Time wasn't running any marathons, but it was taking a shot at the longest bit of useless that anyone had ever encountered. It doesn't matter, things will still happen, and when things happen - too many moons start to cry, and then it's humid during the day.
Does a planet sweat?
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Lilly and the Two Dearests
"...and then the rain washed away all the paint, leaving Doggy Dearest trembling, scared of what the farmer would say when he came back home from the live stock show to find his home, the barn, and the storage shed all without their color."
Lilly read a couple of more words, but the comfortable, nearing creepy silence reentered the room. She looked from the page on up to her daddy, who's lap ceased to emit any kind of warmth for the last three hours.
Lilly folded the book on her dad's stiffening leg, which had fallen earlier off the foot stool, and as Lilly returned it to its previous resting position, the bones in his leg seemed to crack, and after a crack there usually was some crumbling. That's what Lilly had read once, anyway.
But Lilly noticed a difference in her daddy's silence, it was an unpleasant one unlike the others. Usually, just after Lilly would pull the syringe from Daddy's arm, he'd put the sunglasses on, the ones that made him look like Daddy's favorite blues guitarist "Broken Home" Lemens, take one last look at his sweet little girl, and be whisked away into his happy place in some dazzling manner that only he could experience. Now, however, the comfortable, nearing creepy silence had come back. The only other time Lilly ever confronted it was when Mommy went on her permanent vacation. That's what Daddy called it anyway.
Daddy's sunglasses looked like they were ready to fall right off. Lilly's fingers crawled up daddy's cool, smooth cheek. She pinched the pair from the grips. Carefully, she pulled the sunglasses back. Momentarily, she stopped when they fell, bumping her legs, rolling out of a splat noise on to the floor.
Lilly wasn't sure when to scream, but eventually she did.
Lilly read a couple of more words, but the comfortable, nearing creepy silence reentered the room. She looked from the page on up to her daddy, who's lap ceased to emit any kind of warmth for the last three hours.
Lilly folded the book on her dad's stiffening leg, which had fallen earlier off the foot stool, and as Lilly returned it to its previous resting position, the bones in his leg seemed to crack, and after a crack there usually was some crumbling. That's what Lilly had read once, anyway.
But Lilly noticed a difference in her daddy's silence, it was an unpleasant one unlike the others. Usually, just after Lilly would pull the syringe from Daddy's arm, he'd put the sunglasses on, the ones that made him look like Daddy's favorite blues guitarist "Broken Home" Lemens, take one last look at his sweet little girl, and be whisked away into his happy place in some dazzling manner that only he could experience. Now, however, the comfortable, nearing creepy silence had come back. The only other time Lilly ever confronted it was when Mommy went on her permanent vacation. That's what Daddy called it anyway.
Daddy's sunglasses looked like they were ready to fall right off. Lilly's fingers crawled up daddy's cool, smooth cheek. She pinched the pair from the grips. Carefully, she pulled the sunglasses back. Momentarily, she stopped when they fell, bumping her legs, rolling out of a splat noise on to the floor.
Lilly wasn't sure when to scream, but eventually she did.
Blind Dull Sobriety
The festivities began per usual this quadrupled-eve weekend.
Costume: Self-Conscious Werewolf
Then, I became so many different things to so many different people. The coordination of the night collapsed continuously, but structuring the pace of the evening is as sweet as jamming out or having an orgasm.
The reflection keeps fading, and there's no real rush to navigate the outgoing disasters to the trenches of some war.
Costume: Self-Conscious Werewolf
Then, I became so many different things to so many different people. The coordination of the night collapsed continuously, but structuring the pace of the evening is as sweet as jamming out or having an orgasm.
The reflection keeps fading, and there's no real rush to navigate the outgoing disasters to the trenches of some war.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Man With the Funny Last Name
Old man.
Old man when I heard of thee. Old man
When I first diged thine thoughts.
Old man, new man;
Forever changing the worlds withing worlds.
Immortality be furthest away from your mind.
The joy of living life, and told of it;
The joy you have spread for as you once said,
"Death is no obstacle."
Old man when I heard of thee. Old man
When I first diged thine thoughts.
Old man, new man;
Forever changing the worlds withing worlds.
Immortality be furthest away from your mind.
The joy of living life, and told of it;
The joy you have spread for as you once said,
"Death is no obstacle."
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Behold the Man
Reread Michael Moorcock's "Behold the Man" today. It helps to have eight hours of civil nothing that you are ordered to do.
Maybe tomorrow I'll reread "The Winds of Limbo." But, "Behold the Man," it's like that Twilight Zone episode with Elvis, when the fan crashes into him, then becomes him, only instead of being an admirer, the protagonist in "Behold the Man" is a self-loathing narcissist begging for attention. And instead of a car crash he uses a time machine, and instead of running into the Jesus he knows, he runs into an alternate reality Jesus that is two steps up from being deranged, sexually-conceived roadkill.
Cheers.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Five Finger Death Punch - Way of the Fist - Review
Five Finger Death Punch comes out of Los Angeles, and they want to leave a trail defined by breakneck brutality. Unfortunately, the sound doesn’t bend too far one way or the other, so it may hinder the album over time, but for a debut 5FDP’s Way of the Fist shows promise for the group who mix a pinch of nu metal rhythm with old school guitar work.
Way of the Fist starts off on fire; “Ashes” begins the journey with speed, melody, and some sweet double bass provided by Jeremy Spencer. The title track falls into the same sound as most nu metal bands, with that bouncing bridge, but the speed dips in and out frequently, so its not so bad, and the chorus – “you might win one battle, but know this, I’ll win the fucking war” – will find its way through a person’s yell almost instantly. The guitar work by Zoltan and Darrel Roberts keeps “Salvation” alive. “Bleeding” is the first single off the album, and it sounds like one. It’s the radio friendly track, not particularly heavy; just trying to keep a good thing going, and if it weren’t for the double bass it could easily be confused with so many other metal/rock radio singles of the past few years. After these tracks have been heard, a person will know exactly what to expect the rest of the album. “A Place to Die,” “The Devil’s Own,” and on to the end follows the same formula: guitar openings that start running with the double bass, which starts feeling forced after a while. And the vocals of Ivan L. Moody fluctuate between the growls and the melodic. Matt Snell backs everyone up on the bass – that’s about all there is to say about that.
Way of the Fist is good for a debut album, and shows that these guys can deliver a powerful effort, and it could potentially leave the listener wondering what’s next. They’re not trying to do anything different, just provide some quality metal for the enthusiasts out there. This album is not valuable for rapid, repeated listening, but it would be one worth revisiting every few months or so.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Free and Easy
For whatever reason, Landrum was convinced that if you were in his house for an extended period of time, chances were high that you would see him in his underwear. It didn't matter why you were there, just that you would eventually, somehow, see him sans pants.
His mother constantly reminded him as a child to keep a shirt on in the house. He was chubby, nearing husky, but that seemed enough to correspond with disgust in her eyes. Now, he's never above going commando during the weekend.
His mother constantly reminded him as a child to keep a shirt on in the house. He was chubby, nearing husky, but that seemed enough to correspond with disgust in her eyes. Now, he's never above going commando during the weekend.
Before the Turn
Keel stared into the photo's eyes. His little girl, gone only a few years, taken from him by a nemesis. A personal war amongst the universal and the introverted. He swore this would be the last time he looked into her eyes until the mission was complete - until the truth was revealed, and the dying slowed down. Keel knew that the dying would never truly end, it would only be sustained.
Whatever It Takes
I'm sorry - We've never known you by that name. Pleae, go on ahead. Just make a left at the stump.
How many months the echoes will echo, and too many years; so much darkness performing as its own galaxy with just you to ignite their depth of stars.
Your people cursed you for going so far.
How many months the echoes will echo, and too many years; so much darkness performing as its own galaxy with just you to ignite their depth of stars.
Your people cursed you for going so far.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Monday, October 15, 2007
The Morning Hurts
Welcome to a morning set in darkness. Trouble wasn't on my mind that night, but having been around this scab-fucker for so long trouble has always been standing right next to me.
My ribs were sore, but really a couple were broken. I was fortunate enough to be numb all over, and not from a painkiller. The welcome party kept going after I passed out.
Trying to talk was almost like realigning my jaw. Had I died that night, I hoped my autopsy report would have noted I did have clean underwear. They had been removed long before my dead bowels relaxed, unleashing that greatest humiliations ever associated with being human.
For some people that's not a large request, but they'd be surprised.
My ribs were sore, but really a couple were broken. I was fortunate enough to be numb all over, and not from a painkiller. The welcome party kept going after I passed out.
Trying to talk was almost like realigning my jaw. Had I died that night, I hoped my autopsy report would have noted I did have clean underwear. They had been removed long before my dead bowels relaxed, unleashing that greatest humiliations ever associated with being human.
For some people that's not a large request, but they'd be surprised.
Lightswitch
An entertaining fright I've always done for occasions is to settle in a room of my empty home at night, in darkness for a minute or so, then, find lightswitches, and go on seeking out lights in other roooms.
Once I've turned a light on in every room I go back and turn a few off, and when I do turn one off, the room you never knew was there appears; for some brief dark-bedazzling moments, it appears.
Only the damned ever enter.
Once I've turned a light on in every room I go back and turn a few off, and when I do turn one off, the room you never knew was there appears; for some brief dark-bedazzling moments, it appears.
Only the damned ever enter.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Screaming At Will
What is it with wanting to drop everyone? The people I've loved for years, now, I'm tired of them actually, have been for quite some time, but never to this extent. I'm politely exiting much quicker now.
There are times when I am indeed selfish, and I fine that it is when I want things to change; even if life is great, I need things to change. Change is so scary. It is the greatest rollercoaster-horror ever.
There are times when I am indeed selfish, and I fine that it is when I want things to change; even if life is great, I need things to change. Change is so scary. It is the greatest rollercoaster-horror ever.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Stretching Stripes
When the road called back to me, I didn't hesitate. I didn't give it a second thought or a chance for the wind to change direction. I went. Now it's just us.
And Because Marcy Playground Owns All
And I"m just warming up to that "Sex and Candy" bullshit. Good song, but radio overkill nixed my initial likings for it.
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Hole
Why does it seem so hard to put things back where we found them, because leaving it where it is parallels the open space that a lie initially creates, but just like a lie, leaving all of these little notions and ideas scattered all about, that space folds in on itself very quickly.
Just found me a sledgehammer. Let's see where I leave this laying.
Just found me a sledgehammer. Let's see where I leave this laying.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Ultimo Tormento
You know that there is an unbearable torture when the pain it inflicts can make even a lizard scream.
Down III: Over the Under - Review
Over the Under is one sludgy soulful trip, and considering their lives were undoubtedly affected by Hurricane Katrina, they take that energy and spread it throughout. It finds that happy medium between the crunching sounds of NOLA and the boggy atmosphere of A Bustle in Your Hedgerow, and Phil returns to the melodic side after lingering in the rough, scream laden avenues of singing.
“3 Suns and 1 Star,” “The Path,” and “N.O.D.” tread familiar waters, and while it is comforting, does not prepare you for the whole album. One might start saying, here we go again when “I Scream” starts but Phil’s vocals comes to full fruition on this one. Phil sings, really sings, and it is a great thing to hear.
“On March the Saints” is a bit more upbeat than typical Down, but the head-wagging, bottom-shaking groove is still prevalent while Rex proves again why he is a quintessential bassist, and probably the much-appreciated, overlooked member of Pantera {He’s just a laid back fella.). “Never Try” brings the blues to the forefront. “Mourn” is Phil’s venting on what happened, losing Dime and the rest of his Texas family. “Beneath the Tides” is something vintage Alice in Chains could have conjured at some point in both bedeviling music and lyrics.
“In the Thrall of it All” and “Nothing in Return” are great finishers. Even as the album begins its venture toward closure the band only grows tighter. Keenan and Windstein do an excellent job of playing off one another’s solos, then, “Nothing in Return” does a good job of beginning on a space-trip, and slowly building towards powerful, haunting chorus taking us out of our heads, and closing the album.
Over the Under is the furthest thing from a bad album. There are riffs that would do Black Sabbath fans proud and some that could make a grown man shed a tear. Phil provides one of his best performances in years, and whatever hardship followed these men came through loud and clear. Down III: Over the Under is a musical journey through the kingdom of sludge. Some folks will pass this up; I was about to myself. It isn’t something so amazing that one should put a rush on getting it, but for those that do choose to get it now or in the future, hopefully they’ll be as pleasantly surprised as I was. This album will stick with me for a while.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Some Sunday
Some Sunday mornings just aren't like any others. Picking the glass from out of one's shoulder may take longer, and breakfast gets a little colder.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Hello, Yea
Things some of us are so accustomed to, but the crack in the fault is that not everyone was willing to accept an alternative - a word she had been disgusted with for months, yet still capable of maintaining a no-nonsense visage every time - every - time - it came up.
She showed her feral side during sex, which wasn't for comfort; just an outlet. She didn't mind being branded slut, coming much quicker than a rumor's chance; it even proved handy when she needed information, which was almost double a golf's eagle when she realised that also within the bitter moniker held some control, the kind she liked and wouldn't give up easily, unlike other things.
The bell signaled. Yea fixed her eyes, reality once again blocking her view of nirvana. She looked to her feet, she bit down; something was't right - even when it was perfect.
Elevator doors parted ways. Her minions (assistants).targeted her. The soft ripple in space tickled her wrist. The tingling confirmed her being noticed, her eyes recorded every person and activity in areas that were not her immediate concern, making sure they stayed that way.
Back to work for Yea.
She showed her feral side during sex, which wasn't for comfort; just an outlet. She didn't mind being branded slut, coming much quicker than a rumor's chance; it even proved handy when she needed information, which was almost double a golf's eagle when she realised that also within the bitter moniker held some control, the kind she liked and wouldn't give up easily, unlike other things.
The bell signaled. Yea fixed her eyes, reality once again blocking her view of nirvana. She looked to her feet, she bit down; something was't right - even when it was perfect.
Elevator doors parted ways. Her minions (assistants).targeted her. The soft ripple in space tickled her wrist. The tingling confirmed her being noticed, her eyes recorded every person and activity in areas that were not her immediate concern, making sure they stayed that way.
Back to work for Yea.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Echoing Chatter
Trapped in the middle of the road without a way of getting back, we hoofed it, coughing, gagging, wheezing; but still feeling those teeth-tipped-tentacles knipping at our heels.
"Lower," the old man screamed, gritting his teeth soon after. This had no longer been about the research. They took from him the only thing he ever felt could continue to grow alongside him. His knowledge was a wealth, but having it and never being able to share it with someone - someone that lent a willing ear for a change; not because the boss couldn't stop gambling, or because Boss C can't get laid without having a fresh paycheck setting his pants ablaze.
Someone was actually listening.
"Lower," the old man screamed, gritting his teeth soon after. This had no longer been about the research. They took from him the only thing he ever felt could continue to grow alongside him. His knowledge was a wealth, but having it and never being able to share it with someone - someone that lent a willing ear for a change; not because the boss couldn't stop gambling, or because Boss C can't get laid without having a fresh paycheck setting his pants ablaze.
Someone was actually listening.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
More Shit
More shit.
What do I think I really need.
More shit.
Living without it, I could never breathe.
More shit.
Buried deep below fallen angel leaves.
More shit.
More shit - I need - and lots of it.
- fake trak
- fake trak
Hidden trak: More Shit - Lazy Dayz by the Pool Remix
More shit.
I needz my dvdz.
More shit.
Porkyz best when it's all 3.
More shit.
Scratch my ballz with your stolen Oakleyz
More shit. Mooooore shit. More shit.
What do I think I really need.
More shit.
Living without it, I could never breathe.
More shit.
Buried deep below fallen angel leaves.
More shit.
More shit - I need - and lots of it.
- fake trak
- fake trak
Hidden trak: More Shit - Lazy Dayz by the Pool Remix
More shit.
I needz my dvdz.
More shit.
Porkyz best when it's all 3.
More shit.
Scratch my ballz with your stolen Oakleyz
More shit. Mooooore shit. More shit.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Get That Outta Your Mouth (and put it in your ass)
Just another reason to live and love.
Revolting Cocks
Revolting Cocks
Saturday, September 22, 2007
He's Got'em By the Eyes
Just trying to get the ball rolling. Nothing to talk about, which isn't to say some good things have been happening.
Tasted the grit at the beach, and dancing with some fire. Today has been relaxation at its finest, but the deeds of undoing are scattered at wealth.
Just trying to warm up before the real thing.
Tasted the grit at the beach, and dancing with some fire. Today has been relaxation at its finest, but the deeds of undoing are scattered at wealth.
Just trying to warm up before the real thing.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Ministry: The Last Sucker - Review
Al Jourgensen is back with his latest incarnation of Ministry - and for the last time. "The Last Sucker" not only concludes what Jourgensen asserts as the trilogy in the anti-George Bush Jr. Saga (previous albums: "House of the Mole’" and "Rio Grande Blood"), but it also sounds the end of Ministry’s perseity in the music industry, and the band goes out in an exciting, evolved, but familiar blaze of glory.
Ministry began as a dark-synth-pop band, or whatever label one would wish to use, in the early eighties. Slowly, album by album, they began removing the electronic elements, relying mostly on guitars and drums, but still tweaking the sound in the studio. These last three albums by Jourgensen and gang have almost been pure metal, slightly in the vein of a heavier and faster "Psalm 69", an album where Jourgensen saw fit to bash George Bush Sr.
"The Last Sucker" starts off with the quickly consuming "Let’s Go," which is about as good an opener on an album, and live, as a band can produce. "Watch Yourself" and "Life is Good" continue the metal assault with feral riffing by Tommy Victor (Prong) and Sin Quinn (Revolting Cocks), and rapid, tight drum programming by Al (Alien) Jourgensen and John Bilberry.
Then - - - the album hits a snag. The second and third songs foreshadow what is to be the middle of the album, which is practically the same sound that Ministry has constructed in the past two years. Being a trilogy, I let it pass in the aftermath, but upon first hearing "The Dick Song," which has an outstanding chorus slamming Dick Cheney, "The Last Sucker," and "No Glory," I felt that they were nothing but songs from "Rio Grande Blood" and "House of the Mole’" rehashed, re-edited, and redone, particularly "The Dick Song," which sounds almost exactly like "Lies, Lies, Lies" from "Rio Grande Blood." But, after hearing the entire album, and going back to these songs, they are easier and much more enjoyable on the ears.
"Death and Destruction" continues the light footed demolition begun on the album, then, "Roadhouse Blues" comes along; bringing new life to the sometimes overplayed Doors song (awaits flung beer bottles and retired bongs from Doors fans [because you wouldn’t throw the new ones, would you?]). It also feels like a preview of Ministry’s upcoming cover album "Cover-Up." Then, the punk invades with
Die in a Crash." This features the first of the latter tracks featuring Burton C. Bell (Fear Factory). "Die in a Crash" is crunchy punk, and it is fun.
The album goes out with a bang in the two part "End of Days." Part 1 has Burton C. Bell joining Jourgensen again on vocals and chorus with a memorable guitar melody, and mellow rough vocals. Part 2 continues the melody while inserting Dwight D. Eisenhower’s presidential farewell speech into the track. It is well done, and when listening to Eisenhower, his words are as relevant today as they were in 1961, but that is another write-up for another time.
Ministry’s final album should please fans new and currently following, because to say old fans, that spans a good chunk of time, and some may have dropped the band. I have enjoyed their music since Day 1, and now at the end, there’s a sense that more could have been accomplished, but it seems best to go out on a high than sink to a depressing low like some other bands have. The Last Sucker might disappoint in some areas, considering it is their last hurrah, but Ministry goes out in style - their style.
Personal note: I will miss the anticipation of future Ministry music, but will never forsake the experiences learned and head when listening to Ministry. Each album, up until these last three, was something different, and always unexpected. Ministry is done, but Jourgensen still lives. Here's to Ministry; here's to the future. Cheers.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Distracted
Working on a modern day fairytale; short story, nothing special. Actually, not a modern day fairytale, but a modern day story with fairytale elements sewn within.
I'm using it to concentrate on scenery and landscape.
Why the hell am I writing this. I've got work to do.
But really, I'm having a tought time getting it off the ground. I like the main character too much. He's not pushing the story in the direction I had originally intended, which was something light, stumbling into the realness of the Brothers Grimm tales, not the watered down, make a buck versions that butchered the original material, I mean the painful, bloody, and endearing ones that were told to children back in an age when common sense was rampant among the youth, and they knew what it meant to respect a day's work, unlike today where they wonder how "cavemen watched tv." That was a serious enquiry from a sixteen year old I heard today.
For those without spawns, find some radiated material and sit on it. You'll make the world a better place.
I'm using it to concentrate on scenery and landscape.
Why the hell am I writing this. I've got work to do.
But really, I'm having a tought time getting it off the ground. I like the main character too much. He's not pushing the story in the direction I had originally intended, which was something light, stumbling into the realness of the Brothers Grimm tales, not the watered down, make a buck versions that butchered the original material, I mean the painful, bloody, and endearing ones that were told to children back in an age when common sense was rampant among the youth, and they knew what it meant to respect a day's work, unlike today where they wonder how "cavemen watched tv." That was a serious enquiry from a sixteen year old I heard today.
For those without spawns, find some radiated material and sit on it. You'll make the world a better place.
Same Ole Shit
Started messing around with the settings, thought I'd redecorate the sight. Then, no sooner did I begin did I realise A)I like it the way it is, and B)I don't have time for this shit.
Back to work.
Back to work.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Sunrise Flavored
The carlot was full.
It felt like one of those days.
Too much sunrise.
Afternoons welcomed the eyes much more pleasantly
Than any humid morning. Humid.
Choking the shit out of nature
And the natural orders.
Sweating in the morning,
Sweating in the shower, after the shower.
Sweating before sleep.
Remembering that face, sorting out the silliness.
Here we were - sunrise covered morning
It felt like one of those days.
Too much sunrise.
Afternoons welcomed the eyes much more pleasantly
Than any humid morning. Humid.
Choking the shit out of nature
And the natural orders.
Sweating in the morning,
Sweating in the shower, after the shower.
Sweating before sleep.
Remembering that face, sorting out the silliness.
Here we were - sunrise covered morning
Traffic, Wednesday Afternoon.
Toilet paper. It's the thing holding all of this shit together, and proudly keeping us apart, simultaneously. I thought every movement had been recorded, bouncing off the field, shaking its own staticy skin. Earth made a memory.
That was its way into the upper atmosphere, wanting to speak with the other planets vapor to vapor. The planet became quite the chatty sentient being.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Lefty
There was a man who lived in a house. It was a dark house, with the definition of old creeping from the house's skin; gray, whithering, and peeling.
The man had a dead hand. He had lost the use of it shortly after his return from Viethnam. He walked around town, yelling, preaching, and worst of all, making sense.
Three days in the heat, his troop had been stranded without radio contact, but there was some hope, but it came in the form of a mid-forest brothel. Just a dozen or slightly more tents propped up in the middle of the Southern Korean no man's land, with ladies waiting to offer themselves to any of their nation's troops flashing the right amount. They weren't there to harm anyone, only make some money to send back to their families.
But, Old Man and troop had orders. They showered the sex pit with bullets. He pointed towards some escapees, not because he was a monster, but because he believed was being a good soldier, and in doing so his hand caught the kiss of a .30Cal M2.
By the time his platoon reached an active radio, his hand and any hope of reafirmming any future use of it were gone. He would later dub it Lefty, not because that was the hand that had been shot, but because it was the piece of him that was left behind.
The man had a dead hand. He had lost the use of it shortly after his return from Viethnam. He walked around town, yelling, preaching, and worst of all, making sense.
Three days in the heat, his troop had been stranded without radio contact, but there was some hope, but it came in the form of a mid-forest brothel. Just a dozen or slightly more tents propped up in the middle of the Southern Korean no man's land, with ladies waiting to offer themselves to any of their nation's troops flashing the right amount. They weren't there to harm anyone, only make some money to send back to their families.
But, Old Man and troop had orders. They showered the sex pit with bullets. He pointed towards some escapees, not because he was a monster, but because he believed was being a good soldier, and in doing so his hand caught the kiss of a .30Cal M2.
By the time his platoon reached an active radio, his hand and any hope of reafirmming any future use of it were gone. He would later dub it Lefty, not because that was the hand that had been shot, but because it was the piece of him that was left behind.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Frozen Drunk
I have nothing to think about, walking through the snow, wearing mukluk's made from the backs of drunk, recently unemployed Alaskan accountants from Chicago.
I see a red stream curling down frozen hill. I dip to prick at it, bringing its scent to my nose. Licking my fingers confirms that it is red wine - dry red wine.
The horse got into the cellar again.
I see a red stream curling down frozen hill. I dip to prick at it, bringing its scent to my nose. Licking my fingers confirms that it is red wine - dry red wine.
The horse got into the cellar again.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Sleep? Hi. Don't Believe We've Met.
I couldn't stop what was growing here. The ride wasn't slowing down, and I didn't mind.
So,treats for whomever needs one:
So,treats for whomever needs one:
Friday, September 07, 2007
No Warranty
Just finished a phone conversation with my aunt. She's a suicidal hypochondriac, and is the type - if you ask her a question she'll write you a novel, but the novel will be all about her problems, then, she'll take those problems and shovel the guilt trip on top of you for whatever miniscule thing you have or have not done for her lately.
Future note: Guilt trip doesn't work on me, folks. I am the furthest specimen from perfect, but I enjoy hating who I am or am not. No one will ever take that away from me.
Future note: Guilt trip doesn't work on me, folks. I am the furthest specimen from perfect, but I enjoy hating who I am or am not. No one will ever take that away from me.
So Damn tired
I like a woman that is willing to take care of herself. One that I don't have to motivate. One that is willing to make my life miserable without me having to aggravate or antagonize every waking moment to do so.
I will push buttons all day every day, all in good fun, but in between I try to leave no room for doubt that she is the one I want to come home to every night.
I like babies. I'm okay with kids. But, part of what I enjoy about being an uncle is when Mom and Dad come to take baby away. Kids should be like cars, getting to trade them in for a new one every year.
Do I want a child of my own - I'm not that interested, but I think about having one almost every day, and the future of that child with me as it's father. Immediately after that my psychiatrist spends about an hour trying to convince me not to perform a home-based vasectomy using a screwdriver, a car battery, and jumper cables.
I will push buttons all day every day, all in good fun, but in between I try to leave no room for doubt that she is the one I want to come home to every night.
I like babies. I'm okay with kids. But, part of what I enjoy about being an uncle is when Mom and Dad come to take baby away. Kids should be like cars, getting to trade them in for a new one every year.
Do I want a child of my own - I'm not that interested, but I think about having one almost every day, and the future of that child with me as it's father. Immediately after that my psychiatrist spends about an hour trying to convince me not to perform a home-based vasectomy using a screwdriver, a car battery, and jumper cables.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Night Shaman
Fighting sleep is my specialty. My personality and my genes were made for the night. I have a day job, and I'm a compete zombie until well past one o'clock in the afternoon.
During my vacation, my body immediately reacted, reverting back to its natural nocturnal state. I couldn't sleep at all the first few days, and finally, one June morning, just after sunrise, I knocked out, awoke around noon, and felt whole again. I was back to normal, stepping out with the bats, holding conference with the street lamps. She spoke to me again. The city and I became reacquainted. She told me all her secrets, the kind she was too afraid of telling to the day shaman. The night shaman, he knows all about secrets; having them, keeping them, and using them.
If I nod out for ten minutes, it's like gaining a full night's rest. A whole eight hours, and I refuse to fully abandon my comfortable coma. A curse it is -
a curse.
The sun is not my savior. Blue skies can keep their hope. Give me the moon and the night, and the shadows that hide purity, for the purity that thrives through the darkness is a fighter, a survivor, and sometimes - if needs be - a killer, but most of all, it is a leader with fire for its spirit.
I need a beach trip.
During my vacation, my body immediately reacted, reverting back to its natural nocturnal state. I couldn't sleep at all the first few days, and finally, one June morning, just after sunrise, I knocked out, awoke around noon, and felt whole again. I was back to normal, stepping out with the bats, holding conference with the street lamps. She spoke to me again. The city and I became reacquainted. She told me all her secrets, the kind she was too afraid of telling to the day shaman. The night shaman, he knows all about secrets; having them, keeping them, and using them.
If I nod out for ten minutes, it's like gaining a full night's rest. A whole eight hours, and I refuse to fully abandon my comfortable coma. A curse it is -
a curse.
The sun is not my savior. Blue skies can keep their hope. Give me the moon and the night, and the shadows that hide purity, for the purity that thrives through the darkness is a fighter, a survivor, and sometimes - if needs be - a killer, but most of all, it is a leader with fire for its spirit.
I need a beach trip.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Sideways On an Escalator
Cooler than water as sleet, the room refreshed my awakening body. My mind was still in the dream-time and would not come around to the day until far after lunchtime, but there at work I would be, waiting, talking, listening, writing; oblivious to the good things in the air, only noticing the horrid traces of beuracracy threaded into every ink on the paper, and every ounce of backwash in coffee mugs.
My clothes fit for once. The secret to the diet was there is no diet. I eat what I want, then, work it all off. Sometimes it feels like an honor to sweat, only because of my bizarre metabolism. I run six miles and gain eight pounds. I stop running, lift heavy weights, and lose ten. In between, the food that has willingly grown numb to taste. It's no longer food, it's chemistry; always has been chemistry, but I never knew it until that summer shortly after Ed's death.
"Where are you right now?" she asked.
"Hm?"
"You stopped breathing. You're thinking too hard again."
My clothes fit for once. The secret to the diet was there is no diet. I eat what I want, then, work it all off. Sometimes it feels like an honor to sweat, only because of my bizarre metabolism. I run six miles and gain eight pounds. I stop running, lift heavy weights, and lose ten. In between, the food that has willingly grown numb to taste. It's no longer food, it's chemistry; always has been chemistry, but I never knew it until that summer shortly after Ed's death.
"Where are you right now?" she asked.
"Hm?"
"You stopped breathing. You're thinking too hard again."
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Learning Curve
I hate school.
I've been saying that most of my life.
I love learning. Knowledge is serious power, but I loathe the confinement and judging standards of the modern educational system. Then, once graduating from high school, having someone tell me that I need a pathetic piece of papaer not fit to wipe my ass with in order to do something important in this world - - fuck that. But I did it, and now, I'm at it again. Why? I have to get away from people. I don't like them. I need to make enough money to insure that I can escape them anytime I choose. Not just mentally, not just in my home; I mean physically, running to the mountains, or secreting myself in a cave.
Education is important, but the kind forced kids' throats these days, I don't believe it is, but that's from a purely consciencious perspective. Money isn't important to alot of people. I don't care for having "nice things." There are times that I can do without the roof over my head, and settle for the sky and clouds as my domestic apex. Then again, I'm two steps away from clinical depression, anxiety, and all around (everyone's favorite) insanity. Point being, I don't agree, conform, or prefer today's society, or what is considered the standard, or "normal." And I do like knowing that I can have a roof over my head, shoud I want one.
My perfect world would be the end of this one. Bring it all down. Kill the internet, destroy mass communication; adjourn the need for money. It's time to go back to basics.
It's probably not happening soon, or it could likely occur sooner than we think.
The Associated Press did a study, claiming 1 out of 4 adults did not read a single book in 2006. At first, that sounds disturbing, but that's me thinking as an avid reader. But I relaxed and thought about it. A)Polls are always foibled. In all truth, they mean nothing, and sometimes less. B)What kind of books were read? Kids books, like parents would read to their children? Comic books? Cook books? The phone book?
I ask myself, would I prefer a conversation with someone who has studied a book about fishing in Alaska? Or would I prefer a conversation with someone who has never read a book, but has fished in Alaska?
Reading is for those that love to read. Living is for those that love to live. Either way, you learn. I love both. I learn every day.
I've been saying that most of my life.
I love learning. Knowledge is serious power, but I loathe the confinement and judging standards of the modern educational system. Then, once graduating from high school, having someone tell me that I need a pathetic piece of papaer not fit to wipe my ass with in order to do something important in this world - - fuck that. But I did it, and now, I'm at it again. Why? I have to get away from people. I don't like them. I need to make enough money to insure that I can escape them anytime I choose. Not just mentally, not just in my home; I mean physically, running to the mountains, or secreting myself in a cave.
Education is important, but the kind forced kids' throats these days, I don't believe it is, but that's from a purely consciencious perspective. Money isn't important to alot of people. I don't care for having "nice things." There are times that I can do without the roof over my head, and settle for the sky and clouds as my domestic apex. Then again, I'm two steps away from clinical depression, anxiety, and all around (everyone's favorite) insanity. Point being, I don't agree, conform, or prefer today's society, or what is considered the standard, or "normal." And I do like knowing that I can have a roof over my head, shoud I want one.
My perfect world would be the end of this one. Bring it all down. Kill the internet, destroy mass communication; adjourn the need for money. It's time to go back to basics.
It's probably not happening soon, or it could likely occur sooner than we think.
The Associated Press did a study, claiming 1 out of 4 adults did not read a single book in 2006. At first, that sounds disturbing, but that's me thinking as an avid reader. But I relaxed and thought about it. A)Polls are always foibled. In all truth, they mean nothing, and sometimes less. B)What kind of books were read? Kids books, like parents would read to their children? Comic books? Cook books? The phone book?
I ask myself, would I prefer a conversation with someone who has studied a book about fishing in Alaska? Or would I prefer a conversation with someone who has never read a book, but has fished in Alaska?
Reading is for those that love to read. Living is for those that love to live. Either way, you learn. I love both. I learn every day.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Humid
There's a chill trekking along my spine. Voices, a plethora of them, screaming, crying; not a single one sounding like the fear is coming from vision - the abhorrence emanates from their mind.
Willis walked those hallways with the care of a puppy in a garage. The same old places to sniff, eat, and piss, but at any moment, that door can open and the largest tank could come rolling through. Will it see him? Will it care?
The giraffe that used to be a poster for the National Fitness Test smiled, while worms fell from its mouth. The light coming from the ground, well, it just wasn't cool enough. Dashing water on himself didn't seem to help any. It only amplified the humidity that started out smaller than a snail sweat.
His watch beeped. It was loud. It chimed deep into his temporal lobe. It was time for the purple pills that crawled up his arm.
Willis walked those hallways with the care of a puppy in a garage. The same old places to sniff, eat, and piss, but at any moment, that door can open and the largest tank could come rolling through. Will it see him? Will it care?
The giraffe that used to be a poster for the National Fitness Test smiled, while worms fell from its mouth. The light coming from the ground, well, it just wasn't cool enough. Dashing water on himself didn't seem to help any. It only amplified the humidity that started out smaller than a snail sweat.
His watch beeped. It was loud. It chimed deep into his temporal lobe. It was time for the purple pills that crawled up his arm.
Monday, August 27, 2007
The Shit I Think of When I'm Exhausted
I have lost confidence in my work. I can't write a fucking query letter. A FUCKING QUERY LETTER. I can't write a less than eight sentences telling someone what my book is about. I can't decide where the comma goes, whether I should use a semi-colon or just start a new sentence all together.
I see new pieces of shit every week on the bookshelves and say, why can't my piece of shit be the future laughing stock of the bargain bin? Dan Brown gets away with it. Every jackass cranking out event-centered-historical-fiction gets away with it. I want to be able to pry your hard earned money from your hands, then, force you to read the tripe that a twelve year old with a north eastern education could have pissed through a fountain pen after a slushee bender, and force you to ask yourself "why did I buy this piece of shit again?"
What's not a piece of shit? Greg Rucka's newest Atticus Kodiak novel comes out tomorrow - Patriot Acts.
I see new pieces of shit every week on the bookshelves and say, why can't my piece of shit be the future laughing stock of the bargain bin? Dan Brown gets away with it. Every jackass cranking out event-centered-historical-fiction gets away with it. I want to be able to pry your hard earned money from your hands, then, force you to read the tripe that a twelve year old with a north eastern education could have pissed through a fountain pen after a slushee bender, and force you to ask yourself "why did I buy this piece of shit again?"
What's not a piece of shit? Greg Rucka's newest Atticus Kodiak novel comes out tomorrow - Patriot Acts.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
"Hell Everywhere"
At least seven people have been detained or arrested for their potential involvement in the fires that have consumed over half of Greece.
This disturbs me to no end. Nearly 60 people have died; a mother charred mother and her four children were found. She smothered them with herself, protecting them from the flames.
And Olympia is in danger. The sight of the first Olympic games stands before the destructive force of a radical inferno.
I'm not an advocate of The Olympics. I dabble in combat sports, mostly training, competition now and again, but I am a fan of history and that deteriorating quality established centuries ago known as honor.
I can imagine how horrible the people of Peloponnese must feel, but I may never know; I would not want to know. Their helplessness magnified by looking to their government with betrayed laiden eyes. Greece is not a rich country, or even a financially stable one. They have little money, relying on the commerce of tourists as the country's primary source of income, and now they may believe that they have even less hope.
Look around you. Where are you? If you are alive, if you have a home, if you know love, enjoy it, cherish it; leave me be - I'm disgusted.
Arsonists seeking to clear land for development are believed to cause most fires. While building in forest areas is banned, land may be re-classified after a fire, letting developers move in.
This disturbs me to no end. Nearly 60 people have died; a mother charred mother and her four children were found. She smothered them with herself, protecting them from the flames.
And Olympia is in danger. The sight of the first Olympic games stands before the destructive force of a radical inferno.
I'm not an advocate of The Olympics. I dabble in combat sports, mostly training, competition now and again, but I am a fan of history and that deteriorating quality established centuries ago known as honor.
I can imagine how horrible the people of Peloponnese must feel, but I may never know; I would not want to know. Their helplessness magnified by looking to their government with betrayed laiden eyes. Greece is not a rich country, or even a financially stable one. They have little money, relying on the commerce of tourists as the country's primary source of income, and now they may believe that they have even less hope.
Look around you. Where are you? If you are alive, if you have a home, if you know love, enjoy it, cherish it; leave me be - I'm disgusted.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Up Into the Sky
You said you were trying to cope, but the downtime depressed you. It wasn't the life you were accustomed to. You couldn't grow flowers from inside the house. You couldn't breathe nature's air from a bed.
Then, you tricked us; made believe everything was alright. You asked for the window to be opened. We turned around to pull the curtains, and you were already up in the sky.
Then, you tricked us; made believe everything was alright. You asked for the window to be opened. We turned around to pull the curtains, and you were already up in the sky.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
A Good Man
Just got back from a wake. A good friend's father passed away last night. No work tonight, the whole thing took too much out of me, more than I certainly anticipated.
Friend's dad was a good man, a hard worker, and loved his family to the fullest extent.
Will be in San Antonio this weekend. Do something I'm too scarred to do (yes, scarred): tell those closest to you that you love them.
Cheers.
Friend's dad was a good man, a hard worker, and loved his family to the fullest extent.
Will be in San Antonio this weekend. Do something I'm too scarred to do (yes, scarred): tell those closest to you that you love them.
Cheers.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Confession
I attempt to destroy every good thing that comes my way. It's practically a reaction. I'm not against happiness, but if I'm not miserable, then I don't know I'm alive.
I need to give me a break and keep some good for a change, but first, I need to make it, then, I'll try it. I'm inclined to agree; happiness is an illusion made by man, misery is the truth.
Too much Immanuel Kant.
I need to give me a break and keep some good for a change, but first, I need to make it, then, I'll try it. I'm inclined to agree; happiness is an illusion made by man, misery is the truth.
Too much Immanuel Kant.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Can't Concentrate
Can't concentrate for shit.
My mind is split a million different avenues; has been for the past few days. The book is done, now I need to get the letter to the agent, but I'm not having the best of luck getting it to read the way it should. I can do it for everyone else, but not myself? What the fuck?
Story of my life.
All I want is a small house in the mountains, surrounded by an electric fence mounted with motion censor triggered assault rifles. Behind the fence: man-eating wolves, and a bridge-less moat filled with crocodiles, preferably crocodiles because they are more aggressive than alligators.
My mind is split a million different avenues; has been for the past few days. The book is done, now I need to get the letter to the agent, but I'm not having the best of luck getting it to read the way it should. I can do it for everyone else, but not myself? What the fuck?
Story of my life.
All I want is a small house in the mountains, surrounded by an electric fence mounted with motion censor triggered assault rifles. Behind the fence: man-eating wolves, and a bridge-less moat filled with crocodiles, preferably crocodiles because they are more aggressive than alligators.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Madness in Love
Why she keeps popping up in my head, I don't know.
Why she's the last person I think about before passing out
After trying to drown the passion out of my system,
I don't know.
Why I wanted to be with her when she drove me insane,
Tested my temper;
Pissed me off
Every time we were together - -
It didn't change that I loved her for it
Every waking moment.
Why she's the last person I think about before passing out
After trying to drown the passion out of my system,
I don't know.
Why I wanted to be with her when she drove me insane,
Tested my temper;
Pissed me off
Every time we were together - -
It didn't change that I loved her for it
Every waking moment.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Buildings
The body behind me was just that - a body. It had stopped being a person about twenty minutes ago. Three days prior, I would've been rumagging through its pockets, picking out whatever money was in there, but now after the explosions leveled the country, killing millions - money seemed kinda moot.
Maybe I should get it, just in case.
Another explosion. The ground shook, once from the detonation, again from the building's collapse.
Wish I had some cake right about now.
Maybe I should get it, just in case.
Another explosion. The ground shook, once from the detonation, again from the building's collapse.
Wish I had some cake right about now.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Lonely Beneath the Bridge
Walking through the garden.
The flowers smell so sweet,
The rain was kind to them
Over the summer.
Strolling across the bridge,
A voice howled underneath.
"Come play with me."
"Are you mad?"
I said. "Are you
Lost in the drift?"
It was lonely,
It was frightened,
And it was below the bridge.
The flowers smell so sweet,
The rain was kind to them
Over the summer.
Strolling across the bridge,
A voice howled underneath.
"Come play with me."
"Are you mad?"
I said. "Are you
Lost in the drift?"
It was lonely,
It was frightened,
And it was below the bridge.
Too Soon
Have been slowed down by a string of deaths lately, most notably the wonderful artist Mike Wieringo. He was a kind man, with a magical ability to put his imagination on paper. He was 44 - died of a heart attack.
R.I.P. Mike Wieringo.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Currently Reading
If I wrote a book about pool:
How I spend my vacation...
Or...How David payed for college (Volume 3).
Friday, August 10, 2007
Woo-Hoo
Boyfriend dancing, singing woo-whoo, while strutting the rhythms of a funky chicken.
He lost a bet with his girlfriend.
He lost a bet with his girlfriend.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Random Thoughts
- If I walk across this room, will I have just aged twenty feet?
- If they can tint a car's window, can't they just tint the Earth's perimeter?
- That is one ugly child.
- Just because your baby is mesmerised by a computer does not mean it will be a technical wizard. Just because it smiles when a camera goes off does not mean they will be a model or a photographer.
If I were to take a pile of crap, poor glitter all over it, and bounce light off of it, I'm pretty sure the child would emit the same reaction as it would to a computer or a camera.
Maybe, just maybe, your kid likes really shiny, bright shit.
- If they can tint a car's window, can't they just tint the Earth's perimeter?
- That is one ugly child.
- Just because your baby is mesmerised by a computer does not mean it will be a technical wizard. Just because it smiles when a camera goes off does not mean they will be a model or a photographer.
If I were to take a pile of crap, poor glitter all over it, and bounce light off of it, I'm pretty sure the child would emit the same reaction as it would to a computer or a camera.
Maybe, just maybe, your kid likes really shiny, bright shit.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Tombstones By the Lake
Trevor dislikes it when people say we, and they expect him to be involved in that we. There are very few people he has ever believed in we, and for one reason or another, he has broken up with most of them.
Then there was tonight. It was another night out with Shrill, but Shrill had past his liquor limit long before calling Trevor. Trevor had been ready - he had movies ready to watch back home.
Driving back, Trevor lit up a cigarette. It took him 3 months to finish one pack. He wasn't a chain smoker, or a even a frequent one. It was usually a spontaneous thing. Sometimes he used it just a reason to cruise around.
Once, near Mexico, Trevor found two unmarked tombstomes beneath a tree near a lake. It made him crave a cigarette for the first time in twelve years. He'll never tell which lake. One day he wants to go back there and smoke a cigarette. He wants it to still be there - alone, undisturbed - he is afraid once he tells someone where it is exactly, it will disappear.
Then there was tonight. It was another night out with Shrill, but Shrill had past his liquor limit long before calling Trevor. Trevor had been ready - he had movies ready to watch back home.
Driving back, Trevor lit up a cigarette. It took him 3 months to finish one pack. He wasn't a chain smoker, or a even a frequent one. It was usually a spontaneous thing. Sometimes he used it just a reason to cruise around.
Once, near Mexico, Trevor found two unmarked tombstomes beneath a tree near a lake. It made him crave a cigarette for the first time in twelve years. He'll never tell which lake. One day he wants to go back there and smoke a cigarette. He wants it to still be there - alone, undisturbed - he is afraid once he tells someone where it is exactly, it will disappear.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Rubber Food
I have just consumed pieces of a turkey built like an ostrich that seems to have attempted an escape from its executioners by donning a rubber wetsuit and diving into the ocean. It must have not been unaware of its incapablity to swim. And when the stalkers finally fished it out, they decided to cook it in the wet suit.
I took one bight and my jaw recoiled nearly locking itself. I'd walk around like a poor soul that had just seen his grandmother in a bukkake film with midgets, zebras, and their former wrestling coach.
Meat inside was salvagble. Seriously, the thing's leg was the sive of my forearm.
I took one bight and my jaw recoiled nearly locking itself. I'd walk around like a poor soul that had just seen his grandmother in a bukkake film with midgets, zebras, and their former wrestling coach.
Meat inside was salvagble. Seriously, the thing's leg was the sive of my forearm.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
China tells living Buddhas to obtain permission before they reincarnate.
The ban is included in new rules intended to assert Beijing’s authority over Tibet’s restive and deeply Buddhist people.
Help Me
A young, don't-know-better called me a genious this morning. I made them gag on their own fingers.
I don't respond to complements very well.
I don't respond to complements very well.
Something Else
What is your vision? Sometimes, being a Gemini, I feel damned, but damned for what? What is your vision?
The beauty of the net: Pieces of my mind, thought, beliefs; they are everywhere. There is no more mainstream. The net is the mainstream. Once it's on the web, it's no longer underground. Everything we do, we say; every act that is commited - beastiality, murder, taboo sex, porno, shooting heroine in our eyelids - nothing is sacred, and very little remains taboo, if anything.
I frighten people. I didn't realise it until last night when I was standing in the grocery line. A gigantic white boy, waiting with his lover took one look at me and said GAWD DAMN!! That boy's big.
I never thought myself to be a large individual, but when regulars at the gym start looking at you, and their retinas begin to protrude past their facial lids - you know you're big. You know you're a freak, you know you are something else. I don't care if I'm something special. Fuck special. I'd rather be something Else.
The beauty of the net: Pieces of my mind, thought, beliefs; they are everywhere. There is no more mainstream. The net is the mainstream. Once it's on the web, it's no longer underground. Everything we do, we say; every act that is commited - beastiality, murder, taboo sex, porno, shooting heroine in our eyelids - nothing is sacred, and very little remains taboo, if anything.
I frighten people. I didn't realise it until last night when I was standing in the grocery line. A gigantic white boy, waiting with his lover took one look at me and said GAWD DAMN!! That boy's big.
I never thought myself to be a large individual, but when regulars at the gym start looking at you, and their retinas begin to protrude past their facial lids - you know you're big. You know you're a freak, you know you are something else. I don't care if I'm something special. Fuck special. I'd rather be something Else.
Friday, August 03, 2007
Fried Lizard
Awakening was acrid on the eyes, while it wasn't until the morning struck his pupils that Phillip realised the sheer awfulness of a day beginning.
He reached for the stand to grab his cigarettes, gingerly avoiding the wall, even in his vomitous state. He touched the fried lizard embedded into the wall to turn on the lamp the previous night, and had no intentions of grazing his flesh against its burnt pungent scales again. He felt the box, grabbed a smoke, and lit up.
Phillip hobbled to the bathroom, again picking where he touched quite carefully. He brushed his teeth amongst the exploded entrails of thousands of smashed insects, arachnids, and other species of prickling vermin.
He spit, rinsed, and continued huffing on the nicotine stick as if it were the only true breakfast of champions.
Back in the bed, he wanted to catch more sleep, but smoking woke him up to the fullest. He soon found himself in the mood for breakfast. If he had judged the food in this motel by the black abyss consuming the pit that was supposed to have water fr a swimming pool, he was better off eating the fried lizard.
He reached for the stand to grab his cigarettes, gingerly avoiding the wall, even in his vomitous state. He touched the fried lizard embedded into the wall to turn on the lamp the previous night, and had no intentions of grazing his flesh against its burnt pungent scales again. He felt the box, grabbed a smoke, and lit up.
Phillip hobbled to the bathroom, again picking where he touched quite carefully. He brushed his teeth amongst the exploded entrails of thousands of smashed insects, arachnids, and other species of prickling vermin.
He spit, rinsed, and continued huffing on the nicotine stick as if it were the only true breakfast of champions.
Back in the bed, he wanted to catch more sleep, but smoking woke him up to the fullest. He soon found himself in the mood for breakfast. If he had judged the food in this motel by the black abyss consuming the pit that was supposed to have water fr a swimming pool, he was better off eating the fried lizard.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Does It Spit Acid Too?
Acquired a new phone today. there are people willing to give me money, and in order for them to obtain me and my head of useless knowledge, and sometimes helpful if only charming anecdotes, there must be a portable voice message system where they can tell the available digital space that they are willing to give me money.
What? Talk to them? You're funny.
While waiting for the silver substance, which honest to god, I've swallowed pills larger than this thing, and probably for less harmful diseases than I'll get because of this phone - but walking in, waiting, one would think I was either buying a plane ticket or some righteously impressive heroine in England. Truly and odd experience on both counts.
My clothes do not match my brain, though they are patterened after my "bomb my house, I don't care" philosophy, which rides parallel with my "speak to me, I obliterate your sanity" ideology. The hostess - there's a bloody hostess for a phone shop - she took one look at me, her eyes said he can't afford us, he shouldn't be here, while my eyes responded with, not today - I know twelve ways to paralyze you, where you are standing, using only the pen in my pocket, and I'm quickly working on number thirteen. Maybe it was my smile that calmed her down.
Everything else went smoothly, though nowadays one cannot get just a phone. It has to be a portable entertainment unit that fits inside your pocket, otherwise the normals in society will label you inhumane; as one fitting to be cast back to the stone age to be sodomized by giant lizards despite giant lizards they are thinking of never existing in the stone age.
But gee my phone is pretty.
What? Talk to them? You're funny.
While waiting for the silver substance, which honest to god, I've swallowed pills larger than this thing, and probably for less harmful diseases than I'll get because of this phone - but walking in, waiting, one would think I was either buying a plane ticket or some righteously impressive heroine in England. Truly and odd experience on both counts.
My clothes do not match my brain, though they are patterened after my "bomb my house, I don't care" philosophy, which rides parallel with my "speak to me, I obliterate your sanity" ideology. The hostess - there's a bloody hostess for a phone shop - she took one look at me, her eyes said he can't afford us, he shouldn't be here, while my eyes responded with, not today - I know twelve ways to paralyze you, where you are standing, using only the pen in my pocket, and I'm quickly working on number thirteen. Maybe it was my smile that calmed her down.
Everything else went smoothly, though nowadays one cannot get just a phone. It has to be a portable entertainment unit that fits inside your pocket, otherwise the normals in society will label you inhumane; as one fitting to be cast back to the stone age to be sodomized by giant lizards despite giant lizards they are thinking of never existing in the stone age.
But gee my phone is pretty.
More Research
The last song to ever make me wet myself in fright. Skinny Puppy's "The Killing Game" grabbed my heart, stretching its harmonized, vibrating tentacles through my arteries, splitting to my brain and testicles. The ascending appendages squeezed my eyes, forcing out tears as it stunned the frontal portions of my brain - this song knows where fear is created - and I cried while the descending half slapped my bladder until there was nothing left but bile the leftover from the edible chum that sticks to the sides of the intestine.
After, I could never walk past a keyboard without urinating until I bled, and puking until my retinas burned with such ferocity I was driven to splash my face with the coolest liquid nearby, often times toilet water, shouting, "I am not immune! Can't you see?! I am not immune!!" in between the rounds of heaving food chunks.
After, I could never walk past a keyboard without urinating until I bled, and puking until my retinas burned with such ferocity I was driven to splash my face with the coolest liquid nearby, often times toilet water, shouting, "I am not immune! Can't you see?! I am not immune!!" in between the rounds of heaving food chunks.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Because I'm Feeling So Chipper
Here's a little bit of Hanzel und Gretyl.
It's also a warmup to the piece I'm writing on Ministry, which is forcing me to weep a bit. Their next release has been declared by Mr. Jourgensen to be their final one.
It's also a warmup to the piece I'm writing on Ministry, which is forcing me to weep a bit. Their next release has been declared by Mr. Jourgensen to be their final one.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Sunday, July 29, 2007
And because there are not enough glitched humans walking around....
Scientists breed world’s first mentally ill mouse.
I can't wait. Soon I'll muddley awaken to a Desert Pocket Mouse throttling my throat with its manufactured, hyper-extended tale as it sings "Careless Whispers" by Wham.
Scientists breed world’s first mentally ill mouse.
I can't wait. Soon I'll muddley awaken to a Desert Pocket Mouse throttling my throat with its manufactured, hyper-extended tale as it sings "Careless Whispers" by Wham.
Shoots & Letters
Today someone told me I was pejorative. So I called them an aardvark fucker and challeneged them to a game of Russian Scrabble/Roulette. Every time one makes a triple-word score, they take a mercy shot.
Naturally, me being pejorative, they declined, cried, and stole the gun and one bullett I was going to use. Maybe they were right about me being pejorative, but I was right about them being an aardvark fucker.
Naturally, me being pejorative, they declined, cried, and stole the gun and one bullett I was going to use. Maybe they were right about me being pejorative, but I was right about them being an aardvark fucker.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
I Hang My Head in Shame
Let me make this clear. I despise Good Charlotte. I loathe Good Charlotte.
But damn if I'm not infatuated with this song.
The lyrics are awful, but when the chorus erupts, I can't fight the rush.
However, Namie Amuro's "Come" I will request at my funeral dance party. If I've never told you about my funeral dance party - wait. I will.
But damn if I'm not infatuated with this song.
The lyrics are awful, but when the chorus erupts, I can't fight the rush.
However, Namie Amuro's "Come" I will request at my funeral dance party. If I've never told you about my funeral dance party - wait. I will.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Galaxy Cocktail
Apparently you can fly a space shuttle drunk.
My question: Why the hell would you dare fly it sober? That's insane.
My question: Why the hell would you dare fly it sober? That's insane.
Stumbling Corpse
I managed two hours. Better than last night. I've always had this problem, ever since childhood.
I was doing fine, but then the sky decided to unleash a thousand furies of ideas in the form of thunder, and for some reason the portal to conception ventured through my windows.
I'm the type of person, if I sleep for ten minutes, I'm rejuvinated; as fresh as a soggy Frankenstein monster, and just as coherent. I don't know if we share the sneezing out brain matter thing. That one may just be mine.
I was doing fine, but then the sky decided to unleash a thousand furies of ideas in the form of thunder, and for some reason the portal to conception ventured through my windows.
I'm the type of person, if I sleep for ten minutes, I'm rejuvinated; as fresh as a soggy Frankenstein monster, and just as coherent. I don't know if we share the sneezing out brain matter thing. That one may just be mine.
Saving Sleep
Went for a walk in the midnight drizzle. I lay my head on the pillow - nothing happens. Sleep is something one should not wait for, yet I find it to be an endless interval, one I can never cross easily.
If I cannot sleep I go back to work. The television is my primary source for background noise (I never watch anymore). I used to write with music, but recently I have grown more accustomed to writing in silence.
Work is my first option while waiting for slumber because if all I do is lull about, waiting for that sad whisper - - When I'm awake, I think. I think alot. Awake or awaiting dreams there are two things primarily on my mind - 1) The future 2) Death.
I harbor assmesments of both in abundance. I think about the collapse of civilization, and how indubitably I was born in the wrong century. I belong in the Roman era, but I if there were any way for me to be a part of Victorian England, oh I would jump at the opportunity. Also, post-apocalyptic times; just not here - not now. But here I am, and I try to make the best of it.
Death. I have always shown an affinity towards the matter, more so in a scientific sense, but spirituality is a big part of my life, and the places I have been - graveyards at midnight, the deep mountains of Mexico, marching with the brujas and cullanderos - bewildering. But usually I dwell on my grandfather's death (soon, sadly), my mother's death (inevitable), and my own.
My grandfather is my world. He and my grandmother loved me, raised me, and were it not for them I probably would not have had much of a life at all.
There are things that I have done, instances experienced where I probably should have opened the door outside of existence, but for whatever reason, here I reside. It sustains this nagging ideal that maybe I am destined for something, even if on the outisde it appears to be the most insignificant action; be it turning on a light switch, crossing a street, or staring at a discarded candy wrapper - I am still on this planet because somewhere something is going to happen and I will be a part of it.
Everyday things happen, and I am a part of them.
When I was eighteen years old I disappeared. Neither family or friend new what had happened to me until I made that phone call, telling them everything was fine. Eventually I found my way back home, having lived enough for five lives. I don't think I will ever speak of what happened during those times, not here - I may drop a hint or two now and again - and even if I were to die tomorrow, I will know what kind of person I am or was, and if you believe in a higher power, that higher power will know what kind of being posessed this body, and what kind of spirit kept peace within the flesh.
Lately, I look around, and I am starting to ask myself those questions again. Could I give it all up for a trek through the unknown? Could I do it again?
Time will be the keeper of those tales.
If I cannot sleep I go back to work. The television is my primary source for background noise (I never watch anymore). I used to write with music, but recently I have grown more accustomed to writing in silence.
Work is my first option while waiting for slumber because if all I do is lull about, waiting for that sad whisper - - When I'm awake, I think. I think alot. Awake or awaiting dreams there are two things primarily on my mind - 1) The future 2) Death.
I harbor assmesments of both in abundance. I think about the collapse of civilization, and how indubitably I was born in the wrong century. I belong in the Roman era, but I if there were any way for me to be a part of Victorian England, oh I would jump at the opportunity. Also, post-apocalyptic times; just not here - not now. But here I am, and I try to make the best of it.
Death. I have always shown an affinity towards the matter, more so in a scientific sense, but spirituality is a big part of my life, and the places I have been - graveyards at midnight, the deep mountains of Mexico, marching with the brujas and cullanderos - bewildering. But usually I dwell on my grandfather's death (soon, sadly), my mother's death (inevitable), and my own.
My grandfather is my world. He and my grandmother loved me, raised me, and were it not for them I probably would not have had much of a life at all.
There are things that I have done, instances experienced where I probably should have opened the door outside of existence, but for whatever reason, here I reside. It sustains this nagging ideal that maybe I am destined for something, even if on the outisde it appears to be the most insignificant action; be it turning on a light switch, crossing a street, or staring at a discarded candy wrapper - I am still on this planet because somewhere something is going to happen and I will be a part of it.
Everyday things happen, and I am a part of them.
When I was eighteen years old I disappeared. Neither family or friend new what had happened to me until I made that phone call, telling them everything was fine. Eventually I found my way back home, having lived enough for five lives. I don't think I will ever speak of what happened during those times, not here - I may drop a hint or two now and again - and even if I were to die tomorrow, I will know what kind of person I am or was, and if you believe in a higher power, that higher power will know what kind of being posessed this body, and what kind of spirit kept peace within the flesh.
Lately, I look around, and I am starting to ask myself those questions again. Could I give it all up for a trek through the unknown? Could I do it again?
Time will be the keeper of those tales.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Sore
Legs have been sore, going on day 3.
The book is coming along nicely, but there's not an hour that passes that I am not inclined to go back and do more rewrites. I just need to leave it alone.
The search for an agent is moving forward.
I fear awakening in the morning. Someone just take my legs away.
The book is coming along nicely, but there's not an hour that passes that I am not inclined to go back and do more rewrites. I just need to leave it alone.
The search for an agent is moving forward.
I fear awakening in the morning. Someone just take my legs away.
Pixelated Captivation
I am genuinely attracted to the red-headed woman from the Sonic commercials.
*sigh*
Her and Alex Borstein, formerly of Mad TV, now a Family Guy cast member and executive producer. Any woman that can make me laugh propels her right to the top of my list. The average male would look at me as if my eyes had been burned beyond procuration during a sixth grade science experiement, but I've never cared what the average male thinks, says, or does. I actually nothing the average male. I think Alex Borstein is downright delectable.
Jenny McCarthy and Sarah Chalke, too. I don't care for blondes at all, but these women are humorous, thus, to me, attractive. Eh - - go figure.
*sigh*
Her and Alex Borstein, formerly of Mad TV, now a Family Guy cast member and executive producer. Any woman that can make me laugh propels her right to the top of my list. The average male would look at me as if my eyes had been burned beyond procuration during a sixth grade science experiement, but I've never cared what the average male thinks, says, or does. I actually nothing the average male. I think Alex Borstein is downright delectable.
Jenny McCarthy and Sarah Chalke, too. I don't care for blondes at all, but these women are humorous, thus, to me, attractive. Eh - - go figure.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
The Mole People Stole My Kidney
Another ancient civilization may live inside Earth's hollows.
Legends say that an entry to the underground realms was located somewhere in the
North, and legendary ancient tribes living on the planet centuries ago used the
entries to have a good shelter under the Earth's surface.
Mystics believe that the entry to the legendary Hyperborea, Shambala and Plutonia is
carefully concealed from outsiders somewhere close to the North Pole. Recently,
a reliable edition reported that UFOs coming to this planet start not
from space but burst out from huge holes under the surface in the North
Pole.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Gloomy Beach Revisited
Today today, it rained, but that was when today, yes this today, was still yesterday me time, and technically today Earth time.
Anyway - This time breakfast was fine, and I had enough time to thread a path, a path so fine because I had allowed myself the time.
The readings were great, how great, great enough to jump to writing a page, the page turned two, then more after four - four more pages - more pages made great.
Coffee was a treat, and the call was neat.
The sadly lit beach was sweet, it felt like every kind of retreat -
The kind you soak in, the kind you surrender to -
The gray side of sunshine began to deplete.
Night was inevitable. Shadows and circuses
Being ever so hospitable.
Society's taboos declare it unlivable.
These worn eyes, shattered mind, and bendable heart
Imply that high night is incredible.
Fell free to chase a tale
I will return when the taste of the conversation is stale.
Then, when tales are extinct due to chase
The pace of watery paste reinvigorates the essence of the taste.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Eh. It is what it is. I was going to save it for later today, but I figured, it's an experiement; I'd like to believe that I can't screw up an experiment. The worst thing that could happen - I discover the written sequence that cracks through the third dimension, detonating explosions through hyper space, parenthetically dooming us all.
Or this piece could just really really suck.
Anyway - This time breakfast was fine, and I had enough time to thread a path, a path so fine because I had allowed myself the time.
The readings were great, how great, great enough to jump to writing a page, the page turned two, then more after four - four more pages - more pages made great.
Coffee was a treat, and the call was neat.
The sadly lit beach was sweet, it felt like every kind of retreat -
The kind you soak in, the kind you surrender to -
The gray side of sunshine began to deplete.
Night was inevitable. Shadows and circuses
Being ever so hospitable.
Society's taboos declare it unlivable.
These worn eyes, shattered mind, and bendable heart
Imply that high night is incredible.
Fell free to chase a tale
I will return when the taste of the conversation is stale.
Then, when tales are extinct due to chase
The pace of watery paste reinvigorates the essence of the taste.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Eh. It is what it is. I was going to save it for later today, but I figured, it's an experiement; I'd like to believe that I can't screw up an experiment. The worst thing that could happen - I discover the written sequence that cracks through the third dimension, detonating explosions through hyper space, parenthetically dooming us all.
Or this piece could just really really suck.
Gloomy Beach and the Dying Phone
Today today, it rained, but that was when today, yes this today, was still yesterday me time, time....
I finished this elsewhere, but orignally i went off into this:
- - - and I really don't know where I'm gong after that. It sounds well enough alone, but there's more - inside there's more.
But after getting some pages done, I got a call from my bro - not biologically bro, but still forever my bro.
Bro family and me headed to the beach, there was never a sighting of the sun. The gloom in the sky thrilled me. The water was warmer, the music was louder.
Came home, showered - Bro #2, formerly #1, but still #1, and still not biologically bro, but still forever bro - PLUS - is nephew of bro #1.
Yet, they're only 3 or 4 years apart. Ah, mi familia. Mi personas. Mi raza.
Still here? Had a blast at Gloomy Beach, then bro #2 called. Went to his new apartment, had another blast with old friends, still now-friends, but also old friends. Then, wife and keeper of bro #2 came back home. Chatted with her a bit, chatted on a disintegrating phone, went elsewhere.
There was ice cream when I came home, and my cell phone is committing suicide, very slowly, very quietly.
I finished this elsewhere, but orignally i went off into this:
- - - and I really don't know where I'm gong after that. It sounds well enough alone, but there's more - inside there's more.
But after getting some pages done, I got a call from my bro - not biologically bro, but still forever my bro.
Bro family and me headed to the beach, there was never a sighting of the sun. The gloom in the sky thrilled me. The water was warmer, the music was louder.
Came home, showered - Bro #2, formerly #1, but still #1, and still not biologically bro, but still forever bro - PLUS - is nephew of bro #1.
Yet, they're only 3 or 4 years apart. Ah, mi familia. Mi personas. Mi raza.
Still here? Had a blast at Gloomy Beach, then bro #2 called. Went to his new apartment, had another blast with old friends, still now-friends, but also old friends. Then, wife and keeper of bro #2 came back home. Chatted with her a bit, chatted on a disintegrating phone, went elsewhere.
There was ice cream when I came home, and my cell phone is committing suicide, very slowly, very quietly.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Taste of Humanity
I was kidnapped.
I went out, and enjoyed an afternoon with friends, then they dragged me - yes, dragged - I kicked, screamed; one of them needs a new liver as I'm still digging what's left of his from beneath my fingernails. But I was dragged across South Texas, and while not all bad, I lost a whole work day - not that I mind giving editors heart attacks. She's only 35, and after two months with me, the new white in her hair is settling in nicely. I think I've even gotten her to start keeping liquor in the office.
That would explain the i.v. I noticed her trying to pass off as a coat rack.
"David, high. It's a pleasure meeting you. I've read your stuff; very nice."
"Nice to meet you, Jennifer. I fucking hate editors."
Jennifer stares awkawardly.
"Don't worry. I meant to say that out loud."
"Oh god, the rumors are true?"
"I thought we were well past the rumor stage."
"The baseball bat through the window?"
Silence.
"The pregnant dog under the desk?"
Silence.
"Not the elephant urine in the truck bed?"
"Stick to punctuation and spelling, we'll be fine. Ask me to change the content, and every Christmas for the rest of your life will be forever shamed with reindeer carcasses strung up in your front lawn, execution style."
"Fake reindeer? That's extreme."
"Who said fake."
Back to work.
P.S. Seriously, Jennifer's been the best. The reindeer are happy.
I went out, and enjoyed an afternoon with friends, then they dragged me - yes, dragged - I kicked, screamed; one of them needs a new liver as I'm still digging what's left of his from beneath my fingernails. But I was dragged across South Texas, and while not all bad, I lost a whole work day - not that I mind giving editors heart attacks. She's only 35, and after two months with me, the new white in her hair is settling in nicely. I think I've even gotten her to start keeping liquor in the office.
That would explain the i.v. I noticed her trying to pass off as a coat rack.
"David, high. It's a pleasure meeting you. I've read your stuff; very nice."
"Nice to meet you, Jennifer. I fucking hate editors."
Jennifer stares awkawardly.
"Don't worry. I meant to say that out loud."
"Oh god, the rumors are true?"
"I thought we were well past the rumor stage."
"The baseball bat through the window?"
Silence.
"The pregnant dog under the desk?"
Silence.
"Not the elephant urine in the truck bed?"
"Stick to punctuation and spelling, we'll be fine. Ask me to change the content, and every Christmas for the rest of your life will be forever shamed with reindeer carcasses strung up in your front lawn, execution style."
"Fake reindeer? That's extreme."
"Who said fake."
Back to work.
P.S. Seriously, Jennifer's been the best. The reindeer are happy.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Rain In Glass
Working on some things, and suddenly it starts raining. Rain is a rariity down here, and the humidity immediately turns the pleasurable earth cry, and the land in which I live, into a loathesome torture cell madeo of five foot mosquitoes, and moths that block out the moon. Sometimes I mistake them for bats.
Today it rained, and I desperately yearned to watch it, but I didn't want to stop working. That's when I looked to the wall and remembered, I have windows. The snapping, squeaking grind of the turning knob shattered my eardrums as the caked dust collapsed from the blinds. It was beautiful outside. It was dim, gloomy, and soaked. And now I know I have windows. I never have to leave this room again.
Today it rained, and I desperately yearned to watch it, but I didn't want to stop working. That's when I looked to the wall and remembered, I have windows. The snapping, squeaking grind of the turning knob shattered my eardrums as the caked dust collapsed from the blinds. It was beautiful outside. It was dim, gloomy, and soaked. And now I know I have windows. I never have to leave this room again.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Graves in the Ocean
The sound of waves crashing reminded him of the planes collapsing back in the war. The impulse field distracted all the instruments, ceasing their function. Machines died, then, the giants fell.
The orange horizon did little to distract his memories. The great explosion was the same color, only it shifted between orange and red every three seconds. He knew it was every three seconds because that was the time interval for him to detonate the next charges. As he did so, corpses washed up to the shore. Some of them still moving, ut those were only the muscle jerks that dead things do shortly after passing. Some of the soiled themselves, others spouted small spirts of blood and sea water.
He used to love the beach, always being the first one to jump in the water, but now, all he saw was his reflection, and dead people staring up at him from the bottom, with fish nibbling on the caracasses.
Some day, he thought, some day he would get over it. But not today.
The orange horizon did little to distract his memories. The great explosion was the same color, only it shifted between orange and red every three seconds. He knew it was every three seconds because that was the time interval for him to detonate the next charges. As he did so, corpses washed up to the shore. Some of them still moving, ut those were only the muscle jerks that dead things do shortly after passing. Some of the soiled themselves, others spouted small spirts of blood and sea water.
He used to love the beach, always being the first one to jump in the water, but now, all he saw was his reflection, and dead people staring up at him from the bottom, with fish nibbling on the caracasses.
Some day, he thought, some day he would get over it. But not today.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
It Was Bloody
It's bloody, Lisa thought.
At what point was she supposed to breathe? When was she supposed to call on Hagin for the release?
Luckily, light cracked through the opening overhead. She breathed in relief as her shoulders threw the weight of their world off of them.
"Lisa," Hagin called.
"Hagin," she whispered.
"It's alright," his hand outstretched to lift her up. "It's over."
As she reached for her rescue, a crimson drip fell from Hagin's feet. She knew it was bloody.
At what point was she supposed to breathe? When was she supposed to call on Hagin for the release?
Luckily, light cracked through the opening overhead. She breathed in relief as her shoulders threw the weight of their world off of them.
"Lisa," Hagin called.
"Hagin," she whispered.
"It's alright," his hand outstretched to lift her up. "It's over."
As she reached for her rescue, a crimson drip fell from Hagin's feet. She knew it was bloody.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Funeral With a Sledgehammer
My stereo died today. I tried to salvage it,but the needs were beyond my means.
It's probably for the best.
No, I don't have an ipod. I do have a cozey pocket-sized mp3 player, which is adequate for letting me ignore people. I barely admit to having a cell phone. Sometimes I forget it's even there. I don't want it. I don't like it. I don't like phones. I prefer not to use the word "hate" much, but yes, I hate phones.
It's probably for the best.
No, I don't have an ipod. I do have a cozey pocket-sized mp3 player, which is adequate for letting me ignore people. I barely admit to having a cell phone. Sometimes I forget it's even there. I don't want it. I don't like it. I don't like phones. I prefer not to use the word "hate" much, but yes, I hate phones.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Reading Now
Currently working through Arthur Koestler's "Darkness at Noon." It's set in the Russia, during the 1930's; a fragile time for the Soviet Union. Rubashov is a glorious figure in the eyes of the revolutioinaries. One day he is arrested, and thus begins the inner workings of the machine, and a new understanding of what Rubashov is fighting for and against.
I really needed something like this, something so focussed on the mentality of its narrator, particularly because of what I'm working on.
Also, I grew numb after reading so many books on new technology, the lives of corpses, the history of Krakatoa, the biography on the Fox sisters, and two Nikola Tesla biographies (still a hero to me, with a third biography on the way); I just needed me some good fiction. "Darkness at Noon" has provided me with that bridge between both worlds.
This book has helped me tremendously in only a few pages on how to really get a protagonist's point and ideal across. I'm hoping to devote more time to it, even got rid of my television for a while, but as the book is coming along, and my training regiment is improving daily, I may need to ease up on the work outs so I can get more done on the writing front. Only about a month left of downtime, too, so time is once again a factor. It's always a factor.
Just breathe.
I'm also treading through Neil Gaiman's "Fragile Things," another short story collection of his. I like being able to start and finish some pieces on the same day, so this one has been handy, as well as enjoyable, and Neil Gaiman has always been a treasure.
The last book I remember reading in one day was Stephen Chblosky's "Perks of Being A Wallflower;" something I hadn't accomplished since junior high, with my old Michael Moorcock pocket novels. One page was filled with such extravagantly detailed fantasy along with raw, real emotion. When teacher was scrawling on the chalkboard, I was nose deep in Hawkmoon's next adventure, or Elric's latest tragedy. Fritz Lieber was a close second, but his narration was always a bit dry for my taste.
I will miss Michael Moorcock when he leaves this world. I don't feel like thinking about it right now.
I really needed something like this, something so focussed on the mentality of its narrator, particularly because of what I'm working on.
Also, I grew numb after reading so many books on new technology, the lives of corpses, the history of Krakatoa, the biography on the Fox sisters, and two Nikola Tesla biographies (still a hero to me, with a third biography on the way); I just needed me some good fiction. "Darkness at Noon" has provided me with that bridge between both worlds.
This book has helped me tremendously in only a few pages on how to really get a protagonist's point and ideal across. I'm hoping to devote more time to it, even got rid of my television for a while, but as the book is coming along, and my training regiment is improving daily, I may need to ease up on the work outs so I can get more done on the writing front. Only about a month left of downtime, too, so time is once again a factor. It's always a factor.
Just breathe.
I'm also treading through Neil Gaiman's "Fragile Things," another short story collection of his. I like being able to start and finish some pieces on the same day, so this one has been handy, as well as enjoyable, and Neil Gaiman has always been a treasure.
The last book I remember reading in one day was Stephen Chblosky's "Perks of Being A Wallflower;" something I hadn't accomplished since junior high, with my old Michael Moorcock pocket novels. One page was filled with such extravagantly detailed fantasy along with raw, real emotion. When teacher was scrawling on the chalkboard, I was nose deep in Hawkmoon's next adventure, or Elric's latest tragedy. Fritz Lieber was a close second, but his narration was always a bit dry for my taste.
I will miss Michael Moorcock when he leaves this world. I don't feel like thinking about it right now.
Invisible Nano-Fibers
Checking in the mail. Found this interesting tidbit.
Now, to construct an army that sweats out onion scented perspiration, and unleash them upon my enemies. They will weep themselves into submission.
...researchers describe how they created surfaces that, seen with the eye, look as flat and transparent as a sheet of glass. But seen up close, the surfaces are actually carpeted with tiny fibers.
What's more, researchers found that the attracting surface does the same thing to coiled-up strands of DNA. When they put droplets of water containing DNA on the fibers, the strands uncoiled and hung suspended from the fibers like clotheslines.
Epstein said scientists could use the fibers as a platform to study how DNA interacts with other molecules. They could also use the spread-out DNA to build new nanostructures.
Now, to construct an army that sweats out onion scented perspiration, and unleash them upon my enemies. They will weep themselves into submission.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
SCREW YOU, I'M MAKING A MANUAL !!
Babies get mad when you bite the tips off of popsicles.
I have just saved you thousands of dollars in therapist fees.
I have just saved you thousands of dollars in therapist fees.
London
This was written on November 4, 2006 around half past midnight.
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-
-
London's asleep, and the skies were falling among the richest neighborhood's, among the worst, and among the lowest. Everyone shared pain that evening, and as the whistling metal plunged to the public and private, the rumble savaged workers knew it was only the beginning. They were needed.
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-
-
Yeah. Your guess is as good as mine. I don't even recall writing it.
-
-
-
London's asleep, and the skies were falling among the richest neighborhood's, among the worst, and among the lowest. Everyone shared pain that evening, and as the whistling metal plunged to the public and private, the rumble savaged workers knew it was only the beginning. They were needed.
-
-
-
Yeah. Your guess is as good as mine. I don't even recall writing it.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Out of Town Stamped Only
Dear, Pen Pal
Hope things are well. Hope your government hasn't executed any in your family today. Hope you are alive to get this. I remember when you told me about the time they captured your uncle out of the toilet, suspecting him of aiding war fugitives with a tunnel. Then, they made him serve most of his sentence standing in the collection basin for the government army's latrines. How is he doing without feet, by the way?
Sometimes I feel that your limited access to the internet isn't so bad. It's not THAT great. But I'm pretty sure your loss of freedom kinda takes top priority.
The internet has done wonders for research and advertisement, and I've met some wonderful personalities, as well as a multitude of douchebags.
Bah. I fear I'm writing this letter at an ill time. The internet is not so bad, and much like alot, one's purpose defines the use.
Did they let you dig the corpses out of the ground before commanding you to plant the vegetables?
Everything here is well, though I feel this to be my Grandfather's last year alive. I'm ready for it, I've accepted it, but I really don't know what to expect until it happens. It wasn't like the last time he died. I mean, who would have thought; a busted gas vein, seeping gas through cracked earth, swirling within an air pocket, and Grampa just wanting to smoke a cigarette.
Damn, those paramedics were outstanding.
Must go, more work to do. Good luck, hope you're alive, and stay that way. Hopefully you can sneak out another letter soon. Cheers.
-David-
Hope things are well. Hope your government hasn't executed any in your family today. Hope you are alive to get this. I remember when you told me about the time they captured your uncle out of the toilet, suspecting him of aiding war fugitives with a tunnel. Then, they made him serve most of his sentence standing in the collection basin for the government army's latrines. How is he doing without feet, by the way?
Sometimes I feel that your limited access to the internet isn't so bad. It's not THAT great. But I'm pretty sure your loss of freedom kinda takes top priority.
The internet has done wonders for research and advertisement, and I've met some wonderful personalities, as well as a multitude of douchebags.
Bah. I fear I'm writing this letter at an ill time. The internet is not so bad, and much like alot, one's purpose defines the use.
Did they let you dig the corpses out of the ground before commanding you to plant the vegetables?
Everything here is well, though I feel this to be my Grandfather's last year alive. I'm ready for it, I've accepted it, but I really don't know what to expect until it happens. It wasn't like the last time he died. I mean, who would have thought; a busted gas vein, seeping gas through cracked earth, swirling within an air pocket, and Grampa just wanting to smoke a cigarette.
Damn, those paramedics were outstanding.
Must go, more work to do. Good luck, hope you're alive, and stay that way. Hopefully you can sneak out another letter soon. Cheers.
-David-
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Shoko Tendo - A Yakuza Daughter
Doing some research on body modification, and ran across this story. I felt it was worth sharing.
Shoko Tendo is the daughter of a yakuza gangster. She's been forced into sex, and drug addiction; has had plastic surgery to cover the scars suffered from numerous beatings. By her own volition, she had her body tattooed, and now has her own life as an author.
Tendo's last speed fix came when she was 19, when her injuries from another beating in the room of a motel came close to killing her. "I kept thinking, 'I don't want to die in a place like this'. I was there for an hour and managed to drag myself home ... I knew it was time to stop," she said.
...it was her [Tendo's]decision, in her early 20s, to tattoo the top half of her body, yakuza-style, that marked the end of her emotional and physical dependence on the men of violence, and the beginning of the new life she has since made as a writer and, now, as a mother.
Saturday, July 07, 2007
Psychic Tickle
Went back to one of the greatest songs ever. At one point, I actually declared it to possibly, maybe, perhaps be the greatest song ever written - that's how intense the blast was from this thing.
Temptations - Ball of Confusion.
My friends don't know what I do all day. I like it. I have my own world, but only because I've been busy lately; lately meaning 4 months. Yet, four months that have arguably been the best four months ever. But now, if I wish, I have a niece (by power of friendship) to chill with. She's the coolest thing/baby to ever come around. I will now send her a psychic tickle, a feat perfected while waiting in line at Best Buy.
Temptations - Ball of Confusion.
My friends don't know what I do all day. I like it. I have my own world, but only because I've been busy lately; lately meaning 4 months. Yet, four months that have arguably been the best four months ever. But now, if I wish, I have a niece (by power of friendship) to chill with. She's the coolest thing/baby to ever come around. I will now send her a psychic tickle, a feat perfected while waiting in line at Best Buy.
Friday, July 06, 2007
The Octosquid - - it's not alone. Heed these words
Curious creature caught off Keahole Point
The animal, dubbed an "octosquid," is found off the Big Isle
By Brittany P. Yap / byap@starbulletin.com
It's a squid, it's an octopus, it's ... a mystery from the deep.
What appears to be a half-squid, half-octopus specimen found off Keahole Point on the Big Island remains unidentified today and could possibly be a new species, said local biologists.
The specimen was found caught in a filter in one of Natural Energy Laboratory of Hawaii Authority's deep-sea water pipelines last week. The pipeline, which runs 3,000 feet deep, sucks up cold, deep-sea water for the tenants of the natural energy lab.
"When we first saw it, I was really delighted because it was new and alive," said Jan War, operations manager at NELHA. "I've never seen anything like that."
The natural energy lab is a state agency that operates Hawaii Ocean Science and Technology Park in Kailua-Kona, adjacent to one of the steepest offshore slopes in the Hawaiian Islands.
According to Richard Young, an oceanography professor at the University of Hawaii at Manoa, the specimen tentatively belongs to the genus Mastigoteuthis, but the species is undetermined.
War, who termed the specimen "octosquid" for the way it looked, said it was about a foot long, with white suction cups, eight tentacles and an octopus head with a squidlike mantle.
The octosquid was pulled to the surface, along with three rattail fish and half a dozen satellite jellyfish, and stayed alive for three days. According to War, the lab usually checks its filters once a month, but this time, it put a plankton net in one of the filters and checked it two weeks later.
The pitch-black conditions at 3,000 feet below sea level are unfamiliar to most but riveting to scientists who have had the opportunity to submerge. The sea floor is full of loose sediment, big boulders and rocks, and a lot of mucuslike things floating in the water, which are usually specimens that died at the surface and drifted to the bottom.
"It's quite fascinating," War said. "When you get below 700 feet, it's a totally different world. Lots of fish have heads like a fish and a body like an eel. There are fish floating in a vertical position, with the head up, and don't move unless they're disturbed."
Christopher Kelley, program biologist for the Hawaii Undersea Research Laboratory, went to the natural energy lab Tuesday to pick up the preserved octosquid, rattail fish and jellyfish, which had been stored in a freezer, and brought them back to UH-Manoa's oceanography department.
"It's a beautiful squid. It's a gorgeous ruby red color," Kelley said. "We really enjoy these little mysteries that come up."
Also during Kelley's visit to NELHA yesterday, he and War talked about a more formal sampling program to search for other deep-sea critters. War said their goal is to sample the intake screen more often and capture animals alive and study them in captivity.
"This opens up a whole new area of research that UH can be involved with," War said.
In October, NELHA will be checking its deep-sea pipelines, something that usually happens every eight to 10 years, because it is worried that something might have happened to them during the earthquakes in October.
"If it's a new species, (NELHA) would like to name it," War said. "But that is sort of the honor of whoever classifies it."
At Death's Door.
I've just realised that I have lived across the street from 3 different funeral homes. Now those are some quiet neighbors; a polite bunch at that.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Head Hurts
I have the largest headache right now. My sleeping patterns are quite irregular now, and I don't like the idea of wasting the whole day, or night. Every time I think about working on the book the pain increases. I'm still going to try only because I'm running out of time, and I'm a sucker for anguish.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Peter Sellers Makes Me Happy
I just finished watching Being There, with Peter Sellers. A lovely, quiet film which I had not seen since I was little. I was a big Peter Sellers fan growing up, still am, and I first watched this on in my double digit years. I wasn't as aware of life as I am now, so naturally, I enjoyed it on a much different level now.
What strikes me as odd - allow me to point out, I haven't done drugs in years, not even swallowed an aspirin - point being, for reasons beyond my comprehension, after completing, well, really while watching this movie, I had the sudden urge to roll a fat joint, smoke it, and watch this thing all over again. It's just a soothing delightful piece of work.
I miss Peter Sellers.
What strikes me as odd - allow me to point out, I haven't done drugs in years, not even swallowed an aspirin - point being, for reasons beyond my comprehension, after completing, well, really while watching this movie, I had the sudden urge to roll a fat joint, smoke it, and watch this thing all over again. It's just a soothing delightful piece of work.
I miss Peter Sellers.
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