whiskey at the whisky, relinquishing control, giving over the torch to a new harmonic melody, interested in the way the mind works after such large quantities of tranquillizer and the results are not looking too good so far for you. Floor beneath my feet slips away because I did not pay the bill. But why embarrass me in front of everybody? There is no rush to escort me off the premises. I am aware of consequence and I was offered marijuana under the stairway leading to the stage. I am no different, in a sense, to the pcp maniac who talked enthusiastically to himself despite if anyone truly paid any attention. We heard his voice from down the echoing street. Hair is wet in the rain. Sarcasm is infrequently registered on first acquaintance. You can never be understood, though you are surely a poet. The way you mold your words around phrases, all matching in theme and meter with other nonsensical phrases, though writing it all down might seem something coherent and wondrous for the expression of the abstract. A new expression of an old intoxication. Something sudden present despite a long and barbaric past prior to attention. This attention is all any of it matters in the reams of history. This man has no one else writing of him. No clear evidence will ever come across my desk. Rambling about hot sake and then marijuana and then the freedom of speech in the name of the almighty, oh lord jesus, but he did not follow us to his car despite saying the word 'premeditated' multiple times in our company without any subject or noun to lead or follow. His problem as a prose/poet begins with the fact that he himself lives outside of context. He lives beyond structured lines that help writers so well to achieve dreams in definite spaces. Walking across vast plains. Lighting cigarettes with a small bundle of sticks and rocks, like cavemen. Saying weird things but I find them interesting, says someone also in the shadows.
The nebulous jazz fusion but with perfect control. They collaboratively trained for sleep deprivation in the face of an undisclosed reality. (foot goes numb from tapping on the ground. a poem about the mental and emotional investment in the right kind of listening.) no cover but you will have to buy a drink and that turned into four and then it was discontinued. The beer glass by the trumpet-player's foot determined the length of the second set. Organically it somehow became empty and they killed their instruments in unison. There is a telepathy going on between them and a naturally rising and falligag cadence, with rhythms in between the brain waves, dotted eighth notes and new songs learned too quickly and with a bored patience. Huge meticulous crescendos. Musical ideas contrived and thought up quickly together at a too-rapid pace. Call out others for smoking inside and make dry humor jokes about sleeplessness or song titles. That's the humor. Song-titles. Otherwise they are majorly confused and anti-personal. Musicians who do not give lessons. Musicians who play better than anyone but have no recollection of such performances. It cannot even be conceived in them. Jazz lessons. Feed that animal burning to rupture skin inside of you. It is a black out and a lapse of consciousness. Falling into a state, cohesively, of lucidity though fogged out by genuine experience. This is the vacancy buddhists search for. Follow the train of thought. The same absence felt by a jazz musician the height of musical improvisation is similar to the 'flow' the essence of life made forcibly automatic in beautiful esoteric moments.
There will forever be the small blonde under the stairwell. Complain about the rain. "I was born inside of a rain drop and now I'm falling." Who knows, who cares. There is a stifled greeting in the air found of breaths taken... (suddenly a flash... of absurdity... strangers entering my life simply to be written about... they are avid readers of my bullshit and enjoy the honest yet abstracted approach I have on things... on occurrences in my daily life... all of those filthy missed connections... they read and love all of my bullshit... they come from the city into my life in droves... drones... and wish to be written about individually instead of as one dark mass... though it would at first start as individual meetings... names rarely mentioned. but why? there is no why. it should register in a similar sense. Always there will be the too-drunk girl falling over and pressing her tits against things 'on accident'. She has dark hair. I can't remember her name and she never tried to remember mine. Always the dressed-to-impressed rock scene and the semi-conscious girls who join in this late. That blonde will always be there. She will always have short hair. It will never grow. Smoking weed against best wishes talking about the prime time out of a given day for big hits and that rhythm simply sounded false. I tuned out, naturally. She looked at me once or twice. Probably because I talked in metaphors or strange plays on words which most people never notice or hear. They simply tune out. Like I do in conversations about tv shows. She speaks in rhetoric and no one ever understands any of the fuel in her.
City of devils.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Nov 28
Smoke rises, and then it's morning.
Nobody killed, they told me.
I was about to clear out.
When you have no imagination,
dying is small beer.
I couldn't count on anyone but myself to break this sickening spell.
Once liquored up.
In short, my morale was low.
It was a merry sight.
OH, how you long to get away!
You confuse everything
My friend gave me a kind, indulgent smile.
Drinking the last drop of my water supply
Falling silent as stars
night had fallen
---
hours pass
7 to be exact
---
open the idea
the wound and the wine
sutures there for comfort
for solace, insistent
mind expanding drugs
open the idea
a limited world
with boundaries set
on imagination
with rigid walls
close the thought
perish in that trance
seek out best life
for self then family
fight demons
in bank accounts
open the idea
insistent
persistent
nagging
daydream about murder
without intent
no motive outside
perish the thought
close out that trance
mind expanding demons
fight self then family
drugs there for comfort
on imagination
wine in bank accounts
overflow
suture the idea
---
nebulous jam
sporadic direction
yelling melodies
harmonize drum parts
percussive voice
grates the ears
but suspended in space
gravitate toward
harmony
direct melodies
to please the ears
turn the sound
around
swivel back
between concepts
great voice
gravity jam
suspend disbelief
in opposition
to sporadic direction
please turn around
swivel toward
conceptualized voice
---
Nobody killed, they told me.
I was about to clear out.
When you have no imagination,
dying is small beer.
I couldn't count on anyone but myself to break this sickening spell.
Once liquored up.
In short, my morale was low.
It was a merry sight.
OH, how you long to get away!
You confuse everything
My friend gave me a kind, indulgent smile.
Drinking the last drop of my water supply
Falling silent as stars
night had fallen
---
hours pass
7 to be exact
---
open the idea
the wound and the wine
sutures there for comfort
for solace, insistent
mind expanding drugs
open the idea
a limited world
with boundaries set
on imagination
with rigid walls
close the thought
perish in that trance
seek out best life
for self then family
fight demons
in bank accounts
open the idea
insistent
persistent
nagging
daydream about murder
without intent
no motive outside
perish the thought
close out that trance
mind expanding demons
fight self then family
drugs there for comfort
on imagination
wine in bank accounts
overflow
suture the idea
---
nebulous jam
sporadic direction
yelling melodies
harmonize drum parts
percussive voice
grates the ears
but suspended in space
gravitate toward
harmony
direct melodies
to please the ears
turn the sound
around
swivel back
between concepts
great voice
gravity jam
suspend disbelief
in opposition
to sporadic direction
please turn around
swivel toward
conceptualized voice
---
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
nov 27
Feeling hugely responsible. No, I wouldn't say that I am afraid of commitment. If afraid of anything close, I'd say it to be of a lack of commitment. Go all the way. I apologize that I can't tear through space and time to see where I might end up a year from now. There is no way to tell. My body is immersed in a sweeping current, a river delta that misleads us into believing there is a larger pool somewhere at the end... that there is an end. The big drink. (Associative memories.) There are beautiful melting colors on the sides of the path. I let go of the wheel and stare out of the windows. There are no windows. I'm in the air, flying. This beauty is surrounding me like a blanket. To predict an end when so involved in the present is a preposterous affront. We have no ideas whatsoever. There might be death. There might be travel, women and publication. There might be armies of producers and managers, all sweating in a hungry mob, gathering quietly. There will surely be experience. All of life is experience anyway. Can never complain of current situation. Not with what it is. Could I? That would seem inhuman. To predict any coherent future is to believe that we are grounded. Ain't no telling what comes down the pipe next. Dreams? Pipe dreams? Too damn restless for normalcy. Urgent and thoughtful. I can't say what will happen in this year to determine our place in the world. How could you say with any confidence that in five years we will care to know each other? We all have chapters and forgotten pasts. There are bigger hearts hurting in more specific places the world over. You might find a reason to hate me, or fall in love, or vice versa. "I could not foresee this thing happening to you." There will dark and lonely nights spent wasted. There will be moments of pure ecstasy and revelation. There will be decisions made for better or worse. There will be simultaneous connection and isolation. A connection to the vital pulse of the earth. Isolation in the forest. Time spent working toward a solution is better than thinking about the problem. By leaps and bounds. There will be exploding heads and a rhythm to the words linking together like chains. There will be bare shoulders and six packs consumed in the evening to destroy the attempted six pack abs during the day. There will full heads of hair resting on rising and falling abdomens. There will mostly be projections of love. What would it be like to...? There will be introspection and a consistent questioning of every fact surrounding our well-being, our every move. Every step is backwards and full of conscious anger. Have a reason to seek me out in a vast unknown future aside from monetary reasons. Made end up spending the rest of my life in this side-room garage. There will be pain and denial of pain. There will be abundant happiness, over-flowing crazily out of every pore. No way to deny that fact.
--- hours later ---
the ebb and flow of spiders in the studio, spinning intricate webs, telling stories of bragging rights and melted down precious metals, of falling leaves and money burning in piles. Keep the books, burn the cash. but society always pushes away from the most positive solutions. each outcome compounding and after a day-long, mind-mold, of exercise mentally and physically, testing impossible boundaries and counting alignment, heading out to parties and to events of wild insanities. Follow the bread crumbs. Find coffee shops and write new songs. New material to share. Scratch a song for a brand new one. Something simple but catchy. College campuses. Northridge. Peet's Coffee. Outside coffee bean. Cd Trader. Libraries and obituaries. Nights out and nights in. Art galleries and practice hours spent inside. Days spent tracing the outline of things with minds eye. Analyzing words and artwork. Buddhism and writing literature. "we'll have to arrive drunk to have any fun." find friends. find family. places of refuge away from the wildness of recording. it will become necessary. finding places to escape to aside from behind garage and the book store. extinction.
--- hours later ---
the ebb and flow of spiders in the studio, spinning intricate webs, telling stories of bragging rights and melted down precious metals, of falling leaves and money burning in piles. Keep the books, burn the cash. but society always pushes away from the most positive solutions. each outcome compounding and after a day-long, mind-mold, of exercise mentally and physically, testing impossible boundaries and counting alignment, heading out to parties and to events of wild insanities. Follow the bread crumbs. Find coffee shops and write new songs. New material to share. Scratch a song for a brand new one. Something simple but catchy. College campuses. Northridge. Peet's Coffee. Outside coffee bean. Cd Trader. Libraries and obituaries. Nights out and nights in. Art galleries and practice hours spent inside. Days spent tracing the outline of things with minds eye. Analyzing words and artwork. Buddhism and writing literature. "we'll have to arrive drunk to have any fun." find friends. find family. places of refuge away from the wildness of recording. it will become necessary. finding places to escape to aside from behind garage and the book store. extinction.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Nov 26
Leftover pad thai sizzling and popping in the microwave. *interrupts daydream with electronic beeping* The passage of time in slow ticks on the timer. Everything electronic; for which we are entirely dependent. Rainbow christmas lights hang lazily from the random hooks installed some time before now, prior to moving date and with forgotten purpose. One plug shared with the dusty A/C unit. The other strand shared with television that is actually hooked up rather than an ignored decoration in the darkest corner of a room. Images of foreign places flash over the screen, revealing an ancient world diminishing, the lost corners of remaining wildlife in full technicolor, scenic portrayal. Small creatures running through life with tried and true instincts. They behave with motive to survive in an unforgiving world. Kill or be killed in the animal kingdom. No sound comes through the speakers below the screen. This must be heaven or paradise. A night of left-overs. A single remaining hefeweisen in a can. Based on the pace of familial conversation and inebriation, this is inexplicably. So a disguised blessing. Pop it open. Thank you, fortune.
Music plays. The soundtrack of a promising future. Well supported and incredibly grateful.
"Flooded, burnt, baked, and frozen. Grass can withstand it all."
Music plays. The soundtrack of a promising future. Well supported and incredibly grateful.
"Flooded, burnt, baked, and frozen. Grass can withstand it all."
Sunday, November 25, 2012
nov 25
natural lapse. loud and urgent hours spent wailing. telling stories. sharing philosophies... Do you mind if I ask you a philosophical question?
---
Psychotic mindset strewn across the floor. let me now when the world wakes up and I'll wake up yawning, lips to coffee mug as quickly as possible, teeth become yellow and I'll be damned. you blur out the labels of alcohol bottles in your pictures. you move quickly and think in dollars and cents. you wear blue dresses in my dreams. there are no stains on it. you are not crying. there are pirouetting snowflakes like dancers falling from cumulus clouds. level out at a low altitude where I saw you wading through dirty snow banks on the sides of the road, trying to make out road signs in the fury of the storm. you had purple intentions and marvelous manuscripts of plans. you are all of the faces I can conjure this revelatory night. you are up late taking hits in my bathroom as I sleep with heavy breathing. your pupils dilate and your hands cease shaking. you illuminate with vigorous emotion. a box full of luminous markers in the dark center of the universe. there are birds flying upside down and cartwheeling over cemetery walls. you tell me what song you wish to hear at your funeral and I wonder which one of us will outlive the other.
sleepless for fear of nightmares.
wake up screaming
but alone
wonder if ever made a sound
fragile broken glass
cardboard cut-outs
of pin-up girls
dressed immodest outfits
dressed in modest outfits
years past
bronze cast
river of silver
lead to city of gold
the end of the line.
the goal.
take a compliment like a shot
miss the insanity of a wild night
though something less memorable
black out and dangerously move forward
straighten out for the rich girls
in a fantasy world
make them all believe in symmetry
in a world where we meet exciting individuals
that blow us away but we never see again
one million first and last chances
happening at the same time
first impression lasts often when it is also the only
no redemption song
we are drunk and babbling fools
speaking in tongues forsooth!
fill your bed with kerosene. lit candles and rest. paint the stream-lined walls a color of confidence. curse the heavens. for the glory and pleasure of a night with you. bring out the cork screw. a romantic walk through the neighborhood, hand in hand. and the image disappears into despair. learn to walk out that fear and end up wandering farther and later into the night, down dark alleys, unconsciously asking for sudden and inexplicable confrontation. expecting the unexpected and falling victim to the certainty.
---
Psychotic mindset strewn across the floor. let me now when the world wakes up and I'll wake up yawning, lips to coffee mug as quickly as possible, teeth become yellow and I'll be damned. you blur out the labels of alcohol bottles in your pictures. you move quickly and think in dollars and cents. you wear blue dresses in my dreams. there are no stains on it. you are not crying. there are pirouetting snowflakes like dancers falling from cumulus clouds. level out at a low altitude where I saw you wading through dirty snow banks on the sides of the road, trying to make out road signs in the fury of the storm. you had purple intentions and marvelous manuscripts of plans. you are all of the faces I can conjure this revelatory night. you are up late taking hits in my bathroom as I sleep with heavy breathing. your pupils dilate and your hands cease shaking. you illuminate with vigorous emotion. a box full of luminous markers in the dark center of the universe. there are birds flying upside down and cartwheeling over cemetery walls. you tell me what song you wish to hear at your funeral and I wonder which one of us will outlive the other.
sleepless for fear of nightmares.
wake up screaming
but alone
wonder if ever made a sound
fragile broken glass
cardboard cut-outs
of pin-up girls
dressed immodest outfits
dressed in modest outfits
years past
bronze cast
river of silver
lead to city of gold
the end of the line.
the goal.
take a compliment like a shot
miss the insanity of a wild night
though something less memorable
black out and dangerously move forward
straighten out for the rich girls
in a fantasy world
make them all believe in symmetry
in a world where we meet exciting individuals
that blow us away but we never see again
one million first and last chances
happening at the same time
first impression lasts often when it is also the only
no redemption song
we are drunk and babbling fools
speaking in tongues forsooth!
fill your bed with kerosene. lit candles and rest. paint the stream-lined walls a color of confidence. curse the heavens. for the glory and pleasure of a night with you. bring out the cork screw. a romantic walk through the neighborhood, hand in hand. and the image disappears into despair. learn to walk out that fear and end up wandering farther and later into the night, down dark alleys, unconsciously asking for sudden and inexplicable confrontation. expecting the unexpected and falling victim to the certainty.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
nov 21
i remember wearing the defeat on my face and the senselessness of my actions were evident. outside it was snowing lightly. just enough for there to be an increased number of accidents from the more tentative drivers who don't seem to have the capacity to control their vehicle effectively. this is the story about a stranger who talked and listened to me at a coffee shop that now doesn't exist... there is empty space where we sat and chatted. i had watery eyes and felt cheated. she listened, heartbroken at my weakness, perhaps. a low moment but one that just flashed back to me. the story when a high school girl friend went out and cheated on me. not literally, I was not there at the time. and this older girl prior to disappearing to alaska listened intently, for some reason. the story can be written later. i just remembered it but it is not one bursting to be told at the moment...
----
One 99 cent tall boy of black and white tea with ginseng and honey. Go home to add more honey or sugar as desired. In tattered up jeans rolled up a bit, to avoid completely walking on the already destroyed cuffs, and flip flops. Walk into 7-eleven with a nod to the employee mopping up a beer spill in the back. Contemplate the idea of grabbing unnecessary snacks but quickly disregard it. No time. Must acquire a lighter. Must acquire fire. He rings up the beverage without acknowledgement. I ask his opinion for the best color bic. He says 'It does not matter. All colors are the same to me.' I paid and turned asking the air, 'How could a person value so little?' I exited the store with existential thoughts. The differences in perception are diverse among the human races. All races, though cognitive capabilities are much easier to interpret in any clear detail by means of common language. We yet to have orangutan interpreters. Earlier in the day, I heard the true account of synesthesia in the process with the onset of beautiful colors and hues with different songs. The abstract quality of something that can only be described as an aura. A poetic cognitive process. One for prose made of vocalized observation. Songs with different hues, encompassing an entire spectrum of light. Every color of a full day. All the brilliant bright hues at sunrise through the day, optimistic and bright, though falling to frigid temperatures of a melancholy evening with bottles of wine and spirits awakened past midnight. Concurrent sound waves, bending and curving through each cochlea with no harsh tonality. Clear as day the color blue. The importance of color and thoughtful diversity in the way of experiencing life. Constantly shifting and forming. An amorphous and hungry deity fueling on shattered expectations. Every event becomes a greater in-the-present feeling. Happy to be alive, even in a shit job like the register at a barren convenience store. I nearly apologized because I can't know what happens in his head. Probably a fueling world hatred and that is angry to be wasting life behind that counter. Though he could turn his attitude around and have a plot to move on from the shop after a certain amount of money is saved. Move his family back from unsafe territory. But lately I've been feeling an unknown hostility. This fear is of an unknown enemy. An hourglass?
----
One 99 cent tall boy of black and white tea with ginseng and honey. Go home to add more honey or sugar as desired. In tattered up jeans rolled up a bit, to avoid completely walking on the already destroyed cuffs, and flip flops. Walk into 7-eleven with a nod to the employee mopping up a beer spill in the back. Contemplate the idea of grabbing unnecessary snacks but quickly disregard it. No time. Must acquire a lighter. Must acquire fire. He rings up the beverage without acknowledgement. I ask his opinion for the best color bic. He says 'It does not matter. All colors are the same to me.' I paid and turned asking the air, 'How could a person value so little?' I exited the store with existential thoughts. The differences in perception are diverse among the human races. All races, though cognitive capabilities are much easier to interpret in any clear detail by means of common language. We yet to have orangutan interpreters. Earlier in the day, I heard the true account of synesthesia in the process with the onset of beautiful colors and hues with different songs. The abstract quality of something that can only be described as an aura. A poetic cognitive process. One for prose made of vocalized observation. Songs with different hues, encompassing an entire spectrum of light. Every color of a full day. All the brilliant bright hues at sunrise through the day, optimistic and bright, though falling to frigid temperatures of a melancholy evening with bottles of wine and spirits awakened past midnight. Concurrent sound waves, bending and curving through each cochlea with no harsh tonality. Clear as day the color blue. The importance of color and thoughtful diversity in the way of experiencing life. Constantly shifting and forming. An amorphous and hungry deity fueling on shattered expectations. Every event becomes a greater in-the-present feeling. Happy to be alive, even in a shit job like the register at a barren convenience store. I nearly apologized because I can't know what happens in his head. Probably a fueling world hatred and that is angry to be wasting life behind that counter. Though he could turn his attitude around and have a plot to move on from the shop after a certain amount of money is saved. Move his family back from unsafe territory. But lately I've been feeling an unknown hostility. This fear is of an unknown enemy. An hourglass?
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
nov 20
sudden vicious craving for a synapse-burning cigarette, or rather a small cigar to help my conscience, because it would taste and smell better. "when I get so lonesome I can't speak." but I won't do it. I know I won't give in because my heart would stop at first puff or fire. a lighter or matches to keep it more 'organic' I've heard. if you call the shots I'll call bullshit.
In the shade of the law. Small trees, red on the top, a black-speckled gradient to yellow at the bottom and then the trunk. There is a radius of fallen leaves at the base that the wind whips around. I'm placed in a tunnel of sorts, my back to the wind. A lot of empty chairs for decision making. Knowledge to my right. harrowing details of exotic adventures from places we've never been and perhaps never will go. there is simply not enough time to travel everywhere in existence. Don't you know how many perspectives there are in a jail cell? Plenty.
Sounded bummed on the phone and outside of reality. There have been no spoken words for quite awhile and everything turns to dust. helpless waste of a day. maybe not, truly. why would it make a difference for me to go to an art museum as opposed to cleaning my room and watching a mars volta concert? I killed spiders to avoid a freak out from my sister who will be arriving on thanksgiving with my parents. the bathroom still smells damp like a cave. unavoidable. I can't find the source. insomnia sparked up this solution to good health. it is simple to psych yourself out and have a blessed day of rest and bible-engulfing. eat every page and maintain perfect clarity. try it. gathered up all of the empty bottles that emptied me. recycle them and never feel so inadequate and useless than not knowing which bin to put them in. I thought I did it right but I came back it was all reorganized. I'm thinking my land lord is a perfectionist or has a case of obsessive compulsive disorder. (watering the walkway?). though I heard blood curdling screaming last night. at what point would I intervene? the point it no longer sounds like a family dispute and begins to sound like battery or murder. good place to enter the conversation.
ignore grammatical rules. I know them, surely. but this is about content rather than perfect execution. this is a jam session much like the 'incorrect' notes during a long psychedelic night with guitar in hand at the foot of the bed. 'your feet are on my bed' masked off. they charted off part of the road for re-paving or movie shooting, photo shoots and flashing lights of lenses, and I had to detour around the neighborhood. in my vehicle feeling sheepish. foolish.
in one single day how often do you feel foolish?
why bother with that sensation? this is it, folks. no need to feel unprepared. we are all under-prepared. there are huge gaping mistakes in our every action and history will not mind. in a small sense at least.
In the shade of the law. Small trees, red on the top, a black-speckled gradient to yellow at the bottom and then the trunk. There is a radius of fallen leaves at the base that the wind whips around. I'm placed in a tunnel of sorts, my back to the wind. A lot of empty chairs for decision making. Knowledge to my right. harrowing details of exotic adventures from places we've never been and perhaps never will go. there is simply not enough time to travel everywhere in existence. Don't you know how many perspectives there are in a jail cell? Plenty.
Sounded bummed on the phone and outside of reality. There have been no spoken words for quite awhile and everything turns to dust. helpless waste of a day. maybe not, truly. why would it make a difference for me to go to an art museum as opposed to cleaning my room and watching a mars volta concert? I killed spiders to avoid a freak out from my sister who will be arriving on thanksgiving with my parents. the bathroom still smells damp like a cave. unavoidable. I can't find the source. insomnia sparked up this solution to good health. it is simple to psych yourself out and have a blessed day of rest and bible-engulfing. eat every page and maintain perfect clarity. try it. gathered up all of the empty bottles that emptied me. recycle them and never feel so inadequate and useless than not knowing which bin to put them in. I thought I did it right but I came back it was all reorganized. I'm thinking my land lord is a perfectionist or has a case of obsessive compulsive disorder. (watering the walkway?). though I heard blood curdling screaming last night. at what point would I intervene? the point it no longer sounds like a family dispute and begins to sound like battery or murder. good place to enter the conversation.
ignore grammatical rules. I know them, surely. but this is about content rather than perfect execution. this is a jam session much like the 'incorrect' notes during a long psychedelic night with guitar in hand at the foot of the bed. 'your feet are on my bed' masked off. they charted off part of the road for re-paving or movie shooting, photo shoots and flashing lights of lenses, and I had to detour around the neighborhood. in my vehicle feeling sheepish. foolish.
in one single day how often do you feel foolish?
why bother with that sensation? this is it, folks. no need to feel unprepared. we are all under-prepared. there are huge gaping mistakes in our every action and history will not mind. in a small sense at least.
Monday, November 19, 2012
nov 19
operate under the assumption that late night creativity is somehow holier and more important to lay down in metaphorical ink than other disparate impulses throughout the day. the engulfing night and all of the ideas about existence. cataclysmic realization that I am alive! I am here in this bed alone with gentle folk music and there is so much to savor. the yellow leaves in the trees, a road I've never been down. children playing basketball and listening to techno music. I tend to see the negatives. rather than that even I tend to pick out details in a scene that can drench any optimism in the blues. i will look at the pile of leaves beneath an autumn tree and think about the potential death of a friend. any friend. a dog. how could you say no to unconditional love? man's best friend kept secret in hiding places of memory. modern man has no best friend.
alive, blissful, vivid, exacting, glory, handsome, wise, astute, resolute, yearning, conspiracies, longevity, brevity, acknowledgement, forgetfulness, tactile
laying on back in coffin position. ponder death briefly then remember how freaking alive I am. right now! someone will read this one day. someone will take notice or care to. death does not exist if we record. I live forever in this adolescent cyber space.
-------
The night sky always seems clearer when we can see our breath. The obscurity of rain and clouds. Everything seems brighter and more fragrant after the rain. A huge windshield the shape of our atmosphere. or the vague section that makes up my own horizon lines. not quite the entirely of our planet. there is no storm system big enough to cover unless meteor hit, gulf of mexico. the earth takes a shower and everything shines. rather than hurrying back inside I look at sparkling stars and realize that the huge majority of people would rush inside to warmth and electronics and comfort as quickly as possible. There is surely a bite in the air but it makes me feel alive. The skin prickles and bumps up, a strange reaction I can't remember the significance of. (the warmth of a whisper).
television and marijuana have claimed many of our souls. the final frontier aside from the depth of the ocean is no longer captivating as it once was. (unless of course on television). the mysteries of the universe fall to deaf ears and the new generation could not give a shit. somehow I am a part of this debauchery. I get lumped in. but I am a minimal part. I am speck and a drop in the ocean. which celebrity did what to who is cared for much more pertinently though they have media professionals warping the information to make them look the best. the star on the boulevard. the nameless and the futile existence. fuck you star map. that is not the right kind of looking up. with your careless euphemisms. all the distorted truth until there no longer is truth and we are puppets on strings pulled away. buy and sell souls directly from the source. talk to god with your fingers crossed.
alive, blissful, vivid, exacting, glory, handsome, wise, astute, resolute, yearning, conspiracies, longevity, brevity, acknowledgement, forgetfulness, tactile
laying on back in coffin position. ponder death briefly then remember how freaking alive I am. right now! someone will read this one day. someone will take notice or care to. death does not exist if we record. I live forever in this adolescent cyber space.
-------
The night sky always seems clearer when we can see our breath. The obscurity of rain and clouds. Everything seems brighter and more fragrant after the rain. A huge windshield the shape of our atmosphere. or the vague section that makes up my own horizon lines. not quite the entirely of our planet. there is no storm system big enough to cover unless meteor hit, gulf of mexico. the earth takes a shower and everything shines. rather than hurrying back inside I look at sparkling stars and realize that the huge majority of people would rush inside to warmth and electronics and comfort as quickly as possible. There is surely a bite in the air but it makes me feel alive. The skin prickles and bumps up, a strange reaction I can't remember the significance of. (the warmth of a whisper).
television and marijuana have claimed many of our souls. the final frontier aside from the depth of the ocean is no longer captivating as it once was. (unless of course on television). the mysteries of the universe fall to deaf ears and the new generation could not give a shit. somehow I am a part of this debauchery. I get lumped in. but I am a minimal part. I am speck and a drop in the ocean. which celebrity did what to who is cared for much more pertinently though they have media professionals warping the information to make them look the best. the star on the boulevard. the nameless and the futile existence. fuck you star map. that is not the right kind of looking up. with your careless euphemisms. all the distorted truth until there no longer is truth and we are puppets on strings pulled away. buy and sell souls directly from the source. talk to god with your fingers crossed.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
nov 18
woken up by some entity, a fear of death or wasted life, a smell creeping in through the ceiling and a constant dripping sound like chinese water torture, something this house was never fundamentally planned for. itching all over the body and always scratching, never allowing anything to carry on absent or forgotten. tears wash over me and smell like lawn chairs left out through a rainy season, mildew and decay, gathering swarms of fungus, let's eat them and fuel spirit quests deep into the causal night.
stars separate and divide. we achieve high levels of clarity and reach back behind our ears for more but there is none of that essential juice left. we've run dry.
smells like a drowned body coming up through the pipes. the pipes make noises as if coughing up a corpse. awake and aware in this cold state. a drip here and constant running water, never anything much like the ocean, more like a highway. fall in love with new faces. always searching for the impossible girl and the greatest smile of them all.
what the hell woke me up though? the repetitive sounds? the smell? or the train of thought. the brief nightmare that I cannot remember immediately. it could have been of werewolves tearing my passions into pieces in front of me. or an airplane disaster during a trip to the Andes. a kaleidoscopic tidal wave edging against our very existence. something that is a hundred feet tall and a hundred feet deep. no physical possibility. it crashes up upon itself and smothers into oblivion... something awful that lead me to gasp in fright of love death. something evil and dark. a black concern imprinted on the pits of my memory. what horrors stitched their way into my psyche while I slept? waking state. am I afraid of the etchings? the black and white contour drawings that foresee horrible things in the future of myself and my friends. images false manipulations of reality. something in me changed though as they compound then fragment... a structural difference never to be determined but always to be blamed for future utterances in the night. a new part of me. a new tattoo.
eastern philosophies, dripping ceilings, this is the kind of disrepair I belong inside of. I belong inside the cold rudimentary existence in order to sustain a genuine appreciation for all objects and privileges I am blessed with in my daily life. I belong in the darkest shadows of doubt and drunken debauchery all harrowing in detail and disgorging from my body intestines reversing. From here I can gain true perspective into the importance of life and the meaning of it all. It is not about fame or money. These are clever illusions put on by those who wish to keep things as they are, to keep the rich rich and the poor poor and to kill all possibility for a middle class... the number of those on the top of the economic food chain shrinks but the allure of it increases causing masses of riots and chaos... murders to upset the balance. take back what is ours. where is the spirit of revolution? or are we too deep in debt with conformity?
"what the hell did you do before you came here? I bet you didn't actually exist."
This is not the epicenter of the world. Those who have benefited, by stomping on the skulls of the injured and helpless, claim that it is. They are victorious but in a fucked up sense. Ocean side views. Cocaine and hookers. These ideals of the new american dream. Killing us all systematically. First comes immunity then comes marriage then comes a baby in a baby carriage. then comes divorce then comes adoption then comes a cycle of death and destruction. the foster care and the drunken dads.
these ideals should be destroyed!
how?
---
1am
this night is torture. violent feelings. feelings that it is all a huge sham. a masquerade of some sort and that any talent is quickly undercut by the amount of money involved. fuck
-----
2pm
warm up the mind like any muscle prior to physical work out, to make it all flow easier and more coherently. no concerns for damage. nature vs city. climbing trees and spending time meditating and getting high in the forestry, dark clouds with light blue back drop and everyone falls head first into their technological devices, me included, the beautiful music and the conspiracy against mainstream pop hits, the kind of stuff that is recycled constantly, there will always be those who wish to destroy it all by coasting on the success and spending the time and money for something that never deserves it.
warm up my mind with some fine rhymes, spin yourself a story in all its glory, never let a detail drop, opened pandora's box, and now you can't stop, there is too much to say, not enough time in the day, and speaking for everyone in the world, every boy and girl, fingers curled, is a huge responsibility in the face of reckless ability, coffee stains teeth and wet are my feet, consider the source, of course of course, voice is hoarse and we fear a sickness, ten quick hits, ten rolled spliffs, narcotic tobacco haze and realize the dazed confused feeling, weightless and reeling, the mind recoils in horror, and what's there to show for? a chauffeur?
feeling like a green aura in aurora, a cloud over the city, feeling shitty, forget that guns exist, move to Texas, remember again, choppy phrases, narcotic hazes, paranoid about the spelling of tough words, envious for the flight of blue birds, all so high and singing, all so fly and floating, could never understand how easy it is for them to take it for granted, their natural abilities that we could never experience, how could we live without them? take to the air? is it fair? Claire? wait for me there.
dirty fingernails, poetic fails, keep your conscience clean, know what I mean truthfully, suppressed sexual desire is evident in peeled plastic labels, followers following fables, broadcasted live on cable, or pay per view, kick off your shoes, feeling so blue, red eyes for long drives through stop lights and can't be stopped by the law, for some parents it takes a law to accept the son, it takes group acknowledgement before they can make their own decision, and we won and they cried though they did because they had seen it before on television, haunted visions and conspiracy against them, the feeling of drifting from point a to point b until no one can see, just a blur and without words...
think for yourself, you need help, call off those old tired ethics, live here and now in the present, the words over analyzed until a life is designed, blueprints for existence, they all feel it, it is in them and they are lunatics, kidnap values and retrace them to fit their mold, making bold moves, maneuvers cold but not so due to the cause, the city buried beneath blood, no way to prevent that sort of flood, there is no cure for this drug, rolled up in a rug and buried deep beneath the sea, in serene dribbling, a hard sell and oh well, I'll meet you in hell. I'll find a reason to believe you know what you are talking about.
stars separate and divide. we achieve high levels of clarity and reach back behind our ears for more but there is none of that essential juice left. we've run dry.
smells like a drowned body coming up through the pipes. the pipes make noises as if coughing up a corpse. awake and aware in this cold state. a drip here and constant running water, never anything much like the ocean, more like a highway. fall in love with new faces. always searching for the impossible girl and the greatest smile of them all.
what the hell woke me up though? the repetitive sounds? the smell? or the train of thought. the brief nightmare that I cannot remember immediately. it could have been of werewolves tearing my passions into pieces in front of me. or an airplane disaster during a trip to the Andes. a kaleidoscopic tidal wave edging against our very existence. something that is a hundred feet tall and a hundred feet deep. no physical possibility. it crashes up upon itself and smothers into oblivion... something awful that lead me to gasp in fright of love death. something evil and dark. a black concern imprinted on the pits of my memory. what horrors stitched their way into my psyche while I slept? waking state. am I afraid of the etchings? the black and white contour drawings that foresee horrible things in the future of myself and my friends. images false manipulations of reality. something in me changed though as they compound then fragment... a structural difference never to be determined but always to be blamed for future utterances in the night. a new part of me. a new tattoo.
eastern philosophies, dripping ceilings, this is the kind of disrepair I belong inside of. I belong inside the cold rudimentary existence in order to sustain a genuine appreciation for all objects and privileges I am blessed with in my daily life. I belong in the darkest shadows of doubt and drunken debauchery all harrowing in detail and disgorging from my body intestines reversing. From here I can gain true perspective into the importance of life and the meaning of it all. It is not about fame or money. These are clever illusions put on by those who wish to keep things as they are, to keep the rich rich and the poor poor and to kill all possibility for a middle class... the number of those on the top of the economic food chain shrinks but the allure of it increases causing masses of riots and chaos... murders to upset the balance. take back what is ours. where is the spirit of revolution? or are we too deep in debt with conformity?
"what the hell did you do before you came here? I bet you didn't actually exist."
This is not the epicenter of the world. Those who have benefited, by stomping on the skulls of the injured and helpless, claim that it is. They are victorious but in a fucked up sense. Ocean side views. Cocaine and hookers. These ideals of the new american dream. Killing us all systematically. First comes immunity then comes marriage then comes a baby in a baby carriage. then comes divorce then comes adoption then comes a cycle of death and destruction. the foster care and the drunken dads.
these ideals should be destroyed!
how?
---
1am
this night is torture. violent feelings. feelings that it is all a huge sham. a masquerade of some sort and that any talent is quickly undercut by the amount of money involved. fuck
-----
2pm
warm up the mind like any muscle prior to physical work out, to make it all flow easier and more coherently. no concerns for damage. nature vs city. climbing trees and spending time meditating and getting high in the forestry, dark clouds with light blue back drop and everyone falls head first into their technological devices, me included, the beautiful music and the conspiracy against mainstream pop hits, the kind of stuff that is recycled constantly, there will always be those who wish to destroy it all by coasting on the success and spending the time and money for something that never deserves it.
warm up my mind with some fine rhymes, spin yourself a story in all its glory, never let a detail drop, opened pandora's box, and now you can't stop, there is too much to say, not enough time in the day, and speaking for everyone in the world, every boy and girl, fingers curled, is a huge responsibility in the face of reckless ability, coffee stains teeth and wet are my feet, consider the source, of course of course, voice is hoarse and we fear a sickness, ten quick hits, ten rolled spliffs, narcotic tobacco haze and realize the dazed confused feeling, weightless and reeling, the mind recoils in horror, and what's there to show for? a chauffeur?
feeling like a green aura in aurora, a cloud over the city, feeling shitty, forget that guns exist, move to Texas, remember again, choppy phrases, narcotic hazes, paranoid about the spelling of tough words, envious for the flight of blue birds, all so high and singing, all so fly and floating, could never understand how easy it is for them to take it for granted, their natural abilities that we could never experience, how could we live without them? take to the air? is it fair? Claire? wait for me there.
dirty fingernails, poetic fails, keep your conscience clean, know what I mean truthfully, suppressed sexual desire is evident in peeled plastic labels, followers following fables, broadcasted live on cable, or pay per view, kick off your shoes, feeling so blue, red eyes for long drives through stop lights and can't be stopped by the law, for some parents it takes a law to accept the son, it takes group acknowledgement before they can make their own decision, and we won and they cried though they did because they had seen it before on television, haunted visions and conspiracy against them, the feeling of drifting from point a to point b until no one can see, just a blur and without words...
think for yourself, you need help, call off those old tired ethics, live here and now in the present, the words over analyzed until a life is designed, blueprints for existence, they all feel it, it is in them and they are lunatics, kidnap values and retrace them to fit their mold, making bold moves, maneuvers cold but not so due to the cause, the city buried beneath blood, no way to prevent that sort of flood, there is no cure for this drug, rolled up in a rug and buried deep beneath the sea, in serene dribbling, a hard sell and oh well, I'll meet you in hell. I'll find a reason to believe you know what you are talking about.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Nov 17
A feeling that each passing moment is like a thin needle puncturing my head. Something damaging but not immediately. Talk zen and have a highlight. Head ache and a sudden feeling of 'want-to-do-nothing' but at the expense of feeling awful because of it. Why be alone for this?
so desperate for enlightenment. seeking through paranoid visions of the greatest sickness. exhausted eyes and song sections in shambles. cultivating a talent or wasting the time given. clean up my keyboard with a Q-tip. read.
so desperate for enlightenment. seeking through paranoid visions of the greatest sickness. exhausted eyes and song sections in shambles. cultivating a talent or wasting the time given. clean up my keyboard with a Q-tip. read.
Friday, November 16, 2012
nov 16
hear a jovial family through thin walls and freeze in place. given options and closing them off. perpetual feeling of forgetting, jesus tap-dancing christ and the words feel forced again. make up and drinks from the owner and we were glorified in the superficial glow of lights and pictures, the young and ambitious band of brothers crossing over thin red lines and gorgeous innocent, wondering the purpose of personalized weed collections, safeway sushi, bailey's and coffee, funyuns and lethargic body, missing opportunities left and right. handing over business cards and we recreate all highs and lows. only high in red-bull fueled frenzy, harmonies electric and vibrant, hearing the cheers from sensible upper tier citizens, something incorrect about all of that aside from the sheer volume of our performance... blonde women screaming in ecstasy. suits and ties, ladders up toward the clouds. nothing but thinner air. fair skinned and polka dotted. playing the music festivals that we could only dream of. the couple day wait before taking advantage of a given opportunity.
cut off at the knees. no more begging, please. indie orchestral folk and the myriad influences presented in affectionate technicolor. wash hands, all the shaken scum. all of the lonely dragging nights due to extremes reached in nights prior. i am a mess of a human being today. tired. hollow eyed and paralyzed. i can't ever be hard enough on myself. i could have been out at a show gathering more experience. writing about the award show in full detail. writing new melodies and lyrics.
but instead. killing time and weirdly in aware isolation. not even feeling inspired to write or do much of anything. can't read or draw or paint or play or practice or sing or run or learn. can sit and hurt inside. only. try not to get too far down into the deep insolence... hating the words... hating this dead motivation... hating myself in turn because of it... never watches news. never feels more than a moment at a time... missed chances. missing chances. missing life. missing lives. lethargic. apathetic. pathetic. can't even move. deep into a hateful chasm of knuckle tattoos and anti-gay campaigners. Justify nothing. drunk off of life. all the ideas but never executing. make me worry. make it count. make it stop and start and kill off momentum...
need to be the best. must start tomorrow.
cut off at the knees. no more begging, please. indie orchestral folk and the myriad influences presented in affectionate technicolor. wash hands, all the shaken scum. all of the lonely dragging nights due to extremes reached in nights prior. i am a mess of a human being today. tired. hollow eyed and paralyzed. i can't ever be hard enough on myself. i could have been out at a show gathering more experience. writing about the award show in full detail. writing new melodies and lyrics.
but instead. killing time and weirdly in aware isolation. not even feeling inspired to write or do much of anything. can't read or draw or paint or play or practice or sing or run or learn. can sit and hurt inside. only. try not to get too far down into the deep insolence... hating the words... hating this dead motivation... hating myself in turn because of it... never watches news. never feels more than a moment at a time... missed chances. missing chances. missing life. missing lives. lethargic. apathetic. pathetic. can't even move. deep into a hateful chasm of knuckle tattoos and anti-gay campaigners. Justify nothing. drunk off of life. all the ideas but never executing. make me worry. make it count. make it stop and start and kill off momentum...
need to be the best. must start tomorrow.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
nov 14
a conversation with myself...
-So what's your story?
-Well I dropped out of college to be a part of this. Technically I'm 'the new guy' though we are a relatively new formation.
-Dropped out huh?
-I was studying creative writing at Arizona State with a 4.0 but I found Arizona was not my state. I was unhappy with my college experience out there. So my old pal here, Mike Campbell, called me up with an opportunity to come out and join Sound Cannon. I jumped at the chance.
-How long have you been a band?
-Well I moved here officially early in the summer. We wrote and recorded our Zelodius EP at that time which is now available everywhere online.
-Zelodius... interesting... what does it mean?
-It's an abstraction of the word melodious, which is to say something is pleasant sounding. Not that the EP is an abstraction of what is conventionally pleasant-sounding... because it sounds great... but rather the motivation behind the writing process is something unique. We write what comes out of us naturally without conforming to any specific genre or ideal aside from one of open-mindedness. Our stance on writing music seems infrequently used due to market over-saturation of cookie cutter pop music dictating the 'correct' way to go about it. Hence the 'Z' because it is the most infrequently used letter of the English alphabet. Long story short, zelodius represents our compatibility as musicians and our collective lofty goals of ultimate creative freedom it all respects.
-Wow. Great stuff. That's all true?
-No. It's probably what we will say from now on though. Zelodius was the name of teacher Mike and I both had back in middle school who was known for her crazy antics and long witch-like fingernails which she would rasp on the desk making all of the children shrink.
-haha. so how does it feel to be nominated for the 'best rock song' at the 2012 hollywood music in media awards?
- pretty damn exciting. we put in the hard work and we are happy enough to be here at all. and we are playing tonight right before the after party!
-for those who have never heard your music... how would you explain your sound?
-we are a strong mixture of a multitude of stylistic influences... from rush to saosin to bloc party... we have been described as 'progressive pop/rock with sometimes a heavier, metallic edge'.... for fans of Circa Survive, Protest The Hero, Incubus and maybe MuteMath if not simply for their ability to write whatever kind of song they want without sticking themselves into a constant genre. we constantly reform and reshape our sound. The current full length that we are working on will surely illustrate all of influences and how we transcend an easily labelled genre. In a record store, we would be found in the rock/rnb section though we all know the diversity found on the shelves of Amoeba.
-New album???
-Oh yes! We are teaming up with James Paul Wisner who has worked with Paramore, Dashboard Confessional and New Found Glory. He is producing our 12 song full length that we will track next month.
-any shows coming up?
-We are playing at the whiskey on the 23rd of this month. excited for that particularly due to the fact my family is flying down. then we have a few shows lined up during our recording schedule in december. check us out on soundcannon.com and add us on facebook for more information and behind the scenes footage from all of these events.
-thanks
-no, thank you.
-So what's your story?
-Well I dropped out of college to be a part of this. Technically I'm 'the new guy' though we are a relatively new formation.
-Dropped out huh?
-I was studying creative writing at Arizona State with a 4.0 but I found Arizona was not my state. I was unhappy with my college experience out there. So my old pal here, Mike Campbell, called me up with an opportunity to come out and join Sound Cannon. I jumped at the chance.
-How long have you been a band?
-Well I moved here officially early in the summer. We wrote and recorded our Zelodius EP at that time which is now available everywhere online.
-Zelodius... interesting... what does it mean?
-It's an abstraction of the word melodious, which is to say something is pleasant sounding. Not that the EP is an abstraction of what is conventionally pleasant-sounding... because it sounds great... but rather the motivation behind the writing process is something unique. We write what comes out of us naturally without conforming to any specific genre or ideal aside from one of open-mindedness. Our stance on writing music seems infrequently used due to market over-saturation of cookie cutter pop music dictating the 'correct' way to go about it. Hence the 'Z' because it is the most infrequently used letter of the English alphabet. Long story short, zelodius represents our compatibility as musicians and our collective lofty goals of ultimate creative freedom it all respects.
-Wow. Great stuff. That's all true?
-No. It's probably what we will say from now on though. Zelodius was the name of teacher Mike and I both had back in middle school who was known for her crazy antics and long witch-like fingernails which she would rasp on the desk making all of the children shrink.
-haha. so how does it feel to be nominated for the 'best rock song' at the 2012 hollywood music in media awards?
- pretty damn exciting. we put in the hard work and we are happy enough to be here at all. and we are playing tonight right before the after party!
-for those who have never heard your music... how would you explain your sound?
-we are a strong mixture of a multitude of stylistic influences... from rush to saosin to bloc party... we have been described as 'progressive pop/rock with sometimes a heavier, metallic edge'.... for fans of Circa Survive, Protest The Hero, Incubus and maybe MuteMath if not simply for their ability to write whatever kind of song they want without sticking themselves into a constant genre. we constantly reform and reshape our sound. The current full length that we are working on will surely illustrate all of influences and how we transcend an easily labelled genre. In a record store, we would be found in the rock/rnb section though we all know the diversity found on the shelves of Amoeba.
-New album???
-Oh yes! We are teaming up with James Paul Wisner who has worked with Paramore, Dashboard Confessional and New Found Glory. He is producing our 12 song full length that we will track next month.
-any shows coming up?
-We are playing at the whiskey on the 23rd of this month. excited for that particularly due to the fact my family is flying down. then we have a few shows lined up during our recording schedule in december. check us out on soundcannon.com and add us on facebook for more information and behind the scenes footage from all of these events.
-thanks
-no, thank you.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Nov 13th
Careful with the accurate language, the negative accents and overtones weigh over the top.... but I'm not paid for my opinion, tell me to shut the hell up when I need to. horrible things to say on an early night. Feeling alone again as an outlier, all the while I could have been having crazy sex with a beautiful young woman who works at a store I've never been to. She is there, somewhere. But there is fear. Fear of the unknown? Is that it?
Watch my words so closely that I can never enter a full subconscious flow of them... over analyze and everyone feels so damn sober. weigh you down.
tone of voice and matter of opinion. the outsider. the considerable losses and the over the top politically charged humor. easy way to divide the nation therefore the way we will always do it because united we fall. everyone so strung out on their beliefs. needing a fix of reality. needing some heroin in their veins for the love of christ. bring us some fucking salvation. save yourself first though, there are 7 billion who hate this just as much. the isolation and the lack of acceptance. (did I spell it fucking right this time?) minimize swearing due to lack of color it supplies in words though my current anger can only be defined in such words. A shit storm of thoughts and a violent melody embedded forever.
maybe my anger is a veiled awareness that I am of a quickly dying breed.
I read. I don't read what I 'should' read.
----
spider crawled on me through sheets, pay an homage to the old lyrics and the derivative meanings behind the words. I heard you fell into a rabbit hole. something drug addled and incandescent. I'll see the lights tomorrow. something actually happening. for a few years. worried about longevity when I lose my mind and can hardly control any impulse to better self in any other sense and mr positive over here. overly optimistic is a lie. that is dumb. pick yourself up off your feet or die. never get on your fucking knees. everyone is worse than you. you are alone and so is everyone else. this is a dark tuesday.
chug a beer naked. the vanity mirrors all around. it scared me. i thought it might have been somebody. tell them one thing hear back another and never be true. cognitively dissonant old me. I can't allow anything to happen without question. what the fuck is wrong with that? (it's his damned partial college education, they'll say.) fuck you, I'll say. and we will end in argument and assess the results of this quandary. intelligent and calculated but simply to shit in front of the judges with all your might. the courage to do that on national television. though I do not trust a reputation anymore than for it to be a guideline for the person. the manipulation. talk to them. ask my own damn questions and ruin everything. why did you have to go and be so curious for the existence of truth and beautiful music.
"what does she do?"
Watch my words so closely that I can never enter a full subconscious flow of them... over analyze and everyone feels so damn sober. weigh you down.
tone of voice and matter of opinion. the outsider. the considerable losses and the over the top politically charged humor. easy way to divide the nation therefore the way we will always do it because united we fall. everyone so strung out on their beliefs. needing a fix of reality. needing some heroin in their veins for the love of christ. bring us some fucking salvation. save yourself first though, there are 7 billion who hate this just as much. the isolation and the lack of acceptance. (did I spell it fucking right this time?) minimize swearing due to lack of color it supplies in words though my current anger can only be defined in such words. A shit storm of thoughts and a violent melody embedded forever.
maybe my anger is a veiled awareness that I am of a quickly dying breed.
I read. I don't read what I 'should' read.
----
spider crawled on me through sheets, pay an homage to the old lyrics and the derivative meanings behind the words. I heard you fell into a rabbit hole. something drug addled and incandescent. I'll see the lights tomorrow. something actually happening. for a few years. worried about longevity when I lose my mind and can hardly control any impulse to better self in any other sense and mr positive over here. overly optimistic is a lie. that is dumb. pick yourself up off your feet or die. never get on your fucking knees. everyone is worse than you. you are alone and so is everyone else. this is a dark tuesday.
chug a beer naked. the vanity mirrors all around. it scared me. i thought it might have been somebody. tell them one thing hear back another and never be true. cognitively dissonant old me. I can't allow anything to happen without question. what the fuck is wrong with that? (it's his damned partial college education, they'll say.) fuck you, I'll say. and we will end in argument and assess the results of this quandary. intelligent and calculated but simply to shit in front of the judges with all your might. the courage to do that on national television. though I do not trust a reputation anymore than for it to be a guideline for the person. the manipulation. talk to them. ask my own damn questions and ruin everything. why did you have to go and be so curious for the existence of truth and beautiful music.
"what does she do?"
Monday, November 12, 2012
nov 12
muscle memory training for beautiful sounds created
we could write very nice duets together
how could it happen though?
how could it happen without professional quality?
I am lost in a sea of drawn out opportunity
of broken spells and binding spirit
of beer breath and wide breadth
couldn't catch a glimpse
of our fate undecided
dye your hair or die
feed us to ourselves
--
blue guiding light, burning up tea but turned off the stove top to crack open a lukewarm beer instead, something you could never understand and certainly never conducive to being creative, potentially the opposite but the melancholy vibes are accentuated. my heart pulls in different directions and I'm wishing for an honest conversation... she was shorter and skinnier, something out of a contemporary fashion magazine, against the grain of standard trend, though still maintaining a definitive trendiness, all of the glory taken away and the glare in her eyes was shared in mine, the same sun beating down and sapping us of our strength like blossoming flowers awaiting the spring rain for sustenance we will begin a new chapter sooner than ever and all advantages will be taken across the galactic fields, we were not meant to be together due to distance without easy access and the flight times change in intermediate sorrow, the vocals and the conspiring against, the late and unwarranted vocalization, and the noises made in bedrooms are indistinguishable from the mold as a whole, your pink hair and the idea of it destroy me physically, making my body weaker, calcium dust in the air, breathing in like an oxygen mask is throttling my face, insubordinate decision making skills, know how to bow down and take it when required, the truth is in the face of every liar, they wear it cowardly beneath layers of leather skin and black furry jackets, all spiraling down toward an appointed oblivion, the airways cost more than ten dollars, and our salvation can be found in the midst of an overcast day, filtering through like back lit snow flakes, each unique and crushing to the earth with a forceful velocity, what is the ocean but a series of drops? and the passion in each of our eyes, considering the sources of the most potent emotional weight.
how does it compare? an instant connection between kindred souls but with such a limited time frame. enough content to fill books of love poetry. a top 40 radio hit playlist, all sad songs to help those with current or recent break ups. the attitude of the artist with a megaphone, yelling things into a crowd... slam poetry in the bedroom. up against the back boards and without a comforter anywhere in sight, hoping that bottle speaks like you, like us, like me.... does it compare to the emotional weight of the death of an important friend? no. there will be no eulogy for this lost potential. it will forever remain as a blank possibility, a huge what-if, though still fully in the realm of possibility... if she wanted it or if he wanted it, all would work out much greater, all would be infinite. the what ifs could be answered! the scenarios fought over. shade the sun from her eyes, put your arms around and read sexually charged quotes from romance novels like the scene in any romantic comedy. if this were a romantic comedy then one or the other would prepare themselves for a surprise encounter while the other remains a mystery. in fact, he thinks, a knock on my door at this hour would be better than any wishing well wish ever made. it is cold yes my darling. we can stay warm with rocket fuel injected space heaters. we can stay comforted in each others arms. soft blankets smelling like cologne or perfume or pheromones and moaning consciousness in the late hours, simply sleeping on the first few nights, a shared space like the forbidden consensual love in the green fields of a Dystopian future. holding hands despite the enforced jail time for such an action. such an incendiary action. full of flame in the face of cold facts. the distance and never coming to conclusion. begin to reflect on the accidental nature of the meeting to begin with. all conspiracy for me aside. wishing to hold you in my arms but knowing damn well it cannot happen without some intentional plans... no surprise visit unless one of us has the wherewithal and television detective clues to reenact the situations.
fucking help us come together!
---
contemplate christmas. recording schedule. where to spend new years in the pacific northwest. how to live freely in a golden tower.
we could write very nice duets together
how could it happen though?
how could it happen without professional quality?
I am lost in a sea of drawn out opportunity
of broken spells and binding spirit
of beer breath and wide breadth
couldn't catch a glimpse
of our fate undecided
dye your hair or die
feed us to ourselves
--
blue guiding light, burning up tea but turned off the stove top to crack open a lukewarm beer instead, something you could never understand and certainly never conducive to being creative, potentially the opposite but the melancholy vibes are accentuated. my heart pulls in different directions and I'm wishing for an honest conversation... she was shorter and skinnier, something out of a contemporary fashion magazine, against the grain of standard trend, though still maintaining a definitive trendiness, all of the glory taken away and the glare in her eyes was shared in mine, the same sun beating down and sapping us of our strength like blossoming flowers awaiting the spring rain for sustenance we will begin a new chapter sooner than ever and all advantages will be taken across the galactic fields, we were not meant to be together due to distance without easy access and the flight times change in intermediate sorrow, the vocals and the conspiring against, the late and unwarranted vocalization, and the noises made in bedrooms are indistinguishable from the mold as a whole, your pink hair and the idea of it destroy me physically, making my body weaker, calcium dust in the air, breathing in like an oxygen mask is throttling my face, insubordinate decision making skills, know how to bow down and take it when required, the truth is in the face of every liar, they wear it cowardly beneath layers of leather skin and black furry jackets, all spiraling down toward an appointed oblivion, the airways cost more than ten dollars, and our salvation can be found in the midst of an overcast day, filtering through like back lit snow flakes, each unique and crushing to the earth with a forceful velocity, what is the ocean but a series of drops? and the passion in each of our eyes, considering the sources of the most potent emotional weight.
how does it compare? an instant connection between kindred souls but with such a limited time frame. enough content to fill books of love poetry. a top 40 radio hit playlist, all sad songs to help those with current or recent break ups. the attitude of the artist with a megaphone, yelling things into a crowd... slam poetry in the bedroom. up against the back boards and without a comforter anywhere in sight, hoping that bottle speaks like you, like us, like me.... does it compare to the emotional weight of the death of an important friend? no. there will be no eulogy for this lost potential. it will forever remain as a blank possibility, a huge what-if, though still fully in the realm of possibility... if she wanted it or if he wanted it, all would work out much greater, all would be infinite. the what ifs could be answered! the scenarios fought over. shade the sun from her eyes, put your arms around and read sexually charged quotes from romance novels like the scene in any romantic comedy. if this were a romantic comedy then one or the other would prepare themselves for a surprise encounter while the other remains a mystery. in fact, he thinks, a knock on my door at this hour would be better than any wishing well wish ever made. it is cold yes my darling. we can stay warm with rocket fuel injected space heaters. we can stay comforted in each others arms. soft blankets smelling like cologne or perfume or pheromones and moaning consciousness in the late hours, simply sleeping on the first few nights, a shared space like the forbidden consensual love in the green fields of a Dystopian future. holding hands despite the enforced jail time for such an action. such an incendiary action. full of flame in the face of cold facts. the distance and never coming to conclusion. begin to reflect on the accidental nature of the meeting to begin with. all conspiracy for me aside. wishing to hold you in my arms but knowing damn well it cannot happen without some intentional plans... no surprise visit unless one of us has the wherewithal and television detective clues to reenact the situations.
fucking help us come together!
---
contemplate christmas. recording schedule. where to spend new years in the pacific northwest. how to live freely in a golden tower.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Nov 11
Body withers without stories to tell, the mind decays into dust and cobwebs through neglect. Sew your mouth shut. Devour words and fill fabricated lands with them, all the hypothetical arrangement. The excitement hidden in my voice and killing vibe. Accidental. It is extreme and nice.
----
Does he have the heart and the motivation to kill a six pack of Oregon's finest brew? It would certainly be a feat of legendary performance. The body would reel and recoil after the calories and stupid alcohol breath. At least he can brush his teeth. Coyote yells in the parking lot, the high school punks meet here too the day before veteran's day. the extended weekend to feel stupid and ridiculed again in the morning.
"If you could only listen to one album forever, what would it be?"
four winds, the great gig in the sky, paint it black, on your way, two small deaths, bookworm, vital signs, joy, the kids aren't alright, rich kid blues, let's go get stoned, as long as it takes, stand by me this modern love in the most trustworthy tin cans. lime tree the lottery gravity. the basic four blood cops. blindfolds aside sweet disposition. far more gathering pebbles, kiel. big sea please come home some weekend night. I begged you everything, you're trailing yourself. Lovers in love stay awake! the prophet give life to the lifeless. bought the ticket took the ride on moths wings.
---
write so extreme but with no audience. no one reads constantly. the words, even the carefully selected ones, are overlooked and it is decided that I should write myself a book of avant-garde phrases and random English-language mischief. I bet I have enough content to go through and edit to create 10 books on the execution of free-writing/free-association type writing. but some of it is outside of those labels. most of it, really.
---
whiskey a go go presale.... dec 3rd rec date...
----
Does he have the heart and the motivation to kill a six pack of Oregon's finest brew? It would certainly be a feat of legendary performance. The body would reel and recoil after the calories and stupid alcohol breath. At least he can brush his teeth. Coyote yells in the parking lot, the high school punks meet here too the day before veteran's day. the extended weekend to feel stupid and ridiculed again in the morning.
"If you could only listen to one album forever, what would it be?"
four winds, the great gig in the sky, paint it black, on your way, two small deaths, bookworm, vital signs, joy, the kids aren't alright, rich kid blues, let's go get stoned, as long as it takes, stand by me this modern love in the most trustworthy tin cans. lime tree the lottery gravity. the basic four blood cops. blindfolds aside sweet disposition. far more gathering pebbles, kiel. big sea please come home some weekend night. I begged you everything, you're trailing yourself. Lovers in love stay awake! the prophet give life to the lifeless. bought the ticket took the ride on moths wings.
---
write so extreme but with no audience. no one reads constantly. the words, even the carefully selected ones, are overlooked and it is decided that I should write myself a book of avant-garde phrases and random English-language mischief. I bet I have enough content to go through and edit to create 10 books on the execution of free-writing/free-association type writing. but some of it is outside of those labels. most of it, really.
---
whiskey a go go presale.... dec 3rd rec date...
Saturday, November 10, 2012
nov 10
Asleep again in the icebox. Bottles rushed up against the ice. The ice was once separate analogous shapes all rattling around but in transition they partially phased-changed, melted a bit, and froze back together as a huge unmoving clump. The beer is buried beneath this ice. Freezing on a windy California night, trying to make myself sweat less in the vault. No money in here. No money shots. Warm coffee necessary thankfully though the teeth-stain jokes tear down defensive psyche. Could barely sleep without brushing teeth. Nothing offensive or outspoken. You are cogs in a greater machinery. You have relinquished control and every motor function now is governed by a omnipotent marionette. A puppet with invisible strings. We can jerry rig these haywires and try to untangle the mess we built up since birth.
Fans gathering dust in the darkened world. Snow fields and big bearded men striding stoic without proper shoes, smiling. This is not cold. Keep the body moving. The human potential is too great for this to be of any lasting effect on you and your body. You will be warm again, and quickly. Is it not nice to feel discomfort? It wakes you. Meet the well informed women who is like a splash of frigid water on your sleeping face. Instant from resting, slow breathing, to something quick, violent, terrifying briefly. End up wide awake. Why desire to feel anything less than everything possible? This is one huge life. (hypocrite avoids vegas trip and stays back and promises eternity though does nothing proactive to sustain).
High speed midnight burn through the desert with the stars all open and shining down the way for the roads without electronic lighting. Rattlesnakes sleeping and gambling addiction fueled by streams of constant money and greed. There will be naked women and insanity. There will be fun and foolishness. There will be existence though for the wrong motivation. It all seems fucked.
Fans gathering dust in the darkened world. Snow fields and big bearded men striding stoic without proper shoes, smiling. This is not cold. Keep the body moving. The human potential is too great for this to be of any lasting effect on you and your body. You will be warm again, and quickly. Is it not nice to feel discomfort? It wakes you. Meet the well informed women who is like a splash of frigid water on your sleeping face. Instant from resting, slow breathing, to something quick, violent, terrifying briefly. End up wide awake. Why desire to feel anything less than everything possible? This is one huge life. (hypocrite avoids vegas trip and stays back and promises eternity though does nothing proactive to sustain).
High speed midnight burn through the desert with the stars all open and shining down the way for the roads without electronic lighting. Rattlesnakes sleeping and gambling addiction fueled by streams of constant money and greed. There will be naked women and insanity. There will be fun and foolishness. There will be existence though for the wrong motivation. It all seems fucked.
Nov 9
The definition of a prodigy, indecent exposure on a dark
night masquerade, somehow channeling the attention span to keep television in
the back ground behind writing, a necessary skill and all of the advertising
tricks used by all of these companies, it has boiled down to such perverted and
random moments. Everything taken out of context and these people are stupid and
convincing, watching a movie and staying high maintenance, sitting next to you
on the couch and feel the moment, the expectations and the revelations, getting
into the rhythm, fall asleep at the studio, working and taking pills in
collection, feeling every moment collapse and then the momentum subsides, dying
and scaring the younger generation ,such random and hard to believe in sequences,
music video shoot, haunting and excitement, that’s fucking crazy. Protective and
wild simultaneous. They never know your full name. they let it slip beneath the
cracks and no one sleeps right.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
November 8th
"In youth we may have an absolutely new experience, subjective or objective, every hour of the day. Apprehension is vivid, retentiveness strong, and our recollections of that time, like those of a time spent in rapid and interesting travel, are of something intricate, multitudinous and long-drawn-out. But as each passing year converts some of this experience into automatic routine which we hardly note at all, the days and the weeks smooth themselves out in recollection to contentless units, and the years grow hollow and collapse." William James Principles of Psychology
-------
Hunched over the table, shifting eyes, gobbling food given to him and he takes advantage. Incredible picky eater, which is an impossible sensation for myself, grateful enough just to fucking eat. Ungrateful. Hates books. Repeats phrases incessantly in conversation. Denies knowledge for many things. Attempts to lie into a big ego. Stuffing face without talking about anything meaningful. There is no lightbulb in the back there. A blur of a life. Something passing by so rapidly, no one even takes notice of that ignorant presence. Honestly racist. Spoiled rotten. Epitome of something so vengeful and hateful. Fills my head with wasps buzzing and stabbing into the grey matter. Grey is not a god damn color it is a shade. Why is the pursuit and love of knowledge and beauty something to ridicule? What kind of backwards upbringing in the shadows of doubt is this? I will stick in traffic like a broken brake and I volunteer for circumstances I can hardly tolerate in my mind's eye. Frustration and ridicule. Glorious in that existing shit storm. Heavy lifting and breaking the back down until nothing positive remains. Painting and dividing all the elements we used and the warm colors always overpower despite shitty los angeles rain driving, depressing music and congestion on the 101, we will be stuck and I will bite my tongue because I am an outlier, I am the one to place the blame for something strange or negative to happen. Strange is fucking good. If you want to stick out at a 'formal' event then do not dress formal. A bunch of hollywood garbage. We voted for this. Enough stupid people following dumber people in circles killed all hope for turning around and exiting. The trash piles up. Ignorance and selfishness combined form in huge clouds over the city, attempt to go out for a run in the rain but the air hurts the lungs with all of the denser, polluted, molecules in it that the water dragged down from higher up. Our consumption of oil and gasoline will kill us all. Gas prices steady climbing and everyone talks about money like it is the only important thing in the world. Shallow cunts with depression caused by time away from cell phone. An angry aggressive rant. The fake tits and red lipstick everyone assumes that the quiet ones are the ones to watch. Dating porn stars in the valley of dying dreams. Our valley. Who could survive this climate? It fucking sucks here. Everyone is a liar for their own personal gain and a dissenting opinion is always closed off. Speak the voice of dissent and be shunned. Exiled. Excommunicated. Speak the voice of truth, of a lens of equality and reality. Exile. Excommunication. They will hang you by the balls in the public square but no one will fight on your side they will bite their tongues until blood pours out then go home early, sick, to fuck the babysitter before the wife gets back from book club. Book club though? Is a god damn joke and a hoax. They pretend that they are The View. Or some other useless bullshit carnal knowledge. Shit no one needs to know about. This is the content that does not enrich our lives but rather diminishes. Peasants. With peasant problems. The stupidity and the ignorance. Unbelievable this shit is the cultural mirror reflecting our ideals back to us. Orange fake tit blonde high heeled stardom. Shallow and idiotic all the vomiting supermodels and the pressure to conform into a puzzle piece for a grander, obsequious, universe. The idea of beauty has been exploited into something so narrow and unrealistic that we all hate ourselves and feel ugly outside. No one feels ugly inside. Especially those who are fucking filth inside. To the core. Bring it on apocalypse. bring it on cynicism. fuck your world. ill take mine.
-------
Hunched over the table, shifting eyes, gobbling food given to him and he takes advantage. Incredible picky eater, which is an impossible sensation for myself, grateful enough just to fucking eat. Ungrateful. Hates books. Repeats phrases incessantly in conversation. Denies knowledge for many things. Attempts to lie into a big ego. Stuffing face without talking about anything meaningful. There is no lightbulb in the back there. A blur of a life. Something passing by so rapidly, no one even takes notice of that ignorant presence. Honestly racist. Spoiled rotten. Epitome of something so vengeful and hateful. Fills my head with wasps buzzing and stabbing into the grey matter. Grey is not a god damn color it is a shade. Why is the pursuit and love of knowledge and beauty something to ridicule? What kind of backwards upbringing in the shadows of doubt is this? I will stick in traffic like a broken brake and I volunteer for circumstances I can hardly tolerate in my mind's eye. Frustration and ridicule. Glorious in that existing shit storm. Heavy lifting and breaking the back down until nothing positive remains. Painting and dividing all the elements we used and the warm colors always overpower despite shitty los angeles rain driving, depressing music and congestion on the 101, we will be stuck and I will bite my tongue because I am an outlier, I am the one to place the blame for something strange or negative to happen. Strange is fucking good. If you want to stick out at a 'formal' event then do not dress formal. A bunch of hollywood garbage. We voted for this. Enough stupid people following dumber people in circles killed all hope for turning around and exiting. The trash piles up. Ignorance and selfishness combined form in huge clouds over the city, attempt to go out for a run in the rain but the air hurts the lungs with all of the denser, polluted, molecules in it that the water dragged down from higher up. Our consumption of oil and gasoline will kill us all. Gas prices steady climbing and everyone talks about money like it is the only important thing in the world. Shallow cunts with depression caused by time away from cell phone. An angry aggressive rant. The fake tits and red lipstick everyone assumes that the quiet ones are the ones to watch. Dating porn stars in the valley of dying dreams. Our valley. Who could survive this climate? It fucking sucks here. Everyone is a liar for their own personal gain and a dissenting opinion is always closed off. Speak the voice of dissent and be shunned. Exiled. Excommunicated. Speak the voice of truth, of a lens of equality and reality. Exile. Excommunication. They will hang you by the balls in the public square but no one will fight on your side they will bite their tongues until blood pours out then go home early, sick, to fuck the babysitter before the wife gets back from book club. Book club though? Is a god damn joke and a hoax. They pretend that they are The View. Or some other useless bullshit carnal knowledge. Shit no one needs to know about. This is the content that does not enrich our lives but rather diminishes. Peasants. With peasant problems. The stupidity and the ignorance. Unbelievable this shit is the cultural mirror reflecting our ideals back to us. Orange fake tit blonde high heeled stardom. Shallow and idiotic all the vomiting supermodels and the pressure to conform into a puzzle piece for a grander, obsequious, universe. The idea of beauty has been exploited into something so narrow and unrealistic that we all hate ourselves and feel ugly outside. No one feels ugly inside. Especially those who are fucking filth inside. To the core. Bring it on apocalypse. bring it on cynicism. fuck your world. ill take mine.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
nov 7
Technical proficiency, scientific fact merged with eavesdrop and alcoholic dysfunction, falling hopeless into bottles and pulling out delirium tremens from the dark past, shaking in beach side huts, who froze in the night when the calf on the hill made soft noises in the grass, salt in the hair, but a hidden cove with huge crashing waves, an unnerving quality of ancient swamped wreckage. Am I losing grip with reality? All the questions, there is a blame and a look of discontent. All the ignorant political garbage, things are going to good directions at the rate of marijuana sales and distribution, problems in the world solved with stoney intentions, colorful market and hunched back and all of those television screens and conversations of foiled telephone plans, in a bad mood for days without cell phone, sounds like someone is on their god damn period to me, but hey I'm that asshole in mind because of the huge ruse it all seems to be, I can cooperate and be a shadow to this beast of a shit covered pop culture. (Later will look back at such negativity and frown at past self. Seems to be holding grudge but we are not the same. I am a freak of nature. She is a product of our pop culture. We clash and deny it.)
Votings to the booths, line up like cattle with shifting eyes and locked-down opinions, afraid to speak up for racial differences that the media will joyfully exploit later that evening, sending convoluted Tuesday night football scores with people on scene to analyze the game plan and what the numbers mean, basically mathematical geniuses, they could easily guest star on a politic campaign. john madden narrating the election or a debate with which the candidates crush each other under the weight of an upset or a dredged up past that never meant anything when it was present. We have all done real things and the honesty and integrity of the man is astonishing, a best-selling book prior to the busiest man in the world. Assassination attempts and threats to the next few months. A huge sigh of relief that all efforts proved fruitful, southern sobs, getting the red white and blues, complain or celebrate in the exact same sense as a rivalry football game. Something big and broadcasted and hyped. A superbowl once every four years. The best of those four years (either the richest or the most marketable) gets a ring on each finger for the success.
Messages in the sand blow away in the wind
harmonies and secrets kept
all of everything collapse
---
talking to myself, crazy inside. always. feeling like reading rather than writing. filling the cup more than pouring it out. tomorrow is a day for laundry and dreaming about fucking and also writing.
Votings to the booths, line up like cattle with shifting eyes and locked-down opinions, afraid to speak up for racial differences that the media will joyfully exploit later that evening, sending convoluted Tuesday night football scores with people on scene to analyze the game plan and what the numbers mean, basically mathematical geniuses, they could easily guest star on a politic campaign. john madden narrating the election or a debate with which the candidates crush each other under the weight of an upset or a dredged up past that never meant anything when it was present. We have all done real things and the honesty and integrity of the man is astonishing, a best-selling book prior to the busiest man in the world. Assassination attempts and threats to the next few months. A huge sigh of relief that all efforts proved fruitful, southern sobs, getting the red white and blues, complain or celebrate in the exact same sense as a rivalry football game. Something big and broadcasted and hyped. A superbowl once every four years. The best of those four years (either the richest or the most marketable) gets a ring on each finger for the success.
Messages in the sand blow away in the wind
harmonies and secrets kept
all of everything collapse
---
talking to myself, crazy inside. always. feeling like reading rather than writing. filling the cup more than pouring it out. tomorrow is a day for laundry and dreaming about fucking and also writing.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
nov 6
Push technical boundaries and dive into a dark cave embodiment of free-thought. Dropping flares before you then passing them in the air on the descent. Killing momentum with the branches of grasping trees near that dense center, the type of final push that could make a human fall off the face of the earth for a long time before falling out onto the chest of the earth. resting on the stomach of the globe.... from kerouac to catcher in the rye... finding the kindred restless spirit and free-thinking new creatures inhaling pot again from a hippie past culture redefined and we all shuffle our feet wonderfully and groan at the advanced technology and how confusing it may be.
Take classes, vocal, dance, final cut. Art. Design.
Take classes, vocal, dance, final cut. Art. Design.
Monday, November 5, 2012
nov 5
"Bad habits always make for good memories." - eyedea
Unhealthy habits for sleeping, the back posture is burning up and constantly aching with feverish feeling, that muscular burn defining a body and the system it inhabits, the excess removed, and the bare naked flesh. Metal entering ears and confusing with best intentions to push severed boundaries of lines drawn in the sand. everything reaching for the same gold coin, which turns into chocolate at first touch. They devour each other to avoid starvation. Minds divulge and separate. Feeling estranged and a thread removed from an outside purpose. Feel the benefits of the ride I'm coasting on. No time to waste and this wave must hold everything accountable, I am a lucky son of a bitch. This is a blessing and the aggressive music tests my ability to split my full attention between multiple activities, learning to write as sporadically and A.D.D. as the music, shuffling, allows. Regardless I am so damn lucky.
Whistling in the shade of southern california trees, falling in love with women who can sing or paint. Something enriching and making them of a grander poetic quality. Something they understand in their honest approach to music. Do you remember your original desire? That passion erupting and you soaked in every music you possible could. Until you gathered more than you could listen to. You filled the cup too full. Over time you go back and listen to all. Fall in love to the rhythm and melody. Try to depart from your trained ears. Try not to hear the quality of recording determine the quality of song. You will listen for content. For the part of humanity representing through the lungs of an artist. Play piano and know what it is to physically.
In wine there is truth.
Truth in the ability to seek justification behind all reckless action. The body pays and the shredding continues despite my capability. Practice god damn it. The same constant rate. I'm full of this and that. Though the practice needs to exist. Write continually. A happy addiction. Listen carefully. Pay attention. Study english and creative abilities. Write music and sing for getting better. Warm up daily. Always sing and improve. Lessons.
"character is how you treat those who can do nothing for you."
Smelling indecently in here. the cave of existence. the musical interludes. jazz rhythm of writing in bursts. candles to line the room. tea to drink daily. vitamins and rituals to improve. stretch the back. run regular. brush the teeth. keep everything clean and arranged. sleep well and everything will come true. stop pushing self to stay awake in order to keep moving. must sleep in order to move quickly from the onset of tomorrow. fuck up my circadian rhythm like a motherfucker.
Unhealthy habits for sleeping, the back posture is burning up and constantly aching with feverish feeling, that muscular burn defining a body and the system it inhabits, the excess removed, and the bare naked flesh. Metal entering ears and confusing with best intentions to push severed boundaries of lines drawn in the sand. everything reaching for the same gold coin, which turns into chocolate at first touch. They devour each other to avoid starvation. Minds divulge and separate. Feeling estranged and a thread removed from an outside purpose. Feel the benefits of the ride I'm coasting on. No time to waste and this wave must hold everything accountable, I am a lucky son of a bitch. This is a blessing and the aggressive music tests my ability to split my full attention between multiple activities, learning to write as sporadically and A.D.D. as the music, shuffling, allows. Regardless I am so damn lucky.
Whistling in the shade of southern california trees, falling in love with women who can sing or paint. Something enriching and making them of a grander poetic quality. Something they understand in their honest approach to music. Do you remember your original desire? That passion erupting and you soaked in every music you possible could. Until you gathered more than you could listen to. You filled the cup too full. Over time you go back and listen to all. Fall in love to the rhythm and melody. Try to depart from your trained ears. Try not to hear the quality of recording determine the quality of song. You will listen for content. For the part of humanity representing through the lungs of an artist. Play piano and know what it is to physically.
In wine there is truth.
Truth in the ability to seek justification behind all reckless action. The body pays and the shredding continues despite my capability. Practice god damn it. The same constant rate. I'm full of this and that. Though the practice needs to exist. Write continually. A happy addiction. Listen carefully. Pay attention. Study english and creative abilities. Write music and sing for getting better. Warm up daily. Always sing and improve. Lessons.
"character is how you treat those who can do nothing for you."
Smelling indecently in here. the cave of existence. the musical interludes. jazz rhythm of writing in bursts. candles to line the room. tea to drink daily. vitamins and rituals to improve. stretch the back. run regular. brush the teeth. keep everything clean and arranged. sleep well and everything will come true. stop pushing self to stay awake in order to keep moving. must sleep in order to move quickly from the onset of tomorrow. fuck up my circadian rhythm like a motherfucker.
Friday, November 2, 2012
Nov 2
Vivid infidelities through a winter dream scape, some friends have no hearts but they are still great friends... they might take a shot at your girl once she is drunk and vulnerable. Snow coming down. The ghost of my dead cat lingering in the 20 year old tree in the back, that goes heavily through the seasons, he has a lion's mane. A tiny black kitten clambers around without solid footing and wishes to be taken inside, which I do. I came out here in a fit of emotion, having felt abandoned. Playing guitar on this balcony, in the snow, absurd as is, the exterminator pulls around the corner spraying the outside of the house. Creatures won't come in this time of year. Normally they come to avoid the cold and survive off of our food crumbs or our blood. Generations have come to know this safe place. Spiders inside her. Trees collapse and everything goes to hell if your hair turned pink.
---
"Imagine waking up tomorrow and discovering that all the world's ink had become invisible and all our bytes had disappeared. Our world would immediately crumble. Literature, music, law, politics, science, math: Our culture is an edifice built of externalized memories." Joshua Foer
---
"Imagine waking up tomorrow and discovering that all the world's ink had become invisible and all our bytes had disappeared. Our world would immediately crumble. Literature, music, law, politics, science, math: Our culture is an edifice built of externalized memories." Joshua Foer
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Nov 1
Celebrate a pagan holiday the right way with inexpensive liquor in huge abundance and dancing rites in clearings of dark forests. We can put lights in the trees to give our midnight walks an eerie and effervescent glow. Something akin to candle light through more than likely electric to keep branches from immediately catching fire and burning, covering our bodies in showering flames.
Come on baby, this is a masquerade. Everyone shows up on their own. Guest list would ruin all of the mystique and the invisible monsters on a huge dance floor. Disguise your voice and no one will know you. I will show up unannounced and dance with you quietly in the center of the room, not daring to speak in my true voice, not wishing to be ridiculed, singled-out, slapped and embarrassed, naked dragging behind the shreds of my tattered clothes after the wolves, hungry, reach me and devour. We can spike the punch bowl with hallucinogenics. Allow the nightmares of waking life to jump off the page into the arms of these ghosts. Everyone looking the same in matters of invisibility. You would die to know how much it kills me to be here.
Face aghast, having seen a supernatural being hanging beneath the chandelier, squirming and struggle in the throes of death, again. But there is nothing. You and your children's imagination. Poor creature. The woods in the night give way to this kind of expressive belief of the disastrous. Reaching blind through the unknown vacuity and monsters growling and snarling moving in from the darkness. One day realizing in horror that you never left that forest and you are still the little boy screaming through the menacing trees with huge branches intending to scrape and maim, evil laughter pervading all bright thoughts and running from the potential pain, the incredible panic of someone in a disaster situation, the personality breaking apart at the seams and the true colors identified in terrible glory when the bus tips and everyone becomes a life or death see saw, one way or the other, the balance being offset by the violent nature of collision. In the night, I still hear things that could not be anything but werewolves rummaging through the neighbors hedge, somehow unable to sense my presence enough to break through my thin walls and destroy my body, as if internal combustion occurred. Though a massacre of the type only happens when entirely unsuspected. Extreme bad luck to think about the potential of a mad man to come screaming, bomb-strapped, into this quiet coffee corner... and then witnessing it all happen. Prior to death. A notebook could be incinerated in a fire but the internet remains. This is the fear of being forgotten. No one remembers the little boy who strayed off the path into the vengeful burial grounds of a violent deceased native culture. They torture and murder all wanderers as a form of ritual for those who disgraced their ancestors. Ghosts become beacons in the sky for where the invaders are on the trail. Then they come out, chanting, in a great mass of surrounding death.
Every house is haunted when the power goes out. Contrive a story... but hell... it could be true.?
--------
Taste the ocean
in the air without a care
kick back in the sun
magic potion
full of emotion
nothing to fear while we are here
drinking all the rum
salt the earth,
make the worst,
wake up in a hearse
what's all this commotion about recursive life?
sharpen your knives
until the edges are right
emotional plight on a reckless night
extinguish the candlelight
we are in the dark
the walls are stark
pull the thread apart
bursting at the seams
threadbare reasons
mind expanding with the seasons
high treason
make believe
you can achieve
sit tight my darling
we will soak up the sensations
our eyes peeled like oranges
watch clouds take shape
over vines with purple grapes
hands interlaced water tight
sound could not escape
with what's at stake
a life lead together
what feels like forever?
vacant minds leading happy lives
neighbors building fences
feeling safe in that haven
the bomb shelter in back
in case they attack
there are always others to replace the last.
darling there is nothing for us in the past
-----
'I would not want to marry the 'artsy type' - and all other gutted conversation around the table, with candles burning in hot box momentum, a head count and the addiction of candy when so low, raise up the blood sugar in spurts of 20 calories all possible to remove from the scene, getting everything ready for a few physical achievements, displays of strength and character. having already written today it is much more responsible of me at this point to sleep and to sleep well.
Come on baby, this is a masquerade. Everyone shows up on their own. Guest list would ruin all of the mystique and the invisible monsters on a huge dance floor. Disguise your voice and no one will know you. I will show up unannounced and dance with you quietly in the center of the room, not daring to speak in my true voice, not wishing to be ridiculed, singled-out, slapped and embarrassed, naked dragging behind the shreds of my tattered clothes after the wolves, hungry, reach me and devour. We can spike the punch bowl with hallucinogenics. Allow the nightmares of waking life to jump off the page into the arms of these ghosts. Everyone looking the same in matters of invisibility. You would die to know how much it kills me to be here.
Face aghast, having seen a supernatural being hanging beneath the chandelier, squirming and struggle in the throes of death, again. But there is nothing. You and your children's imagination. Poor creature. The woods in the night give way to this kind of expressive belief of the disastrous. Reaching blind through the unknown vacuity and monsters growling and snarling moving in from the darkness. One day realizing in horror that you never left that forest and you are still the little boy screaming through the menacing trees with huge branches intending to scrape and maim, evil laughter pervading all bright thoughts and running from the potential pain, the incredible panic of someone in a disaster situation, the personality breaking apart at the seams and the true colors identified in terrible glory when the bus tips and everyone becomes a life or death see saw, one way or the other, the balance being offset by the violent nature of collision. In the night, I still hear things that could not be anything but werewolves rummaging through the neighbors hedge, somehow unable to sense my presence enough to break through my thin walls and destroy my body, as if internal combustion occurred. Though a massacre of the type only happens when entirely unsuspected. Extreme bad luck to think about the potential of a mad man to come screaming, bomb-strapped, into this quiet coffee corner... and then witnessing it all happen. Prior to death. A notebook could be incinerated in a fire but the internet remains. This is the fear of being forgotten. No one remembers the little boy who strayed off the path into the vengeful burial grounds of a violent deceased native culture. They torture and murder all wanderers as a form of ritual for those who disgraced their ancestors. Ghosts become beacons in the sky for where the invaders are on the trail. Then they come out, chanting, in a great mass of surrounding death.
Every house is haunted when the power goes out. Contrive a story... but hell... it could be true.?
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Taste the ocean
in the air without a care
kick back in the sun
magic potion
full of emotion
nothing to fear while we are here
drinking all the rum
salt the earth,
make the worst,
wake up in a hearse
what's all this commotion about recursive life?
sharpen your knives
until the edges are right
emotional plight on a reckless night
extinguish the candlelight
we are in the dark
the walls are stark
pull the thread apart
bursting at the seams
threadbare reasons
mind expanding with the seasons
high treason
make believe
you can achieve
sit tight my darling
we will soak up the sensations
our eyes peeled like oranges
watch clouds take shape
over vines with purple grapes
hands interlaced water tight
sound could not escape
with what's at stake
a life lead together
what feels like forever?
vacant minds leading happy lives
neighbors building fences
feeling safe in that haven
the bomb shelter in back
in case they attack
there are always others to replace the last.
darling there is nothing for us in the past
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'I would not want to marry the 'artsy type' - and all other gutted conversation around the table, with candles burning in hot box momentum, a head count and the addiction of candy when so low, raise up the blood sugar in spurts of 20 calories all possible to remove from the scene, getting everything ready for a few physical achievements, displays of strength and character. having already written today it is much more responsible of me at this point to sleep and to sleep well.
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