Catching up on sleeplessness. Living room floor has seen more action
than my bedroom. All of the cabinets are full of groceries though. I'm
sitting in a lukewarm, luke-bright, room awaiting a phone call to be
taken off to the studio once more. With intentions to make the basslines
stick. For the love of pete. I'm glad to partake. Awfully tired coming
into it. Late night with mean girls and artistic, drunk, boys. Or
sleeping on the couch. Murderous at pool. Making beats and paintings and
taking hard drugs. Combine. Collaboration is a beautiful thing. Beats
with music video paintings. (His life worth. His life work. A slide a
day. 20,000 days). Lights going off and ranting about the preceding
darkness. Yours truly has surely spoken. 'I just want something to grab
on to.' Now, I understand the motivation to travel to Australia at 2 in
the AM. She is on the floor too. She could be anyone but I'm guessing is
an old ghost. One to remain in shambles of ghostliness. (Waiting for a
phone call. Led Zeppelin ring tone... Beautiful girl. Where are you for
me? What do I do that makes they stay far away?
* * * *
In
a bright green corner of the coffee shop entry way, below cross hatch
art work. To my left is a wall mounted bottle opener. But I've seen
those thrown from walls in drunken rage. Lap top glows like a stop light
that says go. Paintings and pianos. There is a man sleeping on his side
with a house built on top of him. Fully representative of this or that.
Stained steel and kung fu death grips, rigor mortis, drug test for a
summer job and the red-faced champion takes the veil off of the trophy,
to flaunt that careful preparation and dedication in full limelight.
Girls squabble over it. First place, second place, third place. Shortly I
will begin to pack up all of my things. My miscellaneous posters,
littering the otherwise bare walls in the apartment. Somehow I made it
all the way through. Awaiting news of disaster. Red door with a mirror
where the eyepiece should be. No idea who might be outside, lurking and
waiting with foaming mouths to destroy every bone in your hands and
feet. The devil is inside of you. (simone, this is your dream).
There
is a refrain. The sunlight melted my swagger. It is hot and
unforgiving. There is no connection to anything and I feel a type of
existential crisis. Questioning the motives of everything. Why is this
door red for instance? The walls bright green? Why did they chose to be
these colors? Young man wears sunglasses on the back of his head. He
sees in all directions. My hands. I lost feeling in my left completely.
Every digit felt like a ghost. The foot falls asleep, turns green, and
never wakes up again. Atrophy. "Goodnight world, for I am done. I served
my masters leg for as long as I could stand to. But inevitable I must
take the longest nap. One that outlasts the cosmos. Stay strong. I can
be replaced with something technological and new. Probably metal,
ticking and beeping, with powers to develop its own intuition..." Yawn.
And sleep.
Never yawn though. Don't ever. If you are
bored you are boring. Be creative with your time on this world. Why is
their safety in numbers? Certainly there is a better chance for an
individual to last forever if they are cloned and duplicated across
history. In that sense I am only an evolution of a prior model. And so
are you. There are beards and tattoo sleeves. A young lady with many
piercings has a yoga mat on a strap around her back. I walk to talk to
her about Buddhism and the way and the way colors reflect in her eyes
and the way that I am so misunderstood that no one who looks for me
finds me. They see an exterior (unknown to me aside from basic physical
appearance) my mannerisms are my own and I could only understand if I
studied hidden camera video or was told about it from a reliable friend.
To become a better person I need to black out and hide cameras all
around. Later, inevitably, I will find or remember the cameras and
review the footage for self-understanding. Enough studying and
recitation will incite positive steps toward self-actualization and the
goals of ultimate happiness, intelligence and evidence. (You can't prove
your genius without evidence). Show me the hard facts and the paperwork
to back it. You have a beautiful voice, probably more so because you
didn't realize I was listening from a balcony around the corner. I am
always flat. You impressed me with your harmony despite some drunken
embellishment of talent. That motivation to just GO for it. Leads to
awesome and heartfelt actions.
Take the shot glass in
your teeth and tilt your head back. Acts like a tiny suction cup and the
poison burns your eyes but your get very drunk. Reminders of
hallucinogenic eye drops. Casting spells with a guitar neck. I only
record in studios that are coordinated to the marginal points. I need to
know that I am still a part of this earth... Fully involved with the
click. The dream-like state that happens to wash upon us when we record
and re-track and re-record the songs we wrote. Write parts again. Fit
the best together like molding or clay. Roll the dice and choose fate
based on the number presented. If that were true, Los Angeles is a 7
because it, statistically, will be rolled more often than the rest. No
ideas about the acceptance to those other old colleges. Those tired old
textbooks that I will (mother of god) be avoiding for awhile as far as I
am in any understanding of the circumstances of my life. I may never
have to wait in a book rental return line (in 100 degree heat) again. I
will not have to deal with the stresses behind registration and the
meticulous process of planning a sane schedule. Very much unlike my
incredible schedule at the end of my time here in Arizona. Holy shit. I
will look back on this (as I already am, a few days later) and shake my
head in disbelief how I survived the term at the pace I held. Momentum,
mother of god. I know how to be a student after 14 years. And I am
intelligent enough to speak and think clearly, under most circumstances.
I
miss nature. I miss a girl to wake up next to. I miss the freedom to
drive home if needed. The cheap coffee. The winter coats. The
inspirational people and moments. The greatest friends are often the
worst influences. But sometimes I need that kick into the dark side to
wake up from temporary comas I sometimes lapse into where every day and
night look the same and feel the same in the same formula. The same
formula. Wake up. Drink coffee. Eat. Show up to classes. Be a diligent
student. Be ignored by all. Avoid eye contact. Return home and read for
class. Fall asleep early out of sheer body necessity. Lose weight and
become a superstar alligator wrestler. Guarantee that cavemen would
explode if shown a car of any kind, let alone a hummer h3. Wide open
scene. We look back into the past through inferences. Fossil records.
First hand accounts. The authors of the time. Communication obviously
became important. Cave painters shown a Van Gogh would also explode.
They would worship a lighter. But that is no different than now on the
whole. Art store goes out of business. Less trendy coffee shop gets shit
for attention. (Good morning to be in the studio due to the fact that I
might have had to appear in court today). Did they issue out a warrant
for my arrest? How awful. On an airplane in a matter of weeks. Taken off
and questioned. Searched naked on the scorching runway. Everyone points
and laughs at the parade.
* * * *
To be a
harmless college kid in a town full of violent criminals. Make us look
violent. Great grades so far. All A's and A-'s. That is good. I am a
great student but I must be going. I will learn and grown on my own
accord from now on. If anything I will buy random textbooks for subjects
I'm interested in and take notes like I'm in a lecture. For any of this
to happen to any capacity... weed must be cut back. It is beautiful in
some instances. Feeling good in the studio. Timing off a little bit but
that can be fixed with the magic of certain installed programs. Doesn't
matter about the timing. The tracks get a whole lot more feeling out of a
stoned musician doubling up tracks they wrote and memorized a long time
ago. (Avoid the cliche phrases when writing lyrics.) Look at me though.
I can write but I tend to have marbles in my mouth with all of the
compounded syllables. Unattractive phrases to sing. But wonderful to
read. It takes polishing like a fine gem out of rough rock. Same goes
for anything created. The first step is the process of creation which is
in part a type of subconscious lunacy that compels the hands to work
without much forethought. If an idea is to be expressed the hands try to
bring it into real time and place. Without natural talent, this
translation takes years of cultivation to make happen easily. Everyone
still struggles but often artists challenge themselves with tougher,
deeper and more difficult concepts to push the boundaries of this
translation.
Again, the first step is the mental vomit
onto scrawls of paper or tape recorders. (One night. Drunk with a tape
recorder or any kind of recorder. Later to analyze the results and to
write down the words in a poetic retelling of whatever events are
described). Let the cup tip over onto the counter top. Let the colors
mix and chord variations figure themselves out with your hands as a
guide. Think mathematically if you'd like. But it is best, I think, to
go out and write without much in the way of specific intention. Once it
is out there. The sketch. The chord progression. The lead riff. The
outline. Then it is time to make sense out of it. To practice and retell
the story. Re-write the plot and make a foundation for a sub-plot.
Making sense out of that chaos surrounding. On how to become a modern
musician. It takes commitment. I took it as a hobby to become committed.
I have created beats for many years. Now I add notes to drum beats.
Having the drummer foresight I can create interesting frameworks for
beats and rhythmic variation. Tightening up with age rather than
wrinkling. Something to be said about a constantly evolving band.
Shooting the shit but through the language of a two or four chord
progression made up suddenly by the keyboardist. We flow like lava. This
is the first step toward meaningful creation. To pull a rose out of a
garden full of shattered glass and dried blood.
Get it
out there. Then edit and redefine. Make up a new word. Add meaning to
it. Redefine it. Can you think of any synonyms or is it totally
original? Let merriam and webster deal with the legitimate word-roots.
Make up your own lineage of ideas. From Boston to Bossa Nova. From
Frankfurt to Franz Ferdinand. Arcade Fire to Autopsy. The culture waste
baskets our brains have become. I know more about celebrities than I do
the people around me everyday. (Not necessarily true... but when I hear a
conversation that starts "You would never guess what so-and-so texted
me last night." You big powerful man. Territorial over your women like a
wolf in collegiate apparel. Did you forget where you were? Is that why
you rep the hood you are standing on day in day out? Your shining and
tan abs. Your naivety. It is a put-on. But it is damned annoying. Who
made you like this? What devil of a girl taught you how to lie and
misguide others so easily? Act differently when a girl is around. No
matter who she is. Incredibly self-conscious. But hey look at me too. I
feel inferior so his alpha-male territory identity. For some stupid and
ridiculous reason. But hey. I would never say 'I call that girl with the
blue shirt. Who do you want tonight?' without feeling like a total
piece of dogshit.
Eat sleep and fuck in self-defense.
Pacific
daylight time. Man-made systems. Like religion or sexual jealousy. We
have these private parts that have the power to entice or entrap others.
We record ourselves uses intimate parts of our hearts and cheapen the
thrills. Everyone has done something more extreme than what you thought
was extreme. Then again. We are all different. Black white.... We are
all the same. Unique but confined to the identity society casts upon us.
Weed to escape. Lighten my head and heavy heart. Make me forget the
future. Quit worrying about the past.
I have fallen in love over and over again in this coffee joint. I
wonder with all of my might if I will ever return to this spot again.
Never will I study here again. Never will I dream of talking to the
beautiful, interesting women who surround me here. No way. (My ex had
those same tights. But they looked better on her.) Somehow I missed the
lessons. I have no one to influence me. No one who will help me build
and open up... These friends just give me shit for the conversations I
butchered. Sounding creepy or weird. It is in the tone of voice. There
IS no tone of voice in a fucking text. Where are you off to darling?
Another beautiful enters and disappears from my life. Never to be heard
from again. She probably is a whore working at the motel next door
picking up her caffeine fix in order to finish off her clients and her
work day. Sometimes you have to make sacrifices. She whores herself in
order to stay in the only skyrise in town. One with a pool 8 or so
floors up. Infinity pool. It is a tall beacon of what this city could
have been. Or rather. A beacon of the awful city this has become. I
never knew it when it was good. Stay high and think less, they say and
build loft beds in apartment complexes across the street, blocking off
sunlight from ever reaching certain rooms, no matter what time of year.
No balcony on the first floor there. Disco bass and drum beat. Vocals
breezy and light like air. The keyboard tones are intense and sometimes
aggressive to the ears. Nice hipster haircut, young thing.
Young thin. In love. I want to share a blended vanilla-flavored
coffee drink with you. Suddenly I feel it in my heart to beat faster
still. Be aware of your surroundings. Always. Embrace the moments in
passing like interesting things outside of car windows on a highway.
Rush by. There was a floral dress and some sunglasses that hid the age.
16-26 I'd say. I'm not a pervert. Not saying anything about her looks.
Simply noticed the dress and saw her scramble her eyes away from me.
Ignore me, young soul. Keep your eyes peeled onto the superficial blinds
this micro world dreamed up. It is all a sham you see. Be weird and
open. It is strange to notice a shifting of expectations in such a
hectic climate. Normally I might expect to run into a conversation with
someone (other than one fishing for tips).... wouldn't I? Expect, at
least a little bit, to fall into an interesting little chat with a
stranger. But this city beat that expectation out of me. I nearly expect
complete social isolation no matter where I am. Strike up a
conversation like a match in a tornado or a hurricane. Wet and windy and
wild. It doesn't catch. Simply left with a broken match stick.
Wondering if I had even tried. And what... what the hell... did I do
wrong again?
Society broke me down like nuclear fission. Or fusion. I forget
which separates the molecules forever. I give off an unapproachable vibe
because society taught me to feel unapproachable. Perhaps there is
something cyclical and reciprocal in the underpinnings of this
existence. A fragile knot that I try to unravel and untangle into
something more coherent and clear. Why? I must be open. Talkative.
Nice-sounding and looking. Talented and inspired. I must be able to talk
well with anyone, anywhere. I must also be able to purposefully isolate
myself in order to create things (art namely) otherwise the skull will
implode. Ruining all information it previously held. But it becomes
harder and harder to feel inspired to talk with these strangers once the
reaction becomes so predictable. They all shun the ones who step out of
line and compliance is looked up to if not sought after. Ruin yourself.
Break down and build back up. You are in charge of your self.
Existential make over. Do not let society run you over. No matter where
you are, even if you hate it... You cannot allow yourself to ever be
trampled like this again.
Arizona kills its son. Or sun. Either way. Do not doubt the awful
socialization that has occurred and must be reversed in order to retain
an individuality or a confidence. (stay here through summer. alone. to
keep the gym close.)
