Wednesday, December 31, 2008

just a second more

Mouth won't make the sounds right, nothing sounds right, lips only sure of themselves in silent speech, and the translations of touch, which may circumvent subtext, cut down on the confusion, speak directly to desires, and while the festival committee discussed deities, I thought "We just need to talk" >>

The circles are silly, the cycles perpetuated under spherical moon, circular sun, with hands held tight, holding absurdly to each other as if gravity might give up and we be released towards the circles we worship - the son, the sun, the chosen ones, the prophets, the martyrs, the saints, the gods, the goddesses, the demi-gods, the krishnas and the shivas, the buddhas and the brahmin, anubis and toph, old jesus and adam and even moses and abraham, good allah and mohammad, thor in valhalla, god in his heaven, all is right with the world. But what did Jesus say - what did he tell you in that dusty old book? He said, "For indeed, the kingdom of God is within you." Oh-oh yeah? You m-mean God ain't a jolly old robe sittin' on a throne of clouds way up where we don't know, judging and observing, determining right and wrong? No sir, and there ain't no Neptune in the sea, ain't no dragons in those caves, ain't no fairies in that forest, ain't no aliens in your brain, ain't no dimensions unfolding from your fingertips. (psst: The kingdom of God is within you.) Hey, hey! God is in me! I am God!

I don't mean to spoil the fun. I don't mean to bust up your magic, halt your rituals, snuff out your candles, fan out your incense, keep you from kneeling, but quit lookin' up at that cross. I don't know how many times Huey Newton has got to tell y'all folks, but "Heroes ain't nothin' but sandwiches." That includes all that dead ancient dust you chase after, includes all those fairy tale figures conjured beneath the stars, before we knew one of those was Mars, another Venus, planetary gods in the heavens, passive masses subject to gravity.

You've got to
Open up your, open up your, open up your

And let time go
Let them go

Friday, December 26, 2008

kids will be skeletons

kids will be skeletons someday so it's a sin to lie still, right? but you must, at least once, under a satellite or a star, drifting through the sky, on shaky steel, riveted and solid, above an incomprehensible fluidity, the mighty mississippi's endless tide, black sky dissolving in light pollution, behind an endless stream of cars, below, the river less roars, more pours, from the north, southward, to new orleans and beyond, to become a gulf, becoming an ocean, felt ourselves becoming as we lie still on rickety steel, rusty beams pristinely vintage, acid worn, dissolving like the sky, so that every footfall is a victory, every step a challenge to the structure, and when the bridge does not collapse you feel relieved, and you save up all your breaths because you never know which one might be your last, so that when you lie still under the stars on a rickety bridge above a river, against a backdrop of cars, you'll be alive, and not know why, and each time you remember, you'll sigh, sending your breaths downriver, away from the pain of knowing, the breath inward which rejoices, the breath outward which cries out, the breath inward which receives, the breath outward which projects, your breath, a whisper floating downriver, amongst the eddies and whirlpools, turning the river over backwards in rivulets, seen from above like strands of hair washed white in the sink, and the foam is thousands of celebratory bubbles cheering on the river's progress, intoxicated by the chemical contents of the water, detritus of our consumptive desires, and the shore is my hands caressing your liquid skin endlessly, all at once. lie still and feel the brick platform beneath rumble, watch upside down the lights shine upward on the steel above you, passing in their own time, set to the rhythm of the train, hopelessly pulled forward over the tracks by locomotion, a daze in the headlights of the train, a crazed look in the eye of every lamp lit down the caboose, and there's no one watching but you, as your lover hides her head in your chest. she's not scared, she's just unimpressed. or it's irrelevant to what's going on in that chest, the lungs expanding and collapsing with each breath, rejoice, reject, as the heart pumps, thumps, stumps the logical mind with each beat, steady, increasing rhythm, therefore hypnotism, therefore movement, and the stillness is broken, and you move with the stars, falling endlessly, clutched tight to each other through space; you flow with the river, float swiftly just along the surface and succumb to the intoxication of contrasting borders, above and below, when a loss of breath is, of course, death, and your arms flail and you scream, or pout, but bite your lips to keep from crying out, clutch tighter in the fall through space, hold tighter hurdled along straight, like the train, illuminating the night, bright as you bounce along, crazed and dumb, to have finally left all doubt behind, to be leaving in every moment, fleeing as you move forward, the vision always new, the perspective always changing, you look above, to the stars, you look below to the river, behind you the cars, and before you know it, the train, and you bury your head in your lover's chest, to hear their heart defy the roar, dare it to beat still more, beg it to be bold, implore the one you hold, as you sigh, sigh, sigh rivulets in the sky, galaxies riveted to night by stars, which shine, from this distance both steely and divine, at least sure of their place, a part of a structure, too large to comprehend, and you lie still on the steel structure of which you are not sure, holding tightly onto a person, people being of stuff which is anything but sure, but still you clutch, and trust, with pure naive trust, childlike logic which keeps you clutching onto this chest stuffed full of uncertainty, nothing but probability all around you, keeping you from the improbable river, bubbling with a consumptive lust, which you sigh against, breath inward, breath out, quicker as you clutch, breath inward, breath out, because kids will be skeletons some day, but that day for damn ain't sure today.

Sunday, December 21, 2008

sounds, furthermore

The noise I've made the most often recently sounds like a groan and a sigh at the same time, and is meant to communicate a weight I can't possibly describe in the space of normal conversation. I make the noise because the question which prompts the noise is usually "How have you been?", which I don't take as an invitation to attempt to fully describe my weight, because I imagine describing the weight to be a lengthy process, one that might not have an end, so I make a noise that sounds like a groan and a sigh at the same time, by which I mean to communicate an inability to describe concisely "how I have been doing". Visually, it might look like this: "..." My eyes look toward a distant corner, away from the person I'm talking to, and then I return with a smile, as if to say "don't worry about it" or "what are you gonna do?" Everyone has problems.

Saturday, December 20, 2008

kitsch, personal and otherwise

I'm not wanting for words, but my open mouth suggests otherwise as I try to produce a sound that represents my thoughts, or my will, a sound that will project my desire and make it real, or at least known, and, naively I hope, make it true. But the electric storm of cranial activity never coalesces into a lighting bolt, so no there is no thunder to announce its creation, the connection made between heaven and earth, briefly, borne of passive forces, the illusion of a divine will, just static on a grander scale, and when the storm which is the mind is called upon to strike (like we imagine the heavenly father choosing his lightning bolts from a sheath and setting his mark with jagged golden arrow clutched between thumb and forefinger, eyes set upon his target, sure) it falters, and dissipates. Because first, our words are trapped in semantic towers, on the top floor, peering out over the landscape which steadily grows more miniature as the tower is built taller, further away from the earth, each stone between our words and the earth we walk upon (searching for words within our reach, finding all of them now in towers too tall to scale), each brick that sends our words further skyward is kitsch, which represent the multitude of meanings and connotations each word stands upon. As our words grow steadily upward, away from us, they also become more impossibly separated from our other words, which once mingled freely with each other, but now squint at each other from long distances, forgetting every day more details of the other words, what they were once like, and every day discovering more of the kitsch of the other words, finding similar bricks placed on their own tower, and the kitsch becomes more connected than the words, and now you can see how the trap is tripled, because our words are not only too far above us, but also beyond each other, and at the same time, connected by the very thing that keeps them separate from us, and from each other. Second, there is nothing, really, we have to do, but we cannot accept this, like other animals, so we playact our whole lives, each of us creating not only our own script, but also simultaneously contributing to the scripts of each other, and we are, of course, each the star of our own script. When we try to say something true, we can't, because the only truth is that there is nothing to do, which sounds like this: ______.

Friday, December 19, 2008

fresh phoenix

let's be honest, i never knew what i was doing to begin with. and now that i know sometimes, i'm suspicious, and i wonder if i really know, or if i just invent these fables and act out my own dramas. but how cynical, how completely jaded is that? no, i'm feeling, definitely, have to be, all this feeling, all these feelings, or why would I be holding a crisp piece of burnt pita bread, half-heartedly dipped in hummus, mouth agape and eyes exhausted, sagging with defeat, with acceptance of a great loss, an intense disconnection, red, swollen pouches of flesh surrounding my eyes, red, splintering veins pulsating monotonously, continuously and pupils very still, iris always ready to engulf the black, for the color to overtake the void, the light too intense, the truth too blinding, and the eyes squint, the mouth sags, the bottom lip quivers, terrified child, at the horrible sight of the eyes, the terrible, depraved weakness of their shock, the emptiness of the eyeballs' gaze, while the upper lip is anchored above, unable to fall completely under gravity's spell, to give in as eyelids do, and the bottom lip rises to cower below the upper, while the corners flee towards the feet, and the too toasted piece of pita bread has been in my hand and the hummus is still there and the commercials on the television never end. I left the pita bread in the oven too long because I was distracted. I was distracted by a call. I've just been distracted. I've just been distracting myself. I'm just creating these distractions.

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Interview by Taylor Martin

So Taylor Martin asked some people some questions and I was one of those people. I thought it might be illuminating to anyone who is curious as to how I might feel about art and image making.

1. how do you think the process by which an image is made factors into how it is interpreted? do you think an image is just an image, or is the process by which it is made integral to how you perceive it?

of course an image is not just an image! art is communication, and everything that goes into creating that communication is a part of the communication as well. when you speak, your knowledge, perspective, preconceptions, experiences, prejudices, preferences, world-view, and ideals are all a part of how, why, and what you speak. art is no different! everything that goes into the creation of art is a material, including yourself, so any part of the work materially should be considered a part of the communication, and the materials or processes used to create that work should inform the communication.

but, ahhhh, also, thinking about 'the print' - it's sort of, for me, an abstraction, and i'm able to look at the image without thinking about 'the print' or, rather, the paper that the image is printed on. also, painting, you know, the paint in all the older stuff is all sort of irrelevant, but then, you know, pollock and them came along and started making stuff about painting, so... i mean, they got it, but then where do you go from there? soo i still think it depends on what you're trying to communicate, but maybe materials aren't always so important? if you're making work about a material, the material directly informs the work, but if you're making say, a documentary about homeless kids, or something, you're not necessarily going to use, like, body parts of homeless kids. you could use maybe their clothes? i don't know, but in that case, i think the point -is- the image, because the point of documentary work is to --show--, to present a 'document' of a reality. but, -how- you took those photographs could be important: did you live with them and run around with them and immerse yourself, or did you just pop up out of nowhere trying to be objective? i think that's important, and i think it's something you can tell in the images, or maybe should be able to.

2. do you think there is such a thing as a universal visual language? meaning, do you think there are certain visual languages that have been established by culture that have the potential to communicate to a wide audience? think about languages that could have potentially been established by painting, the invention of photography, or by film.

yes, definitely. there's all sorts of ways of communicating! every sort of interaction involves some level of communication, including the interaction between a viewer and a work of art. the art, created by an artist, is meant to communicate an idea, so without using words, the artist uses visual language to communicate. the birth of art was communication, cave paintings meant to convey meaning. since then, the language has been built on and expanded upon, and like our written and spoken language, there are cliches along with overused phrases, catchphrases, fad sorts of phrases, phrases that come in phases, slang, counterculture language, feminist language, gendered language, etc. etc. the same sorts of patterns that we find in spoken language can easily be found in visual language, as well as musical language. there's all sorts of languages we've invented, and they all inform each other, since they are all just methods of communication.

3. do you think a single image or a group of still images has the potential to carry narrative?

absolutely. there's no doubt as to the ability of people to create narrative out of absolutely anything, because there's something about us that craves a good story. history is a great big old story and we're livin' it, and since we've been raised on stories, we expect our lives to be stories, and we expect everything in life to sort of fall into these narratives that we've been told for years and years, right on back through dickens, to shakespeare, way on back to old man homer and those greeks, we've been telling ourselves stories since the dawn of man, and makin' stuff up like gods that are creating us! most of us believe some sort of story that involves someone else sort of making a story out of us! it's crazy! so, yes, an image or a group of images can certainly carry a narrative - as can a crumpled cigarette stub lying on the pavement, or a sickly neon light glowing ghastly orange on into the ashy night, or a car left for sale on the side of the road, forlorn like a highway hitchhiker.

4. how do you think that a society saturated by images has affected the way we perceive images?

the language just gets more and more complex, and we come to a point where it's really, really hard to actually 'see' because we're so overwhelmed with all the looking, and when you open your eyes it's hard not to see images, just picture postcards of places and moments, like a sunset in florida, or the birth of your first child, or a grandmother lying peacefully in a hospital bed, exhausted, scared, confused, perplexed, hurt, wronged sorts of tears trailing down your cheeks...

and life isn't able to be lived without documentation! the digital camera has become another intermediary, with folks photographing absolutely everything in the same sort of way, the same poses, the same smiles, the same happiness for posterity, because we don't photograph misery, we want to communicate eternal happiness from the walls of our living rooms, and from the profiles of our online identities, so that we're forever frozen in a moment in which we're happy to be around others, and they are happy to be near us, when the next moment outside of the frame is perhaps an awkward scattering, but at the very least a separation, while in photo albums we can live from one happy moment to the next, jumping past all the slower seconds spent lying in bed, watching the sun go down behind dusty blinds, past the alarm going off and the shower too cold, the waiting for a telephone call and driving on endless highways, and, looking at the stop-motion glee of the framed life, we feel nostalgic, and on some level jealous of this fabrication, so that the nostalgia is twinged with a prick of sadness, because loneliness can never really be banished.

5. do you have any general theories you abide by when making or looking at images? perhaps your own art theory?

well, i believe that art is communication, plain and simple, so i think about the basic stuff - how, why, what is this person communicating? to whom? and i try to answer those questions in varying degrees of specificity and value. for example, the 'to whom' may not be important to me, or it may be very general (i.e. anyone/everyone), but usually the why and what are pretty important, and the how.

Everytime I Think Of You

Curling up my heartstrings, twangy and lush, a hushed tone that reverberates up my neck, up my frets, causing me to, ring in and out of you, ring in all the wrangling feelings, the rooftop shingling, shining, jingling in the moonlight, musical dancing sparkles like a slanted starscape, black mirror of the night we ride on, legs astride, hanging on either side, and our hands in front of us, held and staring straight into each others eyes, held in gaze or gazes, seconds or minutes, a window reflected through clear skies of blue and bright white, into some interior region, a silence, a darkness we see and shy away from, hide our faces from, because it is familiar, but too private, too personal, the weight of pride and ego and self all shrouded in a dark black cloud or a small, hard marble, falling through the open skies, through the free air, through the contentment of white clouds, the nothingness of wooooooooosh, out of control, forever, until it decides to disappear entirely, of its own volition, no longer slave to gravity and time, the endless fall, but return to the nothing which always was, always will be, not a space, subject to no physical laws, but a state, or less, consisting of a choice, 1 or 0, nothing more, but the zero shrinks itself into inversion, pouring out of a point behind or under, beside or reflected, bisected and interconnected to all other points, rings and rings and rings around the sun, all at the same time, so that's out, too, all candles, as well, flames of any sort, will not do, their constant change is subject to all manner of disturbances too vague to mention, gust of wind smokes out and calls your attention, to open window, a cold night, a chill and a shiver, your legs surely quiver and you recall you left the window open, how could you forget, on a night like this, how could you forget, and in your heart you know you forgot because a moment ago your mind flew out the window and left you behind, just let itself out, because you had nothing for it to do, no purpose for its pondering, and it decided it was probably better off elsewhere, and off it went. And so you shiver.

Monday, December 15, 2008

I'll Come Around

Anxiety today like the coffee shop days, sipping aloud, for warmth in the cold surround, sounds of streetlamps sighing compressed by the glass, drowned out by James brown on the jukebox, good god, teasing quarters out of pockets for TLC and R. Kelley, Al Green and Elvis, and the air smells honey brown. We walk briskly in from the car, and I hold the first door open while you wait holding the second, and we both walk in together, sit side by side in the booth together, I smile I shake your shivers off your shoulders.

We grew up in diners, publicly private, between orders of coffee and fried apple pie. I sussed out myself over hashbrowns and scrambled eggs, white toast golden glowing yellow with butter, dripping, and I associate wondering with maple syrup in small glass pitcher, etched with a woodland pattern, perhaps dutch.

And some months later we sat across from each other and you stopped using cream.

I don't really go to diners much anymore. For a while it was too smoky, and now I can't stand the grease. It never was the food that brought me there, but now it seems to be the reason I stay away. But, you've also been gone, and I'm not so encumbered with searching these days; I stroll with curious interest through the forest, but I no longer feel so lost, so terrified of the shadier parts - I sit for hours in the wilder patches some afternoons and notice sun broken into soft circles by small yellow leaves, their branches dissecting the sky, pulling apart clouds into tufts of white cotton candy stretched out in strands across the atmosphere, and I know below is a world I will never know, under the leaves, inside the dirt, across the what must seem endless horizon encompassing the shadow under my feet there are centuries of history, and I will only know it for an afternoon, a few hours before class, and I'll trample off to unknown worlds several feet at a time, beyond the imagination of the shadow organisms, spoken of in hushed awe, for millenia.

Saturday, October 25, 2008


wild wild wild through the parking lot, serenading the movie goers with chants and out of tune pluckings, mouths open wide under paper-mache masks, a yellow dot of watercolor my only disguise as i sat on the curb and sang into the fluorescence, as we bounded phosphorescent across the pavement, the incandescent glow burning with positive ions, several stares and smiling faces, a boy picked up my guitar and swiveled elvis hips for cheers and cell phone photographs. the smiles were pure or impugning, but i couldn't stop to notice as i locked eyes with a masked man and sang about our situation, proclaimed the beauty of loitering citation, we dreamed of days without laws and probation, dancing sober around the security guard, catching passer-byes off theirs, brake lights and turning heads, turning ever away from the path, distracted because they lack purpose, and my eyes shut tight because it's just too much this time, all my energy given at once, for everyone, unselfishly, unselfconscious, yes, yes, yeses all around, you, too, please!

i sat drinking taro bubble tea, sitting with a feeling like giving a gift gladly received, except i couldn't be sure how my gift was received, but i wasn't too concerned; i only felt glad to have given.

Monday, June 23, 2008

I Know A Place

Bound over the belly of a slowly breathing beast, a warm smile which refuses to be seen, but is felt, the subtlest shades of monochromatic night unpunctured by orange stars or hazy searchlights, only trembling white pinpricks placed with delicate precision on the night's great backdrop, black and blue, the snap of grass and dry twigs (or a thrown rock), shaken branches and shaking bones, rattling for the uninvited ones. A bit of fox-red-orange burst into the grass, uncaught by the camera's flash, unseen by the other eyes, but I knew the fella must belong to those ghostly loiterers, leaned against the ashen trunks of secret keeping trees. The dirt ahead displaying elongated limbs, contorted torsoes and tiny heads, suggesting spotlights behind and, yes, in the corner of my eyes comes a glow which must be all light, but a turned head recieves no blindness, only solemn hill, quiet fields and stoic ocean; where there could be heaven - all trumpeting angels and holy choir - there is only a stillness, a quiet grace of infinite acceptance which recieves God's envy, for its mystery lays beyond mystery, love beyond begotten, a nothing capable of everything only humming, only tearing in half a few leaves of grass, only popping knuckles, chewing the interior cheek or biting a lip, scratching scalp, pulling chin, yawning now and then, only - breathing. Such humble potential, content to contain and be contained, to have all strings tied and be idle.

- Los Angeles

Friday, June 20, 2008

Did You Stay Up All Night

Discussing sanddollars, ocean's true currency dropped in a well by divinity everlasting or rehappening ----> re: happenings, social events or great wellspring of creativity Kaprows and Kleins and maybe this time they'll know, no secret, oh no, just acceptance bereft of repentance the return of heavy boots re: a missing miss but right now, this, right now contains stop and start - jellyfish, falling apart, Hawaiian islands contained on a beach towel, hundreds of buckets filled and unfilled, submitting to the pull, under, all the sunglasses, plastic buckets, blankets of every color, umbrellas and shovels, all the baskets and towels, sunscreen and magazines, styrofoam coolers and lunch meat, straw hats and elastic waist band of swimsuit, the detritus of division from sand, sky, water is under, swallowed whole under the surface to clear the shore - tabla rasa. So footprints receded and shouts all conceded, and the sunburns sulked, defeated. Seagulls rejoice, oceanic groan, a bluesy plodding that must mean "Hooray! Hooray! Hooray!". Little bursts of wind scatterdly swirling a school of sand cyclonic through the air, purple swollen with sunset, a fiery orange melting blue into milky fuscia, the lighter hues a bit of "farewell", the soon to be night rubs its eyes to yawn a feeble "hello". Finally, open eyed crescent.

- Los Angeles

Thursday, June 19, 2008

Wake Up And You Forget

Eyes open to hills. Sun cascading down the steep grade transformed by trees into shadows along the way. Sun staring straight down at me, back burned being pushed ever forward. Sun, falling behind as the miles pass away, dying always abandoned and forgotten, unburied - every mile must often die, their passing marked with numerical epitaph, recording no birth, only infinite death. Sun taming clouds, wrangling sky, taking time, tiredly awaiting sleep this side of the horizon as a twin sun rises above the other. Soon these hills will become Los Angeles and time will seem an impossible thing as geography gives up and all barriers concede, a crumbling under a whim, a wind that blew letters westward. In the corner of my eye, the east reaches out a cool hand, waits for me to turn around. "Just a moment", I say as the sun finally rests its emptied self onto blanket of water. Empties orange thoughts yellow sparkling onto sumblime surface so that finally, without hope for another, this day may end, given wholly without malice or regret to a night which may never end. If the moon, in her mercy, allows, we will awaken someday with the sun, and there will be hills again.

- Los Angeles

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

This Is The Right Time

Screaming joy of Lake Azula, blue white burst of towel, beach ball umbrella burden of the sun, absurd delineation of children splashing, laughing, but only here - the rest unknowable depths. And so the tiny hands go on plumbing the same sandy shore, once again told by megaphone voice that here is where you be and there is where you aren't, risk is diminished as excitement eviscerated - all is well: God's in his heaven, children within the ropes. And not a bit of unbridled rock jumping. But the wind knows, and the sand knows, and the toes know, dragging now along the invisible algae, light broken into beams which reach in all places to a watery center, a point which is all places. The plastic goes on floating, water goes on flowing, the wind, again, will be blowing - mother's loving touch to the father sun's scorched concern. They all say "of course"; few breathe "thank you". Lotion, more separation, nature area: this way, and the concrete meets the sand meets the grass and feels a distant kinship, as the bottoms of feet bounce along the coal-hot beach, begging for cool relief of stream fed bath, the confusion of apart and within, absorption and exception. Held breath, closed eyes, open arms, spread legs, sweat no longer sweat, and, finally, womb drone quieting, all in all and all and all, one drop.

- Berkley

Monday, June 16, 2008

We Start Again

Passed Haight, sidewalk heights, past light, caffeine to write, right, but just a chair to sit, legs in a fit, fit to walk, slow, and feel, slow, the ache of several miles, inches on a map I imagined us missing, all these walks (you were there, sometimes), the penny made heart, incomplete for empty pockets. In a Southern way, I wander, like magnolias stretching branches out in open arm welcome, vacantly shredding leaves to scatter in the breeze, confetti everywhere. Shivering Spring sticks around incensing Summer, which will cry out in July, somewhen a sunshower. Deliriously missed friends and bliss of Overton in the sun, smaller maybe but snug - home, a scarf plucked from a closet of junk, spots on the mattress from Aster's disasters, unsipped coffee in the stolen mugs, the dust, everywhere, and the leaning chair, feet lazy upon the ledge, an apple in hand and the sky specifically Memphis - I didn't know I could miss it, hung with asthma, miasma of memory and, miss - oh you above all of this.

- San Fransisco

Now That's All I Can Do

Boogaloos in the Mission district - great value 99 cents birds, pigeons flying through busted marquee, New Mission, murals, why is he smiling (?): chiropractic it really works imported Italian lesbian owl jackets all she could see get over it bites, bites, bites last night basement every night feet movin' hermits in New York, eye contact, contact, dry contacts waking up Sunday bright - Saturday who? who? what? morning after questions over first cup in Berkley the paint on grass, painted grass, last night's diner, she was there, on your cheek, everywhere god was a spectacle, wait, wait, wait, more raspberry vodka and he knew, giggling as I shouted louder, shouted out loud names forgotten from electronic beat - Bonnie, Kathleen, boy in the v-neck, the cheese slices, do you want some? fajita and coffee something like whiskey confusion on Ocean - Valencia too early: artist or CIA? Conclusions on the train inconclusive, situation or circumstance, varying ethic, vague compass, laughing, alright "alright?" this time, right I'm right, stealing pillows, stealing looks, I'll never know but pretend or ask questions while the cellular signals keep us connected, I mean: close, but, no, I never left, not yet, coming back to sit still, still... Mason Jennings knows.

- San Fransisco

A Sound That We

Time came for then golden kids to cry, boohoo, end of sunset cracked doors and warm mother light poured over mac and cheese tables, small swollen wooden fences humid mumblings the play-doh floors kitchen flour and mosquitoes the baseballs rest for a moment, concerned with hot dog or popcorn, jolly rancher stuck to the side of your mouth and then, quietly the organ begins. In the smallish stands we sucked on cokes pulling at candy straws and knowing we'd go on forever, on running from junk yard dogs and the bigger boys, plopped on a carpet and the air conditioner crankin' snowflakes, eternal drip of damp towels over the baked sidewalks, indian feet all canyons and caves as the gravel goes on, make way for the bumblebees caught in plastic bags, pulled apart and pursued, wet mist of spray bottles and flashlights, always, always. Stuffed socks full of the glow and went on harassing doorsteps when the air cooled, spinning purple bat filled sky silhouette trees dizzy over the front lawn, cardboard stained green and in the snow, garbage pail tops or just mittens thrown to the wind. Sandy tie-dye in the photograph with glasses, a peace sign, yes, and we sat by the cannons. All hearts full of fear but she flirted all the same, and the crescent moon glittered on hidden in a drawer, except when held up to the real thing by window, window view of your window, wondering about the real thing. Dreaming, mumbling, I would ask you - "... could you just - roll over? Roll over my way."

- San Fransisco

Saturday, June 14, 2008

After The Swimming Pool

Dirty dirt on the wrestled leaves of spring bobbing flowers plucked and propped on springs all the joy of wrinkled jeans cut holes on rusty fence tops, popsicle places eyes are tongues to taste with, arise, minds running in place with horizons bristling to chase cops policing the east wings of birds bustling with bee stings a spider swimming in ice cream brimming with cider the finer hours of liars such cut knees and briers stuck to feet and blown tires no defeat for the calloused all bombast and ballast, bastioned arms cast and crowded in monkey bar jails and the containment of mail, of post-cards that fail to teach dandelions to sail, Orion's last tale of a flood without hail, the lion's frail tail, taped on and sutured to ensure a bright future - the light, tonight, coniferous, unplanned, a swim out to sea, lunar crescent, I ran, a spot on the grass between freckles and shade, a spot on the steps, concrete could stay, harmonica twang and the solitude of barbecues, your lemonade hair, sun drying underwear - bits of lake in the sand a sparkling touch of the hands, can you remember falls through musty halls, grandmother's past winter, you called, you saw, I thought, when the willow waited and all cries abated - the sky indicated not rain but something similar: a shower or some Eskimo variation, a chance for elation a blanket vacation.

Possessed, possession - protection.

Until June

Something left as I sat on the 15 to Thurman. While crossing the river, it squirmed out the seat and spilled out the doors, dropped several stories into the Willamette. The departure began as a slow leak, invisible, vague bits drifting into the magic hour. Against a chain link fence, before the ivy bricks, after the buzzing stairs, a yellow wall waned against a weakening blue sky. In the violet gradations passed an nonviolent sensation, an unfelt gust, indiscernible wave. When the street lamps yawned on, gradually became all at once. Walls went up while the ground fell out. And now this void is impenetrable. Except this brisk walk past the black coat, the "stay safe" from the rough one - or was it "keep peace"? Rattling doors, back on the glass. I tried to hear the pain joy of Millennium park in the Portland shade. These days are a midnight and tomorrow could be today - while waiting we talked of stopping time with shutter speeds, neutral density filters cutting down the daylight. Dawn will come someday soon, gradually a glow kissing the sunward leaves and all at once a thrown curtain blanketing the horizon. In the early hours, shadows become sharp to divide the waking from the sleeping. Eyes blink in time to the flapping wings of morning birds, becoming accustomed to the coming day after a night which passed gradually, and then all at once.

- Portland

Show Some Mercy Today

Yellowing swath, rusting grass punctuated by parched palms, antiqued bovines accustomed to the Cascade haze, rough branches blooming wispy antennae, sunflower fields, the colors of a distant past passed over by suicidal pilots spreading death to give life, neat rows bearing - ? Electric wires and fencing, stained beams of bruised wood, the sterile scent of air conditioning. Blown bits of tire rubber on the highway. Cramped legs, yawning endlessly past Yolo county line, this morning my first mountain - head held white-faced above clouds. The night was undulating exchange of sky and hill, rolling black wave, positive and negative equal so the road flipped and we rode upside down to San Fransisco, refusing gravity to observe the scattered lite-brite bulbs of sleepy mountain towns - or were those stars? Rain starved creek bed, blackbird insomniac wandering, afraid to rest ahead where there's walls enough for all. Scorched and sun-weary, skyscrapers on the horizon. Drops enough for each blade of grass, thirst enough to see miles past. Indicating a soft shoulder, sensitive roadways bid caution to the heavy lids - red balloon announcement overhead. Slow and prepare to stop - in every city, skeletons reaching toward the sky, exposed steel shivering. Spiderweb of railways and dusted tire tracks leading anywhere, beginning

- Sacramento

Thursday, June 12, 2008

More Be Done

The nickel clowns stared down from the arcade windows, beckoning. For several miles and several rolls of film my double socked feet tramped the littered streets, looking for patterns of color and something to eat. The Pearl district was a fragile white orb, kept polished hourly, tryin' to keep it shining while the rest just rested, unashamed of the grit and grime, not wanting to waste time with appearance. The phone kept on ringing and I kept on singing to all my friends across the country, all those faces I left in cities too far for buses at the moment, wishing I could finally say all the stuff graffiti'd to the top of my skull, sleeves tugged to two coasts, collar pulled straight north and all the while socks sagging toward the south. Staring into a fire, hoping this energy don't consume the way a fire must, watching the grass catch a bit and smolder to ash, dulling, dulling the senses till the whiskey wakes the stomach up, sends us to the Florida Room for fried avacado and a bracelet a bit too small. I told her I was joking. I told her, "I just feel sort of nauseated." And all I can hear is the rattle of the train rolling stories above my head, the light coming down a tunnel and a howl. Neil Diamond sings, she sings hallelujah. Sitting at the bottom of the stairs, shoes tied and staring at a crayon map of Yellowstone, looking for a place to be.

- Portland

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

My Roots

Great grey clouds allow a single, slender white finger to carress the river which reflects the blank expanse with unyielding acceptance, recieves the gentle touch with open eyed grace; the valley forest pauses a moment, shyly turns eyes to corners and gives unbroken gaze and inward sigh as the cloud kisses the water. In their sleepy hours the river and forest are sister and brother, firefly night lights casting glow over the valley as they lay awake, huddled close to one another, listening to the transistor radio static of cicadas, sometimes picking up the song of owls or frogs, presently tuned to the howling of wolves, ears pricked for the cry of bats. Snuggled close, brother forest feels an emptiness fade into the sky, a longing resolved into purpose - where the grass and lillies touch is the warm center of all things. Each waning light, each inevitable morning, forest forgets to kiss her and spends the day stoic, full of regret. On the day cloud and river kissed, the earth quaked as forest cried and he crumbled into his sister's loving arms. And then there was no river. And then there was no forest. And the clouds departed to let the light in.

- Outside of Portland

Monday, June 9, 2008

Pulled Me Under

Anxiety rushes in as rain calmly falls a bass drum pounding, snare rattling insistence - wind passing coarsely, strained through delicately carved holes, a frightening blockage distorting notes as increasing panic swells among the symphony. Cacophony prevails, but the audience is unmoved; absently they whisper about the weather. The woodwinds ran out of breath; the violins wheeze a strained wail. Strained, stricken the conductor sweats and his armpits itch, confused movements causing only subtle shifts in the now familiar quarrel of noise. Teeth split and veins burst from ecstatic mouths, from god-struck eyes, mess of viscera filling the orchestra pit as stomachs split from unutterable moan. Collapsing, crashing the instruments fail and the players fall, desperate for peace, wanting for life as the din dies out, pitch by pitch and note by note abruptly slain, suddenly, all at once, no crescendo or moment of triumph, only inevitable, amoral end - a silence which must come. The conductor, hunchbacked and limp, eyes half closed, spent of tears, mouth agape, deluge of drool, urine soaked pant legs, realizes clenched hand and releases control, drops the baton and sags into darkness, waiting wings of anonymous void, out of the spotlight, where the whole show started.


Too Late To Play

Ah, lasers in the darkness, sounds like atoms dancing, repose, repose, the gallant markings making mystery all over the ceiling, I was thinking "This can only get better", but bewitched wavering, tested: unsure; only blessed be the statuary, holy is the arboretum and sleepy go the cardboard boxes, wobbling soggy down the rain-slick streets, looking for post-cards, pitching in for jars of cherries, dropping cigarettes rhythmically.

A mist I missed, inside with music, seeking Discovery Park in cluttered maps, finding the spots I lost, got lost, got photographed on a sunny stairway and the shutter's stuck now.

Sunday, June 8, 2008

And We Are Dreaming

Pictures painted in the tops of coffee cups and skies that got used to grey
Postcards pocketed from picture book shelves and I wonder what it means to stay

Ah, she was adorable kid, just like you, and I know I couldn't tell her because she gets it all the time, just like you, and she wouldn't know how I really love her, just like you, because she gets carded all the time and gets frustrated all the time but really, just like you, she knows it ain't her, that she don't wanna change, she only wants to be and be accepted without questions, like you, she wears her fuzzy hat, still, on her head and she draws the big eyes and smiling faces, still, on the dry-erase boards and she doesn't change a bit - she's only waiting, really, without thinking about it; it'd be nice one day, but she's not banking on it. So I wanted to tell her, "You're adorable, you know?" but there's not enough space in line for lines like that so I just smile real big when I ask for some coffee and I hope she knows. I just smile, real big, when I ask for my caramel latte (you know) and I hope she knows.

- Seattle

Saturday, June 7, 2008

It Goes Fast

Love songs crackle car speakers, distribute sound and sentiment out the open window, connected sediment of wind blown feelings formed by earthly pressures into stone sinking slowly, silently through the cave cold water of my stomach, a husky seed busrsting in the depths, wild for growth, hungry for light, to create the energy animals long for.

Be here now.

Below the ground swirls like Gutai impasto, elevations impossible to discern, ribboned strata of compressed earth, palimpsest crust of continent containing a layered history of gradient stability, topmost most malleable, but even the bedrock may be moved by monstrous tumult, all this seemingly unshifting mass containing a core of infinite impermanence whose unfamishable hunger for change mocks maps over millenia.

Be here now.

Nothing survives. Even absence dies. Ever transient cloud, ever mobile ocean, ever falling leaf, ever blinking star, whose light still travels but whose source burst before the earth was born - when do you rest? Straining through weaking twilight to reach in humid air for flirtatious blinks, sentenced to death in mason jars despite air holes and all good intentions. In darker hours, memories flicker, poorly edited, on white sheets hung from the willow, and we miss the house burning.

Be here now.

- In the sky

Friday, June 6, 2008

One Of The Few

Faces, illuminated as in shrines, framed, rows of empty (?) frames below - static like television, wanting for resolution suggesting family or at least other faces, groupings connected by black wiring, by death, the finality all walk toward, connected and given life by light. Three bulbs, the trinity, their faces smiling somewhat, sometimes beaming, the room darkened, their smiles warming the air, but a persistent dread remains, their black and white visages in photo frame size, like wall hangings in a home, suggesting family, or the familiar, and the past, or: death, but the static, though faceless, is alive with energy: green, golden, grey - alternating, the energy of their spirits perhaps, the color of their souls, Kirlian recording of a hidden aura - elegant cords like draper, the home again, like curtains, again: death. Finally all must come to death. Every plot ends in death, every narrative a murder. The creation of a memory is the killing of the real, each document (as in photographs) a bloodstain without a body, senseless violence out of context. We, the viewers, are implicated as well. The children cast their light upon us, illuminated our darkened forms, lurking in the shadows to view distantly only to be revealed the closer we attempt to get at the relics of memory. So the final truth is that we belong in those spare frames made of static - there is a place for us to die.

- Minneapolis Art Institute [Christian Boltanski - 'Monuments']

Wednesday, June 4, 2008

There's Lightning Bolts

Soaring through the cottonseed wind, sun pouring over shoulders, a warm balm of fresh vitamin E, made soothing massage by the cool breeze, the zipper of my jacket beating rhythmically against my back as the rusty frame I ride glides gracefully along the greenway, propelled by eager limbs, eager for more, more of this greenery, more of that blueness against that whiteness, more of the faces smiling, acknowledgement, yeses all around and we sail, sail into evening when the screen flickers for hours, weaving a story in shafts of light that fall squarely into images becoming music, the fiddler keeping time, keeping this story going as we drift along the invisible paths I trust cut stone into grass, grass cut into concentric circles, circling the sky little birds swoop low while the aeroplane flies high, higher still the hills climb as gears shift downward, now upward, the brakes applied generously as the traffic light approaches, approaching the final turns, the terminal twists bringing us back to examine bruises on shins and shiny new shoes, the old pedal companions busted and sad, exhausted and ready for sleep, dreaming of a world without feet.

- Minneapolis

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

Even Underground

I'd like to watch the trees pass by in the darkness, but the TV reflects in the window, inevitable as Jesse James getting his bullet in the end. And Frank is brought to justice. And I wonder where I am besides north of where I was. Intermittently a weight falls over my arms, resting across my chest, and the ends of my eyelashes nervously hold hands. I mistake the cord of my headphones for a finger running down my cheek, am startled as it lightly touches the end of my chin, and sigh as it weaves a slow path down the muscles of my neck. Yellow light dances still between darkened forms, like racing horses from the sidelines, except that I move and they remain, mingling with the passing white orbs transposed over the landscape by reflection. 75 miles from Minneapolis and I'm aching still, with joy, with sadness, always bursting for every shifting change in emotion's direction, each feeling a straight-line gust that topples houses and leaves some with nothing or blows a longing sail toward warmer climes, toward open arms. I cherish each tear, whether beautiful or damned.

Tonight, the streetlights fall asleep, and I lay awake, ready.

- 75 Miles from Minneapolis

Soon, Said I, We'll Know

Bruised constellations
Great sparkling expanses
That miss teeth
and wince
There are listless stars
which wander like lost fireflies
blinking butterfly kisses
on heaven's pale cheek
Surrender to black roar
Starfish sleeping silently
in saline solitude
dreaming of light, maybe
Out on the roof
and the clouds left hours ago
Ash drifts lazily through
careless air
Embers yawning under
abandoned char
Endless blasphemy
We, infinite as space beyond space
The night, weightless and crushing
I heard myself exhaling
I saw you laughing


The Need Seeps In

A Pretty Straightforward Recollection of Chicago This Past Week:

- Arrive in Chicago, tearful hugs with Colby (also: excitement)
- Walked around Julia's neighborhood for a few minutes before she called me tell me she was home
- Made yummy yums vegan pizza (it had a super thin crust - I don't know how we did it!)
- Hung out with Julia, and her sister, and her sister's friends
- Watched Purple Rain (slap! slap! muuuuusic!)

- Unsuccessfully scour Chicago for vegan and/or sweatshop free shoes to replace mine, which are falling apart due to some vigorous gettin' down in the D
- Julia purchases some funkay shorts
- We eat Sultan's - falafel sammiches. The falafel are SO big! 

- Made hashabrowns and tofu scrambie
- Went to museum of contemporary art (jeff wall!!) and the art institute
- Ate at Giardoaladonoanosdoadlonsodsdoadanos [chicago style deepdeep dish] again
- Watched Repo Man

- It's my birthday! (My birthday! Get cake everyday like it's my birthday)
- Went to Dove's place and saw some musics (Gold!)
- Slept?

- Played croquet!! Our team (with Julia: Croquet Master) won the first game but  lost the second.
- Walked around Lincoln Park - some movie set in the 20's was being filmed
- Ate at Oodles of Noodles, got tired 'a the eggiweggs
- Hung out Morgan's "apartment" (dorm) and watched "Heavenly Creatures" (so good!)
- Ran after the bus, took a taxi

- Julia made some yummy granola
- Went to lunch with Julia, her sister, and their mom at Karyn's, a vegan place, and ate tons of food.
- Took a nap.
- Went to Ryan's collective, F*ck Mountain, and got on the roof for the most amazing view of Chicago I've seen
- Ate at an awesome Italian place

- Attempted to walk around and take some photos while Julia was in class - failed due to ouchy calves.
- Met Julia at her school and ate lunch.
- Apparently some people like Chipotle?
- Smoothies!
- Tried to walk to the lake but, again, the calves. 
- Went to Logan Square, ate at a super delicious restaurant called Lula's Cafe (I had a tagine with cinnamon cous cous, sweet potatoes, and chickpeas - and then had a life changing experience with a mint chocolate torte)

Other Things:
We kept losing the Sears tower. I kept wanting time to slow down. I wished the trains took longer. They were wearing white on Saturday. It was beautiful for the most part, and I didn't mind when it was overcast. Yesterday the shorts were a mistake, but today you'll try again. I missed my bus; I was so angry. I thought the bus was parking, but it was leaving. I felt comfortable, easy, at home and then I felt lost, alone, confused. Everything was manageable, known and plotted and then it was vast and endless, a shaking ladder that I gripped hard on the way down. The wind blew the garden away, the landlord saw the couch. The spanish movie was filmed on three cameras and involved numerous extras - the bar scene contained canola oil and cranberry juice, an empty bottle of wine. I was sick from french bread and brie. Everything was comfortable, even the futon, which was too firm for my tastes. The sidewalks felt like college. I never wanted to stop eating pizza - asian never fills me up, makes me feel whole. I felt whole. The tree was painted to the side of the building, the wine store was closed. We got our wine at CVS, and I chose carefully from the cheap stuff. Everything was electric, from the roof it was washed out and bright. The sidewalks moved beneath my feet and I wished they'd go on forever. As you wished for trees, I found salvation in the pavement, where we walked and kept walking into ever darker nights, into rooms made of candles and conversation. I could stay up all night. All the intimacy contained in a crossword puzzle. Making breakfast, not making plans, washing faces, not being embarrassed. Truthfully, honestly. We were always running for buses, stopping and running, sitting and waiting, running and hurrying, catching and missing. You knew where to go, I knew where I wanted  to be.

- Chicago, Chicago, Chicago

there's so much more
there's always - so much more

Don't Get Any Big Ideas

The morning I left was cool, and the air was summer.
The air was not clear and bright, as in winter, everything illuminated and known, but dense and obscured, the air a semi-solid volume of dew, malleable as the day. These mornings are for waiting. While my others snooze lazily, emancipated from the morning routine of the school year, I wet my bare feet in misty clover, watching for briar, waiting. While my others sleep, I do not plan, I do not hope. I wade through the possibility hanging in the enveloping wetness, breathing in what could be and exhaling what was. I sit on the step of their doors, one by one, knowing my presence will draw them out; they must feel me waiting. I wait by the fence of the pool, hands clutching peeling paint on the criss-crossed metal, a wall we've scaled so many times. I let my fingers trace a meaningless path over the the rusted brick, walls we've sat against so many times, drinking soda and crushing ants. Up the hill, I wait looking down the slope we roll over, roll over, roll over, roll over, over, over.


Every morning I wake with the birds and wait. Their songs part the air and make paths for us to follow.

- Chicago

Sunday, June 1, 2008

Nobody Feels Any Pain

We're not athletic
We weren't meant to be this out of breath, but every afternoon there's broken sweat from when we broke pace and ran out of time. Everything moves faster here, but every street has a stoplight, so every red light is a moment of pause, closed eyed mouth hung open exhalation before eyes are fixed hard on each other, moving again with the green light's permission, pushing forward in the rhythm of footfalls or wheels bouncing hard against the rough pavement - then the flash of red, brake lights and shouts, everything noise, everything silence as eyes move upward and fine nothing harmed, everything beautiful, everything placid, relief flooding veins with a sweet exhaustion and nostrils rejoicing as an acrid sweat is discovered, body shivering too late with panic, that delirious lubricant making a mess of it all. But no blood, no shattered glass. In the waning evening light, there are slow, even breaths, and we rest.

Thursday, May 29, 2008

Don't Give Up Until

This moment started months ago, two lines racing from the origin, rising to meet the real, two paths of this asymptote now reaching the center where they yearn for each other, pushing hard against cold mathematical fact, hoping for some breakthrough in logic to make parting impossible. Today the sky is grey, but yesterday the sun shone bright and the air was cold between the buildings.

Domestically, the plates are cleared.
Domestically, the guests are seen to the door.
I wash my face, she brushes her teeth.

A feeling of solidarity with the furniture, a reason to be here.

This movie doesn't make sense:
- Chicago

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

Bones, Bones

White sheets on the floor, white sheets on our skin, white sheets laying less white on the grass. White fell everywhere, a great pure void descending over the horizon's edge, as if the world were tucking itself in after a long day of spinning (looking?). What's the big 'ol planet lost this time? Among the glossy thick stock flyers, the crushed bottles of water, the smattering of clothing, cell phones, two day old pizza that was always the wrong size, pillows on the floor, the curtains (drawn), a mirror, B12, and a feeling that could have been jealousy, whatever this sphere of molten rock and endless sea could lack, might have been contained in that transient, meaningless room.

Facing the sky, I was waiting.
Facing the sky, I waited.

I woke up without falling asleep some time around four thirty,
when it was time to leave.
The taxi driver's sister had trouble sleeping (only an hour or two a night, he says)
so Ambien, Lunesta, Melatonin were scribbled as remedy.
Everywhere in this city we got fucked.
Taxis, french fries, water, after parties.
Somewhere in Detroit, the kids breathed easily, sleeping quietly - but in this room, somewhere on the floor, sheets undulated while the sun rose over Ontario.

Facing the sky, I waited.

- Detroit

Sunday, May 25, 2008

Wolves Around The Doorstep

Thunderous pulse shattered windows and crushed small insects, rattling rib cages and shaking up floors. Balloons inflated heads and glasses poured into feet, making them twist and stomp. Prostitutes imitated dancers imitated prostitutes. 
Bells, pops.
Energy swelled in blossoms, a mist of sweat rising from steamy skin.
And suddenly there was a reason.
And suddenly the air was cool.
All the taxis turned their lights off.
Every door required an answer.
Standing above it all, a heaviness lay over the skyline.
The son took its time.
Eyes were shut and not shut,
An imbalance keeps minds awake.
Demonstrating resolve, the bedsheets hung on.
Ringing, a ringing.

- Detroit

Saturday, May 24, 2008

I'm Gonna

There are all these words missing from songs like "Love Is Simple" but in parentheses should say (when it happens) - but they don't write songs like that without conviction. Surely there's doubt, like the Munch bridge on the Michigan billboard minus a screaming face, all water at sunset and silhouetted treeline.

There are all these words missing from me when I go to look for them. Instead I'm left with fragments and glimpses of the puzzle - I know how these should fit, but they just don't. So do I accept or keep searching? Maybe under the couch, maybe somewhere in California.

When objects become lost, we look and, after searching for some time, forget. The object may have never really existed.

When we become lost, as in a thick wood, we look for familiar sights for grounding, to catch the bearings slipping away into anxiety; we move ahead, unsure, but desiring action that may stir some false confidence that may, like Pinocchio, become real - only our conscience is bewildered and cannot be our guide. There is no forgetting being lost: the condition is pervasive until resolved. Feet crunch, feet crunch, leaves, leaves, so many leaves, and all these trees - until the morning sun shines unencumbered and the morning birds wake from their slumber.

- Exit 97, Somewhere in Michigan

Friday, May 23, 2008

So Much

They came on bikes with Lucy and left us five fifty short when we finished our messy burgers, still obsessed with cigarette packaging and the word 'sassafras', drinking it in, right off the pink line, somewhere near Damen. We woke up free of the mash-potato brains sloshed around the park previously, invigorated by comings and left longing by a going, but having gained a map. Water came quickly and then never came at all. I slept on the soft side with all the pillows and the good blanket, waking up wishing for a leg resting comfortably against mine (going numb). In a dream, I kissed her and she said "no more", but in a way that let me know she was lying. Deja vu ensued but this time they chased us out, all giggling and tossing a frisbee 'cross the free grass as we sought the chrome moose. Bicycles hung from buildings, wheels spinning stupidly in the ceaseless wind as we walked into a cafe where the stingy stole the couches. When the newspaper ran out it was time to scavenge shelves, all dusty and packed with words, and I took the opportunity to experience claustrophobia as I played hide and seek alone, with Ayn Rand. How naive (or ignorant) was she to believe in the absence of force or looting in any stage of capitalism. I tried to fall asleep on a couch but got distracted by Rachel Ray. Waiting for the bus, I sat on a stoop and imagined myself singing.


Thursday, May 22, 2008

Come Back Come Back

The Art Institute 
Aw man, Molly totally liked movies like this all faded color surfing dancing mexican modernism.

Bas Princen in makin' some photography! "Superior Court" who holds superior court with god in nature - the trees towering and a building cowering?

"The Twitchell House #16"
- Chris Mottalini

Josef Shulz - Geometric!

Gaston Latouche - "Pardon In Brittany"

Oh man - Monet so timeful not timeless and he knew! It hangs on the wall, a whisper, barely there, look away, at another, and it disappears! Monet knew! He knew about the ephemeral, no epic history paintings, no, it's all coming and going, transient and that's the beauty! - to lose and return to experience fresh, anew each day, phoenix resurrecting, a new sun, new moon, new hills and black mountains. Every day the birds sing and an alarm goes off.

Van Gogh, ahhh, those colors! Revolution! Yeah! Blinding, so bright and the rest, so subdued - it's obvious here, where they glow, glow, glow amongst the quiet, content - each object imbued with life, vibration, energy - complete, whole buzzzzzz.

Abbot Haderson Thayer - "I have put wings on probably more to symbolize an exalted atmosphere... where one need not Explain the action of his figures."

[a drawing of some armor]

Notes on certain people in passing:
she's lost, she needs help, she has faith
he doesn't know where his sister is
he's confused, unsure of himself, wishes he slept more
trying so hard in black
she's after a deal, fair and square - no bullshitting! no time!
he misses his girlfriend (does she miss him?) she lives too far away
he reaaally wants a beer right now - this place is awful, all this marble
where are the televisions?
he regrets his choice
she does too, but no, that one loves it! she does! wow.
she's trying to get comfortable, not used to hugging so much, hands held
he came here with others - where are they??
they never left her side, she needs them - where will they eat tonight? she doesn't know
they want to leave, they are so tired, so so tired.

Yeah Yeah Yeah

...could make things magical - to believe in magic like a young girl should. And the sentiments sleep still in pop songs, waking when we feel somethin' true to remind us it's been done. So who needs records? Music or documentation reservation due to trepidation and we wish this could just be ours, right now, always and without context, to have and to hold for all time as a reminder that love is true (and it could happen to you.) And once back from the starry lakeside a song distantly buzzes in kind with the cicadas from a rusted pickup: Elvis singin' "Fools Rush In". And the next summer Grams had died and we found her apartment full of hundreds of smiling faces, hanging on the walls, and also angelic light, pouring in from above the stove, all golden, illuminating the place where she stopped breathin' and they took her gold, and they took the silver, but the stories she left for me.

Wednesday, May 21, 2008


[a drawing of myself riding on top of a train which floats magically through the city]

Today we went tourist, checking out the Ozymandian monuments, the twisted fountains of steel silently espousing the grandeur of man, capturing the requisite moments in gelatin and pixels - for us? or for the folks back home? The air was chilly like a cold day in April and the May flowers that would have bloomed around the cancer survivors' garden were timid and shy, waiting for a more agreeable sun. We ate peanut butter sandwiches and spoke of sticky situations like sex, hoping we wouldn't have to be honest. As the sun sets, we watch boats lying still in the could-be ocean. 

- Chicago

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Run For...

In the warm belly of a grand steel serpent we sailed 'round castles made of light and little else, structures so tall they ripped vertical tears in the night sky, aglow with purpose, before plunging deep into the subterranean veins of the sleeping earth. Intermittently a voice would sound, offering guidance, muffled by the roar of the great beast. In the flickering light of the serpentine innards, I caught glimpses of your body parts out of context, like fireflies flitting on and off through darkened leaves. In jars I placed these darting flashbulbs, attempting to examine each one: your lips, full of smirk; the button of your nose, rounded like a wooden bead on my corduroy jacket; the cut of your bangs, sharp and straight; the flow of your hair, like a quiet waterfall, strands flowing downward with assurance and power, pouring softly into a bit of a wave, lapping against the shore of your shoulder. I could tell by lookin' that you were born in the mountains, but I could never understand how I knew. Sitting on the train, across from this shapeshifter which robbed your visage, I miss you.