the words, when spoken, kick rocks from your shoulders and let your spine roll back like water. and the Once Familiar crawls back into the tips of your forehead. i felt it tickle and i laughed and laughed while good beats were pounding and i thought of strange ancient music i'd heard recently with nice space that made me think of being high up in the mountains with pure, crisp air.
thoughts have been stabbing into my chest all day and i've reached a nice feeling, strangely, and mike's words about rooftops in san diego with screams of love within prisms of sound. the attainment of happiness. love. the feeling of energy within a crowd all dancing to the same beat, like icicles burning through people's souls and cleansing your body while your mind gets wrapped around your heart beat but you forget where you are.
the power in decision. what you are.
a choice
ripples.
becoming.
work, reflecting back on this period will be creepy. the familiar becomes so eerie when it begins to cover itself in memory. you can dance in chains but sometimes i dance and forget i'm in chains. and sometimes i think about how i'm in chains. but i forget to dance.
this trip will be good. distance from this place will help me figure out what the hell has been happening. i'm caught in so many webs of thoughts that i can't get a grasp on what is going on. i'm very confused.
i know what is good and important though. so concentrating on that is a dandy way to go.
fuckin hell. what have i NOT been doing? what are the things i need to accomplish....
thinking about recording music almost a year ago and what has happened since then....
got a lot of work to do.
mushroom bubble bots eclipsing the sun
aeroplane whiskers tying up light bulbs
wiggle room for a squid a hundred feet long smashing a boat like a splinter
openwaternoescape
thought of imprisonment - the confines of a cell, the mental effect. space and thought, thought within space.
spaceyouearthanimalcombat,whoalotsofshit
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
well
dwell dwell well well
-The Shell of a Former Man
12;27am - Just informed of meteor shower beginning in 32 minutes and counting. Will not watch it though would like to take part in these sorts of activities more often. Though they seem to require a molasses like patience and willingness to remain awake for long hours (which I well know I am capable of).
Professionalism and posture like interlocked fingers and a beating heart, the slouch exhibits a great deal and a tiny body I encountered Sunday evening gave me brief thoughts of addiction and a sort of anorexia which I normally do not associate with men but something seemed unhealthy about this good guy and I wish to discover more about him. Meek but daring, an enigma with no armor.
As the days wind down here I feel a strange nostalgia kicking horse-like more and more at the growing hairs on the edges of my skull. Really there has been little accomplished in this month which I had great hopes for. Overshadowed by desires for adventure, my real and serious goals were easily crushed into lines and ice cubes floating over scotch. Which begs the question of the seriousness of these goals or the weakness of the man inside them. And more, the cliche meaning of it all. And all of which I feel the need to give a big fuck you to and take the Gary Cooper path, yea, the strong/silent bla bla bla but what is all this strength talk and such. Writing seems to make me dwell in some strange sense. But it is also a great purge, a deep breath, a digesting, a dwelling in order to forgo dwelling. And in this way it is akin to the elephantine importance of music, imprisoned in time and bursting with whatever can be done within a structure or a lack of structure. Only so far. The blues - feeding us a soul in pain without the dwelling and the giving in. It is the recognition and the awareness that it will be gone, a note bent and released, a letting go, a verse and a fuck it all solo, the slide fucking the neck up and down and finishing on the up swing. Jazz - the melancholy, the groove, all exploding with life. And now more than ever I'm beginning to recognize how I am so drawn to these two genres. How I need them and they give me life and feeling and feed the depths.
What I do know about my struggles here is that they have transformed and I with them, and the enormous amount of time whining to myself and or bitching and explaining things to others about this and that has really done me very little good because it is certainly more enjoyable to let the lines dissolve into a smooth Coltrane ride which ends before the sun comes up and i can dance. This is not to say that I have not learned, through conversations with others, what it means to analyze and reanalyze and reanalyze - to the point of exhaustion - but come from under the tumultuous waters with a more tenuous grasp of the problems and situations which have confronted me. Again and again.
Why I need music, why I feel most alive on the sad nights when an instrument is in my hands, or when I am dancing to a beat and moving my body and existing within a groove, a beat, a melody because then my soul isn't sitting idly but bursting like a comet on a night with meteors taking showers in the milky way.
I am one who needs organization in order to cope with chaos, but I seem to easily allow the chaos to take hold and beckon me into its dark corners where I can feel friendly with the demons that are chiseling away at my ability to enjoy myself in the days and nights which torture in some ways but allow me to tickle extremes which I do not often put my fingers on.
And so I return, like most nights to my little room in darkness, with some jazz or some novel or paper or screen. And sometimes I'm not sure what to do. Sleep is scary to me and I try to hold tight before I leave the day behind me. Even though it's now 3:24, one day after I began writing this it's always me warding off sleep, watering something to stay alive. Lingering in a loneliness which somehow loses a taste of loveliness when I remember the beautiful feeling of sharing moments with another, in love, and squeezing the one that lets her everything seep into your chest and wrap you up and drip from the pillow into your dreams.
-The Shell of a Former Man
12;27am - Just informed of meteor shower beginning in 32 minutes and counting. Will not watch it though would like to take part in these sorts of activities more often. Though they seem to require a molasses like patience and willingness to remain awake for long hours (which I well know I am capable of).
Professionalism and posture like interlocked fingers and a beating heart, the slouch exhibits a great deal and a tiny body I encountered Sunday evening gave me brief thoughts of addiction and a sort of anorexia which I normally do not associate with men but something seemed unhealthy about this good guy and I wish to discover more about him. Meek but daring, an enigma with no armor.
As the days wind down here I feel a strange nostalgia kicking horse-like more and more at the growing hairs on the edges of my skull. Really there has been little accomplished in this month which I had great hopes for. Overshadowed by desires for adventure, my real and serious goals were easily crushed into lines and ice cubes floating over scotch. Which begs the question of the seriousness of these goals or the weakness of the man inside them. And more, the cliche meaning of it all. And all of which I feel the need to give a big fuck you to and take the Gary Cooper path, yea, the strong/silent bla bla bla but what is all this strength talk and such. Writing seems to make me dwell in some strange sense. But it is also a great purge, a deep breath, a digesting, a dwelling in order to forgo dwelling. And in this way it is akin to the elephantine importance of music, imprisoned in time and bursting with whatever can be done within a structure or a lack of structure. Only so far. The blues - feeding us a soul in pain without the dwelling and the giving in. It is the recognition and the awareness that it will be gone, a note bent and released, a letting go, a verse and a fuck it all solo, the slide fucking the neck up and down and finishing on the up swing. Jazz - the melancholy, the groove, all exploding with life. And now more than ever I'm beginning to recognize how I am so drawn to these two genres. How I need them and they give me life and feeling and feed the depths.
What I do know about my struggles here is that they have transformed and I with them, and the enormous amount of time whining to myself and or bitching and explaining things to others about this and that has really done me very little good because it is certainly more enjoyable to let the lines dissolve into a smooth Coltrane ride which ends before the sun comes up and i can dance. This is not to say that I have not learned, through conversations with others, what it means to analyze and reanalyze and reanalyze - to the point of exhaustion - but come from under the tumultuous waters with a more tenuous grasp of the problems and situations which have confronted me. Again and again.
Why I need music, why I feel most alive on the sad nights when an instrument is in my hands, or when I am dancing to a beat and moving my body and existing within a groove, a beat, a melody because then my soul isn't sitting idly but bursting like a comet on a night with meteors taking showers in the milky way.
I am one who needs organization in order to cope with chaos, but I seem to easily allow the chaos to take hold and beckon me into its dark corners where I can feel friendly with the demons that are chiseling away at my ability to enjoy myself in the days and nights which torture in some ways but allow me to tickle extremes which I do not often put my fingers on.
And so I return, like most nights to my little room in darkness, with some jazz or some novel or paper or screen. And sometimes I'm not sure what to do. Sleep is scary to me and I try to hold tight before I leave the day behind me. Even though it's now 3:24, one day after I began writing this it's always me warding off sleep, watering something to stay alive. Lingering in a loneliness which somehow loses a taste of loveliness when I remember the beautiful feeling of sharing moments with another, in love, and squeezing the one that lets her everything seep into your chest and wrap you up and drip from the pillow into your dreams.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
summmmmmmm
summertime sorrow
deeper the holes deeper the burns worms worms got lost trying to stop being normal
in the big game change ties hide up get in in in meaning get mucked up drugged up flu shots and bug shots
got spots on wet socks my walkin slips the tightropes sucker hold
light hopes fucked up from meanings, dreamings, weaving tingle swift
get to reading spark up the moving mover moving stop the foot tapping nerves asking whats more in the door slamming
real forms smacking my face my face smacking real forms my face
homeequitycreditcardebtderivativesfuckingyourlifeawaybutit'sarealthingican'tbelievebutwilldealwithsomaybegetinvolved
maybe hop in the madness rabbits hop hopes rot got nothing but fear bots
things things pilin while they inside the white room bubbling like cloud bursts in the morning after rain when the sun shatters grey matters between white and black and the door open a creek with a coffee smell seeping in as the steam wanders from the shower in your home in the future in the dark if there is one when there won't be if you can but only if and only when the whens are gone and the ifs are melting and the forever unfolding is a walk and not a flight a grass blade not a lawn beyond the yawns of sleepy times did you know its only two weeks til i see you?
deeper the holes deeper the burns worms worms got lost trying to stop being normal
in the big game change ties hide up get in in in meaning get mucked up drugged up flu shots and bug shots
got spots on wet socks my walkin slips the tightropes sucker hold
light hopes fucked up from meanings, dreamings, weaving tingle swift
get to reading spark up the moving mover moving stop the foot tapping nerves asking whats more in the door slamming
real forms smacking my face my face smacking real forms my face
homeequitycreditcardebtderivativesfuckingyourlifeawaybutit'sarealthingican'tbelievebutwilldealwithsomaybegetinvolved
maybe hop in the madness rabbits hop hopes rot got nothing but fear bots
things things pilin while they inside the white room bubbling like cloud bursts in the morning after rain when the sun shatters grey matters between white and black and the door open a creek with a coffee smell seeping in as the steam wanders from the shower in your home in the future in the dark if there is one when there won't be if you can but only if and only when the whens are gone and the ifs are melting and the forever unfolding is a walk and not a flight a grass blade not a lawn beyond the yawns of sleepy times did you know its only two weeks til i see you?
Monday, October 19, 2009
24
- ate good sushi. want a quail egg right now
- cool leather jacket. changing image. suit shopping. 100000 a yr in la.
- didn't see alzheimers but talked with it. jeopardy and the future. how is it still going on.
- ate a lot of good cake with budweiser.
- learned you can keep moving. the chains are pretend. nowhere is permanent. NOwhere is permanent. know where is permanent.
- remembered cycles. that some people want a job right now. that i want november 4th and my woman
-forgot about wanting and time and got the wheels rolling again.
-yelled at grandfather for being republican and didn't let him speak. too harsh. tried to figure out football and make myself fall in love with it again.
-got lyrics down for The Drips and mike's got some good new riffs. middle finger nail is definitely deformed.
-remembered what it was like to just jam endlessly. no beginnings and ends. listening to it all
-ate a fantastic bagel and watched the godfather.
-looked up yoga classes and thought about discipline while flossing my teeth.
(the thing with it is that you can't plan it, when you start thinking about it you gotta start doing it. otherwise you end up putting everything off "til later" "til later" "later" L'ater la'ter lat'er ;atr
-ben turned 24 and i realized shit we're kinda old
- cool leather jacket. changing image. suit shopping. 100000 a yr in la.
- didn't see alzheimers but talked with it. jeopardy and the future. how is it still going on.
- ate a lot of good cake with budweiser.
- learned you can keep moving. the chains are pretend. nowhere is permanent. NOwhere is permanent. know where is permanent.
- remembered cycles. that some people want a job right now. that i want november 4th and my woman
-forgot about wanting and time and got the wheels rolling again.
-yelled at grandfather for being republican and didn't let him speak. too harsh. tried to figure out football and make myself fall in love with it again.
-got lyrics down for The Drips and mike's got some good new riffs. middle finger nail is definitely deformed.
-remembered what it was like to just jam endlessly. no beginnings and ends. listening to it all
-ate a fantastic bagel and watched the godfather.
-looked up yoga classes and thought about discipline while flossing my teeth.
(the thing with it is that you can't plan it, when you start thinking about it you gotta start doing it. otherwise you end up putting everything off "til later" "til later" "later" L'ater la'ter lat'er ;atr
-ben turned 24 and i realized shit we're kinda old
headlight bike man
In the fog the light was burning and i shot past with a crisp breath where the hip hop was weaving with 60s psychedelic acoustics and synth samples like ice cubes melting in coffee with steam sweating into itself. but like all hell this has been all hell until the victory last night which was not so much glory as it was inconvenience getting me hard and then fucking itself until morning. and the day has been nice and i've felt fine. no aches and pains, no regrets and dark imaginings (tho they come inevitably). oh delightful drugs and you're grasp. oh my weaknesses. oh fuck it all.
quite to the point this evening since it has been a serious hiatus from writing. the thought has depressed me for weeks or even months - writing on this blog or anywhere. i've tried in notebooks and wherever but it rarely gets passed a few sentences. my mind barely reaches a conclusion before i am bored. and then on to the next thing to occupy my time. that's why a cigarette can sum it all up. the excitement of the spark, the drags, the burning, the end, and then you smash it out. watch how people put out their cigarettes. it can show a mood instantly. throwing it, stepping on it, crushing it. but the writing is nice and feels a little sexy with chopin and loneliness. writing is only sexy when you're alone. in public it's akin to masturbation or juggling a soccer ball. but alone, in your bed, at night, quiet, just a sprinkler going off outside and your strange soul.
a change in expectation is necessary for me. what it means to enjoy the day. what it means to feel good in the day. i am bored to the absolute core which is not nearly as much of a problem as feeling absolutely trapped, caged, ready to blow. and so i just use blow to wiggle around a bit. or whatever else comes around. and then it all comes in a circle. i feel even worse. maybe it's just a way to make myself feel worse so i can justify feeling worse. or doing nothing. laziness. am i getting done what i want to get done? only at work. outside that im pissing it all away. maybe i exhaust myself at work and then use snowballs and candy and scotch to try to give myself a little danger and feed the little dragon of boredom. keeping myself bored. wanting the things that make me sad, bored, pissed, whatever. a strange dark cycle that must be broken apart. immediately.
mad men - people want to be told what to do. badly. who knows. ill use a lot of situations as excuses. it shows up, its there, its friday. no white princess snow woman last night. inconvenient sexiness. i tried to want it. the inconvenience. i eventually ended up on the drum set and it ruled my night.
this week had some fantastic days. rain and deep greens in the grass, radiohead with the water splashing all around my car and the fog wrapping everything up in winter lingerie. and i gave myself some rest, stopped drinking coffee and took my chimarrao from the cabinet and began the routine. i would sip it all morning and read. this felt nice and good. it was simple and the day followed naturally. only friday was shit because i was weak. hating yourself. hurting yourself. this is the lowest.
but then saturday. and i began feeling good during the day. because i got a small grasp on my mind. it happened at 4am and i saw my thoughts hop on a bike and start heading somewhere. and i took the ride for a bit and then i said fuck it and sat on a stone and watched the sun slowly awaken, proud in the morning and for a little while i felt the energy flow through me. and it felt nice and i took some of my confusion and spit it into an arrowhead bottle. then i walked to bed and lay there and watched That Thing You Do while my heart was pounding. and i fell asleep to one of the catchiest songs ever created because how the fuck do i know the lyrics to this song and all the parts.
and on saturday night when the jamming started, when the guitar was in my hands and when i was feeling the drums out or singing it all felt....it was all that mattered and i didn't want anything else. i had my eyes closed on the drums and i was riding. like this big headlight in vicious darkness with the crisp air shooting down my lungs. and ive felt fantastic ever since.
and there's this piece of me missing though...
quite to the point this evening since it has been a serious hiatus from writing. the thought has depressed me for weeks or even months - writing on this blog or anywhere. i've tried in notebooks and wherever but it rarely gets passed a few sentences. my mind barely reaches a conclusion before i am bored. and then on to the next thing to occupy my time. that's why a cigarette can sum it all up. the excitement of the spark, the drags, the burning, the end, and then you smash it out. watch how people put out their cigarettes. it can show a mood instantly. throwing it, stepping on it, crushing it. but the writing is nice and feels a little sexy with chopin and loneliness. writing is only sexy when you're alone. in public it's akin to masturbation or juggling a soccer ball. but alone, in your bed, at night, quiet, just a sprinkler going off outside and your strange soul.
a change in expectation is necessary for me. what it means to enjoy the day. what it means to feel good in the day. i am bored to the absolute core which is not nearly as much of a problem as feeling absolutely trapped, caged, ready to blow. and so i just use blow to wiggle around a bit. or whatever else comes around. and then it all comes in a circle. i feel even worse. maybe it's just a way to make myself feel worse so i can justify feeling worse. or doing nothing. laziness. am i getting done what i want to get done? only at work. outside that im pissing it all away. maybe i exhaust myself at work and then use snowballs and candy and scotch to try to give myself a little danger and feed the little dragon of boredom. keeping myself bored. wanting the things that make me sad, bored, pissed, whatever. a strange dark cycle that must be broken apart. immediately.
mad men - people want to be told what to do. badly. who knows. ill use a lot of situations as excuses. it shows up, its there, its friday. no white princess snow woman last night. inconvenient sexiness. i tried to want it. the inconvenience. i eventually ended up on the drum set and it ruled my night.
this week had some fantastic days. rain and deep greens in the grass, radiohead with the water splashing all around my car and the fog wrapping everything up in winter lingerie. and i gave myself some rest, stopped drinking coffee and took my chimarrao from the cabinet and began the routine. i would sip it all morning and read. this felt nice and good. it was simple and the day followed naturally. only friday was shit because i was weak. hating yourself. hurting yourself. this is the lowest.
but then saturday. and i began feeling good during the day. because i got a small grasp on my mind. it happened at 4am and i saw my thoughts hop on a bike and start heading somewhere. and i took the ride for a bit and then i said fuck it and sat on a stone and watched the sun slowly awaken, proud in the morning and for a little while i felt the energy flow through me. and it felt nice and i took some of my confusion and spit it into an arrowhead bottle. then i walked to bed and lay there and watched That Thing You Do while my heart was pounding. and i fell asleep to one of the catchiest songs ever created because how the fuck do i know the lyrics to this song and all the parts.
and on saturday night when the jamming started, when the guitar was in my hands and when i was feeling the drums out or singing it all felt....it was all that mattered and i didn't want anything else. i had my eyes closed on the drums and i was riding. like this big headlight in vicious darkness with the crisp air shooting down my lungs. and ive felt fantastic ever since.
and there's this piece of me missing though...
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