Tuesday, October 2, 2007

Headline Reads: Falling Novel Kills one.

Aunt Nuria lived off an aspirator for years
and smothered under the tube last night.
She had skin that was like blue bic ink
and her mouth was agape, pink
around the white of what was a wad
that went the whole way down, into
everything she ever was. Obituary read survived
by one.


She walked with a pad and a pen, then
had a laptop, then a typewriter, because
it gave the words weight. That was her
idea. But by the time she was bed-ridden,
she'd been on pencil.lin, because she
hadn't been writing, she'd been typing,
That was someone else, who
she misunderstood. She
inevitably would be.

REVENGE at last: The heranucleous
survives. Life through the ingested
ball of paper. A decade
inscribed into a box. The maddening
end is both a death sentence and
an epiphany (mystical,
but with clarity) so she hid it,
like we do with all good things.
and there's the connection,
that and the artifact.

there's this guy, you might have heart of him


You should go
from place to place
recovering the poems
that have been written for you,
to which you can affix you signature.
Don't discuss these matters
with anyone.
Retrieve. Retrieve.
When the basket is full
someone will appear
to whom you can present it.
She will spread her wide skirt
and sit down
on a black stone
and your basket will bounce
like a speck in sunlight
on the immense landscape
of her lap.

Leonard Cohen, 2006
Book of Longing

those flowing locks

you know what i think? they should have an actress play Thor. yes, they're making a thor movie now. iron man's a bad guy and he gets a movie. the hulk's a bad guy and he gets a movie. captian america dies and he gets a movie. thor comes back from the dead, just in time for a movie. impeccable timing at marvel.
at my dorkiest, i think katee sackhoff would be great for the role. most of that has to do with her playing starbuck on battlestar galactica where she constantly boasts and antagonizes colonel tigh into mutterings, not unlike the godchild himself.
really though, what brings on the impluse for gender-bending? THOR LOOKS LIKE A MUSCLE BOUND GIRL! pardon the outburst, but it's effective in a few ways. and honestly, any guy who can act won't be the right size either, so let's embrace it.

The Art of Bringing the Rain Cloud

First, you must walk as if the weight of the world is on your shoulders. Of course, it isn't. Your heart and shoulders are light and carefree, so carefree, in fact, that you won't mind the inevitable downpour you're bringing on yourself and everyone else who shares your weather. However, you should assume the posture of a street light in anticapation of the increasing barometric pressure you thunderheaded thoughts are generating.

Dressing for the approaching storm: Your clothing is a function independent of the rain cloud you're attempting to gather. For the most part, adorn yourself in raiment indicative of the excitement that coalesces around a theme party particle. Really, whatever you deem appropiate will be so. If it feels like a wet t-shirt storm, then wear a white tee. If it feels more like a wet prom dress run through, make it so. It will be most certainly be soggy though, so over-sized black boots are a necessity and it's best to leave them untied. Let's let your friends in on it too.

The last and most important parts of the bringing the rain cloud are a full belly and an empty bladder. It's important to feel grounded. One of the realest and most visceral ways to do that is a hearty meal. However, since you'll be focusing on fluid transfer, it's best to go to the bathroom before leaving the house, at least to pee. You don't want to wet your pants accidently while you're willing the sky to transfer fluid to the earth.

thoughts for the pre-school set

this means you nora-daughter-of-john

Do whatever you can to convince your parents/ teachers/ mentors/ everyone around you that everything you do is genius. Even when you go to the bathroom, you should be able to spin it into gifted and talented tinkle. If it's brown, before you flush it down, run and tell mom and/or dad just how great it was and how you even seem to know just when to squeeze your sphincter for the perfect brilliant length.
Why? (which, by the way, is a question your brain should never stop asking)
Once you have the educated people in your life convinced that your a smart cookie, they start doing the work for you. I'm not saying this to stunt your growth. Quite the contrary. Learn to read and do your times tables, but once you've got that down, start reading stuff in other languages, or learn to paint or play the oboe (do people still play the oboe?) my point is: convince everyone that your smart and they'll let your mind grow so that you'll be smart. Or maybe my point is that intelligence, like beauty, is in the organ of the beholder. I never know what half of the waste I spew means anymore.

yeats or yates

As far as the fourth wall goes, it's bullet-proof. Not even a nod to resolution. Tony's life exists outside of the viewers' experience of it. Maybe it was presumptious to assume that a story presented with minimal narrative effect would have an ending that generated closure.
Or was there a cohesive theme to the show? It certainly wasn't the power of psychiatry. As the final season has established, Tony's just been sharpening his teeth. As an anti-hero, Tony walks a line that discourages moral judgements, though his on-screen psychoanalysis pulls the veil back just a little on that. Ultimately, Tony and Dr. Melfi just do the work of first-person narration in written word, without the heavy handed narrator, revealing Tony's internal states and opinions. It's not about the morality of a man and the means he goes to in providing for his family.
It is, put simply, about family. Family is the institution that prevents real change in the individual. One theme that's been consistent throughout the series is the inability of family members to branch out. Tony tried in college and failed, ultimately returning to the mob. Meadow's several attempts have left her a likely mob-wife with paralegal potential. This season, AJ tried to form his own crew, then to become his own man, (in the army) and, in the end, got a job from his dad, making contacts, with plenty of upward mobility. Carmela's several attempts to branch out have been met with resistance by Tony. She's never left him, after all these years. Family prevails, and they get the last word.

Nine years for that? Hah!
Or maybe the fourth wall has a subtle crack in it. All the players that the viewers expected to be in place were there. The FBI agent in the USA cap, the creepy guy going to the bathroom, the group of black guys reminiscent of the first hit on Tony all those years ago, Meadow arriving late and almost getting hit by a truck. Something to consider: a lot can happen in the thirty seconds of black silence between the last scene and the credits. A choose-your-own-adventure? Fuck that.

bean brain

There are times when I'm convinced that the brain cell I use to store one byte of information either overlaps or is the same as the brain cell I use to store another byte of information. (Yes, that sentence gets a little hairy in the middle.) Allow me to illustrate.

You were totally expecting a picture, weren't you? No, I'm going to give you an example. It's a true-to-life one though. George Orwell. Everytime I think of George Orwell, I think of Animal Farm and fighting with socialists in Spain. Then, I start to think of radio broadcast, War of the Worlds, Rosebud, and a variety of desperate advertisements meant to keep a fat man afloat in the twilight of his career. There's a reason I'm using examples instead of a name, that's because I can't think of it. The fact is, I can't remember (excuse me while i visit wikipedia) Orson Welles' name if I think of George Orwell's name first, and vice versa. It's a common experience that I attribute the creation of Animal Farm to Orson Welles, however, I have an explanation for this. Ever notice how Orson Welles had that Fidel Castro beard once he got older, that might make the Animal Farm thing more believable. All things considered, ORson WELLes isn't not at all mistakeable for George orwell. I don't know how I keep getting them mixed up all the damn time. In times of doubt, I blame comic books, they've always played with my perception of time and continuity.

Anybody else get people, places or things mixed up? For that matter, is a place just an immobile thing? Discuss-thing!

on doing

there's a little organization system I have for the obligations I keep in my head. To-dos are filed into stressin,' pressin,' exciting, and not-even-on-the-fucking-map.

"Stressin" and "exciting" are accurate monikers describing the feeling I take away from planning sessions. Whenever i begin to make plans about actually doing these to-dos they are filed accordingly.

"Pressin" is truly a prestigious class. When a to-do has graduated to "pressin," it's due tomorrow and, in true shambolic fashion, I investigate what comes out of the fevered scribblings of one sleep deprived night. I am a student on the edge. People will look back at what I'm doing and thing "damn, he changed the way we thought about thinking."

because, you know, you never really have to think critically in these rackets.


Less real than red lips and cancer-breath. Nuns in Aderral-blue habits broadcast psychic hymns. Lavender smoke, cigarettes, Morgan, Me, We sit atop a dream-drive exhaust silo. Silhouette sleepers pulsing through appliances like electricity. A quantifiable amount of ENERGY, one which is released upon death and may share some similarity to the material which it inhabits. How do you make everyone equal? Morgan disrobes herself for the kiddies and somewhere a blue nun goes blind. Where we search for clouds we find billowing space platforms, exposed white bellies, silver trim. Grand-dads old Lincoln has sharp chrome lining sketching a frame for white-wall-rimmed glasses. New ZONING POLICY: cells will divide using uniform and efficiently-patterned permutations. The chairman wears a monocle. COMPLAINTS of not having a purpose or direction much lower when compared with similar catalogued civilizations. Morgan says, Forever and its more permanent than til death do us part because dreams are more real than cadmium rods but less real than cigarettes, always with the cigarettes. Politics conducted at the end of a lottery ticket, where the jackpot is a cynical omnipotence as a roommate. Stainless steel cathedral walls, holographic floating stains, ATHEISM in a world where the living are well-acquainted with the after-life. We blow into the lavender smoke and smile back at ourselves as we float away. Dreams juice your oranges, heat your home, run you car. The chairman is schizophrenic.
As real as money and more frightening than an old man in a powdered wig.

Informational Metaphysics

That fly is four days old! Shes way over her daily allowance.
Thirty-one flavors strawberry dirt bubble Foster flamb
on one-hundred-and-seventy-five degree sidewalk cement.

Forty-one sixteen, stock-ticker red for an old Malibu;
full tank at the fifth avenue Speedway three-hundred sixteen
feet per compressed fluid, spark ignition.

Phone lines, LAN lines, calling all cars CB pulse,
microwave radiation passing, phasing, parading
through finger-stain purple silicon skies.

Green rivers of subconscious though cascading
from rushing mind mouths. He really looks quite silly
in that flight suit. Animals and humans separated

by the degree to which they are preoccupied
with matters other than survival. I think
I'll drink tea and play a mandolin. Truck Grill!

Biological statistics in neon yellow.
Theres Suzy-Q, shes five-foot-two,
loves Johnny Rotten with her chemical cloud,

and coalesced out of Elvis Costello and Jenny Sparks
in a Petri dish with electric pulse Tesla coil

Eleven Forty-three,
Seventy-four degrees,
Sunny skies, smiling faces,
and its on good authority
that Gods vacationing
in the Hamptons.

The Tarzan of Tarmac Trees

There is a character, one who looks no more than a shadow
when you walk past him on nervous nights through asphalt alleyways.
He is with you when you love your wife, when you nuke your dinner,
while you wash your unmentionables.

He knows your mother's maiden name, the tag you gave the family pet,
your social security number, and your last bank balance.
He is in your telephone line, in your electrical wires.
He is on the street. He is in your home.

He knows the answers to your questions about local weirdos.
The old lady who carries all those bags wherever she goes:
he knows there's a dead raccoon and a pair of Stacy Adams
in there along with Jim Hoffa's wallet.

The husk of a missing man who won't look you straight in the face
when you stroll right by him on sugar-and-shit-sticky sidewalks;
he knows the secrets those eyes hold.

He knows the secrets your eyes hold.
He knows why you can't sleep at night.
He knows why you don't call your dad
as often as he thinks you should.

He is Felix, King of City Streets.
He knows where the bodies are buried.
He knows who those corpses were.
He knows why the skeletons rot.

bulletshot/ come outside and play

The world's not getting any bigger and we're still denying the obvious. In Japan, they have this crazy idea thatwe can stack people on top of people on top of people
(ad infinitum)
up into the stratosphere. Arcology, the greeks call it. or anybody who wants to refer to a city crammed into a vertigo-inducing star-scraping resource chewer but still mantain a bit of brevity. But it's still a stall. Eventually we'll run out of either places to put buildings or flat land to feed those buildings. Then what? Once we've used all our inhabitable area, life just becomes a math problem. The Japs are at least partly correct, but while salvation does lie upward
(oh no, he's God-bombing us now.)
it's not an Earthly salvation.
(yup, there it is.)
Our burning bush wants to go back to the moon for some reason, but I say we need to get that rusty red jewel in our crosshairs, that war prize in the epic human battle for the next millenium. All that extra insulation we're putting on around us is the smoggy hope for making Mars a liveable land. A thin atmosphere like the one around Mars makes for cold air and water that goes from ice to vapor instantaneously. Throw some greenhouse gases in the mix and you've got rivers and a warm climate. Put some plants in that rich Martian soil and the carbon dioxide laden atmosphere starts filling with refreshing little bursts of oxygen. Granted, it might take a while, but we're not doing anything else, right?

We're over 20,000 years old and the farthest from the house we've gotten is a little run around on the front porch. Why don't we go out and play?