this was written a few weeks ago:
with people
you can't trust many things,
so you must have rocks to fall back on.
boulders which don't budge.
so when you question comfort, as if it's some foreign woodpecker digging into your skin, you know there is a point
where
you
know (something).
like flirting with that line where things are a wee bit insane
and you can't tell whether the strangeness is beyond you or within your grasp.
so you lay around or move about, doubting these people around you, and yourself...and sooner or later you can or do decide that whatever you are doing, whatever they think, you are a rock and they can't really push you around and make you feel like a lizard in the winter. some change, some don't. but they can, you later think. and you know you can roll down if they hit you right. or if you get yourself from the right angle.
but this is the thing - you know the things you do. that you adapt when you want, but there are some things you can't wiggle out of. so either the worms around you adapt and stay around or they don't. either way you don't budge.
but you can.
there's that semi-boring but important saying - "if you have a problem and there's something you can do about it, why worry?...if you have a problem and there's nothing you can do about it, why worry?"...
when it gets down to it, at least for the personal arena, what the fuck is there to do?...
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
jelly roll morton
when he sings it rolls something like a boulder
and even a raindrop slipping down the window in your car when you're riding shotgun and the sky is bubbling with gloom and your head is sideways against the glass, your eyes tilted up and to the right watching the drops wiggle and wash away like tiny worms on speed with reckless determination to get somewhere and keep going.
the piano bounces and pushes, lays back and dances. a lounge, a jumble, a chord, a blues tune.
i think this music is some of the best.
kerouac discovered later in his writing career that he could continue to discover new forms because his heart grew.
jelly plays like jelly and laughs while he sings.
james murphy does this.
mr yorke smiles when he sings bodysnatchers.
the saddest songs are like jelly donuts.
even
some kind of filling.
i don't even really know if i believe this but you can hear the smile on his face when he sings levee man blues, even while the pain creaks from his voice.
you could be in a charlie chaplin video dancing in circles around your boss while he screams at you to get back to work. but you can't do it cus the music's nice and good music doesn't allow you to walk away. good music is honey. it's sticky.
but i guess other music is designed to blow a hole in your brain. like squarepusher.
i still sticks i think.
a song in the works, about freedom and other things.
how none of us be free, all walking around hitting walls, mice in the maze, cheese chasers, dream wasters...living good lives without boundaries in the dream world.
the president brushing his teeth, the president getting a cavity or taking a shit.
freedom, the ruse.
the chase of mystery and miracle. getting sucked up by time in the mad rush and spit out into a puddle of waste.
not sure where to go anymore in this.
machine gun plays and there's a war.
on the walls in berlin it says often "hendrix is god"
and even a raindrop slipping down the window in your car when you're riding shotgun and the sky is bubbling with gloom and your head is sideways against the glass, your eyes tilted up and to the right watching the drops wiggle and wash away like tiny worms on speed with reckless determination to get somewhere and keep going.
the piano bounces and pushes, lays back and dances. a lounge, a jumble, a chord, a blues tune.
i think this music is some of the best.
kerouac discovered later in his writing career that he could continue to discover new forms because his heart grew.
jelly plays like jelly and laughs while he sings.
james murphy does this.
mr yorke smiles when he sings bodysnatchers.
the saddest songs are like jelly donuts.
even
some kind of filling.
i don't even really know if i believe this but you can hear the smile on his face when he sings levee man blues, even while the pain creaks from his voice.
you could be in a charlie chaplin video dancing in circles around your boss while he screams at you to get back to work. but you can't do it cus the music's nice and good music doesn't allow you to walk away. good music is honey. it's sticky.
but i guess other music is designed to blow a hole in your brain. like squarepusher.
i still sticks i think.
a song in the works, about freedom and other things.
how none of us be free, all walking around hitting walls, mice in the maze, cheese chasers, dream wasters...living good lives without boundaries in the dream world.
the president brushing his teeth, the president getting a cavity or taking a shit.
freedom, the ruse.
the chase of mystery and miracle. getting sucked up by time in the mad rush and spit out into a puddle of waste.
not sure where to go anymore in this.
machine gun plays and there's a war.
on the walls in berlin it says often "hendrix is god"
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
response to ray's email
no notes on zarathustra. I sat in class like a mouse and sniffed around. but i can write on him from what i remember. this will be something else, later.
Basically this is how I feel: figure out the books you want to have with you; the books that pull at you now or one’s you see winking at you from a distance. Bring them with you. Bring some clothes and food and the essentials.
You are planning for a few years from now? You need to just go. I know there are issues with career and whatever but nothing will matter when you’re in the woods. i'm not sure plans are a good way to go
Thinking about recording – I would definitely be attached to the idea of recording things (with synths and everything else) – but I think it’s more important to attach yourself to the notion of solitude. Are you embracing solitude when you’re recording things onto an electronic device (things you can use to communicate with people in the future?) time. hmm. Fuck time. Your recordings are going to be used in the future? To communicate with yourself?...in the future? Then you aren’t alone. I don’t even understand solitude. it can't be possible. You need to figure out a new way to remember. Recording is a weird sort of group activity. even if it's just you.
On the other hand there are many aspects of it which seem extremely beneficial and powerful. And probably it would be best to record. But under the banner of solitude I would be more hesitant. I just think it would be better for the world. But I don’t know.
You’re making the calls. Just don’t actually make any calls.
Solitude, I think, is a sort of cleansing, a shedding of skin, a forgetting; but it’s also a taking a bath in remembrance. You can strip yourself of erroneous shit and bask in glorious memories of childhood, where you laughed and cried and screamed and played without inhibition. You get back to those things and you strip yourself of some accumulated layers of dead skin but not all of it. and you should forget a lot of things you learned because your mind begins to fill up with wood and leaves and water and bugs. and probably you get deep inside your head also with the words of others. You can’t escape it all and you’re not alone unless you take only food and things to help you survive. But I don’t know what type of loneliness is desirable. I would just want a guitar. But not really. I’d want a lot of stuff so I could create a lot – recording equipment, etc.
I have to penetrate this more in the next few days. Reading foucault in the park in 20 minutes, been ‘alone’ all day. But with museums and buildings and artists (and thinking about my fascination with cities and their construction (urban planning as a possible course)) and my books and this laptop which I write on from the lobby of a chic hotel called Buddha. When I get deeper I will write more on this.
The most important thing is to be alone.
The most important thing is to be with one other person naked.
The most important thing is a boundary.
And what happens, where you go, when it’s destroyed.
Basically this is how I feel: figure out the books you want to have with you; the books that pull at you now or one’s you see winking at you from a distance. Bring them with you. Bring some clothes and food and the essentials.
You are planning for a few years from now? You need to just go. I know there are issues with career and whatever but nothing will matter when you’re in the woods. i'm not sure plans are a good way to go
Thinking about recording – I would definitely be attached to the idea of recording things (with synths and everything else) – but I think it’s more important to attach yourself to the notion of solitude. Are you embracing solitude when you’re recording things onto an electronic device (things you can use to communicate with people in the future?) time. hmm. Fuck time. Your recordings are going to be used in the future? To communicate with yourself?...in the future? Then you aren’t alone. I don’t even understand solitude. it can't be possible. You need to figure out a new way to remember. Recording is a weird sort of group activity. even if it's just you.
On the other hand there are many aspects of it which seem extremely beneficial and powerful. And probably it would be best to record. But under the banner of solitude I would be more hesitant. I just think it would be better for the world. But I don’t know.
You’re making the calls. Just don’t actually make any calls.
Solitude, I think, is a sort of cleansing, a shedding of skin, a forgetting; but it’s also a taking a bath in remembrance. You can strip yourself of erroneous shit and bask in glorious memories of childhood, where you laughed and cried and screamed and played without inhibition. You get back to those things and you strip yourself of some accumulated layers of dead skin but not all of it. and you should forget a lot of things you learned because your mind begins to fill up with wood and leaves and water and bugs. and probably you get deep inside your head also with the words of others. You can’t escape it all and you’re not alone unless you take only food and things to help you survive. But I don’t know what type of loneliness is desirable. I would just want a guitar. But not really. I’d want a lot of stuff so I could create a lot – recording equipment, etc.
I have to penetrate this more in the next few days. Reading foucault in the park in 20 minutes, been ‘alone’ all day. But with museums and buildings and artists (and thinking about my fascination with cities and their construction (urban planning as a possible course)) and my books and this laptop which I write on from the lobby of a chic hotel called Buddha. When I get deeper I will write more on this.
The most important thing is to be alone.
The most important thing is to be with one other person naked.
The most important thing is a boundary.
And what happens, where you go, when it’s destroyed.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
WaSH
Every dog trudging through a puddle in the cold.
every whimper.
every soul.
every finger.
every crunchy auburn leaf in autumn.
...the abyss into which we look, sometimes, if we really try. Or maybe when we're really afraid and we don't want anything but a smoke and a light film to wash ourselves away.
and sometimes we really wash away. and five years ago we thought we would just shut our eyes for a moment while the scary parts stomped by. And sometimes we even think we were awake for the whole thing, cus we want so badly to believe that we can handle this battle and that love and this burden and that lie. Thinking you have courage, strength so you can deal with your small and big fears. And diving in. everybody has their duel for this day and the rest of them.
there are babies in adult suits crying about respect and trust.
and maybe there you/we are-
splashing in puddles of illusion to feel alive and good about the mess of the mind, the darkness of the devil dipping into your depths for ink to draw the pictures you don't want to see.
wash yourself away.
etch-a-sketch the wretchedness.
don't lie about the fact that you live a life.
end up on an island, a farm, a city roof.
i feel happy in this moment.
but if i stayed here i wouldn't make it.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
and then they move into your head. and you bounce off the walls
thinking:
becoming a violent wave of passions, slamming against the ocean floor, and spitting up whitewater so it squirms up and drools down like sleepers with their pillows and dreams.
The events of days and the yells of new things, whispering into monday. Ice, in cold water and melting days. torch dreams and the transition of elements as representations of mental states.
At the moment - Thom Yorke's "iluvya" bursting and blabbering in my skull (I'm using good headphones).
sHani asleep in the corner of the room, ben reading about the tijuana border. (and currently my blog underlines names which start with lowercase letters, telling me it's the wrong way to write.
uncalled for backbone from blogger.)
i sit in san diego - a classy place with numb brains skipping around in the sun; a vapid architectural scene with the occasional gem; a flawed entitlement in communities with cardboard cutout avenues and anti-corporate stands which stem from both a sort of nobility and a confusion over what else there is to do (being trapped, being ignorant); and many other things, but really, in the end, The Border.
here, something which explodes from old dirt - a wall - for the first time in history, here, now. A panoptic structure, solid and strong, built from desert storm military materials, dividing one of the richest communities in the world from some of the poorest. A granola skater with dreadlocks and hemp shirts and the farmer's market. and the other side of it. a side which i don't feel i can speak about - distance holding me back.
Once there was just land and open space with natural barriers. then the construction of something. a wall.
militarization projects are under way. the specificity, the new targets, the element of control at the tip of the finger which tips the scale, hits the red button, and smokes cigars over cognac before bed, and then the morning newspaper with silk or velvet pajamas.
Robots with rifles, slaves in the crosshairs. Less thinking leads to more efficiency (surveillance, punishment as well); the simplification of ideas and methods of communication; feeding seeds of desires to human beings; playing their xylophone souls to the tune of fear and patriotism.. So, the necessity of introducing Complexity as a bomb. to blow a hole in the brain of A Consumer.
The image of bricks in a wall and the process. one. brick. at a. time.
no bricks though.
but the explosion and the scattering of pieces. Pieces of brains. From complexity. and then they will want to put it back together. they will or somebody else will. and then you need to keep exposing it to things which defend against the rebuilding of a play-dough brain and encourage or challenge one to mold a mind of their own. you need to expose power.
because power is efficient when silent and hidden. like a black widow. a web.
no tug-of-war actually ever ends. Power travels odd roads and twists like a mobius strip. it doesn't stop. it feeds itself, eats itself. the Ouroboros. it also grows like an oak up into the future, sinking its roots deeper into the past.
acorns are your moments of liberation.
but they become oak trees again. and you struggle again.
today i'm an acorn, tomorrow i'm a bat under the sun.
it's good to be in a body and to trudge through the swamps of san diego and the thoughts which sink in.
and also to float through those other thoughts - a bamboo canoe, a pirogue, lightly piercing the surface.
-----=======++++++++++++++++================1
the realization that you shouldn't ask a friend to build your home.
sound, like other things, is an environment to be traversed in different bodies, mental states, clothes. the contours must be caressed or punched through. and the openings must be torn open and ripped to shreds sometimes.
then there is new territory. a topography for some journeyers and a good trip.
and when you walk around you leave a trail of acorns. and other beautiful, venusflytrapesquethings. like all beauty, it can eat you up on the right day, with a rain drop or a sandstorm.
for somebody who wants to explore there are chemicals and strange forms to watch for. a lifestyle you build which involves consumption of products, entertainment, ideas, loves, et ceteras and et ceteras. a consuming mind which can eat itself in the madness of solitude.
There are sony commercials with colorful, dazzling bouncy balls and rainbow songs which spill out and disperse down hills like children trying to find imaginary playmates.
and then they move into your head. and you bounce off the walls.
becoming a violent wave of passions, slamming against the ocean floor, and spitting up whitewater so it squirms up and drools down like sleepers with their pillows and dreams.
The events of days and the yells of new things, whispering into monday. Ice, in cold water and melting days. torch dreams and the transition of elements as representations of mental states.
At the moment - Thom Yorke's "iluvya" bursting and blabbering in my skull (I'm using good headphones).
sHani asleep in the corner of the room, ben reading about the tijuana border. (and currently my blog underlines names which start with lowercase letters, telling me it's the wrong way to write.
uncalled for backbone from blogger.)
i sit in san diego - a classy place with numb brains skipping around in the sun; a vapid architectural scene with the occasional gem; a flawed entitlement in communities with cardboard cutout avenues and anti-corporate stands which stem from both a sort of nobility and a confusion over what else there is to do (being trapped, being ignorant); and many other things, but really, in the end, The Border.
here, something which explodes from old dirt - a wall - for the first time in history, here, now. A panoptic structure, solid and strong, built from desert storm military materials, dividing one of the richest communities in the world from some of the poorest. A granola skater with dreadlocks and hemp shirts and the farmer's market. and the other side of it. a side which i don't feel i can speak about - distance holding me back.
Once there was just land and open space with natural barriers. then the construction of something. a wall.
militarization projects are under way. the specificity, the new targets, the element of control at the tip of the finger which tips the scale, hits the red button, and smokes cigars over cognac before bed, and then the morning newspaper with silk or velvet pajamas.
Robots with rifles, slaves in the crosshairs. Less thinking leads to more efficiency (surveillance, punishment as well); the simplification of ideas and methods of communication; feeding seeds of desires to human beings; playing their xylophone souls to the tune of fear and patriotism.. So, the necessity of introducing Complexity as a bomb. to blow a hole in the brain of A Consumer.
The image of bricks in a wall and the process. one. brick. at a. time.
no bricks though.
but the explosion and the scattering of pieces. Pieces of brains. From complexity. and then they will want to put it back together. they will or somebody else will. and then you need to keep exposing it to things which defend against the rebuilding of a play-dough brain and encourage or challenge one to mold a mind of their own. you need to expose power.
because power is efficient when silent and hidden. like a black widow. a web.
no tug-of-war actually ever ends. Power travels odd roads and twists like a mobius strip. it doesn't stop. it feeds itself, eats itself. the Ouroboros. it also grows like an oak up into the future, sinking its roots deeper into the past.
acorns are your moments of liberation.
but they become oak trees again. and you struggle again.
today i'm an acorn, tomorrow i'm a bat under the sun.
it's good to be in a body and to trudge through the swamps of san diego and the thoughts which sink in.
and also to float through those other thoughts - a bamboo canoe, a pirogue, lightly piercing the surface.
-----=======++++++++++++++++================1
the realization that you shouldn't ask a friend to build your home.
sound, like other things, is an environment to be traversed in different bodies, mental states, clothes. the contours must be caressed or punched through. and the openings must be torn open and ripped to shreds sometimes.
then there is new territory. a topography for some journeyers and a good trip.
and when you walk around you leave a trail of acorns. and other beautiful, venusflytrapesquethings. like all beauty, it can eat you up on the right day, with a rain drop or a sandstorm.
for somebody who wants to explore there are chemicals and strange forms to watch for. a lifestyle you build which involves consumption of products, entertainment, ideas, loves, et ceteras and et ceteras. a consuming mind which can eat itself in the madness of solitude.
There are sony commercials with colorful, dazzling bouncy balls and rainbow songs which spill out and disperse down hills like children trying to find imaginary playmates.
and then they move into your head. and you bounce off the walls.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Drag on and keep eating
The word Sundae:
"Perhaps an alteration of Sunday, either because the dish was made with ice cream left over from Sunday and sold cheaply on Monday, or because it was sold only on Sundays, a practice devised (according to some accounts) to circumvent Sunday legislation."
I'm sitting at Peet's Coffee and Tea in La Jolla, which is a part of San Diego, which is a place with a breeze and sunny people and surfers and lots of money being spit around, dangling from people's mouths, more like drool after a deep slumber or the last drops of syrup crawling along the edge of the glass trying to get somewhere. To my left sits an old woman with a broken arm and 5 or 6 teeth. She begins talking with the gentleman behind me, after his wife goes into the store, and asks where he's from.
Iceland.
She gasps - "I don't think I've ever met anybody from Iceland."
She continues speaking but her words drown in her loneliness and everybody turns their heads towards other more and less, more or less, important things.
the attempt to confront and justify the Ouroboros:
In all its sad, infinite dribble there's the monster in time, in memory, in your days, swallowing itself, knowing the insignificance of its own ferocious march away from itself and into itself, for itself and against itself. The pursuit of anything, swallowing up eventually by the pursuit itself. The chase and the kill. The contradiction, the resistance - namely, the power struggle, omnipresent and persistent to the point of destruction. We all go around with interests, desires, whatevers - selfish in some way, a tree bending sideways towards the sun. The friends we keep or don't, the people we spit on - we do things for ourselves, for our happiness or sadness. And we slowly eat away at that ability we possess to live fully - to overflow. Instead we dam up our souls and die of thirst. Either we ignore things when we should act on them or we act on them when they should be ignored. Rather than let things flow, not getting caught on a stone resting at the bottom...
Running the gauntlet and trudging through. i fucking hate getting caught up on small things. The dramatic. And i know i can easily make things insane. Have you heard of the man who had great thoughts and couldn't move?
Some patience and your heart begins to beat slow and then blood flows to your fingertips and you swallow the pit in your throat and take two steps towards the river.
Everybody's different though. I just speak from a little chair in the corner, sometimes lounging behind the gates of hell.
A call to action. That everything one does now will happen ad infinitum; that your laugh and smile right now will never stop; that your cigarette yesterday will be smoked in the same way for all of time (time being that trick that makes us see in straight lines). Now, the call to action, choosing those things which you want to be imprinted on boundlessness.
A brushing aside of the past and the future, understanding that both fall into place when you plunge in to the immediate. They're just jewelery. Carve something into my skin and i slice into time, peeling away the layers. The past and future come together and form a moment. Forces of resistance, pushing against each other, your Self blooming at the meeting point. Explosions from the collision. Now - brings you into the world - with desire, passion, hunger, curiosity, pain, tragedy, love hate, whatever whatever whatevvvver. Enjoying touch, a glass of wine and a good meal, a statue in a garden in Budapest or a quartet playing Vivaldi in the hills of Prague. Not going beyond this. Sucking the marrow outta these things. On bone at a time.
Maybe you should take some buttons of Peyote. the necessity of spiritual experiences in order to get beyond the petty...something which takes you out of your self in order to swim back inside. A transcending which is always a movement into something.
people getting caught up everywhere, trying to help other people in the wrong ways, as they fail to put one hand on their own lives. Most muddling in the affairs of another leads to disaster. None of us understand what we're doing. People just trying to lose their self in some activity which seems Good. An escape, a distraction. ..
Throwing a million dollars at a charity to escape the burden of being an asshole.
the issue, the power and powerlessness of committing to something..
I don't care about being a flake. My privilege is stamped on my hand, but i also play guitar and make my fingers bleed.
Everything will be done under Toad Murphy. I can go into the forest.
my friend just told me he fucked a stripper last night.
I met a guy named Nicholas who told me about his life, taught me how to play guitar and gave me enough bong rips to blow a hole in my brain.
I also spent the night in a new place last night. On a futon.
My roommate has a large dildo in the bathroom which i expect her to move today.
Dragon
Blood.
"Perhaps an alteration of Sunday, either because the dish was made with ice cream left over from Sunday and sold cheaply on Monday, or because it was sold only on Sundays, a practice devised (according to some accounts) to circumvent Sunday legislation."
I'm sitting at Peet's Coffee and Tea in La Jolla, which is a part of San Diego, which is a place with a breeze and sunny people and surfers and lots of money being spit around, dangling from people's mouths, more like drool after a deep slumber or the last drops of syrup crawling along the edge of the glass trying to get somewhere. To my left sits an old woman with a broken arm and 5 or 6 teeth. She begins talking with the gentleman behind me, after his wife goes into the store, and asks where he's from.
Iceland.
She gasps - "I don't think I've ever met anybody from Iceland."
She continues speaking but her words drown in her loneliness and everybody turns their heads towards other more and less, more or less, important things.
the attempt to confront and justify the Ouroboros:
In all its sad, infinite dribble there's the monster in time, in memory, in your days, swallowing itself, knowing the insignificance of its own ferocious march away from itself and into itself, for itself and against itself. The pursuit of anything, swallowing up eventually by the pursuit itself. The chase and the kill. The contradiction, the resistance - namely, the power struggle, omnipresent and persistent to the point of destruction. We all go around with interests, desires, whatevers - selfish in some way, a tree bending sideways towards the sun. The friends we keep or don't, the people we spit on - we do things for ourselves, for our happiness or sadness. And we slowly eat away at that ability we possess to live fully - to overflow. Instead we dam up our souls and die of thirst. Either we ignore things when we should act on them or we act on them when they should be ignored. Rather than let things flow, not getting caught on a stone resting at the bottom...
Running the gauntlet and trudging through. i fucking hate getting caught up on small things. The dramatic. And i know i can easily make things insane. Have you heard of the man who had great thoughts and couldn't move?
Some patience and your heart begins to beat slow and then blood flows to your fingertips and you swallow the pit in your throat and take two steps towards the river.
Everybody's different though. I just speak from a little chair in the corner, sometimes lounging behind the gates of hell.
A call to action. That everything one does now will happen ad infinitum; that your laugh and smile right now will never stop; that your cigarette yesterday will be smoked in the same way for all of time (time being that trick that makes us see in straight lines). Now, the call to action, choosing those things which you want to be imprinted on boundlessness.
A brushing aside of the past and the future, understanding that both fall into place when you plunge in to the immediate. They're just jewelery. Carve something into my skin and i slice into time, peeling away the layers. The past and future come together and form a moment. Forces of resistance, pushing against each other, your Self blooming at the meeting point. Explosions from the collision. Now - brings you into the world - with desire, passion, hunger, curiosity, pain, tragedy, love hate, whatever whatever whatevvvver. Enjoying touch, a glass of wine and a good meal, a statue in a garden in Budapest or a quartet playing Vivaldi in the hills of Prague. Not going beyond this. Sucking the marrow outta these things. On bone at a time.
Maybe you should take some buttons of Peyote. the necessity of spiritual experiences in order to get beyond the petty...something which takes you out of your self in order to swim back inside. A transcending which is always a movement into something.
people getting caught up everywhere, trying to help other people in the wrong ways, as they fail to put one hand on their own lives. Most muddling in the affairs of another leads to disaster. None of us understand what we're doing. People just trying to lose their self in some activity which seems Good. An escape, a distraction. ..
Throwing a million dollars at a charity to escape the burden of being an asshole.
the issue, the power and powerlessness of committing to something..
I don't care about being a flake. My privilege is stamped on my hand, but i also play guitar and make my fingers bleed.
Everything will be done under Toad Murphy. I can go into the forest.
my friend just told me he fucked a stripper last night.
I met a guy named Nicholas who told me about his life, taught me how to play guitar and gave me enough bong rips to blow a hole in my brain.
I also spent the night in a new place last night. On a futon.
My roommate has a large dildo in the bathroom which i expect her to move today.
Dragon
Blood.
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