage or drive to really sit down and tear something big off there. I almost toyed with the idea of doing a redesign, but then I remembered I still have to do header art for the various sub sections, not to mention finish populating them from my stock piles of google docs. Anyway, they're there for your consideration.
Times have been tough. Times have been fun. Finally regained the ability to do somethings, and learned to do some new things. It's never all bad. It's going to be a tough month though. Then again, when is it never not a tough month? I don't know. Still popping off the works over at Auralport though the traffic stats are down, but I don't particularly mind. I remember when I first started over there I was afraid someone would see it. Funny how things flip around. I'm not particularly happy with the subjects and themes lately, but I'm not sure what I'm turning toward as of yet, so I'm going to keep shaking my head like I've got swimmers ear and writing down what comes out until I hit on what it is I've been trying to say this season.
May be time to just sit down and grind out an album.
Anyway. Unannounced changes that are now announced so they're stealthy, but not really. I'm rambling. Anyway, uhm... I lived, I loved, I laughed, and then slept for 14 hours. Gnite :P
///the item you are searching for has been moved. for no particular reason at all. because sometimes that happens. bonus track available next time around. i promise (maybe).
7/29/12
dear (_____)
Dear Norman Cook,
Thanks for making it a little more fun.
sincerely,
I still listen to what you do and it brings back some of the best memories of my life
Thanks for making it a little more fun.
sincerely,
I still listen to what you do and it brings back some of the best memories of my life
That Instant
you realize there is no amount of coke and no pill that is going to help you unfeel what you felt back in '95.
The Best Thing
The best thing about your worst day, your absolute worst day that you have ever experienced, is that all you have to do to avoid repeating it is do just one of the thousand things you did slightly differently.
7/27/12
That Instant
you realize you've lost sight of your cat again, but he hasn't lost sight of you and is waiting for you to relax so he can attack your dreadlocks the second you sit back and breath easy.
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)