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[18 Mar 2003|11:35am] |
They all want your white body, and they await your reply.
Ah, but between you and me and the Staten Island Ferry, so do I.
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[26 Feb 2003|01:53pm] |
Set Em Up, I'll drink a drink with you.
Pull up a chair. I think I'll stay.
Set Em Ep, cause I'm going nowhere.
There's too much I need to remember.
There's too much I need to say.
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| Buy: |
[26 Jan 2003|03:04am] |
high/low by nada surf
The Proximity Effect by nada surf
White Pony by deftones
Grace by Jeff Buckley
Relationship of Command by At The Drive-In
The Moon Is Down by Further Seems Forever
Kid A by Radiohead
...at the very least. Trust me.
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| Buy: |
[26 Jan 2003|02:30am] |
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Diorama by silverchair
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[03 Jan 2003|12:07pm] |
Yesterday afternoon my friend and I were on a business trip to Grass Valley, a little beyond Auburn, about an hour to an hour and a half away. Upon reaching the pre-Auburn area, you can slowly tell that things are changing; hills are growing, the road is becoming more valleyed, the geography is becoming more of a prominent force, with shopping plazas forced to have their entrances to parking lots be an uphill battle for manual transmissions, look to your left and it's way down, to your right and you're at the bottom of a cliff. And the trees are everywhere, all of them, the pine, fur, oak, redwoody, and palm. Go further, reach Auburn, and you've decided this is definitely a place you will have to remember to mention to your real estate agent when you're buying in California.
Getting lost a bit proved to be a nice thing, ending up with a trek to a compact small town with many stores on both sides, no stoplights, just stop signs. The correct description for it is "cute." It's old school, downtown style, the kind that you sort of wish you'd grown up in. Only if.
Enough with being lost, work to be had at hand, we must destinate. A helpful fellow lent us directions, that turned out leading us somewhere other than where we meant to go, but nevertheless. We were making our way to the high point of the day. As we ascended on a winding road through a massive treed hill, suddenly I say somewhat baffled, "That's snow." Chunks of it on the side of the road, most of it melted, but fear not snowfans, we were ascending as I mentioned, so the air chilled as we went up. More snow grew on the sides of the road, and it began to appear off in the woods, on branches, on rooves. Everywhere! It was a winter wonderland. I have seen no such thing in full force since I was eight. It was a trip. But ascension was contributing to our unknown whereabouts, and we needed to get somewhere specific. A fellow had a map, we stopped in his driveway along the winding road in the snowy woods, and we got out.
There was snow, right there in front of me, behind me, left, right, up, down, melting, not melting, and I was eight again. And five. And three. And I was eightteen years of me, and not just me at eightteen. And then the glance at my reflection in the back windshield, it showed me at eightteen. There I was, the me at eightteen, and there was a lot of snow around. This had never happened before, and it was special. It was two friends meeting up after ten years of temperature separation. Hello, old friend.
Directions were gotten, and we descended.
Hello, I must be going.
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| I only have ellipsen for you. |
[23 Dec 2002|10:24pm] |
I used to gauge my height on how tall I was compared to the refridgerator. Now I'm way taller.
It's like some kind of
progressive ____________ assault
And if the words I use don't work together properly in the equation of language,then that's because the equations don't equal anything near as high as the sum of the sounds of language. Alliteration and consonance--much more fun than theme and meaning.
Doesn't this sound nice?:
...skingraft machinery, sputnik sickles found
in the seats...
...catatonic leisure at one thousand
miles per hour...
...tease this amputation, splintered larynx,
it has access now...
...species growing, bubbles in an IV loitering...
...an anaesthetic penance beneath the hail
of contraband...
...calloused heels, numbed in travel, endless
maps made by the scalpels...
...BY THE SCAAAALPELS...
...autonomous machete in hands...
...sanction this outbreak, a virus conspires...
...OVER THE AUDITORIUM...
protoculture null & void
This is the pocket sized edition. Rapid sleep through
benediction. Let's just paint
you a pretty
face.
(courtesy of atdi)
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| Go buy: |
[17 Dec 2002|03:36am] |
Meet Joe Black
The soundtrack
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| Monologue Black Box |
[06 Dec 2002|03:14am] |
He had been through a few wars, the second world war and Vietnam, and at this point, like his fallen comrades and fellow survivors, he was long gone. I was always told how he was Yoda meets Buddy Hackett back in his day, before during and for a short while after the wars, all before some sort of Alzheimer's entered the picture.
Now he was just Yoda, but without the wisdom. He was the old senile Yoda, the one who's only prominent feature was his worn down body. The Yoda after Yoda was done fighting.
He even looked like Yoda, minus the long ears and chlorophyl, but with the male pattern baldness, liver spots, wrinkles, weak strut, loose skin blanketing unworkable muscles, obstructed voice, ancient soul. And now when you went to see him, you went to see his disease with occasional guest appearances by him.
I for some reason visualized the inside of his head as two hunks of thick useless brain mass with a distinct gap between them, connected by useless gooey criss-crossing veins that for no reason anymore carried blood throughout the head, and deep in the heart of it, the very middle of the two hemispheres, where the pineal gland was supposed to be, there instead waded the disease, in the form of a pool of thick purple red blue brain sludge, surrounded and protected by the walls of the helpless rotting brain, able to proceed and carry out the duties a disease does.
And I had three consecutive nights of nocturnal insomnia, where I'd try to fade off each night to no avail, then end up doing whatever until 10 AM, then sleeping the day away. It was around 9 AM on day three when I was voicing my situation to whoever was up around and listening, and apparently he had been up then too, eating Coco Puffs out of site while watching the Thanksgiving Day Parade. Before I knew he was up and around, he began commenting on my sleeping derangement.
"Now listen here and listen close," he insisted as he placed his empty cereal bowl in the microwave. "Listen now because I'm about to tell ya howda sleep like a corpse. You betta be listenin', 'cause here it comes: I'm about to tell ya:" and I figured all this preempting was just so he would remember for himself that he was speaking to someone and had the intention to get a thought across before his disease could intervene. "All you gotta do, and here it is, I hope ya gettin' all this, 'cause I'm nearly finished, all you need ta do fa sleep is this:" more to keep his thought from tripping over the criss-crossed veins and falling blindly backward into the thick pool of purple red blue, gone forever; "What ya gotta do is lay on ya back, nice 'n' straight, hands eitha finga-lock-folded on ya belly, arms crossed on ya chest," with him slowly demonstrating each hand placement option, "or arms like an X like doin' sit-ups. An' ya gotta shut ya eyes and imagine ya gotta real sharp suit on, shoes shined and all, and there you are, six feet down and in your coffin." And he took his bowl out of the microwave and rinsed it out and placed it in the dishwasher like he had before been told so many times to do with his cereal bowls. "Then all there is to do is sleep. What otha option do ya have, it's all you can do. You'll sleep like a winta bear and wake up feelin' glad."
(Insert poignant concluding thought here.)
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[06 Dec 2002|02:12am] |
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I will be compiling a compilation CD, maybe a double CD, that is jam packed with the most compelling theme songs from TV shows of my generation, the 1980s and 1990s. Because I know people would buy it and have their socks rocked off, and it would be great to nationally bump car stereos with classics like the themes from Saved By The Bell, Growing Pains, Ren & Stimpy, and, sure, I'll even put in W-Wild 'N' Crazy Kids. Wasn't that show wild and crazy? It will also include a remix rendition of The Price is Right jingle as performed by Paul Shaffer and the CBS Orchestra, a beautiful ballad version of the X-Men cartoon jam by Kenny G, and a kick-ass acoustic cover of the Full House theme song by Tenacious D. Keep your eyes peeled after Craig Kilborn for an infommercial on this unforgettable collection of songs.
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| Proud of You |
[06 Dec 2002|02:07am] |
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I just now realized that somewhere within 10-20 years Craig Kilborn and Conan O'Brien will replace Jay Leno and David Letterman in their respective late night time slots. Upon the departure of Leno and Letterman, Jay and Dave will join the legendary likes of Ed Sullivan and Johnny Carson, and then Craig and Conan, being next in line, will be one step closer to that coveted and respected comedic fame. As for right now, there's no telling who will fill Craig's and Conan's late late slots when the time comes, thereby becoming next in line. Who will it be?
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| Wet Mirror |
[24 Nov 2002|09:42pm] |
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“It’s dangerous to adhere to current expectations of thought in today’s world,” the disembodied voice of my dream began moments before I felt the urge to wake. “It’s not a good idea, because thought systems of the earthly community are so transient, changing meaning and definition too frequently to follow what it is you’re even buying into.” And maybe there was more, but that was the gist of it. I guess it was directed toward me, because as my dream fogged into non-focus and the blur of two worlds flooded into one another, it was only me who was watching it, and there was also the voice, and it was the voice of someone who had a significant influence in my life. Kind of a segue or a warning for me as I stepped back into the 3D, I thought of it as. It was another theme park dream, one reached by plane for some reason, and upon landing I met up with some old friends, and then the park transformed into a spiritual learning park, with halls and classrooms and all, me finally on my way at one point to some class, then I began dream flying again, the swim-flapping kind of flying, and some other old semi-friends who were good people congratulated me on gaining back my ability, all of us agreeing how easy and amazing it was, and me saying how I could always fly in my dreams, and that’s how easy it had felt then too, like a dream, and then I can’t recall what came next, then the mixing and the voice. What the voice said I could rebuke with talk of vortices of thought and that RAW philosophy to adhere to no single philosophy and switch up frequently, and how the transience of thinking is more justified than not adhering to thought that is fleeting. But when I heard it from the voice, and when I think back on it, it had a vibe of sanity and non-judgemental reason, and I can defend its statement as well as defile it. Any way I slice it, it was the most convincing, important, spiritual, real to me, and defining dream, theme park based or otherwise, that I’ve ever had.
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[20 Nov 2002|03:17am] |
Call me a fag, but I was flipping through the latest Cosmopolitan magazine (Dec. 2002, Halle Berry cover), and toward the end it said:
No matter how hard you try (and you will), you cannot lick your elbow.
And I tried. And I couldn't.
Wait, no, don't call me a fag.
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| 11)15(02 |
[17 Nov 2002|02:40am] |
I want to hitch hike the planet.
Edit Theory
Sniper Piss
Goldfish Memory
The Candid Camera Hoax that has mindfucking properties and proves to be profoundly impactfully offensive to the citizens of First Worlds.
I want a good well balanced breakfast with sunrays stretching across my kitchen counter and illuminating my kitchen table while I eat and eat.
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| Stranger In a Strange Land by Robert A. Heinlein |
[09 Nov 2002|02:04am] |
pg 428:
"Let's say it's not a religion. It IS a church, in every legal and moral sense--and I suppose our Nest is a monastery. But we're not trying to bring people to God; that's a contradiction in terms, you can't even say it in Martian. We're not trying to save souls, because souls can't be lost. We're not trying to get people to have faith, because what we offer is not faith but truth--truth they can check; we don't urge them to believe it. Truth for practical purposes, for here-and-now, truth as matter of fact as an ironing
board and as useful as a loaf of bread...so practical that it can make war and hunger and violence and hate as unnecessary as...as--well, as clothes here in the Nest. But they have to learn Martian first. That's the only hitch--finding people who are honest enough to believe what they see, and then are willing to do the hard work--and it IS hard work--of learning the language it can be taught in. A composer couldn't possibly write down a symphony in English...and this sort of symphony can't be stated in English any more than Beethoven's Fifth can be." She smiled.
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| 10)20-ish(02 |
[06 Nov 2002|06:00am] |
"All your stomach can reflect are prejudices trained into you before you acquired reason." --Jubal
I could grow so much more right now if only I could take a walk. It’s 4 am and my thoughts are igniting one after the other, as is the case with late night dives into the deep pool of the back of my head, watched carefully by the collective worldview of the www acting as my lifeguard and guide. Like a guide on those nature trails I used to explore with my crew in New Jersey when I was a young cublin (spread the word.) The nature trails that showed us paths to walk on for miles and miles through the wild of NJ, just like those I need right now to walk.
But it’s the day after Sacramento was supposedly possibly targeted for a terrorist attack, and it’s a day or so after they caught the serial snipers that will end up with their names as well known as Manson, Gacy, Bundy, Kaczynski, Atta, Bin Laden, Hussein. Interesting how those are the names remembered throughout history and not any of their victims. Type in Saddam’s name as Hussien and even Microsoft Word will tell you, no, it’s Hussein, with the i after the e. I can’t name the pregnant lady the Manson family killed. I can’t name one single person that died on September 11, 2001. And the famous killers do influence the regulated culture, as they would hope for. My good and hilarious friend in Florida could relate with the elusive sniper, saying before they caught them the following:
So how about this sniper? I love him. Kill more of our children? Oh, yeah, that’s right; no one has kids that I care about. I think it's about time for kids to start to die. Shit, I mean hate crimes are not even heard of anymore! I can give you a list of kids to pick off. I’d really like it if you would. I'll even get you tickets to Florida to do it. That's how much I want to be a team player. There is no I in team my friend.
The friend of mine who I live with had his car broken into twice, stolen once, right past the front door of this here apartment. There have been wild loose cougars in Sacramento. There are empty alcohol bottles in small brown paper bags on the sides of the river trail I want to walk on right now; I see them there when I walk the trail in the daytime. But I’m not interested in meeting the people who empty those bottles in the middle of the night.
And if only I felt okay about walking the trail at 4 am, going out right now into the world of homeless nocturnal alcoholics, terrorists, serial killers, cougars, thieves, et cetera, I could go on all night, then I’d be walking the path, scoring with the cold autumn northern California air, with the darkened river and trees that I’ve only so far seen illuminated by our sunny star.
If only I wasn’t leary of what’s out there, in the land of the free, the home of the brave, then I’d be viewing the path, scoring the air, river and trees from a different viewpoint, under a different light, the twilight, illuminated by our moony satellite.
Freedom. Yeah. Freedom. Yeah, right. As they say.
No doubt I’ll let my thoughts stay lit tonight, but inside, behind the front door of the apartment. And probably, as they say, I’ll no doubt see by the dawn’s early light what so proudly we held at the twilight’s last gleaming. Tomorrow. When the bottles are empty. And I’ll see the river, smell the heated up noony air, watch the trees breeze, all illuminated by our sunny star.
If only I felt okay about walking the trail.
Such are the prejudices trained into us. Such is the reflection of our stomach.
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| 00:00 |
[05 Nov 2002|03:38am] |
Time is assumed to be nonstop, consistent, unwavering in its neverending agenda to never end.
Then there are those times when it seems like the concept of time as we know it has stretched to seem longer or shrunk to seem shorter.
Common are phrases like, “Time flies where you’re having fun,” or, “The day is dragging,” or, “Where does the time go?” When we say such things it is during times when we perceive time to be inconsistent and wavering, apparently accelerating or decelerating, going at a rate slower or faster than usual.
And, consciously or not, we deny the possibility that time can actually ebb and flow like the tide. When we feel like it doing just that, we use the disclaimer “seems” in our sentences. “It seems like time is dragging.” Or, “We feel like time is flying.”
We approach such situations regarding faulty time as mere illusions, illusions that go against our preconceived notions of the nature of time. But why not revise those sentences by removing the disclaimers. So instead we have, “Time is dragging.” Or, “Time is flying.” Why not? Are we so sure about the mechanics and hard science of time that we can confidently say that time is only “seeming” to fly? Can we be sure that, as we assume, it is our human perception of time that is faulty, wavering and inconsistent? Are we really sure that time is always consistent and accelerating at a neverchanging rate? Or is it an everchanging rate?
Even our keen perceptive senses we have as sentient human beings make us think that time is in fact inconsistent. When “time flies” or “time drags,” that’s how we perceive it, and the question is, is our perception faulty, as we assume, or is it time that is faulty? Do we have reason to believe that it is impossible for time to accelerate or decelerate, to ebb and flow, to actually change and to us only “seem” to change? Or is that reasoning backed by nothing? And is this possible inconsistency in time an effect of our perception, as in we’re controlling time by simply controlling our perception of time? Did you know that time is as arbitrary an idea as paper money? Didn’t you realize that both are seemingly valuable and effective only because they are both backed by the collective agreement of human perception and interpretation?
A $100 bill is worth $100 because you say so and I say so, and that’s it. Because we all agreed to have it be worth $100. Likewise, time is “nonstop, consistent, and unwavering” because we say so.
A $100 bill loses its value only when we decide so, when we decide it's merely hairy paper, when we decide to change our own perception of it. Time becomes a varying and inconsistent concept when we decide to go ahead and trust our already in place perceptions that have told us time and time again that it does vary, it flies, it drags.
Prove that to yourself and go have some fun. See what happens. Go stare at a clock, and see what happens. See if it works or not for you. Test it.
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| 11 |
[05 Nov 2002|03:34am] |
From an actual dictionary.
Eleven: adj. totaling one more than ten. The cardinal number between ten and twelve; 11; XI.
Ten: adj. totaling one more than nine. The cardinal number between nine and eleven; 10; X.
Nine: adj. totaling one more than eight. The cardinal number between eight and ten; 9; IX.
Cardinal Number: any number used in counting or showing how many (e.g., two, forty, 627, etc.).
How comprehensive.
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| 9)9(02 |
[05 Nov 2002|03:30am] |
When I feel the breeze brush me, like a six foot feather fluttering past and tickling my back, I remember that same feeling from some other time and the mental state that it evokes. I remember all the times, collectively, that I felt the breeze, not all specifically, just the balled up lump of memory that emerges when the correlative senses of mine get switched on . . . when I was seven-ish in Tenafly, New Jersey, in autumn, two years old in a New York City lot riding a bike in the winter . . . and every other time. I feel the feeling now, and I remember the feeling then.
While being soothed and painted over with wind, I think about the yellow leaves floating down from its big tree, the one shading the bridge I'm reminiscing on. With its arms flexing over the far side of the river, the tree sends leaves on their way. And the river takes them to the end. Yeah, it's almost as if nature is having sex. Every time a leaf ripples the surface, penetrating all those atoms and H20s, it's sex.
But then again, if all of nature is one, the transcendental/Buddhist/spiritual/et cetera collective oversoul idea, then really nature is masturbating. Trees are nature, as are the leaves and the river. So, masturbation. How lonely.
So it seems maybe nature, you know, needs a companion. Introduce yourself to nature, spend some time with her. Masturbating. How embarassing.
How would you feel if you were caught masturbating?
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