Kickstarting this dead blog is like trying to light a fire when you haven't lit a fire in a year and-most excruciating-you haven't cleaned out the ashes in like 15 years.
Showing posts with label the nature of cupcakes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the nature of cupcakes. Show all posts
2/27/2013
3/03/2012
What we've been doing
Remember when words mattered, image matter of factly worldwide, mouths open wide at a picture, yesterday's news could get ditched and forgotten, and feelings and fantasies weren't verboten. Mugged as I was, drawn to black arts, loaded onto slaveships, that cruel heart of dartboards, overboard with big lungs so your brain survive 4 minutes without air, the longer I live without you, the more I guess I care. Silence is an investment, see? 75 days with no coronary artery. No, it's serious, business school, not a party.
We get what's given in - that's 1-to-1, win-win, just timelines, giggling frauleins, make sure you make mine, bring a tray of cherry pie; if my boss thanked me with a two-person screening of Casablanca I guess I'd also cry. There's no point of view, just a field of vision, and in the ocean, there's you. She waved her wand, outpoured a tall blonde, short roast, if you smile they sit and empty wallets: it happens on both coasts. Sit for a day, measure magic - it's tough to sell tickets; vinegar, whine, so tragic.
Melt goals, make a saint. Wash facepaint, lead as marshmallow man, nice guy, big fan. 'Thanks for being you' said he on his stool - give so much, tough to love that much - the whole school he built from scratch and such. And we wait, procrastinate. We bronze our heroes far too late. But sorry, gotta run, got a mani-pedi-facial date.
Load up on likes! I got an app that let's me bike in my pyjamas; I can play a game where I samurai bananas, that's why I'm under the stairs - hide me from the red bandanas. We're releasing 4 new genders next month, no wonder we get a trillion dollar valuation, all that love from the S&P, we're the most heavily weighted factor in the ethersphere, all it took was a flat screen separating us, connecting us, proving there's a market niche out there for the unedited burps of sub-humanoid xx312322-ab-489-cupafree.
We get what's given in - that's 1-to-1, win-win, just timelines, giggling frauleins, make sure you make mine, bring a tray of cherry pie; if my boss thanked me with a two-person screening of Casablanca I guess I'd also cry. There's no point of view, just a field of vision, and in the ocean, there's you. She waved her wand, outpoured a tall blonde, short roast, if you smile they sit and empty wallets: it happens on both coasts. Sit for a day, measure magic - it's tough to sell tickets; vinegar, whine, so tragic.
Melt goals, make a saint. Wash facepaint, lead as marshmallow man, nice guy, big fan. 'Thanks for being you' said he on his stool - give so much, tough to love that much - the whole school he built from scratch and such. And we wait, procrastinate. We bronze our heroes far too late. But sorry, gotta run, got a mani-pedi-facial date.
Load up on likes! I got an app that let's me bike in my pyjamas; I can play a game where I samurai bananas, that's why I'm under the stairs - hide me from the red bandanas. We're releasing 4 new genders next month, no wonder we get a trillion dollar valuation, all that love from the S&P, we're the most heavily weighted factor in the ethersphere, all it took was a flat screen separating us, connecting us, proving there's a market niche out there for the unedited burps of sub-humanoid xx312322-ab-489-cupafree.
1/21/2011
Should it concern me...
That I had all my good ideas seven years ago?
When the Internet reinvents itself, I'll be waiting.
Maybe I just need more of this.
When the Internet reinvents itself, I'll be waiting.
Maybe I just need more of this.
1/13/2011
The cupcakes are burnin
Trying to think of reasons to keep blogging. I may need to declare another hiatus. The pointlessness of it all is overpowering at the moment. Let's see how I feel tomorrow. In the meantime, check out this.
4/01/2010
On political correctness
Let's talk about political correctness. Political correctness is the most unprincipled, unintellectual stance I know of. Political correctness hates free speech.
Ultimately it's a tool to transfer power from 'oppressor' to 'oppressed'. Who's oppressed? Whoever you decide should gain power. Who is oppressor? Whoever you decide should lose power. The way power is taken: intimidation though incoherent guilt tactics. Whoever has PC-defined power is assumed to be guilty. All people are treated as members of stereotypical groups, fitting under either the 'privileged' group (whose motives must be suspicious), or 'underprivileged' (whose motives must be championed). Never mind that humans are individuals, and may bristle at being place in these groups, as though they can't achieve a thing through their own efforts. Everything is systemic to a PC person; all phenomena pre-explained through categorical lenses.
The hallmark of a PC mindset is obsession with defining what words mean, as well as which words are acceptable, and which are not. (This is a microcosmic example of a life of grandstanding on which actions are acceptable and which are not.) Their arguments hinge on obsessively defining each term so that there is no way they can lose the argument. PC persons are deathly afraid of how someone else might use words, and so eagerly pounce on and distort word definitions - so that they have the 'agreed upon' meaning.
They tragically think that 'bad' words in and of themselves create actual dangerous thoughts and trigger 'wrong' emotions (even though linguistic and psychological experiments have long shown this to be false -- thoughts are independent of speech; also, emotion centres of our brain evolved before the speech centres did) - and thus they see 'bad' words as weapons and spend their lives worrying about the 'harm' mere words may do. Their solution is to prevent people from doing any harm by controlling what they say (as a false shortcut to control what they do). They think that if only we ban meaningless token words like 'fag, retard, honky, wop', that everything will be well on its way to being ok. But in reality new words will pop up overnight to replace them as tokens of intolerance (example: 'retard' a few decades ago was the politically correct word to use!). They think that genetically-ingrained human emotions and attitudes such as hate and racism can actually be eradicated by a delicate use of words.
-Non PC-thug
10/07/2009
That one song over and over
[always skipping over half the words]
I met this lady, I love her, lovely, fair. I'd go for days about her hair if you'd let me. I promised I'd write her but have been swaddled in sacred feelings for a couple years. I made provision only for burps or farts, no knowhow to explain those dimples that bring me tears.
***
There're only seven songs in the universe, and I've gotten used to one
I do like variations on a theme, but
if there's only one way to flatten out into a runway, carry all your friends
so we land with dignity
if there's still a reason to blog
if someone on this passive intelligent planet hasn't learned to read then
I'll gladly stay stodgy if it means I can pay an entrance fee to see
a lone lost tourist find a reason to fall on his knees
and I'll wait to hear minds click, my
mouse is making me sick;
you there,
too entertained to realize your boredom
too sustained by routine to fall down running
on empty
you there, I need lost little lambs like you! we need a lost little land like ours. we live lost lives, learning to get big, know ye not that ye are gods? and
the kingdom's within you
there's that ancient wisdom burning through, I thought technology'd let me forget where I came from? the definition of a fool
I met this lady, I love her, lovely, fair. I'd go for days about her hair if you'd let me. I promised I'd write her but have been swaddled in sacred feelings for a couple years. I made provision only for burps or farts, no knowhow to explain those dimples that bring me tears.
***
There're only seven songs in the universe, and I've gotten used to one
I do like variations on a theme, but
if there's only one way to flatten out into a runway, carry all your friends
so we land with dignity
if there's still a reason to blog
if someone on this passive intelligent planet hasn't learned to read then
I'll gladly stay stodgy if it means I can pay an entrance fee to see
a lone lost tourist find a reason to fall on his knees
and I'll wait to hear minds click, my
mouse is making me sick;
you there,
too entertained to realize your boredom
too sustained by routine to fall down running
on empty
you there, I need lost little lambs like you! we need a lost little land like ours. we live lost lives, learning to get big, know ye not that ye are gods? and
the kingdom's within you
there's that ancient wisdom burning through, I thought technology'd let me forget where I came from? the definition of a fool
7/07/2009
This blog
is a detailed survey of invisible cracks.
To find invisible cracks, you have to listen.
You listen for echoes.
To make an echo, you have to speak.
Speak what?
Anything.
As long as it's out loud.
But, if there is too much noise, you don't hear anything.
To find invisible cracks, you have to listen.
You listen for echoes.
To make an echo, you have to speak.
Speak what?
Anything.
As long as it's out loud.
But, if there is too much noise, you don't hear anything.
2/18/2009
Heart > Brain
Heart > Brain. I think that's the reason. There are so many dimensions to it.
I always looked forward to exams, because it was during these moments that I could feel the full power of the heart to trump something as puny as the intellect. My heart made me learn the material. My mind was just a tool. [Is this thread becoming a tad dualist? apologies] The material was always just as arbitrary as this blog template.
It still is, but I'm also running out of time, I get distracted, and these days it's so easy to get confused. WWW makes us a much healthier ant colony, but individually more insecure.
[the dirty little secret, I learned from reading Marshall McLuhan: just like 50 years ago, washing machines and appliances didn't allow all humans to escape from housework -- it just made it possible, indeed, made it almost obligatory -- because it made it so damn easy -- for everyone to do their own housework, whereas they previously they relied on specialists, ie housekeepers to do the dirty work for them. So too info tech has made experts with arcane knowledge obsolete and shifted the burden of intellectual capital creation equally on all individuals in the modern society, and this seems like a blessing, but really it's a curse, especially if ignorance is bliss, for the tools -- no, not just the tools, but also the ball and chain, the mouse and the keys, are literally at our fingertips, and so no one can ever stop doing homework, just like your washing machine forces you to wash your own clothes; anyways this is a long explanation for how we are so intellectually exhausted and feeling tricked by our 'advancement'.]
SoI'm always willing to start fresh, and not worried about not writing as much as I used to. Why was I writing in the first place? To prove a point? To be admired? Or to love you?
It still is, but I'm also running out of time, I get distracted, and these days it's so easy to get confused. WWW makes us a much healthier ant colony, but individually more insecure.
[the dirty little secret, I learned from reading Marshall McLuhan: just like 50 years ago, washing machines and appliances didn't allow all humans to escape from housework -- it just made it possible, indeed, made it almost obligatory -- because it made it so damn easy -- for everyone to do their own housework, whereas they previously they relied on specialists, ie housekeepers to do the dirty work for them. So too info tech has made experts with arcane knowledge obsolete and shifted the burden of intellectual capital creation equally on all individuals in the modern society, and this seems like a blessing, but really it's a curse, especially if ignorance is bliss, for the tools -- no, not just the tools, but also the ball and chain, the mouse and the keys, are literally at our fingertips, and so no one can ever stop doing homework, just like your washing machine forces you to wash your own clothes; anyways this is a long explanation for how we are so intellectually exhausted and feeling tricked by our 'advancement'.]
So
1/14/2009
8 Ideas for Blogonomic Stimulus
Latest reports from Statistics Blogger showed I posted only 31 times in 2008, which is--ouch--less than 10% of my first year output, when I posted exactly 365 times, or almost once per day (2004 was a leap year).
Ideas to get me out of my blogonomic recession:
1) Tax-free blogging accounts. Own a blog, pay no taxes on that blog.
2) Make-work blog posts. Fill a page with words, post it, don't worry about editing. Could look something like this:
Wait a sec, I already do a bit of this...
3) Invest in solar, geothermal and other alternative-energy writing strategies. Screw my Mac's AC adaptor, I'm installing a wind turbine: This should create 5,000,000 highly intelligent and dynamic green-sector blog posts by 2015.
4) Increase blog unemployment benefits. Instead of beating myself up over lazines, buy more lattés and stare therapeutically into space.
5) Blog protectionism. I'll blog only about my blog and its blog products. Pageviews may suffer, but at least I won't get any bad comments.
6) Rewrite old posts to compete with bleeding edge products. This means reworking beastly screeds like this into punchy grabbums like this. Take that, TMZ!
7) Blog ironically about the economy.Yes, tackling the global financial mess with wit and verve.
8) More lists. God they're so easy.
Ideas to get me out of my blogonomic recession:
1) Tax-free blogging accounts. Own a blog, pay no taxes on that blog.
2) Make-work blog posts. Fill a page with words, post it, don't worry about editing. Could look something like this:
Flark doodle pansy poop ina fracktacular momentous goop handled fridge magnet moneymaker. Did things like pizza ever pepper the peonies till poems proud did pander out to the west side of the syrup factory foreman's left ankle? Oh crows in a cello salesman's wallet! Eat more Pez and gargle Listerine lustily till the edge of the cole slaw melted more quickly than a bridge builder boosted a bashful boy. If the Fez freaks ever drown a tadpole then I've got more legs than a horned owls has feathers. If that doesn't impress you, then read this, gawk slackjawed and grew twenty extra pairs of ears. Oh yes, the expectations of an oration after Obama's inauguration let's turn off CNN and focus on Playstation...
Wait a sec, I already do a bit of this...
3) Invest in solar, geothermal and other alternative-energy writing strategies. Screw my Mac's AC adaptor, I'm installing a wind turbine: This should create 5,000,000 highly intelligent and dynamic green-sector blog posts by 2015.
4) Increase blog unemployment benefits. Instead of beating myself up over lazines, buy more lattés and stare therapeutically into space.
5) Blog protectionism. I'll blog only about my blog and its blog products. Pageviews may suffer, but at least I won't get any bad comments.
6) Rewrite old posts to compete with bleeding edge products. This means reworking beastly screeds like this into punchy grabbums like this. Take that, TMZ!
7) Blog ironically about the economy.Yes, tackling the global financial mess with wit and verve.
8) More lists. God they're so easy.
3/26/2008
AbZorba the Priest
(clear throat, now preach)
Dryness delivers forest fires. Sustained silence breeds bursting. Bottlenecked threat blows through. Half-eaten hearts, eerie, humans, ever less human, more or less omniscient contempt. I'd cancel next season's episodes but there's news to pre-empt:
I am in love, it's good, was out of use, this sprawling blog, this lyrical noose, metaphysically ominous, abstruse, why not clot it? Ah not to let loose, lips tighten with a love bite, yet I am, mirrored, jammed, like all of us, doomed to write.
So stand, be counted. But count on nothing. Don't understand, instruct. Anticipate everything and you won't know bad luck.
My guitar's in storage after my house burned down; I've been living like a tourist, knackered from knocking and choking on Chinatown. That song I was writing? Kinda cobwebbed. Call Betty, shake that tambourine, it's after Xmas now, we're left with shriveled tangerines.
How I shovelled and shovelled, just to see the road. I've seen too many shovels forshadowing this ode. By Jove, I need the lash, everyone in mouse-shot licks lips, clicks trash.
But I disappoint myself. This excuse is balderdash.
You work, right? You have a life. This virtual truth subsides, those legends in your mind, you are like Babe Ruth, a benevolent John Booth, want to help build Yankee Stadium? God, I never have the time. If I let me off the hook, if I don't write another book, I blame Playstation, Arcadium, tedium, tribulation, the trials of the medium.
Oh go get em, giddy up, I'm rusty yeah so cut me slack; I'm serving this up, so swallow it up, I sugared it up with a bottle of catchup—and the tender bits are around the corner.
Dryness delivers forest fires. Sustained silence breeds bursting. Bottlenecked threat blows through. Half-eaten hearts, eerie, humans, ever less human, more or less omniscient contempt. I'd cancel next season's episodes but there's news to pre-empt:
I am in love, it's good, was out of use, this sprawling blog, this lyrical noose, metaphysically ominous, abstruse, why not clot it? Ah not to let loose, lips tighten with a love bite, yet I am, mirrored, jammed, like all of us, doomed to write.
So stand, be counted. But count on nothing. Don't understand, instruct. Anticipate everything and you won't know bad luck.
My guitar's in storage after my house burned down; I've been living like a tourist, knackered from knocking and choking on Chinatown. That song I was writing? Kinda cobwebbed. Call Betty, shake that tambourine, it's after Xmas now, we're left with shriveled tangerines.
How I shovelled and shovelled, just to see the road. I've seen too many shovels forshadowing this ode. By Jove, I need the lash, everyone in mouse-shot licks lips, clicks trash.
But I disappoint myself. This excuse is balderdash.
You work, right? You have a life. This virtual truth subsides, those legends in your mind, you are like Babe Ruth, a benevolent John Booth, want to help build Yankee Stadium? God, I never have the time. If I let me off the hook, if I don't write another book, I blame Playstation, Arcadium, tedium, tribulation, the trials of the medium.
Oh go get em, giddy up, I'm rusty yeah so cut me slack; I'm serving this up, so swallow it up, I sugared it up with a bottle of catchup—and the tender bits are around the corner.
6/04/2007
We are hard won
(best writer's block you ever had - enjoy it)
We wear
bloody battle fatigues
best dressed
in symmetry
you and me, writing history
wildasimaginable fantasy and
extraordinary reality
Never had much to say
but always had the
flair to say it
got my attention now
don't know quite how to say
but it's time I
I took the time to pay it so
today it's
let me catch breath
air my bones
after my hall of fame home run
away from home and
unplugged phone
I ran a month-long marathon to tell you that
we won we won we won
happiness shrivelled the
sighs upon the
laptop, yammering
fighting not to mix up ecstasy
with pop
but sweetness + fizz is everywhere and
I'm a pig for slop
so, indeed
why stop
?
Silence
submerged in the brain
for years shouting over rain
now silence
brought by this
bliss
bursting at the keys
gravy
on our knees
waiting, oh
till sky clears
poems appear
content blares
pelican man cheers
and ms. rhythm despairs
the cupcakes —Jesus, for all they are
they're what they are and
they are half-baked to
please us
We wear
bloody battle fatigues
best dressed
in symmetry
you and me, writing history
wildasimaginable fantasy and
extraordinary reality
Never had much to say
but always had the
flair to say it
got my attention now
don't know quite how to say
but it's time I
I took the time to pay it so
today it's
let me catch breath
air my bones
after my hall of fame home run
away from home and
unplugged phone
I ran a month-long marathon to tell you that
we won we won we won
happiness shrivelled the
sighs upon the
laptop, yammering
fighting not to mix up ecstasy
with pop
but sweetness + fizz is everywhere and
I'm a pig for slop
so, indeed
why stop
?
Silence
submerged in the brain
for years shouting over rain
now silence
brought by this
bliss
bursting at the keys
gravy
on our knees
waiting, oh
till sky clears
poems appear
content blares
pelican man cheers
and ms. rhythm despairs
the cupcakes —Jesus, for all they are
they're what they are and
they are half-baked to
please us
5/29/2007
I am the phoenix
(proudly blurring lines between weirdness and boredom since 2004)
I am the phoenix (previously unreleased excerpt)
I am the phoenix tonight. I rise from the ash into the light. Evanescent and intransigent, my aura is smoke and incense, split between the perfect geometry of stars, mixed through the last particle.
Do not fear; I have come at last. You were promised—I will take you on my shoulders.
You were warned it would be me.
Listen to the talk below, behind the closed doors of the sordid inn. Sprawling limbs soak up spilled ale. Men in soiled coats listen for the end of the world.
It has taken much to come together, but this will last forever. We look into our innermost reasons, and we are set on fire. Around insane beggars and destroyed egos, we come to cleanse. To be reborn.
But we fail to respond. There is an indecision. I am stolen.
All I can promise is sympathy, not action. For now I am weak, but I will be strong again.
I hear the call every day, but I forget; I lose myself in its clarity.
The poisons are many, and the antidote is a fiction—it cannot be found. We dissolve ourselves into waters surrounding the mountain; we slave in dark anonymous caves. But there is not futility able to keep at bay the phoenix.
I rise above.
This is not the end of days, though night does fall, and the logic of blackness is
smothering.
We dress for the moment; we are ready at the moment’s notice.
Into infinity we charge on silver lightning, into the end of cause and effect, of unfeeling order, to the breach between world and dream.
“Stop the smallest man forever from lunging after death!”
We are conceived in a quicksilver flash—and I am the phoenix. I am the exploding sun, and the red and white light is blinding.
I am the phoenix (previously unreleased excerpt)
I am the phoenix tonight. I rise from the ash into the light. Evanescent and intransigent, my aura is smoke and incense, split between the perfect geometry of stars, mixed through the last particle.
Do not fear; I have come at last. You were promised—I will take you on my shoulders.
You were warned it would be me.
Listen to the talk below, behind the closed doors of the sordid inn. Sprawling limbs soak up spilled ale. Men in soiled coats listen for the end of the world.
It has taken much to come together, but this will last forever. We look into our innermost reasons, and we are set on fire. Around insane beggars and destroyed egos, we come to cleanse. To be reborn.
But we fail to respond. There is an indecision. I am stolen.
All I can promise is sympathy, not action. For now I am weak, but I will be strong again.
I hear the call every day, but I forget; I lose myself in its clarity.
The poisons are many, and the antidote is a fiction—it cannot be found. We dissolve ourselves into waters surrounding the mountain; we slave in dark anonymous caves. But there is not futility able to keep at bay the phoenix.
I rise above.
This is not the end of days, though night does fall, and the logic of blackness is
smothering.
We dress for the moment; we are ready at the moment’s notice.
Into infinity we charge on silver lightning, into the end of cause and effect, of unfeeling order, to the breach between world and dream.
“Stop the smallest man forever from lunging after death!”
We are conceived in a quicksilver flash—and I am the phoenix. I am the exploding sun, and the red and white light is blinding.
5/05/2007
Channel changing blues
(hey - by the end it starts to makes sense!)
Witness this
we words work wonders
deliberate misses, don’t strike the missus
“Today I was threatened with a baseball bat”
so I’ve been saving kisses, and I’m
done compensating with a kitty cat. I
switch too fast, hang on
get steam, make it last; we
oscillate, can’t let your logic penetrate – I don’t
have time for eventual comprehension
we have a seven-city tour of
the
septic tanks.
If you were exhausted like me
these little bits are plenty feed
so don’t choose, just beg
be satisfied, signals collide we sigh
don’t die yet, go on a diet
of fibrous thoughts, roughage regurgitated
for rectal rumination, when you
barely gather your carcass
after sweat and elation
victorious and arbitrary
competition is something scary on your
face and I’d
marry that face to mine
and await my bottle of wine
we circled that date
months in advance
and now I’m ready
done floggin’ the remote
or switching sides in my one-paddle boat;
let’s watch every program; I don’t interrupt.
[Although I might occasionally curse the sky and get up if
it’s one of those two-hour documentaries
on the history of the menstrual cup!]
Witness this
we words work wonders
deliberate misses, don’t strike the missus
“Today I was threatened with a baseball bat”
so I’ve been saving kisses, and I’m
done compensating with a kitty cat. I
switch too fast, hang on
get steam, make it last; we
oscillate, can’t let your logic penetrate – I don’t
have time for eventual comprehension
we have a seven-city tour of
the
septic tanks.
If you were exhausted like me
these little bits are plenty feed
so don’t choose, just beg
be satisfied, signals collide we sigh
don’t die yet, go on a diet
of fibrous thoughts, roughage regurgitated
for rectal rumination, when you
barely gather your carcass
after sweat and elation
victorious and arbitrary
competition is something scary on your
face and I’d
marry that face to mine
and await my bottle of wine
we circled that date
months in advance
and now I’m ready
done floggin’ the remote
or switching sides in my one-paddle boat;
let’s watch every program; I don’t interrupt.
[Although I might occasionally curse the sky and get up if
it’s one of those two-hour documentaries
on the history of the menstrual cup!]
4/03/2007
Actual thoughts
(hardest to write down)
Dreaming of six things at once, occasionally erotic, ruing expression as the new running water. "Everybody wants the same thing." When I'm overcaffeinated and drunk I get strange results. Wake up in a thought clot, last night my eyes bloodshot, tearshot swearing and crying. Like a kid with a brand new toy; but I know I'll need a newer toy. I collect notions so I can liberate them.The other day I overheard myself thinking "How smart are we? Slightly less than he who can fully comprehend how smart we are, which means we have a lot to learn." I've been striving for sentences that enforce calmness. I could attach notes to people and places in my life, but thoughts in a vacuum have an obscene grace that make me shiver. Whom do I read these days? Oh no the discrepancy between where our minds want to go and the crude instruments around us. We all want to melt hearts. It's a test: how much can I bear embarrassing myself. If so many words could make you weak in the knees, I'm satisfied, tapping my baton behind curtains when the crowd's gone home, saying 'still got it'. 'Still got it' - but that proves what? An extra gear I've reached, what is it all tied back to neurotransmitters, all this hustle and bluster competing desires in a crowded cafe, flashes of potential for exceptional harmony, and I hear the miracle of the gregorian chant, submission to one note, take all these different people tell them 'sing this note and sing it well' yeah that's tougher than it looks. I don't sell myself well at all. If I did sell you on me I still wouldn't be sure that you're sold. So why bother with disappointment. Pioneers don't have time for applause or to dodge tomatoes. Mad Max in the desert trying to keep one or two loyal friends. Remember in Owen Meany, they practise the jump for the entire book? And the meaning came crashing down? But John Irving cheats because he knows how it will end. Not really a writer but a problem solver working on his next contingency, making lemonade from lemons. If I told you mixing drinks is what this blog is about, that it's based on fermentation and yeast, or whatever. Do you know what beer is? It's yeast shit. It's not something I would ever choose for myself ie expression as an addiction but there we have it.
Dreaming of six things at once, occasionally erotic, ruing expression as the new running water. "Everybody wants the same thing." When I'm overcaffeinated and drunk I get strange results. Wake up in a thought clot, last night my eyes bloodshot, tearshot swearing and crying. Like a kid with a brand new toy; but I know I'll need a newer toy. I collect notions so I can liberate them.The other day I overheard myself thinking "How smart are we? Slightly less than he who can fully comprehend how smart we are, which means we have a lot to learn." I've been striving for sentences that enforce calmness. I could attach notes to people and places in my life, but thoughts in a vacuum have an obscene grace that make me shiver. Whom do I read these days? Oh no the discrepancy between where our minds want to go and the crude instruments around us. We all want to melt hearts. It's a test: how much can I bear embarrassing myself. If so many words could make you weak in the knees, I'm satisfied, tapping my baton behind curtains when the crowd's gone home, saying 'still got it'. 'Still got it' - but that proves what? An extra gear I've reached, what is it all tied back to neurotransmitters, all this hustle and bluster competing desires in a crowded cafe, flashes of potential for exceptional harmony, and I hear the miracle of the gregorian chant, submission to one note, take all these different people tell them 'sing this note and sing it well' yeah that's tougher than it looks. I don't sell myself well at all. If I did sell you on me I still wouldn't be sure that you're sold. So why bother with disappointment. Pioneers don't have time for applause or to dodge tomatoes. Mad Max in the desert trying to keep one or two loyal friends. Remember in Owen Meany, they practise the jump for the entire book? And the meaning came crashing down? But John Irving cheats because he knows how it will end. Not really a writer but a problem solver working on his next contingency, making lemonade from lemons. If I told you mixing drinks is what this blog is about, that it's based on fermentation and yeast, or whatever. Do you know what beer is? It's yeast shit. It's not something I would ever choose for myself ie expression as an addiction but there we have it.
3/01/2007
Hey guess what—
I almost forgot: today this blog is 3 years old! First ever post was here.
Aside from accidentally retiring on my 27th birthday, I have tried to remain true to my inauspicious yet completely self-important beginning.
After 3 years and 688 posts, I still get a kick out of hitting the 'publish' button. I still think it's hilarious that I get to publish whatever the frig I want. Sometimes I look through the FIAC archives and I am shocked, bewildered, heartened and besorrowed at the dragon-fire.
Whoever writes these cupcake things can't be mentally sound, can he?
I'm still dying to find out :-).
How will it end?
I have no idea!
Why do you do it?
That's easy - for the pelican man.
Who is the pelican man?
C'mon. You already know.
Um, ok... What's with the recent penchant for lists?
Hmm, I dunno. I came back from a Cayman Islands vacation in an extraordinarily refreshened state. I hope it's not just a Feb 2007 thing.
I think March 2007 will be just as fun. My goal is, as always: self-sustaining laughter following self-deprecating tears, tossing my party through the air on the wings of a pelican...
Aside from accidentally retiring on my 27th birthday, I have tried to remain true to my inauspicious yet completely self-important beginning.
After 3 years and 688 posts, I still get a kick out of hitting the 'publish' button. I still think it's hilarious that I get to publish whatever the frig I want. Sometimes I look through the FIAC archives and I am shocked, bewildered, heartened and besorrowed at the dragon-fire.
Whoever writes these cupcake things can't be mentally sound, can he?
I'm still dying to find out :-).
How will it end?
I have no idea!
Why do you do it?
That's easy - for the pelican man.
Who is the pelican man?
C'mon. You already know.
Um, ok... What's with the recent penchant for lists?
Hmm, I dunno. I came back from a Cayman Islands vacation in an extraordinarily refreshened state. I hope it's not just a Feb 2007 thing.
I think March 2007 will be just as fun. My goal is, as always: self-sustaining laughter following self-deprecating tears, tossing my party through the air on the wings of a pelican...
1/30/2007
Two portraiteers reassure each other
(warning - these poems written in 45 seconds are becoming increasingly shitty!)
Oh you're a fool
to expect what you tinkle
to truly impress
This is dusting
-light shapeless sprinkles,
elevator music for
Rip Van Winkle
But when I wake up
the whispering stops and
the screaming starts
then I'll holler
‘bring your camera’
-or, make it an axe
you can hew me permanently, I swear
until then, just relax.
Oh you're a fool
to expect what you tinkle
to truly impress
This is dusting
-light shapeless sprinkles,
elevator music for
Rip Van Winkle
But when I wake up
the whispering stops and
the screaming starts
then I'll holler
‘bring your camera’
-or, make it an axe
you can hew me permanently, I swear
until then, just relax.
1/09/2007
maliciously vague
(and stupidly vague)
something pink struck me, mid think
oh
it bothers my Aunt Betty
she of ol timer skin, overripe pheromones - that senior citizen stink
geezers don’t get it, and I won’t own up;
I get into trouble quaffing bubbles that I blow
every jury hung by an 'I don’t know'
-describing clouds from the inside, mirrored rooms of fog-
if reason is a carrot that's chased by a rabbit, why then
I’m an unpet dog.
something pink struck me, mid think
oh
it bothers my Aunt Betty
she of ol timer skin, overripe pheromones - that senior citizen stink
geezers don’t get it, and I won’t own up;
I get into trouble quaffing bubbles that I blow
every jury hung by an 'I don’t know'
-describing clouds from the inside, mirrored rooms of fog-
if reason is a carrot that's chased by a rabbit, why then
I’m an unpet dog.
12/17/2006
Quantum Fred
(meaninglessness factor: 7)
Ostracized from exile, delivered from the Age, Fred
whispered to his webcam, and trawled the universe for a homepage.
In 1740 he sang baroque, and
later taught the Babe to take a poke
and so fans packed Yankee Stadium.
He was Picasso in 1910 and
Warhol in '67 but
I saw him last week at midnight sweeping
the floors of a 7-11.
Fred comes and goes, Oh
and his bank account will never grow;
'You don't buy railroad tickets no more'
'You shop at the airport duty free store'
He's not upset at
disheveled hair
satisfied with poisoned air
Half and half he takes his coffee
sliced to ribbons by the scanner
a tiger lily lasts November
Roses bloom in Armageddon
Fred only gets 15 minutes
to unwind, to scope his mind for escape
now he's begging for change
at Danforth and Pape and
singing about his favourite grape, and
he just made friends with a puppy.
Ostracized from exile, delivered from the Age, Fred
whispered to his webcam, and trawled the universe for a homepage.
In 1740 he sang baroque, and
later taught the Babe to take a poke
and so fans packed Yankee Stadium.
He was Picasso in 1910 and
Warhol in '67 but
I saw him last week at midnight sweeping
the floors of a 7-11.
Fred comes and goes, Oh
and his bank account will never grow;
'You don't buy railroad tickets no more'
'You shop at the airport duty free store'
He's not upset at
disheveled hair
satisfied with poisoned air
Half and half he takes his coffee
sliced to ribbons by the scanner
a tiger lily lasts November
Roses bloom in Armageddon
Fred only gets 15 minutes
to unwind, to scope his mind for escape
now he's begging for change
at Danforth and Pape and
singing about his favourite grape, and
he just made friends with a puppy.
11/23/2006
Rhymaggedon
We are dying. Lies make us. I die trying, fly high trying.
Great geese overhead in winter; fly to where? I can’t care, but know they go there, through air. Don’t shit on my hair. I’m stuck. Luck I earned, karma stashed from previous lives, love I got drunk on, and burned.
Collide. I scope a crash for colours. Rainbow wrecks and twisted rigid bones. Amen to the jigsaw in my brain, wipe shrapnel, go home. Here I am, babbling to the only person I love on ten thousand telephones.
I write love letters, sweetest she ever received. Envelope lick drop-in box delivers unfading memories and etchings you can believe. But these days - nobody can digest a megabite, or trace autumn leaves - that just ain't how folks get paid - and whistling? Disappears into the breeze.
Cataclysm! Ms. Rhythm gave me schizoschism, I trap her, keep her prisoned in a prism, ringing elision, illusion of darklife and deadweight confusion, refresh from fullness, sick to death of bullshit underwater nowheres - here, there and everywhere. I know it’s not fair, nothing is and everything is. But I'm so tired I don’t care.
Stuff a sock down my pants and call it country. I sang bluegrass in her kitchen and cracked like humpty dumpty. I was dared to hit a girl once, but anger’s a failure of intelligence; violence is so 20th century, like not voting’s worse than suicide. Governments and the afterlife - we get what we deserve.
Will I bomb you, Osama? What will calm you. The drama. You, on the desert dromedary, your derriere kicked by an ass donkey King Kong Bush still swatting at the consequence of that aerial ambush.
They made a war. Outlet for fate. Pent-up nihilism needs its place. Explode yourself on a bus, try to crush my luscious blush, your self-destruction doesn't wipe the smile from my face. Optimism. Relax. There’s a reason why people masturbate. Or if you’re that desperate for affection - ask your sister on a date. But don’t blow me up: it's my get-home bus, and I don't like being late.
Mass graves. Grave masses. Crusade Christians. Help the homeless and don’t throw stones. I live in a looking glass. I can move anywhere, but I live what I choose – wherever they got sweaty skins on tired bones; wherever they have eyeballs; wherever they got the jigsaw blues.
Great geese overhead in winter; fly to where? I can’t care, but know they go there, through air. Don’t shit on my hair. I’m stuck. Luck I earned, karma stashed from previous lives, love I got drunk on, and burned.
Collide. I scope a crash for colours. Rainbow wrecks and twisted rigid bones. Amen to the jigsaw in my brain, wipe shrapnel, go home. Here I am, babbling to the only person I love on ten thousand telephones.
I write love letters, sweetest she ever received. Envelope lick drop-in box delivers unfading memories and etchings you can believe. But these days - nobody can digest a megabite, or trace autumn leaves - that just ain't how folks get paid - and whistling? Disappears into the breeze.
Cataclysm! Ms. Rhythm gave me schizoschism, I trap her, keep her prisoned in a prism, ringing elision, illusion of darklife and deadweight confusion, refresh from fullness, sick to death of bullshit underwater nowheres - here, there and everywhere. I know it’s not fair, nothing is and everything is. But I'm so tired I don’t care.
Stuff a sock down my pants and call it country. I sang bluegrass in her kitchen and cracked like humpty dumpty. I was dared to hit a girl once, but anger’s a failure of intelligence; violence is so 20th century, like not voting’s worse than suicide. Governments and the afterlife - we get what we deserve.
Will I bomb you, Osama? What will calm you. The drama. You, on the desert dromedary, your derriere kicked by an ass donkey King Kong Bush still swatting at the consequence of that aerial ambush.
They made a war. Outlet for fate. Pent-up nihilism needs its place. Explode yourself on a bus, try to crush my luscious blush, your self-destruction doesn't wipe the smile from my face. Optimism. Relax. There’s a reason why people masturbate. Or if you’re that desperate for affection - ask your sister on a date. But don’t blow me up: it's my get-home bus, and I don't like being late.
Mass graves. Grave masses. Crusade Christians. Help the homeless and don’t throw stones. I live in a looking glass. I can move anywhere, but I live what I choose – wherever they got sweaty skins on tired bones; wherever they have eyeballs; wherever they got the jigsaw blues.
10/31/2006
Quit your day job
(Get a day job and quit)
The emptiness that came so swift upon
being respectable
the pointlessness sets me adrift on being
respectable
I don't speak any more, it's
circumspect to piss or spit
when you wake up too early to work late
complaints don't rate
when I can't raise complaints I feel so
normal even keeled and self-possessed and
god I
hate it.
This is the other half, the
greener grass, the moment past for future moments that will pass
so think about half-naked women so nice
and car insurance and a motorbike
monthly pay is comfortable, safe, that's good advice
You get old, accept that excuse
nobody promoted from a recluse cave and
integrity's a kind of
ascetic self-abuse I guess so
let up let up get up and give up
And if you just stopped reading
then you deserve what you get.
'If I just stop writing I'll get everything
I deserve.'
The emptiness that came so swift upon
being respectable
the pointlessness sets me adrift on being
respectable
I don't speak any more, it's
circumspect to piss or spit
when you wake up too early to work late
complaints don't rate
when I can't raise complaints I feel so
normal even keeled and self-possessed and
god I
hate it.
This is the other half, the
greener grass, the moment past for future moments that will pass
so think about half-naked women so nice
and car insurance and a motorbike
monthly pay is comfortable, safe, that's good advice
You get old, accept that excuse
nobody promoted from a recluse cave and
integrity's a kind of
ascetic self-abuse I guess so
let up let up get up and give up
And if you just stopped reading
then you deserve what you get.
'If I just stop writing I'll get everything
I deserve.'
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