Young Link out, Toon Link in.
Motherfuckin' R.O.B.
T-minus four days...
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Paranoid Snow.
Snow Angels
Director(s): David Gordon Green.
Screenplay: David Gordon Green.
Cast: Kate Beckinsale, Sam Rockwell, Michael Angarano, Jeannetta Arnette, Griffin Dunne, Nicky Katt, Tom Noonan, Connor Paolo, Amy Sedaris and Olivia Thirlby.
Distributor: Warner Independent Pictures.
Runtime: 106 min.
Rating: R.
Year: 2007
"Realism and poetry were sustained in exquisite balance." That is how Armond White, deploring the slavishness of Undertow, accurately encapsulated the genius of David Gordon Green's George Washington. Like Undertow and All the Real Girls before it, Snow Angels is an obnoxious pageant of effusive style, the cinematic equivalent of a Precious Moments catalog. This one is a twee Nashville panorama, set—according to the film's press notes—in a small town north of the Mason Dixon line, though it may as well be squeezing us into the snow globe Orson Welles drops in the opening of Citizen Kane.
Before the story returns to the past, weeks before double shotgun blasts interrupt a school's band practice, coach has a mean hissy fit. "We are all part of a formation," he wails, his spastic unease never justified like the cultural panic that grips Henry Gibson at the end of Nashville, foisting shallow theme on audiences as compulsorily as Green pushes his fulsome artistry. After school, Arthur (Michael Angarano) works at a Chinese restaurant, with Annie (Kate Beckinsale), the young woman who used to baby-sit him when he was a boy, and Barb (Amy Sedaris), a hot wire whose husband Annie is sleeping with. Green choreographs more than he directs, revealing the links in the story's formation of characters as if he were drawing a snowflake, or connecting dots, la-la-la-la-la. They say no two are exactly alike, but Green's are all the same: meticulous and inert, unlike Altman's more delicate and spontaneously combustible tapestries of human feeling.
Green's style is as arbitrary as the Cloverfield monster: Death, accidental and otherwise, is preciously photographed, set to diddering music from the same gene pool as Sigur Rós, the camera coyly pushing into scenes, then out, at times drifting away like a gust of wind from characters in mid-conversation to linger on the corner of a room. It's oh so quiet and still and peaceful, but even when characters blow fuses, there's never a zing-boom, just more hushed aesthetic din. "No one cares about choices," someone says, ostensibly about life, though this nugget of wisdom is a concise summation of Green's poetic effects, which never feel keyed to the reality of his characters, who speak in ways more curious than the ear-chomping solipsists from Juno. Green doesn't seem to be charting a recognizable world, only the contours of his own mind.
Why does every television in this town play such intolerably fetch television programming? "Tomorrow is going to be hard," says Arthur's mother (Jeannetta Arnette), which means crafting a wobbly house on the living room table out of photographs, Sabado Gigante playing in the background. "Oy, gevalt," says the dude Annie is fucking, but is he even Jewish? Then there's the nerdy Lila (Olivia Thirlby), who is, like, oh my god, so cute, running down derivations of "fellatio" in the school library with Arthur, later writing "Hey you!" in purple marker on the back of his hand. Poor Sam Rockwell, who clearly caught something from Vera Farmiga on the set of Joshua, bears the brunt of Green's preciousness: As Glenn, the ticky, bibbity-bobbity, doggy-dooing Jesus freak, who ludicrously does a drunken slow dance with Morgan Freeman and Freddy Kruger look-alikes at one point, the actor plops licentiously down on Green's seesaw of reality and poetry, tilting the scales in favor of the latter and sending the former into the stratosphere.
--
Paranoid Park
Director: Gus Van Sant.
Screenplay: Gus Van Sant.
Cast: Gabe Nevins, Dan Liu, Jake Miller, Taylor Momsen, Lauren McKinney and Olivier Garnier.
Distributor: IFC First Take.
Runtime: 84 min.
Rating: NR.
Year: 2007
Normally, you wouldn't want to pay attention to a story told by a guy who admits, right off the bat, that he's "not that good at creative writing." But Gus Van Sant's haunting and immediate Paranoid Park understands adolescence as a kind of first draft, a series of raw experiences unmediated by wisdom, and as a result it allows its verbally-challenged protagonist to narrate in his own imperfect voice, rather than imposing a Wonder Years-style voice-over conscience. The films in Van Sant's recent long-take trilogy (Gerry, Elephant, Last Days) took sensationalistic news stories from real life and then stripped them of all causality, as a way of portraying human activity as essentially random and undetermined. But Paranoid Park is a deeper and even more bracing step into the unknown for the veteran filmmaker, a fully subjective probe into the consciousness of a young man and a generous display of artistic empathy.
Based on a young adult novel by Blake Nelson, Paranoid Park follows a shy high-school-aged Portland skateboarder named Alex (Gabe Nevins) after an impulsive decision leads to the accidental murder of a security guard on a train track not far from the titular skate-punk mecca. Alex is not suspected in the crime, so he keeps his involvement a secret. Consequently, his world begins to revolve in terrifying slow orbit: His cheerleader girlfriend (Taylor Momsen) openly displays her previously unapparent vapidity, his parents' impending divorce rapidly materializes, and Alex quietly reconsiders his emotional priorities. "I think…there's different levels of stuff," he tentatively concludes, and it seems impossible not to intuit exactly what he means.
Van Sant cast the film using MySpace in order to foster a sense of realism, but Paranoid Park is just as stylized as Elephant. Only the ends are different. Instead of depending on his long-take standby Harris Savides, Van Sant turned to Christopher Doyle, the other Greatest Cinematographer in the World, to capture the Super-8 swirl of skate-kid hero worship and the haze of adolescent panic. (Leslie Shatz's sound design sporadically offers musique concréte as a way of conveying Alex's fractured mental state.) Where Elephant's camera treated its beautifully doomed youths like lab rats, the style of Paranoid Park is perfectly in sync with its lead character; it reflects Alex's internal coping mechanisms. When Alex's girlfriend responds to his fumbling we-need-to-break-up plea, we see her vitriol, but we hear Nino Rota's theme from Juliet of the Spirits as a way of rendering the moment intriguingly grotesque instead of just painful. Where Elliott Smith's acoustic dirges served as pretty window dressing in Good Will Hunting, here the troubadour's mope music soothes like a necessary balm for wounds accumulated in high school hallways.
The Iraq war comes up in conversation more than once in Paranoid Park, as an abstract illustration of the type of pain and guilt disconnected masses should be feeling. Obviously, it's a difficult emotional jump from a Portland coffee shop to a battle-scarred Baghdad, and the world is indeed too big a place for an ignorant kid to have to incorporate that kind of horror. Being a kid is about keeping responsibility at bay and dismissing causality. (In its amoral disengagement, Elephant seemed childlike to a fault.) Van Sant's film microscopically reduces the scale of its moral universe to that of a single person—and the one stupid decision that will haunt his entire life—and by engaging fully in the experiment Paranoid Park earns its humanist stripes. By illuminating a little world where we can empathize with an "unrepentant murderer," Van Sant momentarily awakens our potential to spread our understanding across the street, across the park, across the globe. You start small, because, well…there's different levels of stuff.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Skeleton Upon a Rainbow.
[Music: The Ruby Suns]
Wow. The SKFL is back in business. It was a bitch to resurrect this thing. I had to create a gmail account because for some abstruse and esoteric reason, blogger decided to only accept people with Google accounts now. After that I had to track down the user/login information for whatever deviating ID I made for this site. Remember skysaw? Yep. That was it. I then linked that old data with the gmail account; which is the title of this entry @gmail.com. So there you go. Also, I am unsure if this blog will continue to be populated with wonderful romance, harsh scrutiny, or simply anecdotes from my everyday escapades in Anorexicland. Probably a concoction of all three.
In the meantime, I'm shipwrecked in UCSF for the THIRD time. At least this hospital has decent resources. I've hankered down a laptop and an assorment of third-rate ps2 games. I've got a ps2 in my room so I can bring titles from home as well. And watch DVDs. At least the time is passing some what rapidly and with any luck I will abscond from here 'bout Friday's middle hours. Pray.
Post medical/mental nonsense, I'm admiring the lovely musings of the absolutely brilliant Scott Campbell; whose playful adolescent commentery (scottc.blogspot.com) only slightly undercuts the tarnished genius of his artwork. Damn I wish I could draw like him. Just look at his alternate DVD cover for King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters:
In the meantime, I'm shipwrecked in UCSF for the THIRD time. At least this hospital has decent resources. I've hankered down a laptop and an assorment of third-rate ps2 games. I've got a ps2 in my room so I can bring titles from home as well. And watch DVDs. At least the time is passing some what rapidly and with any luck I will abscond from here 'bout Friday's middle hours. Pray.
Post medical/mental nonsense, I'm admiring the lovely musings of the absolutely brilliant Scott Campbell; whose playful adolescent commentery (scottc.blogspot.com) only slightly undercuts the tarnished genius of his artwork. Damn I wish I could draw like him. Just look at his alternate DVD cover for King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters:
Head on over to his blog (linked above) to check out more of his arsenal. He also did this insane egyptianmummy clock for my friend's artauction/show that sold for, like, a treasure trove:
I've been looking at some upcoming spring films. Other than Gus Van Sant's shining Paranoid Park, and David Gordon Green's double-punch of Snow Angels and Pineapple Express, I didn't find much to go apeshit over. Though I did discover that Michael Haneke's winking 1997 film Funny Games is getting a shot-by-shot remake starring, yes, the great Michael Pitt (Bully, The Dreamers, Last Days) as the wobbling trickster Paul. Tim Roth and Naomi Watts play the daft parents. I don't know who plays the dog.
Paranoid Park
Snow Angels
Pineapple Express
Funny Games (2008)
I'll be posting reviews for Snow Angels and Paranoid Park pretty soon. Possibly even later today.
As far as stuff as videogames and anime are concerned, I'm still keeping busy with those things.
PS3: Devil May Cry 4, Burnout Paradise, Uncharted: Drake's Fortune.
PSP: Patapon, God of War: Chains of Olympus, FF Tactics: War of the Lions (still).
DS: Contra 4, Advance Wars: Days of Ruin.
Anime: Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann
Devil May Cry 4
Patapon
Advance Wars: Days of Ruin
Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann
Brawl comes out in five days so that's something to look forward to.
Music...the new Malkmus and Ruby Suns are keeping me in tune.
I also got a new phone. LG Shine. It's metallic silver, and kicks magnanimous amounts of ass.
I've also been purusing various consumption blogs as of late. It's kind of soothing for my minuscule stomach that wants to be left alone forever. I'll link them on the sidebar if I can remember how to fuck with that thing. Check them out. If you please.
Alright, I think I'm done. I have to battle food here in the hospital. Amongst doctors and psyche people and annoying sitters.
Laterz.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Lost March.
[Music: Blood Brothers]
With my recent addiction to Whitney's brilliant side-project Neon Blonde, I had forgotten how brilliant his Blood Brothers work is. Namely their last album, 2004's Crimes.
--
Save (Excerpt from my Tails in Red Ink).
Testosterone harvesters reap the innards of earth, plowing endless fields of elevated soil populated with a seed only paralleled in worth by a chest of ancient artifacts from the tomb of some rank ghost king. Enduring southward, through forests of sullen pines lined alongside the remnants of spirited battles, feathered medleys altercate upon epic flowerbeds; here rests the thrusts of pelvises through the insane heat of an apocalyptic dawn. The body feeds on letdowns and events reimbursing the mind for its own minute instances of pre-occupational exoneration, a basic interdependence of misplaced veneration. Utopian realms obviously shun this concept of a well-fertilized (to the point that individuals maintain an equal share) conceptionsphere being that their very mission statements call for the release of mental fluids to repopulate, disregarding intercourse as an act of imbecilic irreverence. I, being born into a legion bearing an adjacent mindset, should have been readily prepared for the onslaught of non-political treatise that the procreative clergy would pile upon me. I was not, and paid my dues in the form of verbal embarrassment and infantile inquiries. I soon vowed, when the time permitted, to return to my studies amongst the lama consortium and clear my skyward debts.
“Come through these tilted walls, your altar lies beyond,” whispered Kaline as we rapidly walked the length of the hallway towards the ceremonial stages.
“Do your people have a limit to the length of the proceedings? Does morning suffice for multiple sacrifices?” I said.
“Time leaves our ranks when the curtains close.”
“I see.” I guessed my tone was far too somber for her to go unnoticed; she shot me an awkward glance and slowed down her pace.
“Is your collar hurting you, Ekim? Do you thirst?”
“I drank of the stream before you arrived, and, yes, this collar is chafing not to mention cold as a glacier.”
“It will warm to a comet before you realize.” I did not know then what she meant, but I took it that my head would not be removed by way of blade, but rather by extreme heat.
With my recent addiction to Whitney's brilliant side-project Neon Blonde, I had forgotten how brilliant his Blood Brothers work is. Namely their last album, 2004's Crimes.
--
Save (Excerpt from my Tails in Red Ink).
Testosterone harvesters reap the innards of earth, plowing endless fields of elevated soil populated with a seed only paralleled in worth by a chest of ancient artifacts from the tomb of some rank ghost king. Enduring southward, through forests of sullen pines lined alongside the remnants of spirited battles, feathered medleys altercate upon epic flowerbeds; here rests the thrusts of pelvises through the insane heat of an apocalyptic dawn. The body feeds on letdowns and events reimbursing the mind for its own minute instances of pre-occupational exoneration, a basic interdependence of misplaced veneration. Utopian realms obviously shun this concept of a well-fertilized (to the point that individuals maintain an equal share) conceptionsphere being that their very mission statements call for the release of mental fluids to repopulate, disregarding intercourse as an act of imbecilic irreverence. I, being born into a legion bearing an adjacent mindset, should have been readily prepared for the onslaught of non-political treatise that the procreative clergy would pile upon me. I was not, and paid my dues in the form of verbal embarrassment and infantile inquiries. I soon vowed, when the time permitted, to return to my studies amongst the lama consortium and clear my skyward debts.
“Come through these tilted walls, your altar lies beyond,” whispered Kaline as we rapidly walked the length of the hallway towards the ceremonial stages.
“Do your people have a limit to the length of the proceedings? Does morning suffice for multiple sacrifices?” I said.
“Time leaves our ranks when the curtains close.”
“I see.” I guessed my tone was far too somber for her to go unnoticed; she shot me an awkward glance and slowed down her pace.
“Is your collar hurting you, Ekim? Do you thirst?”
“I drank of the stream before you arrived, and, yes, this collar is chafing not to mention cold as a glacier.”
“It will warm to a comet before you realize.” I did not know then what she meant, but I took it that my head would not be removed by way of blade, but rather by extreme heat.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Surf the Black.
[Music: The Advantage]
Is He Dead?
Argumentation, far from a lost art-- but it has really become more than just a prelude to violence, they way it was in the good old days. And there's a big difference in how this one or that might reckon the relative worth of time: time-to-quality or time-to-result or time-to-the-motherfucking-k etc.
The amount of logical twine it would take to bind certain wisdoms to reality would bust my budget. I'm not required to have an opinion about it, I can just understand it and leave. Thinking about thinking like what other people are thinking about is paralytic philosophy beyond my budget. The fact that it is statistically effective is another question entirely and not one of interest to me. I mean: I eat however the numbers go-- I don't mean that statistics aren't interesting.
Numbers are proper things to read today. Seeing some words printed in public used to feel like an idea or temperament had finally been pressurized and heated to a superlative hardness. Suitable for contemplation, climbing. But I guess people were dumber then, too--they couldn't help but express their opinions, expressions were presumed to be part of an ongoing conversation.
One of the reasons the work still isn't staged often is because it makes enormous demands on the lead character, requiring her to sing almost non-stop for two hours, and throughout a very broad range. Maybe the time is right for a re-examination of this work. In a changing world, we want more singers to have control over your own life. It was a crude beginning psalm meant to be adapted, I hope-- not adopted. Or maybe they really missed the boat. They had a window and they had to say something.
--
Closets.
From time to time, it is required of me to interact in a little game set out by persons with the capability to withhold from me the very elements that allow me to survive. I am allocated, it seems, just enough survival to be encouraged that I cannot know, cannot precisely name the sources from which I derive what appear to be randomly earned stipends and then as part of the deal, from time to time, I have to run down a certain sequence of events that I assume I'm to believe are authentic and not in the least causally related to my precarious survival but which I sometimes admit to myself might be more crucially linked to it than the supposed work I supposedly do.
Once I got a phone message telling me to be at a radio station on a Sunday afternoon in the summer. I drove out there and was met by this guy, guy #1. The parking lot was empty, the offices were empty, and the studios were empty. As guy #1 escorted me into the place and down its halls I looked around and saw that it was outfitted with excellent equipment, that it had a tower out back and a dish. We go into a studio and I sit in front of the mic and we do a long interview. Guy #1 never switches on a tape or gives any kind of signal to any kind of engineer; no signal is ever given to us. He does not even put on headphones. We do the interview and I leave.
Two years later, when I'm playing at this bar I see guy #1 with girl #1. I have accidentally met his gaze so I wave but guy #1 doesn't acknowledge me.
One year later, I'm sent up to a residence on Central Park in New York to film some scenes on the edge of a stone parapet. I'm going to dress in a black body suit and crawl around at the top of a tall building. The photographer answers the door, it is girl #1. We go up and do the bits. We shoot for about 4 hours and not once does she stop to change film.
That same year I'm in St.Louis and after the show guy #1 talks to me while I'm packing up my equipment. He says he flew in from Sault Saint Marie (?!) just for the show. I thank him for taking the time and I say: "I hope you enjoyed the show." I should add that he didn't come up to me like he knew me and I didn't act friendly with him-- so I wasn't sure if this was guy #1 in the moment but I knew it had been guy #1 when I thought about it after he left.
What does this say about the world and the intentions of its most arrogant, persistent strivers? One of the reasons the work still isn't staged often is because it makes enormous demands on the lead character: Us, Me, Them. Overall, blue volcanos became that way from ash plumes creating vaccums to suck in tropical birds. All the colors mixed to form a light azure. Believe it.
Is He Dead?
Argumentation, far from a lost art-- but it has really become more than just a prelude to violence, they way it was in the good old days. And there's a big difference in how this one or that might reckon the relative worth of time: time-to-quality or time-to-result or time-to-the-motherfucking-k etc.
The amount of logical twine it would take to bind certain wisdoms to reality would bust my budget. I'm not required to have an opinion about it, I can just understand it and leave. Thinking about thinking like what other people are thinking about is paralytic philosophy beyond my budget. The fact that it is statistically effective is another question entirely and not one of interest to me. I mean: I eat however the numbers go-- I don't mean that statistics aren't interesting.
Numbers are proper things to read today. Seeing some words printed in public used to feel like an idea or temperament had finally been pressurized and heated to a superlative hardness. Suitable for contemplation, climbing. But I guess people were dumber then, too--they couldn't help but express their opinions, expressions were presumed to be part of an ongoing conversation.
One of the reasons the work still isn't staged often is because it makes enormous demands on the lead character, requiring her to sing almost non-stop for two hours, and throughout a very broad range. Maybe the time is right for a re-examination of this work. In a changing world, we want more singers to have control over your own life. It was a crude beginning psalm meant to be adapted, I hope-- not adopted. Or maybe they really missed the boat. They had a window and they had to say something.
--
Closets.
From time to time, it is required of me to interact in a little game set out by persons with the capability to withhold from me the very elements that allow me to survive. I am allocated, it seems, just enough survival to be encouraged that I cannot know, cannot precisely name the sources from which I derive what appear to be randomly earned stipends and then as part of the deal, from time to time, I have to run down a certain sequence of events that I assume I'm to believe are authentic and not in the least causally related to my precarious survival but which I sometimes admit to myself might be more crucially linked to it than the supposed work I supposedly do.
Once I got a phone message telling me to be at a radio station on a Sunday afternoon in the summer. I drove out there and was met by this guy, guy #1. The parking lot was empty, the offices were empty, and the studios were empty. As guy #1 escorted me into the place and down its halls I looked around and saw that it was outfitted with excellent equipment, that it had a tower out back and a dish. We go into a studio and I sit in front of the mic and we do a long interview. Guy #1 never switches on a tape or gives any kind of signal to any kind of engineer; no signal is ever given to us. He does not even put on headphones. We do the interview and I leave.
Two years later, when I'm playing at this bar I see guy #1 with girl #1. I have accidentally met his gaze so I wave but guy #1 doesn't acknowledge me.
One year later, I'm sent up to a residence on Central Park in New York to film some scenes on the edge of a stone parapet. I'm going to dress in a black body suit and crawl around at the top of a tall building. The photographer answers the door, it is girl #1. We go up and do the bits. We shoot for about 4 hours and not once does she stop to change film.
That same year I'm in St.Louis and after the show guy #1 talks to me while I'm packing up my equipment. He says he flew in from Sault Saint Marie (?!) just for the show. I thank him for taking the time and I say: "I hope you enjoyed the show." I should add that he didn't come up to me like he knew me and I didn't act friendly with him-- so I wasn't sure if this was guy #1 in the moment but I knew it had been guy #1 when I thought about it after he left.
What does this say about the world and the intentions of its most arrogant, persistent strivers? One of the reasons the work still isn't staged often is because it makes enormous demands on the lead character: Us, Me, Them. Overall, blue volcanos became that way from ash plumes creating vaccums to suck in tropical birds. All the colors mixed to form a light azure. Believe it.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
That's What She Said.
Tahoe was great, despite the bus ride up where some guy vomitted in a fast food bag and caused the whole vehicle to reek horribly. Trevor and I listened to Dane Cook the whole way to Sacramento to rid ourselves of the stench and boredom. Alex killed people. Many stories to tell, not enough time.
Click here for some pictures:
http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=1054434&blogID=74630743&MyToken=9b682b34-8078-44f8-b54f-c64ccfb7cd64
Click here for some pictures:
http://blog.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=blog.view&friendID=1054434&blogID=74630743&MyToken=9b682b34-8078-44f8-b54f-c64ccfb7cd64
Friday, December 23, 2005
Mother's Oral Crowning (Whilst I Sleep).
[Music: Vashti Bunyan]
Gum-Tab-Beat.
[earlier]
catatoniccatharsis : I thought you died.
catatoniccatharsis : In a severe hairstyling accident.
tequilaoverdose : combs are a bitch man
catatoniccatharsis : Nah son, the curling iron did you in.
catatoniccatharsis : This I heard from many.
tequilaoverdose : when did i grow hair?
catatoniccatharsis : November.
tequilaoverdose : did it look good?
catatoniccatharsis : Shit, I didn't see it. I heard it all through the vine of the fruits that make wine.
tequilaoverdose : hmmm
tequilaoverdose : i heart rumors
catatoniccatharsis : 62 initiated it.
catatoniccatharsis : From beyond the ashes.
tequilaoverdose : she died?
tequilaoverdose : what the hell have i been missing?
tequilaoverdose : is uni finally a man yet?
tequilaoverdose : or woman?
catatoniccatharsis : I haven't seen trace of 62 in months. Uni is still blatantly asexual, and still foils all my schemes with eerie smiles.
tequilaoverdose : you would have gotten away with it too if it wasnt for that meddling queer
catatoniccatharsis : My mask is off.
tequilaoverdose : 62 is full time babbler now
catatoniccatharsis: She's also your mom by cybering.
tequilaoverdose : fuck you
catatoniccatharsis : I haven't seen boardlight in quite some time.
catatoniccatharsis : Been busy.
tequilaoverdose : ive noticed
catatoniccatharsis : I have three jobs.
tequilaoverdose : O__O
catatoniccatharsis : I know.
catatoniccatharsis : BREAKING NEWS:
catatoniccatharsis : BECCA'S COOCH SMELLS LIKE BLACK MR.SKETCH MARKERS.
catatoniccatharsis : That's been all I've been able to gather.
tequilaoverdose has signed out. (12/23/2005 12:14 AM)
--
More Stylus stuff:
http://www.stylusmagazine.com/feature.php?ID=2060 (Syriana review.)
http://www.stylusmagazine.com/feature.php?ID=2045 (Top 50 Albums of 2005, you can locate my personal Top 20 at the bottom; writers are in alphabetical order.)
--
Ex-Mass in two days. Relatives coming today. Leaving house for hours at a time. They smell.
--
Masta Plan Countdown = four days.
Tahoe will purge all of us.
Gum-Tab-Beat.
[earlier]
catatoniccatharsis : I thought you died.
catatoniccatharsis : In a severe hairstyling accident.
tequilaoverdose : combs are a bitch man
catatoniccatharsis : Nah son, the curling iron did you in.
catatoniccatharsis : This I heard from many.
tequilaoverdose : when did i grow hair?
catatoniccatharsis : November.
tequilaoverdose : did it look good?
catatoniccatharsis : Shit, I didn't see it. I heard it all through the vine of the fruits that make wine.
tequilaoverdose : hmmm
tequilaoverdose : i heart rumors
catatoniccatharsis : 62 initiated it.
catatoniccatharsis : From beyond the ashes.
tequilaoverdose : she died?
tequilaoverdose : what the hell have i been missing?
tequilaoverdose : is uni finally a man yet?
tequilaoverdose : or woman?
catatoniccatharsis : I haven't seen trace of 62 in months. Uni is still blatantly asexual, and still foils all my schemes with eerie smiles.
tequilaoverdose : you would have gotten away with it too if it wasnt for that meddling queer
catatoniccatharsis : My mask is off.
tequilaoverdose : 62 is full time babbler now
catatoniccatharsis: She's also your mom by cybering.
tequilaoverdose : fuck you
catatoniccatharsis : I haven't seen boardlight in quite some time.
catatoniccatharsis : Been busy.
tequilaoverdose : ive noticed
catatoniccatharsis : I have three jobs.
tequilaoverdose : O__O
catatoniccatharsis : I know.
catatoniccatharsis : BREAKING NEWS:
catatoniccatharsis : BECCA'S COOCH SMELLS LIKE BLACK MR.SKETCH MARKERS.
catatoniccatharsis : That's been all I've been able to gather.
tequilaoverdose has signed out. (12/23/2005 12:14 AM)
--
More Stylus stuff:
http://www.stylusmagazine.com/feature.php?ID=2060 (Syriana review.)
http://www.stylusmagazine.com/feature.php?ID=2045 (Top 50 Albums of 2005, you can locate my personal Top 20 at the bottom; writers are in alphabetical order.)
--
Ex-Mass in two days. Relatives coming today. Leaving house for hours at a time. They smell.
--
Masta Plan Countdown = four days.
Tahoe will purge all of us.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Delays.
Stylus pieces I've done recently that I never posted links to:
http://www.stylusmagazine.com/feature.php?ID=2030 (The Squid and the Whale, Be Cool)
http://www.stylusmagazine.com/feature.php?ID=2048 (My cut of Gorillaz).
http://www.stylusmagazine.com/feature.php?ID=2030 (The Squid and the Whale, Be Cool)
http://www.stylusmagazine.com/feature.php?ID=2048 (My cut of Gorillaz).
Monday, December 19, 2005
Stolen 10th Peroxide.
[Music: Spy Island]
The Mercurial Cannon (Walking Papers).
Witheld and eventualized outside his or her own consequences replicates visions to distinctive, autogenous locales forthright and tyrannized so cousins would not swim lightly. Disfavored incorrectly so right was sleazeballed into mediocrity, a high rise licked the unkempt frost of holy bodies in an act of devil-may-sing attitude. Once to long and too often; the motto of Grandmother's utmost golden armchairs and hassocks which, improperly ensnared to asses obese or bony, evolved argumentative, definitive, and near-narrative discourse (spitting idly into electric fences subtracted wind). And if blank, vacuous reaping is the ruinition of angels then fucking lorD jesuS would fight for nails or steam or supplements for marY to confide in Death and vehement zealousy. Tautology befits the life's paraphrase in an amount so bereft of weight that a subtle swan spun air so various and faint that skyscraper hoodlums bowed and accepted grounded decadence and inferiority.
Quazars believed they spoke of magic and hope for the coming of drugs and needles the radius of goD's ****, but thusly initiated cosmical waning and darkness on all sides of Earth. Nor could this be ceased as much as it could be discussed by firelight in chambers which skeletons kissed and laughed about skinless whistling. It would not be scrutinized inside eyes of black vacancy; a whole so sturdy it dizzied barrels out of their own confinement and riddles told when time was of anti-stalefunk victory (a preponderance prized by the mind's dusty blinds). Boars soon thwarted our thin hero, designed to tear hymens so pontificated by faithful readers and exonerated by those who proclaim: "On-target Nerdengeneracy in book format cannot, will not become erect in these flooded years of the preponderant sex GDP". Remonstration an option lost, suicides spread like new butter on warm toast so that glasses shattered and $350 mathmatical devices' batteries ripped and inserted into better assisting mechanism (rocks, trees, iron ore and novels). Only in backtracking are you viewing a path. Check one, and two after. Never three, because trying is worse than not and winning.
Lessons:
The Mercurial Cannon (Walking Papers).
Witheld and eventualized outside his or her own consequences replicates visions to distinctive, autogenous locales forthright and tyrannized so cousins would not swim lightly. Disfavored incorrectly so right was sleazeballed into mediocrity, a high rise licked the unkempt frost of holy bodies in an act of devil-may-sing attitude. Once to long and too often; the motto of Grandmother's utmost golden armchairs and hassocks which, improperly ensnared to asses obese or bony, evolved argumentative, definitive, and near-narrative discourse (spitting idly into electric fences subtracted wind). And if blank, vacuous reaping is the ruinition of angels then fucking lorD jesuS would fight for nails or steam or supplements for marY to confide in Death and vehement zealousy. Tautology befits the life's paraphrase in an amount so bereft of weight that a subtle swan spun air so various and faint that skyscraper hoodlums bowed and accepted grounded decadence and inferiority.
Quazars believed they spoke of magic and hope for the coming of drugs and needles the radius of goD's ****, but thusly initiated cosmical waning and darkness on all sides of Earth. Nor could this be ceased as much as it could be discussed by firelight in chambers which skeletons kissed and laughed about skinless whistling. It would not be scrutinized inside eyes of black vacancy; a whole so sturdy it dizzied barrels out of their own confinement and riddles told when time was of anti-stalefunk victory (a preponderance prized by the mind's dusty blinds). Boars soon thwarted our thin hero, designed to tear hymens so pontificated by faithful readers and exonerated by those who proclaim: "On-target Nerdengeneracy in book format cannot, will not become erect in these flooded years of the preponderant sex GDP". Remonstration an option lost, suicides spread like new butter on warm toast so that glasses shattered and $350 mathmatical devices' batteries ripped and inserted into better assisting mechanism (rocks, trees, iron ore and novels). Only in backtracking are you viewing a path. Check one, and two after. Never three, because trying is worse than not and winning.
Lessons:
- A giantess falls for you if you trip her with econospeak, or far too many logs or cunning traps.
- Indians are the only insular, territorial aliens who will kill us if we offer peace.
- Retaliation sees this, and a train too slow to catch this agile specimen is a vehicle powered by repugnant, unoriginal assholes and operated by Cheryl Steeb.
- Never satisfied with results on the count of 1) Specifying a file not cataloged in our database, 2) Missspelling of the search term, 3) Using a too complex of a search term.
- Yes, I did that on purpose.
- All three are this and everything here.
- The shirts are finally ready and will be sold for $16 each, except $18 for the XXLs.
- Fat hate keeps the populace fascinated.
- I am your owner.
DO NOT GIVE ME ONE WORD ANSWERS.
What if one word is the answer?
Julia will never learn.
--
Pat is out, Evan is in. For the time being.
New tracks up soon. Photographs, too.
--
Gauge is a masterpiece. A+. I will upload it soon.
Friday, December 09, 2005
Like Hell.
[Music: Comet Gain]
Scouting about for the Gauge shoot the other evening, took these:
Backyard, left side from rear door. Heh...rear.
I usually don't see that many planes...
Not against a sunset like that, anyways.
--
Sunday's ATHF is the most brilliant thing I've seen in months. Flawless, in every way imaginable. If you haven't see it, well, it would have re-aired tonight. I really don't care if you dislike Aqua Teen. You simply must see this.
"Dirt Foot".
Know it, cherish it, and quote it until it dies.
--
Walk the Line review:
http://www.stylusmagazine.com/feature.php?ID=2023
Scouting about for the Gauge shoot the other evening, took these:
Backyard, left side from rear door. Heh...rear.
I usually don't see that many planes...
Not against a sunset like that, anyways.
--
Sunday's ATHF is the most brilliant thing I've seen in months. Flawless, in every way imaginable. If you haven't see it, well, it would have re-aired tonight. I really don't care if you dislike Aqua Teen. You simply must see this.
"Dirt Foot".
Know it, cherish it, and quote it until it dies.
--
Walk the Line review:
http://www.stylusmagazine.com/feature.php?ID=2023
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Tigers Eating My Underarms.
[Music: Helium]
Justin had a small jar of icy-hot solution and started rubbing it on Trevor's stomach during Mass Com. It was like those elder days when taxes were fogotten and no one was persecuted for being dead while alive. Later, Trevor slathered a whole mess of Tiger Balm on my arms, and I cannot even feel my them anymore. Not ghost limbs, because I can see them and I can move them. It its like my arms are long bottles of refrigerated water. My sister hit them with her belt, I only felt a miniscule amount of strain on the muscles. Waves simmering to low tide. Tomorrow is Fourth Thursday. I am going somewhere I despise going: The House of Pruett. People over eighty with oxygen tanks and walkers; smelling like cinnamon in a very old dress shoe. The documentary will have the heartbeat of a sickly orca.
--
[co-intuitive online study part 6b]
***ACID TEST ADMIN #73A***
***NOV 22 9:29 PM***
//START SEXES CHAT id5
DistopianNutFire01: LOL YA AND YOU'LL BE THE ELEPHANT CAK =)
vixenofass: 2 MANY TIMES U'VE GONE DOWN ON YOUR DAD HAHAHA OH CHARLES
DistopianNutFire01: SHUTUP BITCH I AM NOT A CAKE CLOWN ^__^ YET
vixenofass: BUT YOU TOLD MEE "NOWS FINGER THAT BALLOON NIGGA" HAHAA11
DistopanNutFire01: FUK NAW I AINT INTO DAT GHEY SHITZ =)++
vixenofass: OMFGBYE
***NOV 22 9:34 PM***
//END SEXES CHAT id5
--
Someone told me to post this here.
Pass Count Definition #12: Mind Walls Standing and Tumbling
(from a larger essay entitled "Emptiness if Full of Everything", dated 11/17/05)
What the simple yet partially complex essence of my story and the cherished (although sometimes maligned) experiences that the youths of past and present allow to inhibit themselves have in common is the singular emotion of an acutely unaware state of solitude. As I found my body amongst windy grasslands, hardened mountainsides, and forest labyrinths that had not yet graced my vision, the feeling of tranquility gushed through my brain to align thoughts and physical motions into one swift but slow movement into the surreal. Solitude is the position of mind, body, and soul that sifts out all negative remembrances of the past, unsatisfying bearings of the present and uneasy feelings of the future and fastens them together like loose strings to what is known as the current mentality. As I existed within a solitary status, I forgot to realize I was in fact by myself (which, to be honest, felt more mental at times). While in a state of solitude, I put aside certain hardships, dislikes, and confusions of my everyday life in order to birth new aspects of myself and humanity as a whole that were previously unknown. I could not have achieved this new sense of placement in the universe without truly feeling solitude in the way that I did.
Solitude and loneliness, while both pertain to someone being by themselves in one mode or another, harbor completely variable facets of the human condition. Solitude is something that an individual instinct brings about by some breed of conscious choice (my opting to depart from my cousin’s home and travel the woods). Whereas loneliness, with its inexplicable sadness and longing to certain extractions of mankind, is an affection that people tend to bring upon themselves through the reactions to how they are treated by others within distinct scenarios that unfold around them at an untimely pace. It could be said that the majority of humankind strives to project themselves into solitude are increasingly more aplenty than ones who are optionally cast into alienation. Reliance on the urge to be self-quarantined and suddenly reclusive are possible causes for this dichotomy of the further privacy of young people, much like myself, who long for a change in their life circumstances. To be lonely is to pine for constant attention and even love, while solitude holds a supplementary state of putting human connection aside to examine oneself with a love that was never there in the first place. My time in the rustic woods of South Carolina showed this love to me by completely stripping away any sense of loneliness that inhibited me for the duration of the journey, and replaced it with solitude of the mind, body, and spirit.
When solitude is felt in this particular way as I felt it, the emotions it tended to flesh out always felt new and fully refreshing. On the occasions when I unfortunately passed out do to a lack of energy circulating through my system, the world around me became my own for the first and only time in my seventeen-year long life. It was a place where time did not exist; a location that totally exteriorized the loss of footing on the slanted precipice of reality. This is solitude at its fullest and most comprehensible. Mental clocks not only stopped ticking, but they broke and the gears become flowers that swayed in a silent, comforting breeze. Continuance evaporated under the sun and became stationary in my wandering mind. Colossal thought ran amuck. This new personality I developed from a disposition of solitude is undoubtedly strong-minded and comfortable with what it is in that exact moment of existence. The tedious congregations of ignorant and popularity-clutching people that once flowed around me like the crashing currents of a monstrous tide soon began to simmer down to a stillness that is now unbeatable in terms of quieted satisfaction after my solitude adventure came to a close.
Any genuinely enlightened demonstrator of the solitary standpoint, such as myself, stands out in the crowd because of their momentous trust in self-certainty. When an anti-solitude being (You can tell, they have groupies and will not shut up) crosses paths with me, the lesser person in this situation is obviously and most commonly the one who puts the most thought into why the other person is the way they are. Confrontations such as this arrive without warning, and continue to work towards extenuating doubt and non-acquainted rationalities that all people who like to be by themselves are lonely. The more sociable citizen is likely to fall under this first category, because someone who does not count on the reliance of others to function properly and even happily is sort of a foreign sight to see. It is no wonder why there are so many teenagers today that prefer to accomplish projects and various jobs alone and on their own terms: the end result is far more refined due to extended focus and concentration on the fundamental goals of adolescence. As if teachers and bosses are not aware of what events have taken place during the course of the project, they belt out some absurd speech like “You should not let them place all the responsibility on you! Take some initiative and make them work just as hard.” This resembles a lit match on gasoline to the highest degree. I know this because I have been in this circumstance time and time again, and not always by choice. The becalming of this previously established self-straining can only temporarily benefit the solitude-practicing individual. He must come by his relaxation on his own terms as I did. Of course, this act does not have to involve such extremes as I experienced.
Solitude is, with no elbowroom left for stretching around to scratch yourself, the seeing of boreal space through a drapery of thermal sky. It is a cloud that can be ridden on; it circles the sun as you languish on its fine achromatic threads of stratosphere. It is falling, but falling in order to stand more erect after you hit the ground. It is punching a tree without cause, only to have a reclusive pinecone splinter into your head promptly after. The benumbed vision that follows grants you assimilation with the waking life you just slipped out of. It is a wingless seraph taking an airplane back to the kingdom above, first class. Solitude is unremittingly delighting in being grounded; the phone calls of cohorts that you cannot reply to only warrant progressively sounder napping. Solitude is casting the concept of a waiting room into oblivion; directly to the doctor without prehistoric issues of Sports Illustrated to blunt your mind up, pre-shot experience. It is not caring if a blackout takes place in your city. Solitude is watching your house burn down with a lambent smile. It is life and death in the very same breath.
Flight from human contact to the still sound delimitation emitted by solitude is that unprecedented stage of maturity necessary to progress through longevity. Cutting off ties with people is, in essence, something everyone must do at certain life-intermissions. It allocates to each individual the matter-of-fact answer to the “Who am I?” question that is asked chiefly by middle-phase adolescents. Even if the question is only partially acknowledged, the trials grounded within the solitary occurrence are enough to vitally alter the human soul past the long-idle blooming period.
To be honest, I never did think that I would have my very own flower buds, constantly opening into sky-colored petals right on the spine of my sprit. Which, for future reference, is in the shape of an African painted dog gliding on asteroid belts. I spent way too much time in the woods. Space is a nice change.
--
She stepped from behind the dark bole of the largest tree; and although I could scarely see anything, I saw her and knew she was tall as few women are tall and slender as no human woman ever is, and too lovely for me to understand, ever, exactly how lovely she was.
My arms closed around her, and we kissed. Her lips were sweeter than honey and warm with life, and there was nothing wrong that mattered because there was nothing wrong we could not mend; and there was love as long as we lived, and love did matter, love would always matter.
--The Wizard
I pray to the altar of Gene Wolfe. You should too.
--
Goblet of Fire review: http://www.stylusmagazine.com/feature.php?ID=1986
Justin had a small jar of icy-hot solution and started rubbing it on Trevor's stomach during Mass Com. It was like those elder days when taxes were fogotten and no one was persecuted for being dead while alive. Later, Trevor slathered a whole mess of Tiger Balm on my arms, and I cannot even feel my them anymore. Not ghost limbs, because I can see them and I can move them. It its like my arms are long bottles of refrigerated water. My sister hit them with her belt, I only felt a miniscule amount of strain on the muscles. Waves simmering to low tide. Tomorrow is Fourth Thursday. I am going somewhere I despise going: The House of Pruett. People over eighty with oxygen tanks and walkers; smelling like cinnamon in a very old dress shoe. The documentary will have the heartbeat of a sickly orca.
--
[co-intuitive online study part 6b]
***ACID TEST ADMIN #73A***
***NOV 22 9:29 PM***
//START SEXES CHAT id5
DistopianNutFire01: LOL YA AND YOU'LL BE THE ELEPHANT CAK =)
vixenofass: 2 MANY TIMES U'VE GONE DOWN ON YOUR DAD HAHAHA OH CHARLES
DistopianNutFire01: SHUTUP BITCH I AM NOT A CAKE CLOWN ^__^ YET
vixenofass: BUT YOU TOLD MEE "NOWS FINGER THAT BALLOON NIGGA" HAHAA11
DistopanNutFire01: FUK NAW I AINT INTO DAT GHEY SHITZ =)++
vixenofass: OMFGBYE
***NOV 22 9:34 PM***
//END SEXES CHAT id5
--
Someone told me to post this here.
Pass Count Definition #12: Mind Walls Standing and Tumbling
(from a larger essay entitled "Emptiness if Full of Everything", dated 11/17/05)
What the simple yet partially complex essence of my story and the cherished (although sometimes maligned) experiences that the youths of past and present allow to inhibit themselves have in common is the singular emotion of an acutely unaware state of solitude. As I found my body amongst windy grasslands, hardened mountainsides, and forest labyrinths that had not yet graced my vision, the feeling of tranquility gushed through my brain to align thoughts and physical motions into one swift but slow movement into the surreal. Solitude is the position of mind, body, and soul that sifts out all negative remembrances of the past, unsatisfying bearings of the present and uneasy feelings of the future and fastens them together like loose strings to what is known as the current mentality. As I existed within a solitary status, I forgot to realize I was in fact by myself (which, to be honest, felt more mental at times). While in a state of solitude, I put aside certain hardships, dislikes, and confusions of my everyday life in order to birth new aspects of myself and humanity as a whole that were previously unknown. I could not have achieved this new sense of placement in the universe without truly feeling solitude in the way that I did.
Solitude and loneliness, while both pertain to someone being by themselves in one mode or another, harbor completely variable facets of the human condition. Solitude is something that an individual instinct brings about by some breed of conscious choice (my opting to depart from my cousin’s home and travel the woods). Whereas loneliness, with its inexplicable sadness and longing to certain extractions of mankind, is an affection that people tend to bring upon themselves through the reactions to how they are treated by others within distinct scenarios that unfold around them at an untimely pace. It could be said that the majority of humankind strives to project themselves into solitude are increasingly more aplenty than ones who are optionally cast into alienation. Reliance on the urge to be self-quarantined and suddenly reclusive are possible causes for this dichotomy of the further privacy of young people, much like myself, who long for a change in their life circumstances. To be lonely is to pine for constant attention and even love, while solitude holds a supplementary state of putting human connection aside to examine oneself with a love that was never there in the first place. My time in the rustic woods of South Carolina showed this love to me by completely stripping away any sense of loneliness that inhibited me for the duration of the journey, and replaced it with solitude of the mind, body, and spirit.
When solitude is felt in this particular way as I felt it, the emotions it tended to flesh out always felt new and fully refreshing. On the occasions when I unfortunately passed out do to a lack of energy circulating through my system, the world around me became my own for the first and only time in my seventeen-year long life. It was a place where time did not exist; a location that totally exteriorized the loss of footing on the slanted precipice of reality. This is solitude at its fullest and most comprehensible. Mental clocks not only stopped ticking, but they broke and the gears become flowers that swayed in a silent, comforting breeze. Continuance evaporated under the sun and became stationary in my wandering mind. Colossal thought ran amuck. This new personality I developed from a disposition of solitude is undoubtedly strong-minded and comfortable with what it is in that exact moment of existence. The tedious congregations of ignorant and popularity-clutching people that once flowed around me like the crashing currents of a monstrous tide soon began to simmer down to a stillness that is now unbeatable in terms of quieted satisfaction after my solitude adventure came to a close.
Any genuinely enlightened demonstrator of the solitary standpoint, such as myself, stands out in the crowd because of their momentous trust in self-certainty. When an anti-solitude being (You can tell, they have groupies and will not shut up) crosses paths with me, the lesser person in this situation is obviously and most commonly the one who puts the most thought into why the other person is the way they are. Confrontations such as this arrive without warning, and continue to work towards extenuating doubt and non-acquainted rationalities that all people who like to be by themselves are lonely. The more sociable citizen is likely to fall under this first category, because someone who does not count on the reliance of others to function properly and even happily is sort of a foreign sight to see. It is no wonder why there are so many teenagers today that prefer to accomplish projects and various jobs alone and on their own terms: the end result is far more refined due to extended focus and concentration on the fundamental goals of adolescence. As if teachers and bosses are not aware of what events have taken place during the course of the project, they belt out some absurd speech like “You should not let them place all the responsibility on you! Take some initiative and make them work just as hard.” This resembles a lit match on gasoline to the highest degree. I know this because I have been in this circumstance time and time again, and not always by choice. The becalming of this previously established self-straining can only temporarily benefit the solitude-practicing individual. He must come by his relaxation on his own terms as I did. Of course, this act does not have to involve such extremes as I experienced.
Solitude is, with no elbowroom left for stretching around to scratch yourself, the seeing of boreal space through a drapery of thermal sky. It is a cloud that can be ridden on; it circles the sun as you languish on its fine achromatic threads of stratosphere. It is falling, but falling in order to stand more erect after you hit the ground. It is punching a tree without cause, only to have a reclusive pinecone splinter into your head promptly after. The benumbed vision that follows grants you assimilation with the waking life you just slipped out of. It is a wingless seraph taking an airplane back to the kingdom above, first class. Solitude is unremittingly delighting in being grounded; the phone calls of cohorts that you cannot reply to only warrant progressively sounder napping. Solitude is casting the concept of a waiting room into oblivion; directly to the doctor without prehistoric issues of Sports Illustrated to blunt your mind up, pre-shot experience. It is not caring if a blackout takes place in your city. Solitude is watching your house burn down with a lambent smile. It is life and death in the very same breath.
Flight from human contact to the still sound delimitation emitted by solitude is that unprecedented stage of maturity necessary to progress through longevity. Cutting off ties with people is, in essence, something everyone must do at certain life-intermissions. It allocates to each individual the matter-of-fact answer to the “Who am I?” question that is asked chiefly by middle-phase adolescents. Even if the question is only partially acknowledged, the trials grounded within the solitary occurrence are enough to vitally alter the human soul past the long-idle blooming period.
To be honest, I never did think that I would have my very own flower buds, constantly opening into sky-colored petals right on the spine of my sprit. Which, for future reference, is in the shape of an African painted dog gliding on asteroid belts. I spent way too much time in the woods. Space is a nice change.
--
She stepped from behind the dark bole of the largest tree; and although I could scarely see anything, I saw her and knew she was tall as few women are tall and slender as no human woman ever is, and too lovely for me to understand, ever, exactly how lovely she was.
My arms closed around her, and we kissed. Her lips were sweeter than honey and warm with life, and there was nothing wrong that mattered because there was nothing wrong we could not mend; and there was love as long as we lived, and love did matter, love would always matter.
--The Wizard
I pray to the altar of Gene Wolfe. You should too.
--
Goblet of Fire review: http://www.stylusmagazine.com/feature.php?ID=1986
Monday, November 21, 2005
False Lords, I Do Have the Range.
[Music: The Rum Diary]
Six miles I ran today.
Living is killing me, but it feels so good.
--
Knee Deep is Shallow.
Much of the momentum created was beyond his control and understanding. He reads: Cardinals Place Pro Bowler on IR. They put a Pro Bowler on the injured reserve list as a publicity stunt?
Or he notes that: True Images is a sexually fueled Teen Bible for Girls. How far will these money-hungry publishers drag the Word of God into the gutter?
Contrasts: although he was intense and aggressively curious, many found him patient, kind, and encouraging; a professional rocker who played the accordion.
The guy had absorbed a lot of signals and chosen the best. For a time he got a job reporting the news at Channel 12-- with absolutely no journalistic background.
People were seeking a fresh start, they believed it. Accountability, responsibility, the things to be kept foremost. Not only what is legal, but what is right; what the public deserves.
After zooming from anonymity into the hearts of her nation in just 10 months, the teenage tennis sensation was caught up in a cultural protest for breaking the mold by being a Muslim athlete.
She was given extra security last month after an Islamic cleric denounced her for wearing short skirts and sleeveless shirts on court.
She arrived at her home to the shouts of peasants warning her to turn back. Curiosity got the better of her and she unlocked the secret behind the disappearance of her predecessors.
Thus she pleads for people to organize themselves as a "superpower", and represent a class of techno-utopiates with the trigger words: It is not our destiny to live in a world of destruction, tedium, and tragedy!
But soon the floor reeked with blood, and many former wives hung lifeless upon the walls. Horrified, she locked the door, but blood would not wash off the key. The sisters waited for their brothers to arrive: "Sister Anne, do you see anyone coming?"
The fear of the happening prolongeth days: but the years of the wicked shall be shortened.
So there's Dial-the-Truth believing ministry presenting the truth and exposing error, exposes of corrupt Bible versions, false teachings, Christian music, rock music, youth issues, prophecy and current events.
Will the future will bring more of these open source campaigns? Will the creative energy, constructive labor, and financial resources come from supporters instead of from a top-down hierarchy-- will we adopt this organizational shift from the top-down communications strategy that television, by its very nature, imposed for the past two generations?
--
Late link to the Last Days review: http://www.stylusmagazine.com/feature.php?ID=1978
Goblet of Fire may be up before the holiday, depends.
Six miles I ran today.
Living is killing me, but it feels so good.
--
Knee Deep is Shallow.
Much of the momentum created was beyond his control and understanding. He reads: Cardinals Place Pro Bowler on IR. They put a Pro Bowler on the injured reserve list as a publicity stunt?
Or he notes that: True Images is a sexually fueled Teen Bible for Girls. How far will these money-hungry publishers drag the Word of God into the gutter?
Contrasts: although he was intense and aggressively curious, many found him patient, kind, and encouraging; a professional rocker who played the accordion.
The guy had absorbed a lot of signals and chosen the best. For a time he got a job reporting the news at Channel 12-- with absolutely no journalistic background.
People were seeking a fresh start, they believed it. Accountability, responsibility, the things to be kept foremost. Not only what is legal, but what is right; what the public deserves.
After zooming from anonymity into the hearts of her nation in just 10 months, the teenage tennis sensation was caught up in a cultural protest for breaking the mold by being a Muslim athlete.
She was given extra security last month after an Islamic cleric denounced her for wearing short skirts and sleeveless shirts on court.
She arrived at her home to the shouts of peasants warning her to turn back. Curiosity got the better of her and she unlocked the secret behind the disappearance of her predecessors.
Thus she pleads for people to organize themselves as a "superpower", and represent a class of techno-utopiates with the trigger words: It is not our destiny to live in a world of destruction, tedium, and tragedy!
But soon the floor reeked with blood, and many former wives hung lifeless upon the walls. Horrified, she locked the door, but blood would not wash off the key. The sisters waited for their brothers to arrive: "Sister Anne, do you see anyone coming?"
The fear of the happening prolongeth days: but the years of the wicked shall be shortened.
So there's Dial-the-Truth believing ministry presenting the truth and exposing error, exposes of corrupt Bible versions, false teachings, Christian music, rock music, youth issues, prophecy and current events.
Will the future will bring more of these open source campaigns? Will the creative energy, constructive labor, and financial resources come from supporters instead of from a top-down hierarchy-- will we adopt this organizational shift from the top-down communications strategy that television, by its very nature, imposed for the past two generations?
--
Late link to the Last Days review: http://www.stylusmagazine.com/feature.php?ID=1978
Goblet of Fire may be up before the holiday, depends.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
Monday, November 14, 2005
To Strike Down a Herald.
[Music: Pink Floyd]
Animals is their best album that no one thinks is their best album.
--
Contrast Exercise: Moon Behind Blinds.
Someone asked me to demonstrate contrast structures. Since I have been busy with essays, projects and a few Stylus pieces, I have not had too much time to do free writing. So here's contrast in three layers, for those of you who care:
All these pictures were taken within seconds of eachother, momentary frame-ups, with a Sony cybershot 3.2 megapixels digital camera:
(1) Dark foreground, stale/stagnant plain-color background/middle-area blur:
Have the focus easy out the background almost to a blur, then set the flash to very low. It helps if you are closer to the first layer of the image. A relatively simple concept, though with some older camera models the density of the first layer can be difficult to capture correctly.
(2) Defined frontwards, color excretion to actuality/second field highlighted with tint/background warped:
If you prefer using nightshot, the colors will swtich to what they would be without any flash. If you use a high vibrancy flash module the farthest object will reverse color-coat to a near-blur or half range visibility. The first object, of course, will be the most focused due to the switcher on regulatory lenses when nightshot is initiated.
(3) Lightest background/third object over-circulated, almost offsetting last colors/screen nearly not in focus/highest point of foreground object in focus, moving down from bottom blured to a tint:
A difficult contrast to summarize simply because it varries from day to night. For day shots use a leak-tool to allow third-set objects to almost crystallize in brightness, while the other objects play opposite to the original backdrop (medium to middle-high focus). Night shots require a bleak last object, with the third object set to an almost shiny, grainless tone. Other objects, follow opposite of daytime shots minus the range of sharper colors.
I did not tamper with these photos in an editing program. They appear just as they were when I took them.
--
I will post links to my Stylus articles as they are placed on the homepage. My The Weather Man review will be up on Wednesday.
Animals is their best album that no one thinks is their best album.
--
Contrast Exercise: Moon Behind Blinds.
Someone asked me to demonstrate contrast structures. Since I have been busy with essays, projects and a few Stylus pieces, I have not had too much time to do free writing. So here's contrast in three layers, for those of you who care:
All these pictures were taken within seconds of eachother, momentary frame-ups, with a Sony cybershot 3.2 megapixels digital camera:
(1) Dark foreground, stale/stagnant plain-color background/middle-area blur:
Have the focus easy out the background almost to a blur, then set the flash to very low. It helps if you are closer to the first layer of the image. A relatively simple concept, though with some older camera models the density of the first layer can be difficult to capture correctly.
(2) Defined frontwards, color excretion to actuality/second field highlighted with tint/background warped:
If you prefer using nightshot, the colors will swtich to what they would be without any flash. If you use a high vibrancy flash module the farthest object will reverse color-coat to a near-blur or half range visibility. The first object, of course, will be the most focused due to the switcher on regulatory lenses when nightshot is initiated.
(3) Lightest background/third object over-circulated, almost offsetting last colors/screen nearly not in focus/highest point of foreground object in focus, moving down from bottom blured to a tint:
A difficult contrast to summarize simply because it varries from day to night. For day shots use a leak-tool to allow third-set objects to almost crystallize in brightness, while the other objects play opposite to the original backdrop (medium to middle-high focus). Night shots require a bleak last object, with the third object set to an almost shiny, grainless tone. Other objects, follow opposite of daytime shots minus the range of sharper colors.
I did not tamper with these photos in an editing program. They appear just as they were when I took them.
--
I will post links to my Stylus articles as they are placed on the homepage. My The Weather Man review will be up on Wednesday.
Saturday, November 05, 2005
Hot Water From a Height.
[Music: Jan Jelinek]
Invariably Subjacent.
They through-and-through kumtux floorboards of copacetic and over-enunciated girls seaside and sandhazard (up and out) of fireseason druthers. Ever since the shaded stars swiveled their afts and slid down waxed cells while swimming moons ransacked the telecast, the ability to balance a sword on the bowstring finger has long-since been terminated. But hold steady, urchin. Gale-nuzzling soldier SAD executions allowed to bypass Indian summers would be lighting up ambrosial candles within half a darkyear's longeivty. Questions---Death---Life---Answers---> and what from this point? Swish twice and coach will plunder old lockers to find jockstrap dreams; sequestrated dry runs at the signature echo of your sandpeople parents. Climbed over the counter just to kiss you. Not the pharmacy, either. You know the one. The one the wet socks dehumidify upon; the one where I nailed you down and dug up your hanging garden so my hatchery could strike oil. A small tent with blue and white lights. Music coming from inside. People at a sideshow, couldn't figure out why they would want to wait in line. Fortunes read and lyrics spoken adds up to more than fame and hospitalization. Annexation junctures. Goodnight to the gates of ruination and poor audio quality.
Shipshape daybreak, would not They say it? Just like that? For all to eavesdrop and screach over phones about twenty-seven moments ensuing.
Wearisome to gawk up dominantly when so much is on your mind, weighing your head down.
[Suruaseht a desu I skniht yma]
--
Stylus wants me to contribute film reviews for them. I'm glad. Worked hard on that application. I applied once before, for the music reviews, but that's when my writing peaked on nothingness and the inability to restrain. I have substanciously augmented since then. Though I would rather review music than film, I am still excited that I have been selected. This will be a great opportunity.
Proof.
One of the application requirements was to write a review of a film not already appearing in the Sylus archives. I chose Last Days (I was actually surprised that they had not reviewd it). Here it is, for those of you who are dwelling on, "How did he get to write for Stylus?":
Movie Review
Last Days
2005
Director: Gus Van Sant
Cast: Michael Pitt, Lukas Haas, Asia Argento, Scott Green, Nicole Vicius, Ricky Jay, Ryan Fellner, Kim Gordon, Scott Patrick Green, Harmony Korine
A-
Endless canopies and moss-covered stonewalls loom around the exterior lot of a backwoods castle, unknown to the majority of the living world. The harmonies of songbirds and rustling of foliage against a cold breeze overtake the landscape with ease. Deeper, against the personal backdrop of aimlessness and confusion, the grumblings of a man can be heard. Never has the incessant and seemingly meaningless routine of a long-haired, rail-thin drugged out rock star’s solitary confinement been so imperative to fully apprehend and sympathize with the mental and bodily state of malfunction through subconscious self-abuse. All of this is able to be perceived solely from the familiar yet distinctive local of Gus Van Sant’s final entry within his damn-near career-defining Death trilogy, Last Days.
The bleak and multitudinous desert of Gerry and the consistently glowing and elongated corridors of Elephant both align consummately with the tilted green-gray haven existing within Last Days. Each and every one of the environments present in these pictures directly connects with the situation at hand so seamlessly that they act as that single mirror you unquestionably glance in before heading out the door for a night of who knows what. Through my eyes, Elephant accomplished this feat with surreptitious skill, while Gerry, the first entry into the trilogy, fleshed out the work behind the camera so all watching the film with their eager fingers scratching chins could see precisely how much work went into each individual tracking shot (the longest being about a quarter of a mile, which is documented on the DVD) right there in the framework. What Van Sant achieves in Last Days, based “loosely” on (yet, as the final slate details, dedicated to) the downfall of the rangy Nirvana front man, so expertly is manifest three separate film-ecosystems revolving around Cobain look-alike Blake (Michael Pitt, of Bully and The Dreamers fame), whereas Gerry and Elephant hold single domains each. The three terrains (both cerebral and tangible) consist of Blake’s mentality around people, Blake’s mentality amongst nature, and the almost one-sided views of Blake’s bandmates and fellow borders within the house. While Van Sant juggles these varying scenarios as best as any ambitious filmmaker is able to, sometimes scenes just do not feel right at that precise moment in the reel. This does not necessarily subtract from the overall tone and mood of the film because, in actuality, Blake’s entire mumbling mantra does not feel right for the center character of a film. When shots repeat themselves unwittingly, and previous displays go through time lapses (also present in Elephant, but not in Gerry) the viewer gets an intense feeling of reliance on exactly what Blake will do next, and they consequently hope for the best (or the worst, depending on your reaction to the film).
Kim Gordon’s cameo appearance (as herself) is the uncommon interval in which Blake is given a choice, an ultimatum, to escape from the incarceration he has been placed in. She offers him an “easy” way out and a return to the certainly more lavish lifestyle prior to his initiation into an isolation period. But what Mrs. Thurston Moore is unaware of, and even Blake himself does not come to the realization of until that crucial attempt to grasp music one last time at a local bar, is the fact that this man came here to waste away. This is his final resting place, without any ounce of ambiguity. Phone calls come in by the hour requesting Blake’s consent for an 86-day tour, but he says not one word. He would rather don a woman’s dress and carry a rifle around like some territorial transvestite hunter of the grasslands. It is in Blake’s indecision to partake in life that the predominant significance of Van Sant’s three films comes full circle. Death does not have to be justified, and it does not have to be the result of some sort of dysfunction within a certain specimen or within society as a whole. It comes as it does and no other way. Quick and violent as in Elephant, needful and almost sexual as in Gerry, and slowly falling as in Last Days.
There is one scene in the film that incontestably ties the beginning to the end, and the film to the remainder of the outside world. Two young boys from the Church of Later Day Saints arrive at Blake’s home and begin reciting the origins of their faith, much of which involves Jesus Christ (who else?) to Blake’s fellow border Scott (Scott Green). As this conversation is taking place, shots crosscut with Blake standing in a room making half-hearted moves from one side to another. The fact that the idea of Jesus arises at this exact spot, and the decipherment that the opening of the film saw Blake bathing (baptizing?) himself in a nearby stream, recalls past thoughts of Cobain as some kind of messiah to rock and roll.
But, the difference is, when Jesus died he rose up to heaven in a glorious fashion (do not let Scorsese fool you). When Blake dies, his spirit nakedly climbs the window panes of an adjacent garden shed door and disappears out of the top of the frame. Two different kinds of saviors for two different breeds of minds. Here is to hoping that Van Sant continues to make films that feature that exact variety of dichotomy.
--
Shut.
They made us do it; to each other we ever encountered.
After the first day, senses divided and went home. Nuts and talc were all that mattered to the heads of boards in the days that followed up.
Noticing where memory was recovered nightly, gave me an idea of what needed to be explained in pictograms.
Hope is poured for sealment of the deals.
Help is measured byit's overbite's reach.
Clavicle ocularity meets with periodic inclusion whenever we want it badly enough.
Well, do we go that far?
http://www.miightyflashlight.com/
Invariably Subjacent.
They through-and-through kumtux floorboards of copacetic and over-enunciated girls seaside and sandhazard (up and out) of fireseason druthers. Ever since the shaded stars swiveled their afts and slid down waxed cells while swimming moons ransacked the telecast, the ability to balance a sword on the bowstring finger has long-since been terminated. But hold steady, urchin. Gale-nuzzling soldier SAD executions allowed to bypass Indian summers would be lighting up ambrosial candles within half a darkyear's longeivty. Questions---Death---Life---Answers---> and what from this point? Swish twice and coach will plunder old lockers to find jockstrap dreams; sequestrated dry runs at the signature echo of your sandpeople parents. Climbed over the counter just to kiss you. Not the pharmacy, either. You know the one. The one the wet socks dehumidify upon; the one where I nailed you down and dug up your hanging garden so my hatchery could strike oil. A small tent with blue and white lights. Music coming from inside. People at a sideshow, couldn't figure out why they would want to wait in line. Fortunes read and lyrics spoken adds up to more than fame and hospitalization. Annexation junctures. Goodnight to the gates of ruination and poor audio quality.
Shipshape daybreak, would not They say it? Just like that? For all to eavesdrop and screach over phones about twenty-seven moments ensuing.
Wearisome to gawk up dominantly when so much is on your mind, weighing your head down.
[Suruaseht a desu I skniht yma]
--
Stylus wants me to contribute film reviews for them. I'm glad. Worked hard on that application. I applied once before, for the music reviews, but that's when my writing peaked on nothingness and the inability to restrain. I have substanciously augmented since then. Though I would rather review music than film, I am still excited that I have been selected. This will be a great opportunity.
Proof.
One of the application requirements was to write a review of a film not already appearing in the Sylus archives. I chose Last Days (I was actually surprised that they had not reviewd it). Here it is, for those of you who are dwelling on, "How did he get to write for Stylus?":
Movie Review
Last Days
2005
Director: Gus Van Sant
Cast: Michael Pitt, Lukas Haas, Asia Argento, Scott Green, Nicole Vicius, Ricky Jay, Ryan Fellner, Kim Gordon, Scott Patrick Green, Harmony Korine
A-
Endless canopies and moss-covered stonewalls loom around the exterior lot of a backwoods castle, unknown to the majority of the living world. The harmonies of songbirds and rustling of foliage against a cold breeze overtake the landscape with ease. Deeper, against the personal backdrop of aimlessness and confusion, the grumblings of a man can be heard. Never has the incessant and seemingly meaningless routine of a long-haired, rail-thin drugged out rock star’s solitary confinement been so imperative to fully apprehend and sympathize with the mental and bodily state of malfunction through subconscious self-abuse. All of this is able to be perceived solely from the familiar yet distinctive local of Gus Van Sant’s final entry within his damn-near career-defining Death trilogy, Last Days.
The bleak and multitudinous desert of Gerry and the consistently glowing and elongated corridors of Elephant both align consummately with the tilted green-gray haven existing within Last Days. Each and every one of the environments present in these pictures directly connects with the situation at hand so seamlessly that they act as that single mirror you unquestionably glance in before heading out the door for a night of who knows what. Through my eyes, Elephant accomplished this feat with surreptitious skill, while Gerry, the first entry into the trilogy, fleshed out the work behind the camera so all watching the film with their eager fingers scratching chins could see precisely how much work went into each individual tracking shot (the longest being about a quarter of a mile, which is documented on the DVD) right there in the framework. What Van Sant achieves in Last Days, based “loosely” on (yet, as the final slate details, dedicated to) the downfall of the rangy Nirvana front man, so expertly is manifest three separate film-ecosystems revolving around Cobain look-alike Blake (Michael Pitt, of Bully and The Dreamers fame), whereas Gerry and Elephant hold single domains each. The three terrains (both cerebral and tangible) consist of Blake’s mentality around people, Blake’s mentality amongst nature, and the almost one-sided views of Blake’s bandmates and fellow borders within the house. While Van Sant juggles these varying scenarios as best as any ambitious filmmaker is able to, sometimes scenes just do not feel right at that precise moment in the reel. This does not necessarily subtract from the overall tone and mood of the film because, in actuality, Blake’s entire mumbling mantra does not feel right for the center character of a film. When shots repeat themselves unwittingly, and previous displays go through time lapses (also present in Elephant, but not in Gerry) the viewer gets an intense feeling of reliance on exactly what Blake will do next, and they consequently hope for the best (or the worst, depending on your reaction to the film).
Kim Gordon’s cameo appearance (as herself) is the uncommon interval in which Blake is given a choice, an ultimatum, to escape from the incarceration he has been placed in. She offers him an “easy” way out and a return to the certainly more lavish lifestyle prior to his initiation into an isolation period. But what Mrs. Thurston Moore is unaware of, and even Blake himself does not come to the realization of until that crucial attempt to grasp music one last time at a local bar, is the fact that this man came here to waste away. This is his final resting place, without any ounce of ambiguity. Phone calls come in by the hour requesting Blake’s consent for an 86-day tour, but he says not one word. He would rather don a woman’s dress and carry a rifle around like some territorial transvestite hunter of the grasslands. It is in Blake’s indecision to partake in life that the predominant significance of Van Sant’s three films comes full circle. Death does not have to be justified, and it does not have to be the result of some sort of dysfunction within a certain specimen or within society as a whole. It comes as it does and no other way. Quick and violent as in Elephant, needful and almost sexual as in Gerry, and slowly falling as in Last Days.
There is one scene in the film that incontestably ties the beginning to the end, and the film to the remainder of the outside world. Two young boys from the Church of Later Day Saints arrive at Blake’s home and begin reciting the origins of their faith, much of which involves Jesus Christ (who else?) to Blake’s fellow border Scott (Scott Green). As this conversation is taking place, shots crosscut with Blake standing in a room making half-hearted moves from one side to another. The fact that the idea of Jesus arises at this exact spot, and the decipherment that the opening of the film saw Blake bathing (baptizing?) himself in a nearby stream, recalls past thoughts of Cobain as some kind of messiah to rock and roll.
But, the difference is, when Jesus died he rose up to heaven in a glorious fashion (do not let Scorsese fool you). When Blake dies, his spirit nakedly climbs the window panes of an adjacent garden shed door and disappears out of the top of the frame. Two different kinds of saviors for two different breeds of minds. Here is to hoping that Van Sant continues to make films that feature that exact variety of dichotomy.
--
Shut.
They made us do it; to each other we ever encountered.
After the first day, senses divided and went home. Nuts and talc were all that mattered to the heads of boards in the days that followed up.
Noticing where memory was recovered nightly, gave me an idea of what needed to be explained in pictograms.
Hope is poured for sealment of the deals.
Help is measured byit's overbite's reach.
Clavicle ocularity meets with periodic inclusion whenever we want it badly enough.
Well, do we go that far?
http://www.miightyflashlight.com/
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Guns Blazing.
[Music: Lightning Bolt]
He Swung the Bat.
(A Flat Tire in the A.M.)
It crumbled under the weight of the vehicle like ogres dying on shalerock mountaintops, lined up across ill-advised crests of unbreathable air. Distant stars pressed on inside some unknown level of reality; attempting to please their celestial queen with flowers and jewels from a bright green spacial sphere. With a lengthy crimson cape around a stiff neck, oversized boots with spikes as far out as the talons of a sickening white griffin from the final grotto, I daunted six moss-covered sheaths. For an age old America that once hibernated peacefully like lazy autumn bears.
Testimony spread its wings and escaped a cage forged from bronze and new lies. Myths mused upon the mighty mimics of murmuring minotaurs and manipulated the milestone of mobile misidentification. Ever waiting, and sighting a coloquial allegory with a shortsword of similar oblivion (hidden under my soaking wet hauberk, its weight was not recognzied) to that of oldtown vandals, began as it once was atop a mid-sea perch not far in appearence from the spot in which I battled an anxious bird. It was after a second encounter with the student body on an entirely opposing position that I sneezed and they covertly let out what needed to be let out the most. In moderation. A curve. Followed by a sinker and a line drive, merely half an inch or so above the bottom of the strike zone. Impaled softly but with precision to disect an ant, a royal swing unlike any other resurrected the heart which woke the idle brain to capsize the sheerwalled satellite which flung the bomb so gracefully.
Strikes beyond a shadow in the sunlight of a doubt. Currently being repaired for the end of the world. Or when time returns to the norm.
Next the plate disenchantingly welcomes none other than my shivering soul.
The crowd becomes mute.
You cannot expect anyone to root for home if no one is there to begin with.
I don't care if they ever come back.
--
A new Titanic Special Edition DVD was just released yesterday.
Eric Henderson from Slant added a review:
"As Kate Winslet's own Freud-referencing character snips, Titanic is epic cinema's grandest erection, and when James Cameron's near-scale model set of the towering hulk of steel that was, at the time, the largest ship in the world severs down the middle, it then becomes the most vulgar representation of castration to ever cause millions of heartwarmed teenage girls to choke sobs into their fists. It's a ready-made sarcophagus for everything that's vulgar in mainstream cinema. Titanic both embodies and validates the excess that is its own subject. And it's arguably the most artlessly touching disaster movie of all. No, really. Time and a number of equally irony-free blockbusters in the interim (including Spielberg's War of the Worlds and the entire Lord of the Rings weep-cycle) have dulled its impact somewhat, but Titanic was Cameron's strike against technophiliac hyper-masculinity in adventure features and a splashing, pre-millennial introduction to a premonitory brand of earnest, new age spectacle."
Slant delivers the comedy.
--
No October Naps.
Attention oh ye emasculated correspondents. You think this is easy, forming fence posts and frames backwards from detail? You think someone like me needs to solicit any suggestive or cooperative onslaught in order to lose myself or to be closer? You're so far off the mark, your brain is wrung out worse than a deck mop after a pissing contest.
Repeat this phrase to yourself: "assuming facts not in evidence."
Examples:
If there is magic on this planet, it is in water.
--Rudyard Kipling
Look for complexity rather than complication.
--Paul Dukas
Lord, I know it is hard to resist! As you feel the draw remember there's no satisfaction to be had, about such a progression it would be impossible to comment.
He Swung the Bat.
(A Flat Tire in the A.M.)
It crumbled under the weight of the vehicle like ogres dying on shalerock mountaintops, lined up across ill-advised crests of unbreathable air. Distant stars pressed on inside some unknown level of reality; attempting to please their celestial queen with flowers and jewels from a bright green spacial sphere. With a lengthy crimson cape around a stiff neck, oversized boots with spikes as far out as the talons of a sickening white griffin from the final grotto, I daunted six moss-covered sheaths. For an age old America that once hibernated peacefully like lazy autumn bears.
Testimony spread its wings and escaped a cage forged from bronze and new lies. Myths mused upon the mighty mimics of murmuring minotaurs and manipulated the milestone of mobile misidentification. Ever waiting, and sighting a coloquial allegory with a shortsword of similar oblivion (hidden under my soaking wet hauberk, its weight was not recognzied) to that of oldtown vandals, began as it once was atop a mid-sea perch not far in appearence from the spot in which I battled an anxious bird. It was after a second encounter with the student body on an entirely opposing position that I sneezed and they covertly let out what needed to be let out the most. In moderation. A curve. Followed by a sinker and a line drive, merely half an inch or so above the bottom of the strike zone. Impaled softly but with precision to disect an ant, a royal swing unlike any other resurrected the heart which woke the idle brain to capsize the sheerwalled satellite which flung the bomb so gracefully.
Strikes beyond a shadow in the sunlight of a doubt. Currently being repaired for the end of the world. Or when time returns to the norm.
Next the plate disenchantingly welcomes none other than my shivering soul.
The crowd becomes mute.
You cannot expect anyone to root for home if no one is there to begin with.
I don't care if they ever come back.
--
A new Titanic Special Edition DVD was just released yesterday.
Eric Henderson from Slant added a review:
"As Kate Winslet's own Freud-referencing character snips, Titanic is epic cinema's grandest erection, and when James Cameron's near-scale model set of the towering hulk of steel that was, at the time, the largest ship in the world severs down the middle, it then becomes the most vulgar representation of castration to ever cause millions of heartwarmed teenage girls to choke sobs into their fists. It's a ready-made sarcophagus for everything that's vulgar in mainstream cinema. Titanic both embodies and validates the excess that is its own subject. And it's arguably the most artlessly touching disaster movie of all. No, really. Time and a number of equally irony-free blockbusters in the interim (including Spielberg's War of the Worlds and the entire Lord of the Rings weep-cycle) have dulled its impact somewhat, but Titanic was Cameron's strike against technophiliac hyper-masculinity in adventure features and a splashing, pre-millennial introduction to a premonitory brand of earnest, new age spectacle."
Slant delivers the comedy.
--
No October Naps.
Attention oh ye emasculated correspondents. You think this is easy, forming fence posts and frames backwards from detail? You think someone like me needs to solicit any suggestive or cooperative onslaught in order to lose myself or to be closer? You're so far off the mark, your brain is wrung out worse than a deck mop after a pissing contest.
Repeat this phrase to yourself: "assuming facts not in evidence."
Examples:
If there is magic on this planet, it is in water.
--Rudyard Kipling
Look for complexity rather than complication.
--Paul Dukas
Lord, I know it is hard to resist! As you feel the draw remember there's no satisfaction to be had, about such a progression it would be impossible to comment.
Friday, October 21, 2005
Red Ribbons from Reprehensible Ravens.
[Music: Silver Jews]
Kindhearted Scare.
It is part of how I learned to love Joviality Press Kinsmen.
The ill-defined triumphalism and class-striving really turned me off when I was younger. After all these years, I still have my original copies and over these many hundred weeks I listened every couple dozen months or so to hear if I still didn't understand the depths I might have missed.
Something this way came, maybe because I have seen so much of this country now over that time. There's a flood of back story that I feel comes with JPK now, maybe what so many worked so hard to erase I had to learn again. Now I can comprehend the ease of JPK and do not disrespect some kind of invitation to emptiness as I did when JPK was originally around.
I stuck with it, I stayed up and I am much the better person for having done so. There was always a strain of racism in the hatred of disco which disco-revivals since have never acknowledged. I was ultimately more suspicious of that than of disco's automatonicism, materialism or orgasm through deathwish-- and lucky me! What great sound I would have missed and what a fool I was to hope that some element of JPK I had held in poor esteem would be wrung out upon the dance floors or tempered by maturity towards the betterment of all things inside some future sounds yet unheard.
Sure, it's good to "walk a mile" in the ruby slippers or static-free clogs of others before brandishing violent suspicion toward their vacuous striving but there are functions of music more direct and honest which, at the very least, might spare the need to communicate the pain of a tight shoe or broken heel.
Just playing kids.
--
People seem to appreciate the Spirit Week video I made.
Check it out, before angelfire cancels the link:
Spirit Candle.
--
In other news, I need a haircut.
Kindhearted Scare.
It is part of how I learned to love Joviality Press Kinsmen.
The ill-defined triumphalism and class-striving really turned me off when I was younger. After all these years, I still have my original copies and over these many hundred weeks I listened every couple dozen months or so to hear if I still didn't understand the depths I might have missed.
Something this way came, maybe because I have seen so much of this country now over that time. There's a flood of back story that I feel comes with JPK now, maybe what so many worked so hard to erase I had to learn again. Now I can comprehend the ease of JPK and do not disrespect some kind of invitation to emptiness as I did when JPK was originally around.
I stuck with it, I stayed up and I am much the better person for having done so. There was always a strain of racism in the hatred of disco which disco-revivals since have never acknowledged. I was ultimately more suspicious of that than of disco's automatonicism, materialism or orgasm through deathwish-- and lucky me! What great sound I would have missed and what a fool I was to hope that some element of JPK I had held in poor esteem would be wrung out upon the dance floors or tempered by maturity towards the betterment of all things inside some future sounds yet unheard.
Sure, it's good to "walk a mile" in the ruby slippers or static-free clogs of others before brandishing violent suspicion toward their vacuous striving but there are functions of music more direct and honest which, at the very least, might spare the need to communicate the pain of a tight shoe or broken heel.
Just playing kids.
--
People seem to appreciate the Spirit Week video I made.
Check it out, before angelfire cancels the link:
Spirit Candle.
--
In other news, I need a haircut.
--
I was going to post something I wrote in Adv. Comp. But the notebook is too far. Maybe later. It's not that good, anyways.
--
The weekend will go and I'll be back where I started before it happened.
Like it wasn't there at all.
Is it ever?
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Registered Archery Certificates.
[Music: Animal Collective]
Lone Trumpeter.
(Brass Petals)
The majority of rejections are untimely and wordless. A chorus featuring a strong recreation of honorable flotsam and jetsam that continue to rhyme with engine and orange. Dope beats playing Harry Potter at a children's birthday party. Extra cash exemplified twice to the ears of the lovesick creator. Just to the center of iron-clad armor, but tied indirectly to, the brothers and sisters who watched clocks as Death battering-rammed through cubicles and petshops. Processing light and dark with up and down can contain profound development if both of the three parties have pinatas and undergrown wine fruits being lobbed with little force through executive branches of the Hate Tree. Once a monument is constructed, hard hats of yellow and dust can be drenched in rivers of thoughts unwinding; like somewhere across forever ended here and now. The chandelier hook responded to the clang of sunny furnace silence during primary work hours. Lunch was spent playing elevator games with the janitorial carts. Insects on the desks, birds in high-esteem business classes as to keep dead allocations as it is and to implement soul funtioning on the prancers.
Drunk sounds. Beer hatchets and helms equipped for boring pleasure and not making love. Tale from a handmaid, like a care existed then strutted out through rooster-inhabited cradles and proclaimed the destiny of rings cutting fingers and robotic thrusts. One giant sex organ. Dressed in red. Transmitting pleasure as slow as smoke signals. Marching towards torn equality and other things signed up to be ripped. An apple was bruised by gravity. The air whispered a chuckle.
Yes, she died. But that's not the worst part. The worst part is that no one knew she was even alive in the first place.
Shame. Like SONAR heard by dogs instead of bats.
--
Charles Rocket is No Longer with Us.
You all know him as the wealthy villain in Dumb and Dumber.
He also uttered the first "fuck" on Network Television back in 1975 on SNL.
Slit his throat.
--
Ambient Artifacts in Search of Something to Immobilize.
What is that thing she wears around her neck? Can't say how many times she might have been here at this venue but she seems to know where to stand, positioned so that the black lights hit off that thing around her neck and shimmer. It was not to be escaped. You made your point, that and the cussing.
Point taken-- but when the bandleader demands that they "kiss the hand that feeds" could it not be a misspoking of the simplest kind? Running around these days, a full day as always-- who comes to your job and asks a lot of questions? If you work in technical support or at a library skip that part.
At the library I have been known to come along and knock the book out of their mouths. They really like the bound volumes of Mark Trail. Seventeen years of Mark Trail have been collected, starting with the good years when the fight scenes got too specific and wild.
Lone Trumpeter.
(Brass Petals)
The majority of rejections are untimely and wordless. A chorus featuring a strong recreation of honorable flotsam and jetsam that continue to rhyme with engine and orange. Dope beats playing Harry Potter at a children's birthday party. Extra cash exemplified twice to the ears of the lovesick creator. Just to the center of iron-clad armor, but tied indirectly to, the brothers and sisters who watched clocks as Death battering-rammed through cubicles and petshops. Processing light and dark with up and down can contain profound development if both of the three parties have pinatas and undergrown wine fruits being lobbed with little force through executive branches of the Hate Tree. Once a monument is constructed, hard hats of yellow and dust can be drenched in rivers of thoughts unwinding; like somewhere across forever ended here and now. The chandelier hook responded to the clang of sunny furnace silence during primary work hours. Lunch was spent playing elevator games with the janitorial carts. Insects on the desks, birds in high-esteem business classes as to keep dead allocations as it is and to implement soul funtioning on the prancers.
Drunk sounds. Beer hatchets and helms equipped for boring pleasure and not making love. Tale from a handmaid, like a care existed then strutted out through rooster-inhabited cradles and proclaimed the destiny of rings cutting fingers and robotic thrusts. One giant sex organ. Dressed in red. Transmitting pleasure as slow as smoke signals. Marching towards torn equality and other things signed up to be ripped. An apple was bruised by gravity. The air whispered a chuckle.
Yes, she died. But that's not the worst part. The worst part is that no one knew she was even alive in the first place.
Shame. Like SONAR heard by dogs instead of bats.
--
Charles Rocket is No Longer with Us.
You all know him as the wealthy villain in Dumb and Dumber.
He also uttered the first "fuck" on Network Television back in 1975 on SNL.
Slit his throat.
--
Ambient Artifacts in Search of Something to Immobilize.
What is that thing she wears around her neck? Can't say how many times she might have been here at this venue but she seems to know where to stand, positioned so that the black lights hit off that thing around her neck and shimmer. It was not to be escaped. You made your point, that and the cussing.
Point taken-- but when the bandleader demands that they "kiss the hand that feeds" could it not be a misspoking of the simplest kind? Running around these days, a full day as always-- who comes to your job and asks a lot of questions? If you work in technical support or at a library skip that part.
At the library I have been known to come along and knock the book out of their mouths. They really like the bound volumes of Mark Trail. Seventeen years of Mark Trail have been collected, starting with the good years when the fight scenes got too specific and wild.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Jocular Trash Heap Confessional.
[Music: Laura Veirs]
Better to Blossom Than to Die.
I saw it stripping bark from a large winded oak like it was the end of firewood profits through a broken down econostrike in some extroverted community like Franklin, Maine. A raisan, little over stragling-but-unkind middle child height, with a butcher knife the size and length of a compressed metropolitan demon blackblade, minus evil attributes (or so it appeared). I crept like aquadrome silence through cracked concrete, and, in turn, violated high rule of an isometrical trespass. Death could have swooped and stole a brain just then, but it did not. Random distructions were cut back due to slumps in consumer demands for suicide. About half-way through a mudslide tripzone, some tiny bright bird streamlined through the wood and disrupted the wrinkled fellow's punching and pulling. I made stealthy haste, evenly locationing commonground in the midst of a shallow battlefront. The maroon-shaded raisan suddenly disengaged like cruise missles, burrowing swiftly through layers of oppositionally closed-heated dirt and dead leaves. He opted to travel through foreign passings to my own unkown cartogrophy: the wilderportal and into a strikingly omnious bronze elevator. One that would fit perfectly next to a slot machine in a Gold Rush-themed casino. As the doors left an ajar state, my solitary steel arrow pierced the feather-carved doors. The elevator ascended, cracking trees like toothpicks as it headed for the cloudless red sky. Luck struck and my gaze twitched towards the half naked oak; the raisan's prodigious daggar sat shaking, impaled into the cold brown ground like a medieval sliver of justice.
Recalling my days within the tortured riptide, my binding chains exposed themselves and wove around the butcherknife's hilt like a python around an unsuspecting warthog. After fusing the newly chained blade to my carbonbow, a distant light brought fluidity through my frame and hoisted me up towards the ascending third placed elevator. Using the knife to brace the door open, I retracted the steel arrow and composed a melodic palm-slicing to the whistle of the breeze. The door exploded out into the distance, caught fire and crashed through a nearby glider parade. In the corner, shriveled up and gasping for air, was the mad, distopian, shit-red raisan. I certainly could not crucify it like this; a weakness I sustained far throughout the changing of the persecution seasons. It briskly stood erect, and began limping over towards me like an old man about to snatch weekly retirement pay. As it closed the gap, a large congregation of light blue seeds began to fall from the collected skyflowers atop the ascending craft. The seeds levitated around the raisan's skull, forming two sets of rings moving at an alarming pace. My mind was wandering, and drifting in and out of confusion. A technique like this I had not witnessed in all my days of gothic creature execution. Far too late for divine introspection. Seeds began bulleting into my eyes, ears, and mouth as so I could not breath. "Cry," spoke the raisan in a tone that would dislodge tears from an Asian corpse. I held it as long as possible, but the liquid emotion escaped like ghosts from a collapsing dimension. I felt the raisan's weight on my shoulders, it was shaking my head violently and attempting to cram more seeds into my eyes. Rotating, thrusting, pounding hard as ever against the metal walls of the elevator, I thought I had lost hope. But then, my steel arrow caught an updraft of air from the outside and jolted vertically through the dull noise struck deep inside the rising cube.
It split the raisan in half.
The deformed beast released my head and slipped backwards through the hole in the sky's chamber and closed its eyes as it descended. Looking down as the wrinkled fiend fell, I noticed it was attempting speech. "Better to bloom than to die," it whispered through a crass red and green backdrop, "a flower for each of your cells."
As it crashed in a bloody mess of acorns and sand, I sighed a sign of refresh.
But then my head turned into a garden.
...Blind to the world, but not to its beauty...
--
Author's Note: The seeds do not represent semen. Thank you.
--
Or do they?
I should have titled this piece Hip Preist.
Oh well.
Better to Blossom Than to Die.
I saw it stripping bark from a large winded oak like it was the end of firewood profits through a broken down econostrike in some extroverted community like Franklin, Maine. A raisan, little over stragling-but-unkind middle child height, with a butcher knife the size and length of a compressed metropolitan demon blackblade, minus evil attributes (or so it appeared). I crept like aquadrome silence through cracked concrete, and, in turn, violated high rule of an isometrical trespass. Death could have swooped and stole a brain just then, but it did not. Random distructions were cut back due to slumps in consumer demands for suicide. About half-way through a mudslide tripzone, some tiny bright bird streamlined through the wood and disrupted the wrinkled fellow's punching and pulling. I made stealthy haste, evenly locationing commonground in the midst of a shallow battlefront. The maroon-shaded raisan suddenly disengaged like cruise missles, burrowing swiftly through layers of oppositionally closed-heated dirt and dead leaves. He opted to travel through foreign passings to my own unkown cartogrophy: the wilderportal and into a strikingly omnious bronze elevator. One that would fit perfectly next to a slot machine in a Gold Rush-themed casino. As the doors left an ajar state, my solitary steel arrow pierced the feather-carved doors. The elevator ascended, cracking trees like toothpicks as it headed for the cloudless red sky. Luck struck and my gaze twitched towards the half naked oak; the raisan's prodigious daggar sat shaking, impaled into the cold brown ground like a medieval sliver of justice.
Recalling my days within the tortured riptide, my binding chains exposed themselves and wove around the butcherknife's hilt like a python around an unsuspecting warthog. After fusing the newly chained blade to my carbonbow, a distant light brought fluidity through my frame and hoisted me up towards the ascending third placed elevator. Using the knife to brace the door open, I retracted the steel arrow and composed a melodic palm-slicing to the whistle of the breeze. The door exploded out into the distance, caught fire and crashed through a nearby glider parade. In the corner, shriveled up and gasping for air, was the mad, distopian, shit-red raisan. I certainly could not crucify it like this; a weakness I sustained far throughout the changing of the persecution seasons. It briskly stood erect, and began limping over towards me like an old man about to snatch weekly retirement pay. As it closed the gap, a large congregation of light blue seeds began to fall from the collected skyflowers atop the ascending craft. The seeds levitated around the raisan's skull, forming two sets of rings moving at an alarming pace. My mind was wandering, and drifting in and out of confusion. A technique like this I had not witnessed in all my days of gothic creature execution. Far too late for divine introspection. Seeds began bulleting into my eyes, ears, and mouth as so I could not breath. "Cry," spoke the raisan in a tone that would dislodge tears from an Asian corpse. I held it as long as possible, but the liquid emotion escaped like ghosts from a collapsing dimension. I felt the raisan's weight on my shoulders, it was shaking my head violently and attempting to cram more seeds into my eyes. Rotating, thrusting, pounding hard as ever against the metal walls of the elevator, I thought I had lost hope. But then, my steel arrow caught an updraft of air from the outside and jolted vertically through the dull noise struck deep inside the rising cube.
It split the raisan in half.
The deformed beast released my head and slipped backwards through the hole in the sky's chamber and closed its eyes as it descended. Looking down as the wrinkled fiend fell, I noticed it was attempting speech. "Better to bloom than to die," it whispered through a crass red and green backdrop, "a flower for each of your cells."
As it crashed in a bloody mess of acorns and sand, I sighed a sign of refresh.
But then my head turned into a garden.
...Blind to the world, but not to its beauty...
--
Author's Note: The seeds do not represent semen. Thank you.
--
Or do they?
I should have titled this piece Hip Preist.
Oh well.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
I am a Hero.
[Music: Constantines]
Offline Turbines.
(An Outcry in Style)
His monitor glazed green, stagnant red, and monotonous revelations sputtered out like final drops of water after a drought. Polygons lauged round and steady and ions began a burrowing to end all mind excavations from an unseen springrite. Windows, stained with death, cracked and shattered along an elongated stretch of tranquility surge. He fought off legions of shadows as poison flowers fell through loud silence, his rusted armor birthed a sublime friction as an angel unleashed his divine fury. Four wings, wrapped in dynamite and whiter than the brightest sail of a ship under Newsun's rays, turned dancing mist into a wall of diamonds as sunshine split the dark enemies into brief memories. His cottage caught on fire and his four wings called out to the Valfather, who sent dogs to bring him back into captivity. But Kleos was his true home, and it had been as long as he could remember; a World of Fair Report. Why had he appeared to this boy at this moment? A sunken pool of light, transmitting crouching knowledge on whims of bravery. Eventually, he came to valuable conclusion that he cannot die in vain. Letting flames cut his wings, orange heat swallowed him and his futile predicament like whales do squid.
Weapons never felt his grasp, and a challenge sought was a kill in a blink of hummingbird eyes. Clouds follow him, as he does represent higher standards for those with strong hearts. Propped up slightly against blue air, he glanced back at the ashes of past hope. Shadows gone, all he saw was the deep pool of light that connected worlds. A mysterious, and a known. Now it was due to work full time, and accomplish what past gods had upheld. His parade that floated away was now made up of stone and sand, it settled into the ground far too perfectly to not understand the action. Leading the way, in small doses. A moose, sacraficed in non antler season, drew conclusions for a boy well on his way to manhood, all while in the body of what he was to become.
With that, Michael walked over the water to the middle of the pool and sank out of sight.
--
This is Me and My Music.
--
Excerpt from my new One Act (still to be titled):
Bran: I packed down the barn supplies this morning.
Virinsa: Packed down?
Bran: In the pannel truck, next to Hren's boxes.
Virinsa: Packed down?
Bran: What do you want me to say?
Virinsa: You're making your own language.
Bran: Pack up that tone.
Virinsa: Leave this house.
Bran: You take the form of an angel in anger.
Virinsa: A nightmare.
Bran: You should know, I always have sex with that angel.
Virinsa: A dream?
Bran: It's only negative because when I wake up, she's gone. I look through a red city with white people, and all I see are black eyes staring.
Virinsa: Did I not just tell you to leave?
Bran: You did, but I chose to think of it as something I said to you. So you leave.
Virinsa: Let's just fuck.
Bran: Indubitably.
Offline Turbines.
(An Outcry in Style)
His monitor glazed green, stagnant red, and monotonous revelations sputtered out like final drops of water after a drought. Polygons lauged round and steady and ions began a burrowing to end all mind excavations from an unseen springrite. Windows, stained with death, cracked and shattered along an elongated stretch of tranquility surge. He fought off legions of shadows as poison flowers fell through loud silence, his rusted armor birthed a sublime friction as an angel unleashed his divine fury. Four wings, wrapped in dynamite and whiter than the brightest sail of a ship under Newsun's rays, turned dancing mist into a wall of diamonds as sunshine split the dark enemies into brief memories. His cottage caught on fire and his four wings called out to the Valfather, who sent dogs to bring him back into captivity. But Kleos was his true home, and it had been as long as he could remember; a World of Fair Report. Why had he appeared to this boy at this moment? A sunken pool of light, transmitting crouching knowledge on whims of bravery. Eventually, he came to valuable conclusion that he cannot die in vain. Letting flames cut his wings, orange heat swallowed him and his futile predicament like whales do squid.
Weapons never felt his grasp, and a challenge sought was a kill in a blink of hummingbird eyes. Clouds follow him, as he does represent higher standards for those with strong hearts. Propped up slightly against blue air, he glanced back at the ashes of past hope. Shadows gone, all he saw was the deep pool of light that connected worlds. A mysterious, and a known. Now it was due to work full time, and accomplish what past gods had upheld. His parade that floated away was now made up of stone and sand, it settled into the ground far too perfectly to not understand the action. Leading the way, in small doses. A moose, sacraficed in non antler season, drew conclusions for a boy well on his way to manhood, all while in the body of what he was to become.
With that, Michael walked over the water to the middle of the pool and sank out of sight.
--
This is Me and My Music.
--
Excerpt from my new One Act (still to be titled):
Bran: I packed down the barn supplies this morning.
Virinsa: Packed down?
Bran: In the pannel truck, next to Hren's boxes.
Virinsa: Packed down?
Bran: What do you want me to say?
Virinsa: You're making your own language.
Bran: Pack up that tone.
Virinsa: Leave this house.
Bran: You take the form of an angel in anger.
Virinsa: A nightmare.
Bran: You should know, I always have sex with that angel.
Virinsa: A dream?
Bran: It's only negative because when I wake up, she's gone. I look through a red city with white people, and all I see are black eyes staring.
Virinsa: Did I not just tell you to leave?
Bran: You did, but I chose to think of it as something I said to you. So you leave.
Virinsa: Let's just fuck.
Bran: Indubitably.
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