But you never will go far
In a Japanese car
Just thinking of the things that we've missed
So I realise that I haven't put the pictures up that I promised, but let's be honest with each other, none of you actually read this webpage, so really I'm only aggravating myself by not having them posted, no? I mean, I get visitors and all, but you stay for about 30 seconds, which is exactly the amount of time it takes for one to realise I am the Devil. So I figure, I got time, I can do whatever I like, like read a book and listen to ... And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead, because, I like to do these things, just like you like to touch your mom at night. Don't lie, I'm sure plenty of other people are the same way... ok, that was a lie, you're a freak, go beat yourself to within an inch of lifelessness. Seriously. Do it. Go on. Alright... THAT IS FUCKIN IT, i will play widget with your head using a cricket bat goddammit!
Fine then, lemme go by one after I finish typing this, which could take awhile since I am simultaneously (yes, I used a big word, I'm proud of me, too) rockin out to the aforementioned AYWKUBTTOD, try sayin that 5 times fast. But I transgress, or digress, or regress, or something like that, that one word, you know, the sector and chord thingy with circles and yeah... yeah. Chuff. It's still the word of the day, and has been for some time i might add. So just to get it out of the way: chuff chuff chuff chuff chuff chuff chuff the chuffinator the chuffmeister the chuffster. Ok, I'm all better now.
There's been that feeling creeping up on me unseen, it just wrapped me in some silk this afternoon while I was waking from the bus. A great density of sleep like a weight of tog and heavy cotton flannel warmed and soften. I am in the mood for hibernation again, just as in every year. As all other animals and people begin to wake up and end their long sleepy winters I get snuggled down in for the spring and summer. An oddity I'm well aware, but the sun and I never have been akin to one another. Oh sure, I like many people enjoy the aesthetic beauty of a good tan. I like the darkened burnt umber look of it, baked skin, knowing I earned it from long hours working out of doors. I like how it nears the black charred skin inked not so long ago, happy at times to have the shade that he leaves me in turn. Nonetheless, I have always been composed of the darker things, moon and shadow, dark and cloud. It's no wonder my imagination tends toward these bent things, a world where right and wrong cease to exist. Sure the sun and I converse as I occasionally bask in it, but these are but brief conversations of the wind and sea, determining how one should leave the other. And so then he too will pass the equator and leave me in the shadows of early evenings and icy chills of winter.
I hunger for rest and unwearied silence.
Cheers.
31 January 2005
25 January 2005
Dragon Skin and a Pouting Rima
If it takes 40 years to get the things that I need sir
If it takes 40 years I'’ll walk the thunder and the rain
I'm not quite sure what I am anymore, nor where I would per se begin even defining myself in terms people use. Oh, yes, people have been berating me of these things recently, little pustules in my arse that they are. Realise this: I have no need for human contact other than to ease my day to day living and boredom. Human, I feel is an antiquated term, ill fitting and hatcheted apart in order to make room for me. It's not like I care anymore about the general human condition, or as if I identify with anyone as brethren. I feel a bit like god these days, so far removed and not only reflected but also understood poorly in each of the passerbys that I cross on Bearsden to Byres to West George and Regent and Renfrew. Commonly thought of as a joke, a mockery, but more subtle and worth intoning and evoking when strength is needed, that is how I am. People ask about the ink and it's a fairly simple story. Don't even begin to bust my balls on the seeming tangent this statement makes, because it IS relevant. The markings are simple, a map of sorts for my own reminder, inherent meaning given to each of the symbols, shapes, shadings, positions, blah blah blah. Horseshit. Meaningless is the essence, oh and I hear the silly sot goths rejoice wearing far too much metal in their skulls. Cunts. These are all difficult areas, so gray, such that narrowmindedness never really helps. Meaningless is a frame of mind, a frame of freedom. It's a prevention of dissention, no value, no morals, no betters, no peers. This is how I am.
Too much righteous anger is almost blissful thanks to a bit too much Transmetropolitan that I've delved (is that even a verb tense?) into today trying to root out the remainder of regret and concern and all the tiny seeds of emotion. I do feel a bit like Spider Jerusalem, which by the way is a fucking awesome name if I've ever heard one. Though I must say that Jack Kavanaugh is genius paralleled by none. I can't say whether I find this haggard circuitry a bit better than semi-functional of the same variety, whether its better to respond and crumple and rise again or to simply not sense and sit and utter a small 'meh'. Because 'meh' is the epitome of apathy and the endorsement of moving on to a different type of life, lifestyle, death, killing, consumerism, belief, non-belief, whatever.
I sit in a library soaking in the words to recycle and rush rampant to page, just so I can watch them tear down the paper and burn the world from a spark in a child's mind. I want to see that flame I kindled take hold and bash a head into another head and start a war of ideas, an exchange where resolution and growth are inevitable. But what do they want. They work, they toil so hard, sometimes even indifferently to the rest of them, but they work so fleetingly. These people don't breathe fire, I've met no one like that yet. Instead they eat themselves, they eat others, they eat each other, and worst of all they eat their own ash and flame. They burn at themselves, trying to make something of themselves at the cost of their minds and bodies and those around them. Caustic cancers of their souls. I didn't burn out, or so I like to think. I merely redirected the heat when it became too much for one person to hold, before it began to fuel itself on the excelsior that I would have been for it. Oh, sure, I would have ignited the sky, flaring like a sunward prominence, all helium and hydrogen exploding, but in a second, a novic flash, I would have gone to nothing, absolute nothing. Instead, I diverted everything to the lost words that sat in bottles in windows and dreamcatchers' webs. I found a use for the creation I was given, a way to extend myself into a different matter of greatness. While they burn away making something of themselves, I will long sit making something of the world, editing it in blue pen and people's ideas. The new currency. I might not be an Eli Wiesel, a Jack Kerouac, a Haruki Murakami, a Tolstoy, or a Vonnegut. But it's impossible to judge the expanse they've tread across. I will take my victory in one mind or two.
I want to see a child take a step I took, follow my spirit, follow my words, use them as I did and dream another layer further. I want to start a war, I want to see death. They can have their fame, their self-contained candleic light. Give me my infamy, my fire and ice.
Cheers
If it takes 40 years I'’ll walk the thunder and the rain
"We need a voice, they say. That's all. We're sick of your hate, and we don't need your pity. We need a VOICE. Just for us. All of us. The new scum."
-- Spider Jerusalem, Transmetropolitan
I'm not quite sure what I am anymore, nor where I would per se begin even defining myself in terms people use. Oh, yes, people have been berating me of these things recently, little pustules in my arse that they are. Realise this: I have no need for human contact other than to ease my day to day living and boredom. Human, I feel is an antiquated term, ill fitting and hatcheted apart in order to make room for me. It's not like I care anymore about the general human condition, or as if I identify with anyone as brethren. I feel a bit like god these days, so far removed and not only reflected but also understood poorly in each of the passerbys that I cross on Bearsden to Byres to West George and Regent and Renfrew. Commonly thought of as a joke, a mockery, but more subtle and worth intoning and evoking when strength is needed, that is how I am. People ask about the ink and it's a fairly simple story. Don't even begin to bust my balls on the seeming tangent this statement makes, because it IS relevant. The markings are simple, a map of sorts for my own reminder, inherent meaning given to each of the symbols, shapes, shadings, positions, blah blah blah. Horseshit. Meaningless is the essence, oh and I hear the silly sot goths rejoice wearing far too much metal in their skulls. Cunts. These are all difficult areas, so gray, such that narrowmindedness never really helps. Meaningless is a frame of mind, a frame of freedom. It's a prevention of dissention, no value, no morals, no betters, no peers. This is how I am.
Too much righteous anger is almost blissful thanks to a bit too much Transmetropolitan that I've delved (is that even a verb tense?) into today trying to root out the remainder of regret and concern and all the tiny seeds of emotion. I do feel a bit like Spider Jerusalem, which by the way is a fucking awesome name if I've ever heard one. Though I must say that Jack Kavanaugh is genius paralleled by none. I can't say whether I find this haggard circuitry a bit better than semi-functional of the same variety, whether its better to respond and crumple and rise again or to simply not sense and sit and utter a small 'meh'. Because 'meh' is the epitome of apathy and the endorsement of moving on to a different type of life, lifestyle, death, killing, consumerism, belief, non-belief, whatever.
I sit in a library soaking in the words to recycle and rush rampant to page, just so I can watch them tear down the paper and burn the world from a spark in a child's mind. I want to see that flame I kindled take hold and bash a head into another head and start a war of ideas, an exchange where resolution and growth are inevitable. But what do they want. They work, they toil so hard, sometimes even indifferently to the rest of them, but they work so fleetingly. These people don't breathe fire, I've met no one like that yet. Instead they eat themselves, they eat others, they eat each other, and worst of all they eat their own ash and flame. They burn at themselves, trying to make something of themselves at the cost of their minds and bodies and those around them. Caustic cancers of their souls. I didn't burn out, or so I like to think. I merely redirected the heat when it became too much for one person to hold, before it began to fuel itself on the excelsior that I would have been for it. Oh, sure, I would have ignited the sky, flaring like a sunward prominence, all helium and hydrogen exploding, but in a second, a novic flash, I would have gone to nothing, absolute nothing. Instead, I diverted everything to the lost words that sat in bottles in windows and dreamcatchers' webs. I found a use for the creation I was given, a way to extend myself into a different matter of greatness. While they burn away making something of themselves, I will long sit making something of the world, editing it in blue pen and people's ideas. The new currency. I might not be an Eli Wiesel, a Jack Kerouac, a Haruki Murakami, a Tolstoy, or a Vonnegut. But it's impossible to judge the expanse they've tread across. I will take my victory in one mind or two.
I want to see a child take a step I took, follow my spirit, follow my words, use them as I did and dream another layer further. I want to start a war, I want to see death. They can have their fame, their self-contained candleic light. Give me my infamy, my fire and ice.
Cheers
23 January 2005
Stratum Tectorum over Mad Hatter Dreams
(january rain)
What I adore most in people is this mad living, this lively fire that they go against the world itself to satisfy whatever it is that hails them, that strikes out like open fist to breast. Not cntent in any manner to lay down. So splendid in a way yet so foolish, since failure is far greater upon its slamming reproach. Far be it from me to tell one child or another to ever stop imagining themself as a greater being. Imagine a world where everyone simply ceased to dream in life, stopped believing themselves better in any way, forgot to sing to themselves on the long walks home. I can't imagine the world sounding as sweet without the millions of hushed hums of tunes, happy or sad, melancholy or cheerful, triumphant or completely dejected. An odd symphony perhaps, more so than Mahler, but still how would this greening earth in all its change spin the tepid birthing of the thousands. Oh to have that child of light returned.
I remember the time i uponed that quote, though I may have altered it so slightly, but you see it doesn't matter since the idea is the same. That passion, inexplicable in origin and inexorable overall is that which didn't return to consciousness with me except for in ideal. My rather hollow self as is can only imagine and dream of that golden flame, not to say im either better or worse for it, but that I am merely at times jealous, needing almost of something to be passionate for. Man is warrior in more than armored form, with gauntlets of ivy and steel pens fluttering amongst the plumes of ideas.
I am far too jealous of Kerouac and his discovery drawn from such text:
Oh, but I am ornamental to this world, a slight flourish on the leather binding that more than seals the tome. If not for me, I think there would be maybe just a small decline in the grandeur, an inappreciation of the cobbled stone paths we all follow in our own due time. But that's merely a mad mad man dreaming chaos and nonsense late in the arctic eve. A metropolis does not love me, nor does any other being perhaps, but what consequence need I fear when all awe-bound and agape at the simplicity of the mechanism, the very corniced pattern so repetitious behind the great stone block walls that compose my fabric mind and breathe. Silk and cotton sheeting so static in folds and treading sway. No clamour can wake the touring soul, all eve hung an starbound, earthly no more it may tilt ever so off the skewed wasted visions of emaciated slung stones. We are chartreuse and silver just fashioned for the calm night sea-skies, to be noted off the gray wavering ordinary.
Cheers.
"What I want now is to kiss her. I think to myself that anything she wants after that is fine, anything at all, so long as i can kiss her. Madly i kissed her the last time. In the taxi. After whiskey. Whiskey kisses are the best kisses. They are hot and more wet and more urgent and more essence of kiss. This feeling came on suddenly. Longing. This feeling is like a cry, an open-mouthed cry, an O."
What I adore most in people is this mad living, this lively fire that they go against the world itself to satisfy whatever it is that hails them, that strikes out like open fist to breast. Not cntent in any manner to lay down. So splendid in a way yet so foolish, since failure is far greater upon its slamming reproach. Far be it from me to tell one child or another to ever stop imagining themself as a greater being. Imagine a world where everyone simply ceased to dream in life, stopped believing themselves better in any way, forgot to sing to themselves on the long walks home. I can't imagine the world sounding as sweet without the millions of hushed hums of tunes, happy or sad, melancholy or cheerful, triumphant or completely dejected. An odd symphony perhaps, more so than Mahler, but still how would this greening earth in all its change spin the tepid birthing of the thousands. Oh to have that child of light returned.
I remember the time i uponed that quote, though I may have altered it so slightly, but you see it doesn't matter since the idea is the same. That passion, inexplicable in origin and inexorable overall is that which didn't return to consciousness with me except for in ideal. My rather hollow self as is can only imagine and dream of that golden flame, not to say im either better or worse for it, but that I am merely at times jealous, needing almost of something to be passionate for. Man is warrior in more than armored form, with gauntlets of ivy and steel pens fluttering amongst the plumes of ideas.
I am far too jealous of Kerouac and his discovery drawn from such text:
"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars..."
Oh, but I am ornamental to this world, a slight flourish on the leather binding that more than seals the tome. If not for me, I think there would be maybe just a small decline in the grandeur, an inappreciation of the cobbled stone paths we all follow in our own due time. But that's merely a mad mad man dreaming chaos and nonsense late in the arctic eve. A metropolis does not love me, nor does any other being perhaps, but what consequence need I fear when all awe-bound and agape at the simplicity of the mechanism, the very corniced pattern so repetitious behind the great stone block walls that compose my fabric mind and breathe. Silk and cotton sheeting so static in folds and treading sway. No clamour can wake the touring soul, all eve hung an starbound, earthly no more it may tilt ever so off the skewed wasted visions of emaciated slung stones. We are chartreuse and silver just fashioned for the calm night sea-skies, to be noted off the gray wavering ordinary.
Cheers.
19 January 2005
Pubic Symphyseal Torsion
Peoples are flowers
Musicians are cowards
lets argue in the kitchen
For hours and hours
Tomorrow is a travesty
Tomorrow should be ours
Musicians are cowards!
A fancy title to entail just the content of this fancy blog. Despite its continual overhauling and constant venue change, it never seems to attract the attention I never wanted. Kind of disappoiting that the public loathes rather than adores. Now I realise that I do not always have the most cogitent or even entertaining things to say. But I'm fucking floating text in cyberspace you nunces, what more can you expect when I'm completely detached from the freezer door jamb. No good seal is gonna form and then the ice builds and then the stuff starts melting and oi with the poodlesicles!!
I could begin to explain all the rash judgements that come my way, or even the ones that narrowly miss, or even those that hit me smack in the head. But I'd rather not, just the same, just as I'd rather not explain my own rash judgements. Can't we all just let me be and I'll continue to criticise how ever I see fit, hmm? Can we? Or did I get stuck in third grade? Cos lecture the other day, I coulda sworn the prof was trying to make me feel like I was being a bad lil boy, and not in that way that would make Tina go "ooo, that tickles me," either. Who knows.
I must apologise for the recent batch of rubbish, I've been reading far too much at too fast a pace for my brain to process all the imagery and allow for word molt (thats molt not mold). That and stress adds silly things to the game, like rolling the dice on uneven ground, the combinations become endless as the juggled items wiggle around and jiggle like J-E-L-L-Ooooooo.
I have begun making grand and non-meaningful travel plans, as in vague and completely off the wall. First thing is first. I'm going to Stirling before spring break, maybe next weekend, just for shits and giggles, tho hopefully for more giggles than shits, cos seriously I only have so many boxers. Theyre not brown yet, more of a beige, but I'm aiming to maintain that for awhile. I figure the farming this summer will totally run me into dark brown territory. It's like the Homeland Paranoid alert. After that is Edinburgh, hopefully for an entire day culminating in me attaining bragging rights for seeing the DiFranco at Queens Hall. We shall see.
The biggie I'm planning on two stages, because first I have to coax the parents into applying for a larger loan to allow funds for it. I mean, I've already traveled 3500 miles to be here, I might as well go the other 2500 to Bhutan. And Florence, and Naples, and Marseilles, and Bath. But I shall start farther, Australia will just have to wait to experience the me that is Jack motherfuckin Cavanaugh.
Oh and I haven't even mentioned the awesomeness that is Mars Volta coming to Glasgow in a couple months along with Arab Strap's performance scheduled in tandem to Biffy Clyro's next month on the same day (alas!), so I can only see one. Tough choice, very tough. Soundtrack of Our Lives and Mull Historical are also playin soon, and unfortunately I'm skippin out on Idlewild and The Autumns, the former because I have a previous engagement involving wine and movies and cards, the latter cos its the same day and is sold out already (bastages takin my tickets!!!).
So it would seem I have little to say other than the usual:
YOUR MOM!
Cheers.
Musicians are cowards
lets argue in the kitchen
For hours and hours
Tomorrow is a travesty
Tomorrow should be ours
Musicians are cowards!
A fancy title to entail just the content of this fancy blog. Despite its continual overhauling and constant venue change, it never seems to attract the attention I never wanted. Kind of disappoiting that the public loathes rather than adores. Now I realise that I do not always have the most cogitent or even entertaining things to say. But I'm fucking floating text in cyberspace you nunces, what more can you expect when I'm completely detached from the freezer door jamb. No good seal is gonna form and then the ice builds and then the stuff starts melting and oi with the poodlesicles!!
I could begin to explain all the rash judgements that come my way, or even the ones that narrowly miss, or even those that hit me smack in the head. But I'd rather not, just the same, just as I'd rather not explain my own rash judgements. Can't we all just let me be and I'll continue to criticise how ever I see fit, hmm? Can we? Or did I get stuck in third grade? Cos lecture the other day, I coulda sworn the prof was trying to make me feel like I was being a bad lil boy, and not in that way that would make Tina go "ooo, that tickles me," either. Who knows.
I must apologise for the recent batch of rubbish, I've been reading far too much at too fast a pace for my brain to process all the imagery and allow for word molt (thats molt not mold). That and stress adds silly things to the game, like rolling the dice on uneven ground, the combinations become endless as the juggled items wiggle around and jiggle like J-E-L-L-Ooooooo.
I have begun making grand and non-meaningful travel plans, as in vague and completely off the wall. First thing is first. I'm going to Stirling before spring break, maybe next weekend, just for shits and giggles, tho hopefully for more giggles than shits, cos seriously I only have so many boxers. Theyre not brown yet, more of a beige, but I'm aiming to maintain that for awhile. I figure the farming this summer will totally run me into dark brown territory. It's like the Homeland Paranoid alert. After that is Edinburgh, hopefully for an entire day culminating in me attaining bragging rights for seeing the DiFranco at Queens Hall. We shall see.
The biggie I'm planning on two stages, because first I have to coax the parents into applying for a larger loan to allow funds for it. I mean, I've already traveled 3500 miles to be here, I might as well go the other 2500 to Bhutan. And Florence, and Naples, and Marseilles, and Bath. But I shall start farther, Australia will just have to wait to experience the me that is Jack motherfuckin Cavanaugh.
Oh and I haven't even mentioned the awesomeness that is Mars Volta coming to Glasgow in a couple months along with Arab Strap's performance scheduled in tandem to Biffy Clyro's next month on the same day (alas!), so I can only see one. Tough choice, very tough. Soundtrack of Our Lives and Mull Historical are also playin soon, and unfortunately I'm skippin out on Idlewild and The Autumns, the former because I have a previous engagement involving wine and movies and cards, the latter cos its the same day and is sold out already (bastages takin my tickets!!!).
So it would seem I have little to say other than the usual:
YOUR MOM!
Cheers.
14 January 2005
Calligula's Horse and Suited Hedgehogs
People look and tell me justboy.
I don't believe in anything,
that's the message in your eyes
Plastic-wrapped domestic lives are all the rage these days when window shopping on Bluelight Special and Broadway. From the fuzzy hip boots to dishpan hand waders like duck cap hunting calls, they're all the fat of the fads... except Georgio Mousilini piano wire, because there's yet to be a stronger tone. Hatred and Hallmark and Hellfire with Heaven all clad in bras at the Ann Taylor summer dress collection. They are the finest crowd all dapper and diligent. The wee nunce of a man who scorns them all, well we just like to call him Ed Partruition, but God is his name all the same.
"Just like all men
I gave up the sense"
, he said like enfuego futuristic plane fuselages roaring off my baseball cap.
Saturdays are coming past midnight, like trains past Chi to Cheyenne, so much better with pi to 9 digits. It's just a sad sappy state of temporary affairs
lost
in
perspiratory asphyxiation.
I am 66 on the 38th of this past month, a day that comes rarely in a millennia let alone two. But 66 ain't so old as 12. I flew the first idea straight past Orion at that age, a rocket of a young'n with a y'all swiftly tilting past my furry planet of an imagination. I read what I wrote like it was Jack London in the winter, just secluded me and the fire burning books in pyres like Dido.
Fantastic.
But dream it like you own the world.
Not just fantastic fantasy, but more like that raw dragon on earth with knights shooting lightning. These are the sorts of
echoes
that
tandem
out out out
just cyclic
out out out
cos without canyons I wouldn't have a pressure of memory back on my sulci and gyri slick as they are. Always floating in a sea of spinal tapped fluid with maybe a tad of meningitis, or the Scottish flu... I like that, what he said just then. It was something I would have said, though maybe I did and just lost it on its way down to the ear on the floor.
Floorboards.
Too many people scuff it and then all the sound goes out, like a deadpan ringer of a Charlie Chaplin soliloquy as Radiohead goes all piano and sans-vox for their next Brit Award round while dodging the Grammy's.
Parlay, parlay, parlay, and God said Ed was right but going by me was all the better.
Such nonsense, or no sense, or sense as it were would seem? But all the while the wee babe slept hung vineward in the vineyard once waylaid
hacked and strapped
to pieces, because they're all the better for stew and such brew as a personality should be. "What fun" said me as he.
"All golden men should merely begin from small ideas to trees."
Cheers.
I don't believe in anything,
that's the message in your eyes
Plastic-wrapped domestic lives are all the rage these days when window shopping on Bluelight Special and Broadway. From the fuzzy hip boots to dishpan hand waders like duck cap hunting calls, they're all the fat of the fads... except Georgio Mousilini piano wire, because there's yet to be a stronger tone. Hatred and Hallmark and Hellfire with Heaven all clad in bras at the Ann Taylor summer dress collection. They are the finest crowd all dapper and diligent. The wee nunce of a man who scorns them all, well we just like to call him Ed Partruition, but God is his name all the same.
"Just like all men
I gave up the sense"
, he said like enfuego futuristic plane fuselages roaring off my baseball cap.
Saturdays are coming past midnight, like trains past Chi to Cheyenne, so much better with pi to 9 digits. It's just a sad sappy state of temporary affairs
lost
in
perspiratory asphyxiation.
I am 66 on the 38th of this past month, a day that comes rarely in a millennia let alone two. But 66 ain't so old as 12. I flew the first idea straight past Orion at that age, a rocket of a young'n with a y'all swiftly tilting past my furry planet of an imagination. I read what I wrote like it was Jack London in the winter, just secluded me and the fire burning books in pyres like Dido.
Fantastic.
But dream it like you own the world.
Not just fantastic fantasy, but more like that raw dragon on earth with knights shooting lightning. These are the sorts of
echoes
that
tandem
out out out
just cyclic
out out out
cos without canyons I wouldn't have a pressure of memory back on my sulci and gyri slick as they are. Always floating in a sea of spinal tapped fluid with maybe a tad of meningitis, or the Scottish flu... I like that, what he said just then. It was something I would have said, though maybe I did and just lost it on its way down to the ear on the floor.
Floorboards.
Too many people scuff it and then all the sound goes out, like a deadpan ringer of a Charlie Chaplin soliloquy as Radiohead goes all piano and sans-vox for their next Brit Award round while dodging the Grammy's.
Parlay, parlay, parlay, and God said Ed was right but going by me was all the better.
Such nonsense, or no sense, or sense as it were would seem? But all the while the wee babe slept hung vineward in the vineyard once waylaid
hacked and strapped
to pieces, because they're all the better for stew and such brew as a personality should be. "What fun" said me as he.
"All golden men should merely begin from small ideas to trees."
Cheers.
11 January 2005
Porous Maps and the Waterproof Coordinates
(insert incomprehensible The Pop Song lyrics here)
We are all on our own. Whether repub or demolition, child daughter or prodigal son of Aristophones, we have yet to be a part of anything so long as we reject that we are a part, a massive stake in, a tremendous mistake in, everything we have created out of our perception. But that's just me being weird at 5:40 in the evening on an empty stomach as it grumbles the hour at every tick of a clock I've obviously yet to buy. Did you suddenly grow a pair of bosoms? Did your penis suddenly recede into a cunt to make you my mother? I wonder, is she really all my mother, or just a fragment like we all are of ourselves. That's what wondering
is for
no?
So I write in illiterate states and shout through megaphones at the shackled deaf, because what better way to free them than by swimming in their sewage. All those unused words, neither spoken nor written, do they ever die? Is there a shelf life for the things we've yet to say? Or have we got unperishable goods of our goodly selves only spoiled by a rotten nature of the better halves that know what is to know for sure? Maybe there was more to Kerouac, but maybe he let it all go out with the Sunday paper and that quart of milk still sitting in the sun.
But maybe,
just maybe once or twice,
maybe the word molts. Like a crustacean tired of a shell, maybe they become better or worse. And maybe
just maybe tonight
that's what we were for all along. Consequently, have we ever then traveled the full length of a sentence? Or always been stuck on the one misplaced modifier that someone left out of the greatest novel written?
an open letter to jean-luis lebris,
was it grey who taught you to dream so monochromatically, or had you always been chasing down the west wall with unicorn skulls in hand? kafka had his beetles and you had your sea, for that i admire both city and town. maybe we'll all be mad to live and mad to burn across stars in a blue burst and fading web, just mad men with mad streaming eyes.
We are all on our own. Whether repub or demolition, child daughter or prodigal son of Aristophones, we have yet to be a part of anything so long as we reject that we are a part, a massive stake in, a tremendous mistake in, everything we have created out of our perception. But that's just me being weird at 5:40 in the evening on an empty stomach as it grumbles the hour at every tick of a clock I've obviously yet to buy. Did you suddenly grow a pair of bosoms? Did your penis suddenly recede into a cunt to make you my mother? I wonder, is she really all my mother, or just a fragment like we all are of ourselves. That's what wondering
is for
no?
So I write in illiterate states and shout through megaphones at the shackled deaf, because what better way to free them than by swimming in their sewage. All those unused words, neither spoken nor written, do they ever die? Is there a shelf life for the things we've yet to say? Or have we got unperishable goods of our goodly selves only spoiled by a rotten nature of the better halves that know what is to know for sure? Maybe there was more to Kerouac, but maybe he let it all go out with the Sunday paper and that quart of milk still sitting in the sun.
But maybe,
just maybe once or twice,
maybe the word molts. Like a crustacean tired of a shell, maybe they become better or worse. And maybe
just maybe tonight
that's what we were for all along. Consequently, have we ever then traveled the full length of a sentence? Or always been stuck on the one misplaced modifier that someone left out of the greatest novel written?
9 January 2005
Myanmar in Post-Coital Smoke Rings
it's prosperous lying awake invitation guess what
coast to coast, vivid i'm a visitor here
i'm a visitor here
parking and walking away parking and walking away
ting ting those four feel the pavement is poor
i still believe in getting low i still believe
the history of half past ten
Did you know I'm leaving you in 14 days? Take all the precious things.
Midnight Mania has come a bit early, but I suppose it is all in anticipation of another term. I can't yet recall what I was gonna type before, it was profound, profundissimus as it were even, but nevertheless, lost. Alas, poor brain, I knew him well, that is before he got all knackered with lack of sleep and fingers of scotch that danced in my guiness filled stomach upon my return to home. These are the pitfalls of impending doom.
I feel like painting, something in watercolors maybe or with fingers and hands, something hands on, so I can feel the creation. It's one of those small impulses that creep from the base of your skull in your sleep and then warm your ears with humming of strange little chords. I found Murakami absolutely brilliant, but I'm still short some Kerouac soon to be remedied I hope. It's part of my continuing education of sorts, reaping and raping ideas for all I can, building things on top of things in a sort of plunderous hazard of philosophy and acoutrement.
And then the idea vents into my brain as the text spreads like diseased gangrene on this blank little bit of cyberspace.
It occured to me midflight somewhere over Newfoundland, or one of those silly Canuck islands in the Atlantic, that I didn't really mind not seeing the acquaintances that had hounded me upon my arrival, that I couldn't due to logistical problems and such. In fact, I really hadn't desired their company, for the most part anyway, because they really didn't feel it was worth making an effort to see me. So they could sod off, but for the hassle and the turmoil they created, those things were the bear of the burden, tiring me and making me ail after several days. But, bollocks to them and the whole catastrophe of the event of birth. I enjoy having become to them as to you, what few readers may chance and endure the length of my cold way of creation. I enjoy this fashioning of myself as text in a gui environment. Just a screen and a window and text upon it. Because to those whom are aquaintances, I have had so little contact outside this, and what memories have they ever had. I like the rather quaint idea of them forgetting my face and my shape and merely recalling the color and the font of this my digital self, the completely one-sided fabrication of my personality, bodiless, formless, and only a partial ven diagram of what is encompassed by me. Now it is all boiled down to billions of lines of code and accessible on demand, a whore for the world to suckle off of. In truth, it is perhaps my darkest side, because here no one looks onto me expecting me to be something to them. All you want is controvery, something to feel opposed to, something to hold onto and feel cliche about. This I can give you, I can shove it down your throat and watch you gag and swallow that last sentence, that last word, that last ariel italics letter and beg for more or less or for my death or shame.
Freedom in the greatest stretch. Whose to say I am not god here. An interesting thought.
Cheers, children.
coast to coast, vivid i'm a visitor here
i'm a visitor here
parking and walking away parking and walking away
ting ting those four feel the pavement is poor
i still believe in getting low i still believe
the history of half past ten
Did you know I'm leaving you in 14 days? Take all the precious things.
Midnight Mania has come a bit early, but I suppose it is all in anticipation of another term. I can't yet recall what I was gonna type before, it was profound, profundissimus as it were even, but nevertheless, lost. Alas, poor brain, I knew him well, that is before he got all knackered with lack of sleep and fingers of scotch that danced in my guiness filled stomach upon my return to home. These are the pitfalls of impending doom.
I feel like painting, something in watercolors maybe or with fingers and hands, something hands on, so I can feel the creation. It's one of those small impulses that creep from the base of your skull in your sleep and then warm your ears with humming of strange little chords. I found Murakami absolutely brilliant, but I'm still short some Kerouac soon to be remedied I hope. It's part of my continuing education of sorts, reaping and raping ideas for all I can, building things on top of things in a sort of plunderous hazard of philosophy and acoutrement.
And then the idea vents into my brain as the text spreads like diseased gangrene on this blank little bit of cyberspace.
It occured to me midflight somewhere over Newfoundland, or one of those silly Canuck islands in the Atlantic, that I didn't really mind not seeing the acquaintances that had hounded me upon my arrival, that I couldn't due to logistical problems and such. In fact, I really hadn't desired their company, for the most part anyway, because they really didn't feel it was worth making an effort to see me. So they could sod off, but for the hassle and the turmoil they created, those things were the bear of the burden, tiring me and making me ail after several days. But, bollocks to them and the whole catastrophe of the event of birth. I enjoy having become to them as to you, what few readers may chance and endure the length of my cold way of creation. I enjoy this fashioning of myself as text in a gui environment. Just a screen and a window and text upon it. Because to those whom are aquaintances, I have had so little contact outside this, and what memories have they ever had. I like the rather quaint idea of them forgetting my face and my shape and merely recalling the color and the font of this my digital self, the completely one-sided fabrication of my personality, bodiless, formless, and only a partial ven diagram of what is encompassed by me. Now it is all boiled down to billions of lines of code and accessible on demand, a whore for the world to suckle off of. In truth, it is perhaps my darkest side, because here no one looks onto me expecting me to be something to them. All you want is controvery, something to feel opposed to, something to hold onto and feel cliche about. This I can give you, I can shove it down your throat and watch you gag and swallow that last sentence, that last word, that last ariel italics letter and beg for more or less or for my death or shame.
Freedom in the greatest stretch. Whose to say I am not god here. An interesting thought.
Cheers, children.
6 January 2005
The Compuservice Whoredom of Tomorrowhood
If the children don't grow up,
our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up.
We're just a million little gods causin rain storms
turnin' every good thing to rust.
Well it too for fuckin ever but I got those sodding photos up once I reached stateside. I shortly realised that being stateside had one advantage, pirating. I shortly thereafter became physically ill in different ways depending on different days until I flew out and arrived back here to a grand Glasgow welcome of gray skies, high wind, and cold rain. You cannot possibly imagine how happy I was to return to my country. That's right, my country, Scotland, you can't have it.
But at anyrate, those photos are up, a few were just taken to relieve boredom on a few days when I decided to walk through the neighboring gardens. I don't think the queen really minded considering she doesn't come here very often at all. Just as well seeing as the place has recently been in a constant state of repair as theyve been updating the older glass greenhouses that were beginning to fall into disrepair. How they're going to replace a few of the windows in that thing is beyond me considering the curvature of the glass has to be nearly perfect.
Now some might expect me to talk or feel badly about the tragedy of the tsunami that occured, but frankly, it really never concerned me. Shit happens, all the time in fact, and as I've recently read, the small things should be attended to with the uttermost detail, the big things should be dealt with lightly. Proving further that I was right from the get go. Yes, a lot of people died, yes the remaining people are screwed, but everything has a pattern and everything works out, so why stress and whimper and whine, why pray, why do anything but that which you do best.
Bah, I'm really just killing time trying to jumpstart my memory of what it was I was gonna type considering I totally lost it in the fog that was yesterday. Being awake for 36 hours straight has a very bad effect on ones brain if I do say so. I was turning into a narcoleptic.
The end is important in all things.
our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up.
We're just a million little gods causin rain storms
turnin' every good thing to rust.
Well it too for fuckin ever but I got those sodding photos up once I reached stateside. I shortly realised that being stateside had one advantage, pirating. I shortly thereafter became physically ill in different ways depending on different days until I flew out and arrived back here to a grand Glasgow welcome of gray skies, high wind, and cold rain. You cannot possibly imagine how happy I was to return to my country. That's right, my country, Scotland, you can't have it.
But at anyrate, those photos are up, a few were just taken to relieve boredom on a few days when I decided to walk through the neighboring gardens. I don't think the queen really minded considering she doesn't come here very often at all. Just as well seeing as the place has recently been in a constant state of repair as theyve been updating the older glass greenhouses that were beginning to fall into disrepair. How they're going to replace a few of the windows in that thing is beyond me considering the curvature of the glass has to be nearly perfect.
Now some might expect me to talk or feel badly about the tragedy of the tsunami that occured, but frankly, it really never concerned me. Shit happens, all the time in fact, and as I've recently read, the small things should be attended to with the uttermost detail, the big things should be dealt with lightly. Proving further that I was right from the get go. Yes, a lot of people died, yes the remaining people are screwed, but everything has a pattern and everything works out, so why stress and whimper and whine, why pray, why do anything but that which you do best.
Bah, I'm really just killing time trying to jumpstart my memory of what it was I was gonna type considering I totally lost it in the fog that was yesterday. Being awake for 36 hours straight has a very bad effect on ones brain if I do say so. I was turning into a narcoleptic.
The end is important in all things.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)