The words were perfect. They entered my ears like blankets soaking up spilled wine on hardwood. They defined my anxious questioning of the gears in my neck. I discovered a portal through the rabbit hole into a dimension of genuine creativity outpouring. I found a hole in the back of my neck that oozed red liquid that wasn't blood and we felt the dynamic shift of weight against our shoulders when I exposed all of the comfortable lies we told ourselves in order to stand up against the broiling tide. We were slammed against the bulkhead as we ran along the beach. Truth becomes like an avalanche. Your disappoint in your self is exposed in the sunlight for all it's worthless. There were cockroaches skittering in the unused dishwasher. The carpet acoustics were to be diminished with loud hardwood. No problems with carpet dwellers and we would have to speak spanish in order to maintain sanity. We would take the stairs and avoid garbage spillage in the elevator and realize how much we are going to have of one and other and how awful it could be. IT could be. Polarized opinions and steadfast, stubborn, resistance to change. I felt as if my life could change forever in a day. It can. It surely can.
----
Riff on loneliness. On empty rooms and sleepless heads. Fill the void with a meandering of thought like a vagrant and migratory flock of birds who go north in the winter in flagrant disrespect to social norms. These fever dreams are vivid but mean nothing. They are flashes of intense insanity in sweat soaked sheets and I am not immune to the appeal of them over this healthy reality. I wish for more visual freedom.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Sunday, April 28, 2013
April 28th 12:09pm
I can still hear the electronic coughing of the space heater buzzing to life like morning yawns and a dissatisfaction with the waking state after the vast expanse of international travel dreams in those bleary states of rest. There was a quaint doppler effect, the electronic buzzing fading in and out, in order to radiate an orange glow of heat. Any poor creatures who may have resided on that piece of metal felt the heat as a comfort until their tiny abdomens pop like balloons in the fierce fire hazard shield of the space that space heater heated. The electronic buzz and these imagined pops define what my ears experienced on coldest winter nights, aside from soft jazz emanating from a speaker near my head.
As a side note... I opened this blank page (for typing as fast as my rage pervades) and considering what it would be like to advertise these rants as evidence of my past work for future freelance employers. I realized grotesquely how this may not be 'real work' just as a recorded jam session is mostly a practice and an outpouring of ideas to mull over at a later, less intoxicated, time. These are the things that perhaps should not be released (unless incredible!). Stuffy literary people would probably disown my words as evidence of true work. I break rules of grammar. I am aware that I break rules. I do not question the way my mind and body connects for the execution of these ideas. That being said. I spend most time free writing and very minimal time constructing pieces to publish in literary rags or magazines or as columns on musical blogs. Then I can introduce the question of motive. I'm not going to just write up an album review for myself. (maybe I should though. practice.) In college, I had the motivation to write through assignments. Even if the assignments were mostly nonsense in order for me to get a good head on my shoulders for writing. These directed moments of deliberate word choice and 14 page essays with constant revision and reimagination are evidence of my capacity to write anything for the 'real world' but then it is a question of speed. Maybe I can simply study conventions in greater detail. Know why sentences need all of the elements they do. Learn to recognize a fragment as I write one.... but I digress.
Summer sounds like an old black-lunged A/C unit high on the wall activated by a light switch. It's loud. It needs a filter change before more constant use as the ice caps melt and the sweltering sun comes closer to southern California with a vengeance. You've done this to your atmosphere you fools now I attempted to make you crazy or burn your skin as you gleefully bake in my rays.
As a side note... I opened this blank page (for typing as fast as my rage pervades) and considering what it would be like to advertise these rants as evidence of my past work for future freelance employers. I realized grotesquely how this may not be 'real work' just as a recorded jam session is mostly a practice and an outpouring of ideas to mull over at a later, less intoxicated, time. These are the things that perhaps should not be released (unless incredible!). Stuffy literary people would probably disown my words as evidence of true work. I break rules of grammar. I am aware that I break rules. I do not question the way my mind and body connects for the execution of these ideas. That being said. I spend most time free writing and very minimal time constructing pieces to publish in literary rags or magazines or as columns on musical blogs. Then I can introduce the question of motive. I'm not going to just write up an album review for myself. (maybe I should though. practice.) In college, I had the motivation to write through assignments. Even if the assignments were mostly nonsense in order for me to get a good head on my shoulders for writing. These directed moments of deliberate word choice and 14 page essays with constant revision and reimagination are evidence of my capacity to write anything for the 'real world' but then it is a question of speed. Maybe I can simply study conventions in greater detail. Know why sentences need all of the elements they do. Learn to recognize a fragment as I write one.... but I digress.
Summer sounds like an old black-lunged A/C unit high on the wall activated by a light switch. It's loud. It needs a filter change before more constant use as the ice caps melt and the sweltering sun comes closer to southern California with a vengeance. You've done this to your atmosphere you fools now I attempted to make you crazy or burn your skin as you gleefully bake in my rays.
April 28 1:24am
She was afraid of driving fast through the night because of how much of could enter her car. Like ashen hands covering over her heart. An arctic breeze in this suddenly midwestern landscape. She screams ecstatic joy at the rising and falling cadence of musical notes. Planned intervals and crazy discipline. They casually talked of tours inside the mediterrean grill where I got myself a beer and committed to making a video of myself playing drums in the next week. Clever conceptual art on the walls. The whole area surrounding the venue pervaded a communal artistic pride. I heard a jazz band playing live through booths of bead necklaces and art of the statuesque gods we ignore... they played Chameleon and I hummed it alone in line with no heart in conversation...
She couldn't hear so well out of one ear. Half of a buzz kill. Some determined following. Some scented princess named immediate regret. A smile to stop bullets from firing. Or freeze frame and drop like disintegrating bodies in an atomic blast, there is no memory left of them.
I have entered the void of abstract, intangible wires.. they connect somehow in my wearied, troubled mind. There is some thread running throughout but I am not a quilt. Burn through the hand woven remembrances. They are not living things like the people who made them. Why people believe in crazy things you wouldn't believe!
She couldn't hear so well out of one ear. Half of a buzz kill. Some determined following. Some scented princess named immediate regret. A smile to stop bullets from firing. Or freeze frame and drop like disintegrating bodies in an atomic blast, there is no memory left of them.
I have entered the void of abstract, intangible wires.. they connect somehow in my wearied, troubled mind. There is some thread running throughout but I am not a quilt. Burn through the hand woven remembrances. They are not living things like the people who made them. Why people believe in crazy things you wouldn't believe!
Saturday, April 27, 2013
April 27th
Words that could be shared but we already shared red plastic cups and metallic cans. They were shared on the melted chap stick pipe passing. They were invited to parties close to current situations and feeling the weird connection between disparate individuals through connected medium. They rudely compared themselves. They felt obligated to discover the ego beneath our feet and our disgraced opinion of the world. The idiotic feeling of fashion and 'this is how the world works and I'm experiencing it first hand' kind of feeling. There are miscommunications and regretful decisions made in the face of so much responsibility. Tonight is the night to die anyway. If we're going to, it may as well be now. But the risk was not great enough for this kind of reaction to feel warranted and then I realized myself as a dissenting opinion disgusted by the fake laughter and the meaningless music, but it is popular so everyone can connect with it, an opinion that elicits more fake laughter, the kind of ghosts from tv shows of the 90's and the kind that never will leave my head whenever I do something that contradicts myself. They always know the best derisive laugh. They always know when to exit the conditions properly. They always know when to decide between continue happiness and unknown sadness. They know what it is like to desire to be more than a laugh track from a dead generation. They know what this feels like and that is enough to exist on this world. They are alive enough to find the party scene as a total lie. They are available for incessant ridicule. Drums played and beer pong in a shining live room with instruments right there and a killer round of pong throughout the stupid journey out of sobriety and into the familiar grounds but we journeyed with unknown individuals and made friends with them all, constantly checking glances for immediate eye contact and feeling loved by the constant fact of musical understanding... they wanted to get something out of this and hopefully they did. there is something genuinely wrong with how we go about advertising ourselves and that has nothing to do with us personally, as long as the whole group experiences new territory and makes friends with fellow lives, young minds with open receptivity to curious new ideas, the kind that have nothing to do with social status or background, it's about age and situation in the world. it's about consuming alcohol at rapid rates like white water rapid rivers and confidence to succeed even though the liquid cure is much more of a liquid evaporating in hot air, and nothing is ever resumed. It is a dropped call from a payphone immediately before murder. It is a look of shame in the eyes after the last batch of conversation fermented. I apologize for my opinion and sadly regress. I cannot believe that I've allowed myself to feel guilt for who I am. It's all environmental and the attitude where it all stops in time is forgotten. We always discredit one and other. I can't understand such a blank mindset.
What I know is that life is once. You have once shot to learn as much as possible in order to become the best possible. The only chance for historical memory. But I hate repetition. I hate routine. It should never be so isolated away from the individual that none of us are allowed our personal freedom. Continue to party or gather around the television? the hatred for such mindless absence. self proclaimed 'random groupies' and the girls altogether bring knives to each others throats, none of them welcome or worthy more than a constant dry spell and a new realization that we should forget our reckless high school ways and begin to find new heart in the new minds of individual souls, legs spread on canvas but never in real life, the words don't translate and it is a voyeuristic onesided adventure through space and time, but not alone, never alone, rude comments comparing this kind of style of writing to masturbation in retarded accessory and drinking the poison with the self satisfaction of sleep. The unintended consequences. Never the satisfied night for me. They were there but I hate wasting a drunk. It is silly. Unhappy and unhealthy.
It nearly happened. It almost always nearly happened.
What I know is that life is once. You have once shot to learn as much as possible in order to become the best possible. The only chance for historical memory. But I hate repetition. I hate routine. It should never be so isolated away from the individual that none of us are allowed our personal freedom. Continue to party or gather around the television? the hatred for such mindless absence. self proclaimed 'random groupies' and the girls altogether bring knives to each others throats, none of them welcome or worthy more than a constant dry spell and a new realization that we should forget our reckless high school ways and begin to find new heart in the new minds of individual souls, legs spread on canvas but never in real life, the words don't translate and it is a voyeuristic onesided adventure through space and time, but not alone, never alone, rude comments comparing this kind of style of writing to masturbation in retarded accessory and drinking the poison with the self satisfaction of sleep. The unintended consequences. Never the satisfied night for me. They were there but I hate wasting a drunk. It is silly. Unhappy and unhealthy.
It nearly happened. It almost always nearly happened.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
april 23
These night winds will take me. Let myself be carried until I feel nothing under me. Desire the rhythm to fight distractions of second hand regurgitating information..
Lock eyes with fate and escape.
wielding firearms like dumb children
and never graduate
realize the regurgitated information
the blank terms and the years of misuse
and a willingness to dig deep into
now I understand
the entire faith in written word
I can convince you everything
of travesty just as long as I think it could make sense to you
chaos, my friend, is important
a random excitement
a random swerving
the best instantaneous meetings available
......
insecure. afraid of the words to say. the bridge between here and there. reality vs distraction and I can't seem to think clearly so I'll create a character.
She is a blurry image of whirling blonde hair. She is charismatic as an acrobat and she can sing too. Good god can she sing. And good god are the words failing me entirely
why why why
do we have to die
die die die
settle now precious
you are worth nothing
values should be questioned
but the heart of a value is to never question it
it's burned into your brain with high conditioning
and everything loses its meaning if it doesn't
directly relate to what your purple mind says
or remembers or forgets
did we act accordingly to plan
did we lose control again?
---------
red wood giant, trunks ancient like hieroglyphs and the pyramids, there are no reasons to believe conspiracies or other falsely illuminating things, like scrolls and impending doubt and the mispelled words that could make you fall to your death. These things in conjunction with irony and a sense of humor that pervades everything and the metaphors for well oiled machines and the level of cognition is worlds different and the concepts never allow themselves into place and I am incapable of much more than choleric responses to pleas against religious denomination and that special connection I'll never understand just like many for myself and then they will always believe that my love is based in sex and that there's is based on sick vigilante justice but no heroes in the sky today, they've died long ago with the dodos and with the extinct things that weren't before we were... the results of expanding monopolies and shrinking minds. the world implodes gleeful with high heels and stockings, stuffed full of rose pedals pried from the wet ground for scent but then death and the scent increases to a blistering orgasm, no one survives their mind.
everything happens all of the time
I have grand plans to travel and say fuck it with full heart
Lock eyes with fate and escape.
wielding firearms like dumb children
and never graduate
realize the regurgitated information
the blank terms and the years of misuse
and a willingness to dig deep into
now I understand
the entire faith in written word
I can convince you everything
of travesty just as long as I think it could make sense to you
chaos, my friend, is important
a random excitement
a random swerving
the best instantaneous meetings available
......
insecure. afraid of the words to say. the bridge between here and there. reality vs distraction and I can't seem to think clearly so I'll create a character.
She is a blurry image of whirling blonde hair. She is charismatic as an acrobat and she can sing too. Good god can she sing. And good god are the words failing me entirely
why why why
do we have to die
die die die
settle now precious
you are worth nothing
values should be questioned
but the heart of a value is to never question it
it's burned into your brain with high conditioning
and everything loses its meaning if it doesn't
directly relate to what your purple mind says
or remembers or forgets
did we act accordingly to plan
did we lose control again?
---------
red wood giant, trunks ancient like hieroglyphs and the pyramids, there are no reasons to believe conspiracies or other falsely illuminating things, like scrolls and impending doubt and the mispelled words that could make you fall to your death. These things in conjunction with irony and a sense of humor that pervades everything and the metaphors for well oiled machines and the level of cognition is worlds different and the concepts never allow themselves into place and I am incapable of much more than choleric responses to pleas against religious denomination and that special connection I'll never understand just like many for myself and then they will always believe that my love is based in sex and that there's is based on sick vigilante justice but no heroes in the sky today, they've died long ago with the dodos and with the extinct things that weren't before we were... the results of expanding monopolies and shrinking minds. the world implodes gleeful with high heels and stockings, stuffed full of rose pedals pried from the wet ground for scent but then death and the scent increases to a blistering orgasm, no one survives their mind.
everything happens all of the time
I have grand plans to travel and say fuck it with full heart
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