Degrees, too many Degrees

seven degrees of separation
seven degrees colder than I would be comfortable
seven degrees warmer than I would be dead
with seventh degree burns in my head

six degrees long, six degrees wide
five degrees off the coast of the island
four degrees, funny, I thought it was two
three degrees between me and you
and one degree left over

seven times the weight of this man
rests on his watch on top of his heart
one times two times six episodes
of something he's already seen
and already deleted

three hundred and sixty degrees
five fourty, one eighty
and ten feet beneath
everywhere the land around me
in sinking and taking my feet

nine degrees out in the snow
five degrees warmer, Lee Dungarees
tears up the buttocks and grass stained knees
I'm not sure I know the math

fifty five, five hundred plus
a million degrees, 10 million degrees
I love you and I am not sure why
I love you and I'll always love you
to zero degrees

a lot of lost friends at my dinner table

a lot of lost friends find their way to the dinner table
at first no one's brave enough to break the silence
but after a while I do what my mother taught me
and offer them something to eat

after the appetizer we're all a small talking
which is just fine for the delayed acquaintances
the main course comes out and the main course is gone
and their mouths are now empty and their stomachs are full

I say we all remember the past
and what we all did and what we did not
but in lue of the feelings i once held so strong
let's just just move on
let's forget and forgive and move on

a lot of lost friends all around my great dinner table
large lonely eyes that I've missed for so long
behind some closed door is a U-haul of memories
that I must let be bygone

pass the desert and pass the coffee
and pass the wine and we're talking and staying up late
for all my friends are to grown up now
to stay for the night

and one by one they all leave to drive home
and the best ones there stay the longest
I know that I'll probably never see them again
again I know I won't

The Country Star (in prose)

The country star. A tall hat and a long cigar. All leather boots, all steel guitar. He resonates in hallways far and near. Blue tears and glasses of beer. Bad guys have fear. He's have cowboy half coyote. Giant stirrups and a brown, suede coat. History and so many hers. Never stays in one place too long. Always has a song. Always hears a yodel. A defining silhouette. Tall legs and taller tales. All true. A faithful steed. He'd take you for a ride but he rides too fast and he doesn't like company. Works for no man. Works for every damsel in distress. One town at a time. No present and no past. But everyday a new predicament. 5 fingered hands and one old six shooter. Blue bandanna. No need for words. Tiny eyes full of power. ... [the list goes on]

the smoke isn't mine

all the cigarettes in the ashtray
aren’t mine no not mine
i emptied it into the trash can
the last time I came outside
the smell of my clothing
isn’t mine no not mine
I tried to do my laundry
but the mat was full of smokers
who insisted upon dragging me to their party
nine black cars rode down the highway in a (perfect) line
up to a black-lit club where all the girls where doing drugs
and smoking cigarettes like chewing gum
the color of my fingertips
isn’t natural no no
I stood outside the bathroom
and was mistaken for an ashtray
the sound of my cough
is temporarily not my fault
I tried to hide out on the balcony
but all the smoke rose up
I complained but they insisted that it really made the party
the black cars left me there and I had to stay the night
unfortunately for me the only bed was the bathroom
so I spent the night tossing around in cigarette ash and urine
that’s why I tell that these small burns
are all accidental
some people missed when they tried
to the flick their butts into the toilet bowl
at least they didn’t miss
when they were trying to take a piss
and at least you can believe me when
I tell you in all honesty that
all the cigarettes in the ashtray
aren’t mine no not mine
no not mine, no not mine,
no not mine

"Don't forget to dot your A's"

"No one dots the a for me anymore."
"What?"
"No one dots the a for me anymore."
"What are you talking about?"
"When I was little, someone used to dot my a's for me but no one does it anymore?"
"Who did?"
"Mrs. C did. She used to dot my a so it wouldn't have a round top."
"Did it help?"
"Yeah, it would come out as pointy as roof top."
"Well what's the problem?"
"No one does it anymore."
"Why don't you do it?"
"I forget where the dot goes."
"It goes here."
"Thank you."

Missing person

hey missing person hiding behind me
the thin air, the thin air, the thin air, the thin air
seems to be thick in here tonight
how he goes missing in the shadow of light
oh missing person I want to help you find yourself
but go ahead and help me out
can't play a game around without
the missing person in the moving car

The Collegian (dream)

A guy with large, messy, curly, ashy-blond afro and peculiar face - all together he looks a bit like the guy from Mask, except not such a messed up face - narrates his memory of his college years.
Video quality like that of a home movie camera and a fond and sentimental voiceover give the piece striking similarity to and episode of The Wonder Years.

Freshman year, first semester:
It was wild.
The funny looking guy runs around the quad playing Frisbee, telling animated anecdotes, talking loudly.

Second semester:
I wanted something to eat.
I looked for something to eat.
I bought something to eat.
I ate the food I bought.

Junior year:
The funny looking guy sitting at a desk pilled high with papers and books and studying seriously.

Then college was over,
Funny looking guy graduated, hair popping out his cap and gown.

but I had two more years.
The funny looking guy walking back up the quad.

He stands at the top of the steps talking to someone. In the background you can see the frozen lake (Michigan) that was seen when he was first a freshman, but now there are huge trucks on the ice because six years into the future they can put more than just boats on the ice.

Evicted

We were evicted this morning. Within the hour everything was on the lawn. I scrounged through mounds of disorganized clutter while the sheriff and the repo-men stood staring blankly, silently. It was a uniquely terrible feeling. I was preparing to start moving out in just a few weeks, but instead we moved into the new place today. Our new landlord cut us a deal so we only had to move a few miles. We moved into 188 Mayson amidst chaos, and we moved out amidst chaos. Hopefully the new place will be better.

Peggy Moral - I Got The Blues (1933)

"Hey Pops!

...a one and a two and a..."

These are the infamous opening words to the 1933 chart topping single of the once deceased Peggy Moral. She went on to include such memorable lines as:

"Mama told me..."

"...don't you cry."

"The bluebirds..."

"That's right Pops!"

And the famous closing line:

"Goodnight ya'll."

Though she wrote none of her own material, enjoyed only moderate success during her career, and most all of her recordings have been lost over the years, Peggy Moral's posthumous influence over the world of music is reserved a prominent space in this dignified record, my Blog.

"It's the kind of joke people who read Wikipedia articles tell."

The Herdsmans' Duet

The Herdsman of the North Mountains have an interesting way of calling their sheep: they sing in duet. A slow, droning melody fills the North country every night at dusk. These nomadic people travel only in specific groups: two unmarried men tend the herd on the roam. And always two. The songs have a specific pattern too:

The two men start in a low, bellowing chorus, dancing around intervals of a minor key. By the time this overture is complete, the flock has gathered at their feet. The singers take a short break to count the sheep and assemble them in the appropriate procession, keeping the song together with short snaps of their tongues and whistles, interspersed with variably timed rests. The group then embarks on their walk home. After the movement has gotten into full swing, the older of the singers begins his solo which is a spoken poem, generally about three stanzas uttered quite slowly, as his partner accompanies him by whistling, knocking brush, and producing other miscellaneous low key sound with his body and surroundings. At the close of the older member's solo, the chorus begins again with a burst. This time, however, the piece is heavier, more dramatic; the melodies becomes tangled, the rhythm more erratic, the tempo faster, the improvisations more prominent. This reprise is the "all-out" version of what we heard before. The song becomes powerfully angry with loneliness and the herdsman don't appear to hold anything back. The pair wail until their voices crack and they become weary. As the pace of their walk has increased greatly during this stage of the song, they and their flock are now near their final destination. They quickly slow down almost to a halt as they approach their home, accompanying this change in speed by creating similar low volume sounds as before. Now the younger singer receives his opportunity to sing a solo - a short, usually melodically driven, yet poem-like piece often remanesent of the previous solo. This is the younger males chance to show what he has learned from his older counterpart; what songwriting techniques he has picked up on their journeys. As the songs ends on a quietly sung farewell, the flock settle into bed for the night and the two herdsman end their song for the night.

When the older herdsman takes a wife, the younger herdsman takes his place as the key soloist, acquiring a new, younger counterpart. In this way the same song has been playing for generations here in North Country - the same lonely duet.

Memoir for Brook Run

Nearly everyday after high school during my junior year, my friends Brendon and Zenus, accompanied by their skateboards, would meet me at the far corner of the south parking lot and hop in my Mom's car, ignoring the Georgia State restriction that a driver who has possessed a license for under 6 months cannot transport non-family members under 21. After passing under the expressway where the gas stations would sell cigarettes to under aged kids, we would head over to the [name] Hospice parking lot and cross over a trampled fence on the woodland perimeter of the property into the "closed" area of Brook Run.

Reunited and it hurts so much

I am a certified.
A certified asshole.
How long have you been without water?
How long have you stood waving goodbye?
Who read you the ghost story
and made you cry?
Well I did.
I wore a red hoody.
And they called me Gimme.

We hardly know each other any more
Mister Whiteboard
but I'm willing to give you a new start.
No, no, it wasn't you.
It was never you.
I faltered.
I messed up.
I am an asshole.

How long have you been waiting?
Will you always you always remember my name?
I guess I know those answers
but It's good to see you say it.
I've so much to tell you.
But I'm constantly afraid that it won't be enough.
No one knows you like I do.
And I shouldn't be afraid.
Not because of you.
It was never because of you.

So what's new:

Now I am ceritified.
And I'm am into the real reel
I can't stand my roommates' whiteboard.
You are my only Whiteboard.
Hwta's new?
All I can't tell you.
But I'm trying to.
And I wish I can.
And I hope I could.
I missed you.
I still miss you.
Reunited and it hurts so much
but I don't think we're reunited
yet.

I love you Blog.




It's nice to be remembered.

The Wanderer II

The wanderer I

The wanderer says
this is our being famous
wewhill all remain shameless
and the drunk remain cool.
an anonymous prowlise prowliss

Prolix and discursive
the wandering person
spoke more of his speech
than of anything else.
Our wanderer's name is
Pollice verso
pronounced: po'-li-ke-ˈwer-sō
Pollack (as is Jackson, the painter) + Where (wear, or ware) & So (or sow)
His story continued into the next blog.

Why the Last 10 albums I bought have a female lead singers

I'll except a lot more heart breaking from a female singer then I will a male.

The Space Between Us

The Space Between Us - This is one of several songs written in a style similar to that of Syd Barrett shortly after he died. I have never really gone and explicated the meanings of these lines and I have changed my mind and decided not to here. It all seems pretty straightforward until the 13th line when some very specific (and regularly ridiculous) imagery is used. Specifically, the line: a woven kettle of rocks, just seems very... odd. Still, I think I could figure it out; could you?

the space between us
don't bother
the space between us
I've mind to trade it to another
quit practicing this
don't bother
the space between us
unaltered
just let me alone
just let us alone
just let it alone
or let it let the space between
figure I'm a chump for confidence
a no good gullibility
the better part of space is trust
and I'm afraid I've wrote myself into a hole
between us
a woven kettle of rocks
and trolley little go-kart cars
riding sixteen wheels apart
the tearing space between us
don't alter
Now I don't mean to bother you,
but please don't tell me this is true. [x 4]
Between us.

God she pisses me off. My plant, that is.

Har dee hard har har.

Alfonzo and the rake

I am weak,
but Alfonzo is weaker.
He is the kind of guy that leaves the teeth of a rake sticking up then steps on it
and it hits him in the face.
I am the kind of guy that leaves the teeth of a rake sticking up then forgets its there
and I have to go buy another rake.
If Alfonzo was still allowed on my property,
he would step on my rake;
he would hit himself in the face
and I would not have to buy another rake.

This is all based on real events.
Alfonzo and I used to rake together a lot,
professionally.
Alfonzo made a lot of money but lost most of it on hospital bills.
I made more money but spent it all on new rakes.
When it came time to throw my bachelor party
it really sucked and we decided to it another time.
That time never came.

When I got divorced Alfonzo was there.
He had to be there, weweremarried.
But the money hadn't stayed put
so neither could I.

If I were to kill Alfonzo, I would use a rake.
That way it would look like he did it himself.
But I won't kill Alfonzo
because I can't find him.
I think he's moved to Brazil somewhere.
The raking industry is good down there.

The rake: Lraccus scratus illmillionaire
Alfonzo: Alfonzo Rapunzel el Durmienteér
I: I, I, I, I am the wind and the rain the rain and the air

And we together...
and we together..
and we together.

I am weak wind,
but Alfonzo is weaker wind.
We live out the window and bounce off the window and.
He is the kind of guy that leaves the brush of a rake sticking up then steps on it
and it hits him in the face.
I am the kind of guy that leaves the brush of a rake sticking up then forgets its there
and moves onto other brush.
If Alfonzo was still allowed on my property,
he would find me and tell me he loved me.
He would hit himself in the face
and I would not have to try and draw a line in mid-air.

Alfonzo and I used the rake to gather the brush a lot,
sometimes professionally, sometimes not.
Alfonzo made me happy, but lost most of his skill in the hospital
and I made more happiness, but, spent, it was all short lived.
When it came time to throw my bachelor party we threw the brush in the air
and we really sucked but we couldn't get it down.
To the best of my knowledge, it never came down.

When I got divorced from Alfonzo
We had to go to Brazil.
It is very difficult to divorce gases and it takes special kind of scientist.
That was the rest of the money,
and that was the rest of me
in that state.

If I were to kill Alfonzo, would have to not be divorced.
That way it would look like he did it himself.
But I won't kill Alfonzo
because I can't find him.
I think he's moved to Brazil somewhere.
He's always moving.
He doesn't know how not to.
I knew one way not to
and that's why I had the divorce.

The rake left us,
and I couldn't afford another one.
Alfonzo, Alfonzo Rapunzel el Durmienteér,
left us.
to travel the currents, the waves and the seas.
And I, I, I, I, I am the wind and the rain the rain and the air
that never came down.

And we are not together,
anymore.

Sometimes I call him Aflonzo.

Gawn 1923

Gawn is a janitor and his car runs only in reverse. He has a bumper sticker that reads "Going, Going, Gone!" He has a shower/tub, but he doesn't have a washing machine or a dryer, so he uses the tub to wash his clothes then the shower rod to dry them. He doesn't get to shower much. He has a daughter, Dawn. She has a tatoo and attends a community college that Gawn doesn't pay for. He loves her very much, but misses her. He thinks she spends to much time driving and partying. Gawn had a dog named Rall. It is a shame that Rall died. Gawn misses him very much as well. I could write about Gawn forever, but it isn't going anywhere. They all died long ago and the records are largely incomplete. Anything that I say is pure fiction and I hate fiction. It is highly impure.

Song to honor the gods for...

I have a new plan (which is an old plan re-hashed):

Alex Williams' Own Culture

Taking an eastern approach to music and, instead of popularizing (as western bands seem to do), personalizing it.

Therefore, I need some spirituality. Unfortunately, have none. I think I'll make up some.

Song to honor the gods for waking up
Song to honor the gods for having breakfast
Song to honor the gods for piercing my nipples
Song to honor the gods for bowls
Song to honor the gods for the gun
Song to honor the gods for piezoelectricity
Song to honor the gods for hair (and fur)
Song to honor the gods for the fur of beasts
Song to honor the gods for having lunch
Song to honor the gods for kissing
Song to honor the gods for sexual inadequacy
Song to honor the gods for songs to honor the gods
Song to honor the gods for water
Song to honor the gods for minerals
Song to honor the gods for strategic metals
Song to honor the gods for dinner
Song to honor the gods for murder
Song to honor the gods for homicide
Song to honor the gods for manslaughter
Song to honor the gods for womenSong
Song to honor the gods for unisexuality
Song to honor the gods for the afro
Song to honor the gods for midnight snack
Song to honor the gods for sleep

Well, that's probably a good start.

The Mix Tape

I've always loved making compilation albums. For my sixth (or so) birthday I got a black boom box that contained a CD player, tape player/recorder, and FM/AM tuner. As well as recording my own radio show (which I had previously done on our family's answering machine), I made a lot of mix tapes for my family and friends. In particular, I remember making my dad a tape that played Weird Al Yanchovich's "Spam" (a parody of R.E.M.'s "Stand") over and over as a birthday present. Now, I make a lot of mix CD's, still not knowing what to call them. I am currently working on my girlfriends 11th mix.

In High Fidelity, John Cusack's character gives lengthy monologues on the "right" way to go about it, saying something like "It's a very delicate thing... You're using other people's poetry to express yourself, and that can be dangerous." He goes on to explain how the first track needs to really "grab their attention," the second track needs to "kick it up another notch," and then the third track needs to "take it down a notch." I am paraphrasing (badly), but I agree with him one hundred percent. Making a "mix tape" (I usually do CDs this day, but have no such snappy term with which to call them) is an art form, as Cusack points out, and "there are a lot of rules." I all to often have heard a mix tape some friend has made (for a girl, a birthday, a party, whatever) that is a simple, heterogeneous trash heap of their "favorite songs," i.e. there is no flow, no or not enough attention paid to the selection or more so the arrangement.

Why would you make a mix? Often times mixes are created for a specific instance: a party, a wedding, a funeral, etc. Also mixes are commonly created along the lines of a certain theme or tone: songs about love, songs from the 60’s, slow jazz songs, music to make out to, etc. I feel like mixes are a fantastic gift for holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, etc. In these instances, especially when the mix is for a close friend, a mix tape says “I spent time making something just for you!,” which everyone loves to know. In addition, the recipient, being that you two like similar music, might actually use their present!

How do you make a mix? I could probably transcribe some kind of step by step guide to my approach at compiling mixes, but I don't really see why I should. That sounds hard. Plus, there is no concrete rule system that fits. Like mixing drinks, mixing CD's (tapes, whatever) is an art form, not a science. Sometimes a splash is 15ml, sometimes its more, sometimes its less.

However, I think I can put down something more abstract and general. The tracks, the songs themselves are solid. They cannot be altered or doctored in anyway. However, they are (hopefully) not all the same, that is to say, they are not congruent copies of each other; they are not like a pile of bricks. They are all different shapes, sizes, textures. You did not create them, you found them (assuming it is all unoriginal music), thus the songs are like naturally occurring rocks. Some are huge and hollow, some are tiny and grainy. Whereas with bricks it does not matter what goes where (as they are designed to fit together), these rocks were not designed with the other rocks in mind. You have to carefully choose where you place them. Which rock can be the base to support another? Which rocks are small enough to fit here? Which rocks can fill in this space? And which have the right look, the right shimmer or luster, the right shape? Sometimes you love a certain rock, but it just can't work within the structure, so you have to save it for another time. Sometimes you don't love a certain rock, but it is just the right size to fit in a certain space. On top of all of this, you are not making a flat wall, as you would with the bricks. The creation is something more distinct, a unique sculpture designed for the rocks, whereas the bricks were designed for the wall. Hmmm... I'm actually starting to want to write a guide to mix-taping. Maybe I will...

Some Guidelines:

Once again, these techniques are not essential. They are not really rules, they are just habits I have a developed that I think make for a good mix. I will write them authoritatively, but take them with a grain of salt. Once again: art form, not science.

Guidelines 1-3 / Choosing your music

1.) Unless you are setting out to create a greatest hits compilation, a single musician should only have one song per album. The whole point is to arrange a variety of different music into a single work. This is one of my most solemn rules, though I have broken it a handful of times. Sometimes I have used multiple bands containing the same musicians (The Magnetic Fields and The 6ths, for instance, are both bands of Stephin Merritt). Still, I try to avoid this all together.

2.) Use up most of the CD. Generally, a CD-R or CD-RW (which I would recommend against using if it is a present because that makes your artistry re-workable) is 74 to 80 minutes long. Usually, I shoot to make a mix over an hour long. Bands put out short albums all the time (I feel like people are still stuck on the 44 minute length of an LP) and I just don’t think that is enough music. If you are drawing from a large enough body and variety of music, and hour’s worth of music should be easily entertaining. Plus, I feel like mixes are a good way to encourage people to discover new music. An hour gives you roughly 20 songs, thus 20 different artists, so the audience has a lot to choose from. I have nearly always followed this rule, but I have been considering lately that a shorter mix might create a very different effect, as would an even longer mix (say a double album). It all depends what your goal is.

3.) Selecting the music itself is probably the hardest step to guideline. Once again, themes (love, baseball, high school, etc.) and tones (sad songs, upbeat songs, etc.) as well as styles (jazz, rap, folk, etc.) and other specificities can be criteria from which to base a mix. Another approach can be to come up with a message (I’m so hot for you, I’m sad today, I love our country, etc.) and chose songs to fill your conceived frame. Most often I take both of these notions and disregard them. What usually happens is I’ll be listening to some song and say to myself “Hey, I bet [so and so (as the expression goes)] would really dig this tune!” and I put it in a playlist. With the creation of a playlist, I then have in mind that I should be on the look for other songs that that person would like. However, I usually don’t go searching at first. For several weeks, sometimes months, I let the songs find and then dump them in the playlist. Sometimes I have too many, sometimes not enough. In the case of the latter, when I’m getting ready to turn the playlist into something more substantial, I go searching to find some other songs I think the other person would like (and that I usually like as well). I do pick some songs based on those specific criteria listed above (theme, tone, style), for instance, on one mix I chose six different songs with the word “time” in the title, but I do not let these criteria become the governing force behind my decisions. It is a lot of trial and error. Sometimes I love a song but it just seems to conflict with the others on the playlist (often times because the style is too similar) and I shelve it to be used later. I really cannot say what to chose, but you know when you have an album and every song on it is a good one? That’s what you’re trying to do, except it gets more complicated then that when you begin to arrange the tracks.

Guidelines 4-7 / Arranging the Tracks

4.) Pay careful attention to the transitions between songs. This is really tricky and what I probably spend the most time on. The transition from one track to the next makes a huge difference, in my opinion. Strategically placing one song in front of another can bring out ‘flavor’ in the latter. A song fading out slowly followed by a song fading in slowly has a very different effect than following with a song that starts suddenly and loudly. I can’t cite any rule for this process, but just keeping in mind the importance of transitions should help you create a good flow within your mix. I think one of the biggest problems with other mixes I’ve heard is that transitions were not considered at all. This commonly determines where I will place a song within the track list.

5.) Creating a flow among the songs is essentially taking the same principals of structuring transitions and applying it to a larger scale. If you have chosen a variety of music, tones and styles, instrumentation, and so on may differ greatly from song to song. Some might be fast rock music, some slow acoustic ballads, some spoken word, some 80’s pop music. Organizing the songs depends heavily on there similarities and differences. To show how I generally organize, I will make a diagram!

/ / / - songs that go up; fast, catchy, danceable, etc.

\ \ \ - songs that go down; slower, often sadder, elongate breathing cycles, more contemplation needed, etc.

~ ~ ~ - songs that go out; that is, “out there,” the weirder, less conventional songs that break heavily, like spoken word or experimental music, etc.

First of all, I get all of the alike together:

/ / / / / / / / / / \ \ \ \ \ \ \ ~ ~ ~ [I do gather them on more specific criteria as well; for instance, all the blues songs together, all the female singers together, etc.

Like I said, I don’t like to many similar things together. I don’t want this.

/ / / / / / / / / / ~ ~ ~ \ \ \ \ \ \ \
But I don’t want continual rise and fall either. Than can wear a person out.

~/\/\/\/\~/\/\/\/\/~ I’m already worn out!

I want some gradual movements.



/\
/ \
/ \
/ \ ~~~ beauitful!

Well I Might Not Be The Best Typist

I wrote this song when I was about 15. It had an inherent melody that I have never forgotten. At the time I wrote it, much to my dismay, I could not figure out the appropriate accompanimentof guitar chords. Now I think I know it, though I haven't tried in some time. I have always very much liked the song and would like to finish it. The last stanza presented here was written some time later. Still, I do't believe it is finished.

Well I might not be the best typist
and I might not go to the clubs
but I do know who you can get with
he'll type up all your stuff
all your stu-uff

his name is Steve
he has a red beard
and hands of pure gold
He can type forever
and he'll never mis a key
unless he's told

His number is 5555555566
and his dinner is ketchup french fries salt pepper and fish sticks
And he goes to the clubs
and has some fun
Give him a job
He gets it done
For a small fee

His fee will put a hole in your pocket
It's sad but it's true
You feed him dinner every night
then he'll know what to do
and so will you

I oughta work this one out for stage. Oh, i didn't tell you? I'm gonna start trying to play on stage. I know, I better clean up that myspace. Songs about drugs, Oregon trail gigolos, and... marching. Gotta family-friendly it - censor myself a little. Just like I do here! In the Blog. I hereby contradict my first post. Shit yeah! There I swore.

The You

The businessmen had their work to do
They poisoned you and so did you
I drove you to the hospital
And when we got there you drove back
I tried to convince you that they didn't cancel out
But you insisted and I caved

The businessmen smoked their cigars
And Andy had a Saturday
You and I took a picnic
and I could tell you weren't feeling well
But once again you insisted and I caved

The businessmen's business was wasn't growing
So they gave me back the antidote
And I tried to convince you to take it
But your stubbornness prevailed
So I hid it in your food
And now you don't like my cooking anymore

You bought the businessmen's
Pineapple flavored fructose juice
and cigarettes like shredded metal
kept cutting up your mouth
and jutting out
And I asked you to change so you hit me

We shared the same drink every weekday
and we shared the same bed every worknight
and the businessmen's exotic cigar collection
would never amount to what we shared
Yet I knew you were poisoned
and still I chose to forget it

You got sicker and sicker and sicker
and you still wouldn't eat my dinners
and the businessmen kept getting fatter
and you kept getting thinner
and sicker
and deadlier

Again I drove you to the hospital
but you died in my arms
and the unmanned steering wheel
lead our auto off course
and when we crashed
I shoved my fingers in your nostrils

If I hadn't left the antidote
sitting atop the sink counter
to collect dust
and little face pubes
I might have saved your life
But instead I fel5t your last breath

The businessmen had lost a dedicated costumer
But I don't think they realized
I like to think that one of them
burned their expensive suit jacket on an expensive cigar
for you
But I"m really just pretending

The house is lonely without you
There's always to much drink for me
and I get lost in the bed
I admit the house smells better
But I hate it more now

I've never seen the inside of that hospital
I wonder what they would have done to conceal your smell
I know they can can that smell
That hospital smell
I wish I would have thought of that earlier
for you

I am the most beautiful widow
and everyone knows it
But I hate to talk about myself
Unless it is about you
I've always been like that
But it's harder now

The doorbell rang last night
After hours
and I signed off on a package
The ski jacket
you'd been saving all those cigarette boxes for
I wanted to dig you up
but I restrained myself

Three days later the doorbell rang again
this time in the middle of the day
I signed off on a package
like you would never let me
A fruit basket
with a 1.5x2 piece of paper attached to it
that read "from the businessmen"
I would have thrown that I out a month ago
Now I eat the fruit
It is the best fruit I've ever had

Homecoming Queen

I have always wanted to be the Homecoming Queen. I would have given everything, anything, things I never had just to wear the crown that last year of high school. To dance with the king, to be up on stage, to get announced to the whole school, "This is our senior class Queen!" The applause, the respect, if only for a single night. I would have been on top of the world. It would have been my greatest achievement and I would have relieved that moment over and over in my head for the rest of my life. The pictures, dancing while enclosed by a circle of my watching classmates. The inability to hide a smile. Getting my hair done up in some crazy do. My nails, the dress. The spot in the yearbook. God, I would have done anything to be the Homecoming Queen.

The Light, The Coffee,

For dinner I had a Twix bar, a cup of coffee, and a pack of gum. The coffee was from a vending machine, a place I never wanted my coffee to come from, and the machine only took exact change, 70¢ for a 12oz cup and 55¢ for an 8oz. My lifesavings, all I was carrying, was completely in quarters, so to get the needed amount I had to buy the Twix and the gum. The coffee was bad, but the Twix was good, and the gum was Juicy Fruit so I chewed it all. Not all at once, though.

Now I'm sitting here drinking this green thing; basically watered down lime juice. It is what a camp counselor might call 'bug juice,' except that its alcoholic. I had finished my Gold cigarettes and moved on to Silver when I noticed something was wrong.

The light is on in here, I thought, and slowed my step in caution. I could see it through the crack between the door and the ground. Somebody's in there? I inquired. Something had gone wrong.

Bills were stacked upon bills and the factory was closing down for the winter - the economic winter. I needed some coffee, so I heated up some water, but all I found was rum (not fit for a pirate), sugar and lime juice. So inhaled the wrong end and took a large gulp. To tell you the truth Keys, I missed the vending machine.

The day has a funny way of passing you by when you forget to eat. For my friend in the hospital, it is less funny. I suppose the coffees just as bad there, but, to tell you the truth, the human aspect of it actually gets me. No, I know Keys, I don't have your little man, but I do have a speck of sentimentality - if you want to call it that - for the old days, the times when the machines were less particular and when all a man thought about was what he was going to eat.

I miss those days, I miss my friend, and I miss you too Keys - if you want to call it sentimentality. I poured out the bug juice and the Silvers turned to Bronze. I left the light on. Now I know I am alone.

A Week Nearly Uncharted

Hello Blog, it has been too long. You are so beautiful to me.

Watched five movies this week:
Chronicle of a Summer
Mildred Pierce
Sweeny Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
The Wrestler
Breathless
and also the short documentary Perfect Film

Last night I did the premier performance of TINGO! I wrote a lot of it in the hour leading up to show time, failed to rehearse most of it, and resultantly botched most of the dialog. Overall, an okay performance.

Kate's cat threw up grass on the carpet, one of Kate's dogs pooped on the carpet, and I drooled a little fake blood (Kool-aid) on the carpet. It was a messy weekend.

In the last hour or so, I have started writing/recording the backing music for Nick's Campus Movie Fest project. So far it is going okay.

In sum, a pretty decent week. Hopefully, in the following week, I will have more chances to Blog. I miss you pretty text box. I want you back.

A bad poem, a good picture

The ubiquitous overseer
In plane and cactus off his career
The omnipresent omnivore
He who exists indiscriminately forevermore

The F-car

The F-car is not your stereotypical race car. The F-car can not, cannot, run in Drive and Reverse Simultaneously like the race car can. However, the F-car can go backwards, forwards, sideways, side-over side, front-over-back, back-over-front, and so forth rather seamlessly without changing gears or utilizing a motor. This is what the F-car looks like (roughly):



F
|
c ------]
O O
-----------------------[from side]

( )
/ \
O-| -- |-O
| F |
O-| -- |-O
|__|
-----------------------[from top]

A work of true progress, the F-car is just about the best thing you can get out of a new years popper. With its patented versatility and definite sex appeal, the F-car can do just about anything, go just about anywhere, and succeed at just about anything. Can you?

Herman - A drink before bed

The drink that will save a hundred overworked peasants.
"He has has a drink every night before bed; it helps him sleep."
Of once he had trouble sleeping, but now
the dreams have ceased as the exhaustion has become routine.
And the thousand, starving peasants cry
"A little spot from the drink is good every once in a while,
but to make it a habit is to make it a crutch
a crutch that may be capitalistic, but that will most certainly blank out our existences."
As Herman sips at his drink, he CANNOT be bothered by
the cry of the worksman and worksman's wives
and worksman's children
who have suffered his choice
to drink a glass before bed
and pass-out as soon as his head
hits the pillow.
There is drunkenness in his eyes.
And his thought is too shallow
to foster a dream,
and he goes to bed stupidly
and wakes up in pain
and brain cells are worthless
for the rest of the day
and he waits till the end of the day
and drinks more
not for pleasure nor dependency
merely to encourage healthy mammalian habits.
And as he drowns his insomnia
he drowns his desires
and the 'self taught' actors
need to find new work.
Unskilled labor, manual labor,
doesn't fit their fabric
and it's much rather likely
that he'll put them all to sleep.
And Herman heard
that somewhere
the dreams are dying.
And Herman gave a $1o
u.s. dollars
to keep this from happening.

The Workings of a Man With Four Eyes

The Workings of Man With Four Eyes
and sometimes The Workings of a Man With Three Eyes when he squints,
that is, when he drinks,
or when his cigarette gets short.

The Launch 'er Man In Ya' funpage! tried to sue him.
But he showed them.
He poisoned their moderator.

The cigarette tax is going up?
He thought that'd already happened?
It's okay, it'll just make his withered lungs worth more, right?

When the man works he wears eyeglasses black.
When the man goes out he wears contact lenses.
When the man he sings he closes half his eyes.
And when the man sleeps he removes the other half.

The president is black?
The man doesn't care.
He has a T.V. that doesn't have color.

There's graffiti on the subway?
The man doesn't mind.
He likes to write abstracts for them and post them beneath.

Kids use curse words?
The man is supportive.
He curses right back with his outdated lingo.

Kids drive to fast?
Well the man can drive faster.
He takes drugs that help him think quickly.

The church is perverse?
Well the man is perverser.
In fact, he's the reason the church is still around.

The Musings of an Amputee:
A one armed girl
named Susan Marie.
At thirteen she was confirmed.
Her confirmation name was Susan.
She liked what she'd been named so much
she had herself named it again.

The Abuses of an Obtuse Orthodontist:
Novocaine
Laughing Gas
Rubber Bands
Breathing Masks

The Coercion of a Martian:
"We come in piece. Here try this. You like it? We call it coffee. Here we have some more on our ship. Come in, come in."
Kapow! [alternate endings: Zip!, Smoooch!, Toooot!, Beeeelch!, etc.]

Cheese Burger
a molded mass atop a ground pet

Ham Burger
the backs of the thighs between the cheeks of the buttocks

French Fry
a frizzler with a tendency to swear

For other options, check out are Menú
For those stuck on unisexuality, check out our Womenú as well

Hector the Heterosexual,
Homer the Homosexual,
Billy the Bisexual,
and Umberto the Unisexual,
and none of them seem to be having sex right now.
The man without glasses can help.

These are The Workings of a Man With Four Eyes:
一个人的工作有四只眼睛的
This is what his aura looks like:
气氛
This is what his belly button looks like:
传递ゆ
Literally, "Trades the wild rice to fight"
and when he does you know
- at least, by now you should know -
It is but the Workings of a Man With Four Eyes

He sees twice as much as you
and yet, he is blind.
He is the prophet of his day,
yet he cannot see the future,
he leads no group,
he is immoral,
and wrong,
and he is rooted in material,
i.e., he is only what he has typed.

Still, The Workings of A Man With Four Eyes
are apparent in you life,
should you look hard enough.

The dead tried to kill him.
But he killed them first.

The critics tried to critizize him.
But he never let them read his Workings.

They tried to tell a joke about him with Walker Texas Ranger.
But he couldn't remember his name, so the joke wasn't funny.

The Workings of a Man With Four Eyes

Daily Life - January 2009- [in prog]

I would like to transcribe a thorough description of my 'every-day,' that is, my common day-to-day schedule in this period of my life so that when I'm old (because it seems like my parents can't remember the commonplace activities of the lives in the past) I can look back on these writings and remember, not really remenise, but just be able to reference how my days were spent when I was 19. I have started this post now on January 5th, 2009 and doubt that I will finish it tonight, but I will edit in the rest later and then include the date on which I finish the writing.
I would like to do one of these style posts every six months or so so that I can keep a detailed record of my 'every-day,' though the period of time I have cited is arbitrary; I intend to document different stages of life rather than periods of time.

It is 10pm on Sunday, April 26th, 2009. Tomorrow is the last day of the Spring semester. I feel like there is so much to tell, most of it humdrum and mundane, but I will persevere. I would like to know what I did in fourth grade, what my days were composed of, and someday I would like to know what I did in Spring of '09. So here goes.

I will start with an overview of what my weeks have been like. [then discuss my classes,

Monday: Try to wake up early like 8 or 9 but usually fail. Sometimes sleep till 1:30, God forbid any later, but sometimes I succeed in my goal. First Monday of the semester I believe I woke up around 8 and wrote a Blog. Generally, if I have this time, I will clean the house, primarily the kitchen and secondarily my room. Documentary film is at 3:00pm. Class was originally held in the downstairs of Aderhold, but after our room was subject to flood damage it has been moved to the third floor which I often forget. Sometimes after class I go up to the fourth floor balcony and eat lunch, but usually I just head to Five Points station, take the East bound train to Inman Park and, because I get there around 4:30 or 4:45 and the bus doesn't leave till 5:00, I walk about 15 minutes to work on Krog street where I am a janitor and proud of it. For $160 a month, I clean twice a week for about an hour-and-a-half to two hours, though sometimes I shave that down if I'm in a hurry. My employer is my Mother's and she got me the job. Most everyone is nice to me there, but the vacuum is severely worn down and the wheels keep falling off because I vacuum with such intensity (often I pretend that it is a trick, racing show to pass the time). Then I walk back to Inman, rarely catching the bus, and take the train one stop East to Edgewood-Chandler park, arriving home at 188 Mayson Ave. around 7 or 7:30. Hard to say exactly what I do then, maybe clean, maybe homework, maybe write or play music. As most nights that we have not seen each pther in person, I talk to Kate on the phone for around an hour.

Tuesday: Wake up at 9:30, shower, cook breakfast, pack lunch, load backpack, or some or all of those things the night before so I can sleep as late as possible. Lately after class Greg and I will go to Dunkin Doughnuts where I will get a Bagel toasted with Cream Cheese on the side and some kind of doughnut. The man who works behind the counter, whose name I've never known, is extremely nice and makes my coffee as soon as I walk in. Freshman year, after Astronomy class at 10am, I used to go there three times a week. I stopped going because I was making eggs and bacon everyday, but after Kate hinted that could cause a bad cholesterol future to quote (I'm being sarcastic because of my bad syntax), I decided to go back and he remembered me and the coffee I liked! So I now go every Tuesday and Thursday and Greg and I (he usually eats something else or nothing) use one of those dirty, plastic tables that say "FOR CUSTOMERS ONLY!" Hobos hassle us commonly. I then go to Geology at 11pm. Sometimes I am late but I don't really care. Before I was going to Dunkin I used just wait outside the class for 25 minutes or so and read film essays amongst many other students. After class ends at 12:15 I proceed to eat lunch (after urinating and washing my hands of course) during the busiet, most crowded, smoky, and loud time on campus. I used to meet up w/ James at this time, but because of various scheduling difficulties I now eat with Greg, though after eating Dunkin Doughnuts so recently, I generally don't want to eat yet. This is to much detail and kind of boring to write up. But I will persevere! I used to go to Geology lab at 1, but it ended short of the semester, thank God. I usually ride the train to Doraville, as I have done for many Sundays, where Kate picks me up and we usually go the her house, often hitting the bank, my house, or a restaurant like Hudson Grill. On the train I read my Documentary essay for the week, sometimes experiencing motion sickness, and write a short report about it that night or, more commonly...

Wednesday: morning. [Here I had to take a break becuase I was so bored... I will play the guitar now and resume this writing tomorrow]

Power the Moon

238,857 miles of extension chord
and, damn it!
It's a three-pronged chord
for a two-pronged hole

I handwrote this poem some time ago on some notebook paper. I have always liked it and have been meaning to type it up for some time. At this time, I do not have the original copy and have transcribed it from memory, thus there maybe incongruities which I will correct when I locate the original.
One incongruity was expected: when I wrote the original I was sitting in my backyard atop a sewer drain and did not know the distance from Earth to the Moon, so I put in a arbitrarily large number and planned to correct it later - which I have now done.

Commencement of Resistentialist Writings and the Haunting Words of David Lynch

The punishment for incorrectly typing the password is a brutal shaking from side to side
So don’t screw it up!

Just kidding
You really don’t need to be so careful
You can always rewrite it

Okay
Now
I need to practice what I preach, instead of preach

So I finally (finally? It has been about a week!) started my resistentialist story - rather, I sat trembling in fear until I could muster up the tiniest bit of courage to begin typing, and once I did I liked nothing that I wrote. I had done a bit of brainstorming prior and ideas had come easily to me; tons of ideas, big ideas, enough ideas to branch into other ideas and procreate with other ideas so that I'd have enough ideas to write a full-length novel. But, with so many ideas that I like (that I want to respect and express well) I have become too damned fearful of screwing them up while transcribing them. So, in my severe cautiousness and over sensitive criticism, I failed to put much down, like much what I had written, and, worst of all, enjoy what I was doing. [I recently watched the documentary Lynch in which the director said something like "If you don't like the doing, you're in the wrong line of work," scolding the notion of a 'tortured artist' and promoting his transcendental meditation driven 'feel good' work ethics. The line has haunted me since and I have worried over every work thinking Is this really what I want to do? Does this make me happy?]
Is it that I'm trying to find any easy way out (what some have called the 'problem with our generation,' that is, we are afraid to work hard)? That may be true, but I don't think this dilemma is at the heart of my issue. Is it that I am afraid of failure? That might be more like it. Do I like the prospect of being an artist but not the creative-constructive process itself? No, now that is just the fear talking. I have always known what I wanted to generally, but know that I have a specific my dreams have become more concrete, solid, and less abstract and fluid, thus they have become more fragile. But I should not fear this transmutation, I should embrace it. I currently have the inspiration to turn something I've always idealized into something real, something I could use, and I should not let a fear of failure restrict that.
I need to remember, just because it has become more solid DOES NOT MEAN THAT I CAN'T STILL CHANGE IT, I CAN! I can edit, I can delete, I can re-write, but I can't re-write if I write nothing in the first place. I need to remember, it is only a first draft - I should just let the ideas flow and cast off my inhibitions. I must get naked and roll around in paint. I must sleep a lot and meditate. I must have a healthy diet and an optomistic outlook. I must be free to all kinds of experimentation. I must smile, ALWAYS! I must subscribe to davidlynch.com and support his advertisement-free web page with my annual pledge of [some unGodly amount of money] and buy his Signature Cup and drink it everyday. You know what they say... if you ain't happy wit 'er, erase 'er head! Ahahaha...

Blog better than before, Blog in COLOR!

Quotes from Questions on "Shooter" and Mark Walhberg:

"He's injecting water into his veins?!"

Vein Artery

I now believe the subject of the song Psycho Killer by The Talking Heads is combat stress reaction.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Combat_stress_reaction

i.e. shell shock

( ) Parenthesis indicate that I have quoted the Symptoms and Signs section of the Combat Stress Reaction article on Wikipedia.
[ ] Brackets indicate material that I have asserted, that is, it is NOT quoted in the Symptoms and Signs section of the Combat Stress Reaction article on Wikipedia.
i Itallics indicate translation.

I can’t seem to face up to the facts. [denial]
I’m tense and nervous and I... can’t relax. (Anxiety & Inability to relax)
I can’t sleep, cause my bed’s on fire. (Insomnia & Sweating. )
Don’t touch me I’m a real live wire. (Irritability.)
Psycho Killer [homicidiality is not listed as a symptom, but (suicidality) is]
Qu'est-ce que c'est? What is this? (Confusion. )
fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better
Run run run run run run run away (Heightened sense of threat)
OH OH OH

You start a conversation you can't even finish it. (Indecision and lack of concentration)
You're talkin' a lot, but you're not sayin' anything. [same as above]
When I have nothing to say, my lips are sealed. (Disruptive behaviour [?])
Say something once, why say it again?

Ce que j'ai fait, ce soir-là
Ce qu'elle a dit, ce soir-là
Réalisant mon espoir
Je me lance vers la gloire ...
What I did, tonight there which she said, tonight there Realizing my hope I launch myself towards glory... [These lines read like a battle cry

We are vain and we are blind [the dumb confidence of a solider?)
I hate people when they're not polite (Disruptive behaviour [?])

In addition to those listed above, the lyrics and the overall tone of the song correspond to the following listed symptoms:

The slowing of reaction time.
Slowness of thought. [possibly the stuttering]
Difficulty prioritising tasks.
Difficulty initiating routine tasks.
Preoccupation with minor issues and familiar tasks.
Loss of initiative with fatigue.
Exhaustion.
Headaches.
Backaches.
Shaking and tremors.
Sweating.
Dizziness.
Insomnia.
Nightmares.
Restless sleep.
Excessive startle.
Hypervigilance.
Heightened sense of threat.
Anxiety.
Irritability.
Depression.
Loss of adaptability.
Disruptive behaviour.
Loss of beliefs.
Mistrust of others.
Confusion.
Extreme feeling of losing control.

And the last one's the kicker/; done for today!

Moon Extract

Moon Extract
Use in:
Homemade Ice Cream
Coffee
Apple Sauce
Chili

Improves your:
Typing Abilities
Stamina
Concentration
Vocabulary
Diet

Moon Extract