Monday, December 15, 2014

classic futnuckery: old symbology

Here it comes: three figures. Man on the leftmost end, broad
shouldered, narrow hips, impassable like a wall. In the middle there
is cobra commander's head with the cloth mask on-the one that drooped
down past his chin. He looked evil in that, like he would pull up his
mask to spit vileness. On the right end there is a spear, just like a
metallic rod with two teeth on the end, like if you gored someone and
pulled out, it would rip innards, fiercely tearing up someone's
insides. But this is the old symbology, no longer relevant, except
maybe as a little puzzle for me to work in my head on this, a
reflective day.

Sunday, December 14, 2014

no more sublime sentiment...

"ancient greece jostled incessantly for the attention of the muse,
outputting writing and other works, yet the muse remained silent. In
fact, he ultimately smited them by his silence, making centuries of
art and culture but a memory. It was a genocide of apathy, and the
muse remained in the background until roman debauchery saw increase,
then began anew calls to the muse from the empty souls of a blooming
society. But always, where is seen fine artist hands, there is a
lowtoned breathed lament that it is all dust and nothing more-no more
sublime sentiment."-todaggi beefarini

Sunday, December 7, 2014

the forest protecting the leaves

"it was after beefarinis time that the whispers of the muse began
again in the works of men like dali and picasso. These appeared,
however, in codified form, for the nightmares were perhaps too
grotesque to capture outright in any detail, and the muse, though
whispered so much, remained hidden in a cloud of artistic snobbery,
suppressed by the very industry it sustained. In the dawn of feature
films, there were nightmares captured on the new medium, calling forth
the muse again, but as the new medium spread, layers of obscurity were
built in and industrial selfaggrandisement became the order. As the
public consciousness discombobulated one film, the process was
interrupted and abandoned at the appearance of dozens more to digest.
It was the quantity of work that provided the needed obscurity that
put the public aside from the artists, and the leaves were then
protected by the forest as a whole." -skinner pilgrim, the conscience
of the muse during the industrial revolution

Schnell on the guardsman mythos: bright new morning

"it was obvious the will to conquest and the soul of the great war was
a repudiation of the muse, which was contramanded by fatal doses being
administered to the offenders. The muse was then thrust upon them and
collapsed their empires. But then in the daydreaming time at the
beginning of the atomic age, the muse was packed away with old
uniforms and medals, and as the watchmen speech was obviated by
murder, the muse was called by a society of peaceniks that had never
uttered the name before. It was an uncomfortable, inept sound, that
was barely recognizable. They would have to learn and adapt, or be
overrun by their own hysteria. But comes the muse with a vengeance
after years of the screams, and a bright new morning in the land of
the free did begin." -snowball schnell, the guardsman mythos versus
red utopia.

Friday, December 5, 2014

let me explain a bit

ive been posting these guardsman buts, talking about the influence of
the muse thru history(a fake, but familiar history, at that). Allow
me to illuminate where i have ruminated. The fictitious muse
represents a person who is a fuzzy archetype, a nebulous soul, neither
savior nor goat, but a sort of slacker, and the worship of the muse
represents entirely the influence of appetites in cultures around the
world-be it sex, the want of money, of course food, and anything else
that inspires greed and pleasure in the course of life. Hope u enjoy
the academic dustiness as much as i enjoy writing it, which is a fair
bit, as i put flesh to a false yet familiar mythology.

guardsman mythos contemporaries 2

"under the guise of staid social democracy, vibrates the asterisk of
the muse. They did not whisper the name, but it is thought behind
closed doors, the old rituals are observed and the muse is satisfied
like an intense lover. The will to power, then as now, leads through
the muse then, the cravings and the satisfaction working hand in hand
with the successful and driven even now, in this, the light of a
future." -snowball schnell, the infinite hunger of the muse.

Guardsman mythos contemparies

"one could appreciate the fine line walked by beefarini, as he made
request after request to the wealthy for access to the paintings he
discussed in the guardsman mythos text, whereas those benefactors were
obviously nervous at what secrets beefarini might uncover.
Cumulatively, it was tendency towards excesses, a grotesque appetite
of the muse for more and more: a litany of stimulation, a stream as it
were, of things which may have actually seemed quasi-erotic to the
otherworldly personality of the muse. Having seen the old works, now
publicly owned, i doubt not the veracity of beefarini's work."
-skinner pilgrim, the guardsman then and now.

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

the guardsman mythos, fourth bit

"deutsche national socialism lacked the gumption to summon the spirit
for its own devices, for though it would have given them more power,
those disorganized and deranged personalities that craved stability in
all aspects of society would have been turned atilt by the ensuing
instability that came with that eldritch muse. They dared not whisper
the name, as they put on homoerotic displays of military pageantry,
rows of uniform men with asses clenched, and they yearned then to
create their own mythos. But he lurked, did the spirit, as a strong
harmonic vibration capable of shaking the very earth itself, loosening
the tense bloodstained soil." -todaggi beefarini, the guardsman

the guardsman mythos, third bit

"in salem, it was thought that many young women had been touched by an
unwholesome influence, so they imaginitively pulled our perverse
familiar from antiquity and promptly blamed him, although young women
need not much of an excuse for devilment, there spirits like the
weather, which before science, seemed to just happen with neither
rhyme nor reason." -todaggi beefarini, the guardsman mythos

Sunday, November 30, 2014

the guardsman mythos, second excerpt

"through moonsoaked gloom, many prussians ran foolish, stricken by the
muse, but thought then to be lunatics, or of the cult of luna, with
logic and motivations intriquing to the sensible, but incapable of any
understanding and/or measurement. In the night they watch the square
of moonglow on the floor and some of those feel the calling, the pull
of the muse, the dread whisper of the secret which drives common
people to a wildness that is as old as the dirt. In the asylums, they
ran amok through the torchlit hallways, orange ambience give their
coloring an extra note of wildness, as if from the campsite of a
forgotten epoch, with them all being haphazard, askew, mishung and
searching, trying to get yet closer to the muse." -todaggi beefarini

mythos of the muse, a fake secret?

"it was the residue of pre-renaissance darkness that fueled these
lethargic nudes: blank, staring men with flaccid members, and women
reclining, halfasleep, of a nebulous indifference. The muse was a
whisper that was held close, and still visible today as a void in the
plain white geometry of modern art that is so sure of itself and at
once insecure to its own real meaning. Empty red blocks and black
crosses scrawled by learned men, mimicking the innocent experiments of
children. It is no wonder the inner circles yearn for the muse,
still." -todaggi beefarini, excerpted from 'the guardsman mythos'.

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

pikes turn for football commentary

"f**k liverpool." -david allejandro pike, on his last day as a
football presenter

That old beloved pastel pony

"sometimes its best not to dwell on your situation, but instead
retreat into dreamland. This is a common technique for me. In my
daydreams i am a pastel pony, beloved and petted by all, sated on my
fill of oats, apples and salt." -david allejandro pike, from his days
as a football presenter, before being fired.

Friday, November 21, 2014

continuing words of the turquoise revolution

"without a higher understanding or an appreciation for the greater
meanings of all things, indeed without even sufficient education, each
of us can catch a glimpse of the natural order, the matrices, the
gravitational circles, the lattice works and the honeycombs that bind
reality itself, if we are simply to look about in the course of the
day." -david allejandro pike, excerpted from his book 'how the hunger
games changed my life and can change yours, too', used with kind

Sunday, November 16, 2014

Truth mountain!

"the truth is there, shining on the hilltop, but for the rest of us,
we are in the valley, on the shadowside, opposite the light." -david
alejandro pike, excerpted from his book, lego 9/11, with kind

Saturday, October 18, 2014

developments and happenings

to luce, on the impending nuptuals: father says the pills make him
feel like a man again. Im proud of him. Better living through
chemistry, or a forgotten episode of breaking bad. Mother is a
tireless bundle of energy, walking by wiping all the bums and noses
with a dishrag that never seems to get dirty. I am closer yet to
creating a monster, my monster, one to lurk amongst the flowers,
waiting to unleash an existential rage on the unsuspecting. Hopefully
this finds you well, luce, and i shall soon see your locks and lace
bouncing through my garden with a thimble of tea and a sweet biscuit.
I shall carve thy sweet name into a tree and watch through the weeks
as the wounded treeflesh scars over and gets used to thy sweet
name.... Luce....

Monday, September 29, 2014

Hyman Picklefinger Contemplates Fate and Social Grace

He made sounds, none intelligible.  He walked up, simply, dutifully, and put his finger in my cup.  Looking down at it, fouling my drink, I said "shit", somewhat bewildered at the audacity.  The rim of the cup was perfectly round, broken only be his peach-colored finger.  It was a visual I would carry with me.
    It was on me to lie down on the ground, above the ground this time, splayed like a snow angel and think of things like my fate.  "I am a spider" I thought, and for a few moments I was just a spider, hovering on a thread above the dust.  If only I had something good, sumptuous to crawl upon with my six legs, my existence as said spider would be vindicated, somehow justified, certainly fulfilling.  A morsel, a fly, waiting, ensnared, looking death in the face, that majestic blade-this time, me-the tornado roaring across the plain, the out-of-control bus barrelling down, ominous, ominous, the six legs of death, that nugget of torso atop six spindles, myself, a spider become de facto agent of God, carrier of a random quality-that selective process, if there is one, that makes fate, that weaves ahead into the future, a dead-eyed agent of the random(the eyes are just sensors, however big an array or cluster), fate woven into the whim of a current, the neurochemical process, and the fly, ended, while back on the ground I am splayed still, prone, and fate has given no answers; indeed it has shown me the random dark jungle side and my own nature, listening to the dark gods of need and instinct that lurk in the mist, and I am alone flailing for control in a jungle of neurochemical impulses.
    I had found within me the lost heart of the jungle, through dark, dank passageways, the beating growing louder and louder as I came closer, my mind reeling evermore at the pure arcane quality of the thing I had found, and still I was splayed, prone, body left behind, mind floating through the ether, an ether that had been disproven long ago.  The finger in my drink was not pink when I looked again, but pale with blotches, seeming bloodspots, and I was too far within myself to look the cretin in the face sensibly, so I stared up at his finger across the rim of my tumbler.  I did so like a fool-a smart fool, the dangerous kind.  So I was instantly become no longer an existential spider, by an uncostumed clown, blinded by anachronisms that would not readily identify themselves, but pushing at my circuitry, crawling across delicate nerve endings like fat worms.  All the while, he was dirtying my drink, an act causing a disturbance within me, a psychic earthquake, a breath of dust across the uneven floorboards of a haunted house, and I too bemused inside, watching those dust particles drift ever downward, towards rest.
    I had switched places with the little man in my head and now he was at the controls of the vessel in a world that was new to him, where all light was too bright and breezes felt like gales, in this tender, virgin reality.  He would surely scream if the finger touched him, the sensation amplified by the untouched snowdrift of a mind, a virgin squeal, the whole-hearted bawling of a baby for the security and nourishment of his mothers breast.  I stepped back into a womb-like place in my own mind, a semi-conscious state, in the ether watching but detached as the man bathed his finger in my drink and my personality caved-in on itself.  'At least it's comfortable' I thought, damning the consequences and forgetting all of the daily nonsense that dictated my existence.
    Perhaps I was being a jerk about the whole thing, but the tableaux was like humpty dumpty with an erection pointing to the ground at forty-five degrees.  "Blast off!" I guess.  I told you, though, the image stuck with me, that of the finger in the drink, like a sliver of metal piercing the eye, or indeed a rude, dirty finger in the eye, an ouchie, as unnatural and unsettling as a person burning.  It was not as though he was trying to touch the bottom of the cup, and can one be gross witouth being vulgar?  Are there shades, I wonder, perhaps a fine palette of social offenses from which one may select something to get a reaction from another.  For all he knew, I was the roughhouse type that would have punched him, not once but twice, for violating my drink with his finger.  Surely he was not extinguishing a flaming finger in the cool liquid of my cup, either; that I could understand, and if he seemed to suffer, I would off to spit upon said flaming finger.  But no.  In years past, men fought with pistols or clubs over this sort of thing, and here I responded by losing my mind completely for a moment while lying on the floor.
    The whole matter was beginning to make me feel as though maybe I were in error.  Bah says part of me, but there is that little man, another part, that is not so sure.  I would see my brain floating through the ether and say to it "you are ugly, but I love you, anyway", but that other side would flee, dreading the breaking of the safety and comfort of inactivity.  I would pound the table, with flushed sweaty face, that of an angry man,  and say simply "remove it now!".  But this was all academic, for I would not finish the drink now, could not without thinking of whatever might crawl across the leathery skin of those strange hands.  I would wonder what unwholesomeness had been on the villian's hand.

Sunday, September 7, 2014

words of the man 9.7.14

"In spring, the sweet young spring, decked out with little green,
necklaced, braceleted with the song of idiotic birds, spurious and
sweet and tawdry as a shopgirl in her cheap finery, like an idiot with
money and no taste; they were little and young and trusting, you could
kill them sometimes. But now, as august like languorous replete bird
winged slowly through the pale summer to the moon of decay and death,
they were bigger, vicious; ubiquitous as undertakers, cunning as
pawnbrokers, confident and unavoidable as politicians. They came
cityward lustful as country boys, as passionately integral as a
college football squad; pervading and monstrous but without majesty: a
biblical plague seen through the wrong end of a binocular: the majesty
of fate become comptemptuous through ubiquity and sheer repitition."

Friday, August 29, 2014

miracles, with hiram blatnerrechtner

        With the gun nestled under my chin, I let the hammer click on an empty chamber. "Miracle" I said to my dog, the effeminate spitz, and pulled the trigger again. I put the gun to the spiz's head then, and a trail of bright yellow urine poured from its hindquarters, and his tail wagged crazily all the while. He looked at me as if to say "don't you love me, asshole?" and I regretted roping him into my test of faith. "Miracle" I said, looking away in shame. To be clear, my spitz did not urinate from fear of death, for it always urinated when I played with it; it was just the weak constitution of a small dog.        
        Five years ago, Doc Hossenpfeffer told me I had six months, and after, he stopped taking my calls. This roulette was just a snack before the meal. The spitz tilted its little head and looked at me as if to say "whatever I lost, I lost a long time ago" with eyes of pure onyx. "I feel you" I said. I called Doc Hossenpfeffer again pretending to be someone else this time. "Erection pills" I croaked into the receiver, and I heard the nurse telling someone it was an emergency in the background. She got Hossenpfeffer on the line quick. "You bleeding quack" I said "I don't need erection pills at all!" "I know that voice" he said dejectedly. "In fact, I got a throbbing one right now, just talking to you" I said. "I can't help you" he said flatly. "You're beyond medical science now." He said I did not have a brain. Where my brain should be, there was a large innervated tumor, something only a witch doctor, or a carnival sideshow could appreciate.
        I thumped my temple, thinking with the tumor. I put the phone down and put the gun against the side of my head, and without taking another breath, I pulled the trigger. This time, I almost passed out. The bullet bounced off my skull and hit my Glenco Ten Years Of Service certificate that I had framed years ago and hung on the wall. It was now askew, with a fleck of blood. I put the phone back in its cradle, looked at the spitz and said "Miracle".

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

lyrics to "wait for the rain/the road leads to nowhere"

These are the lyrics to the song "Wait for the rain/the road leads to nowhere", as performed by the Hess Brothers, appearing on the Last House On The Left Soundtrack, and possibly the same version played in the end credits of Cabin Fever. Uh-rah. May be wrong on a word or two, but I think I nailed the gist of it.... wheels turning some of the leaves are turning brown coming to gather you gathering cherries off of the ground a little while older a little bit closer to the spring top of your mind is what the nakedness of neoncolored smokey sound can bring and the road leads to nowhere dice rolling thunders gonna roll in your smile cross tomorrow cross tomorrow wait around to find the crink in your style after the rainbow after the day glows over you bottle of wine and then a waterfall gonna lead you to the green i knew you do and the road leads to nowhere and the castle remains the same and the mother tells the father wait for the run where the road leads i just dont know where the road leads ijust dont know where the road is or where the road leads arms twisting reach around and twist inside your skin fifty hours fantasize what you want to begin after its finished after the song and dancings done wake up to the new contentment of the way you fought to win the war you want and the road leads to nowhere and the castle stays the same and the mother tells the father wait for the rain wheels turning some of the leaves are turning brown coming to gather you gathering cherries off of the ground after the rainbow after the day glows over you bottle of wine and a waterfall gonna lead you to the green I knew you do and the road leads to nowhere and the castle stays the same and mother tells the father wait for the rain

Thursday, July 31, 2014

did u know

Did u know that if u talk to a chesterfield county deputy, and a
written incident report is made, your words, verbatim, and an account
of any known actions might appear in the cheraw chronicle? Use
caution citizens when approached by a deputy, and hope the new sheriff
changes that paradigm. Do vote for someone, anyone.

personal productivity, a protracted musing in the creativity essay

The world will squeeze out your heart, and inflame your mind, giving you, ultimately, the germ of your artistic endeavor, simply handing it to you, without the need for thanks. Out of the fog of cognition, a form begins to present itself, metaphors appear, grow, mutate, and the workings will have begun in earnest, not giving you a moment to pull away and say "I'm really doing it." Even a child learning to ride a bicycle will say he or she is doing it, really doing it; they will have that luxury. But creators rarely do. Follow the muse, and don't let go until the muse is exhausted, breathless, spent. The eccentricities will run freely, the stranger tendencies will come out and play and yes, there will be voices even in the still of night. These are a tableux of goats exposing themselves in quasi-erotic poses and other novelties that explode through the mind of a creator, and who else, but the humble creator can tame that weird torrent? It is like alchemy; the making of sense out of nothing is fully comparable to turning waste into gold, I say. Let the filth shine, part of me says, and then there are a few books I'd gladly burn, but we must be careful here. These are not fine distinctions, but instead are the broadest generalities, the supreme superlatives, bumping at the guard rails of art and decency on the edge, right before we all go right into the weeds and possibly put the whole everloving carriage up a tree. There go I, but for the grace of God, I says. Only the most fragile sentiments hold us together sometimes. I'm reminded of the passage in Ulysses when Bloom's wife decides she wants to get pregnant after she watches dogs have sex in an alleyway. Hold onto your dignity with both hands, but, by Jove, enjoy thyself! Inspiration comes sometimes when you least expect it, like me, when I'm washing my filthy bum, lost in thought, comforted by warm water and the scent of soap, standing nude in my most dispicable form, lips slightly parted in a posture of absolute stupidity, the brain crawls like a busy ant hill. If you thought my clothes were ugly, remember it could get much worse! You would not want to see me as God made me, for I have flaws, not good ones that glitter and gleam like the flaws in a gem, but dark spots and problem areas, like a reject egg. Things point in different directions, and things hang like they want to fall from the body, escape from me, as it were. That's the ticket, the rub: they want to escape, to be released from the ramshackle host being, and that is I; this is me. Ramshackle and haphazard, hanging askew like a neglected portrait, buckling like wood furniture left outdoors and collecting dirt, mold, mites like carpet that should be replaced. Such as it is. But oh friends, I got a nugget of energy in the brain, that lets me know, I'm superbad. It makes the quiet hours an opera, and then it shuts up when its not needed. It's a powersource that is unfailing, unceasing, and not necessarily clean. It so often drives people to err, doesn't it? And in spectacular ways. I don't fear it; I respect it, for all it's strength. I could glorify it, but I won't. I'd rather personify it and give the qualities of spector-a friendly one. It would never hurt me. It makes me strong, gives me emotions and thoughts, sometimes distractions, but sometimes epiphanies that shake me from the bottom, from the feet, where I'm usually firmly planted. I like so many have been through personal hell, and lived, surviving, wounded on the inside, seemingly normal on the outside, hoping infection does not set in on my injured soul, and it's a statement for me to just sit and stare, surviving still. But I feel one day the women will sit with me, feeding me grapes, tending my feet and brushing me with their love(whatever that means-you think about it a while). And until then, may the soft whisper of the leaves on the trees tell your story best.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

that indefinite space(between the ears)

once oh brothers i had an indefinite space between my ears a foggy
region where i destroyed the world in my lab i conquered women and
made men kneel before me in fear and respect respect and fear and
there was a worm in that apple feeding feeding and growing and there
was less apple all the time and more worm and my workshop moved gears
turned with mad energy made from something as simple as looking out
the window could you power anything so easily no you cant i know but i

Monday, July 7, 2014

the joy of making continued in schizm

The most interesting schizm of creators is when they deny their own work, sometimes humorously, in pretending it never happened. But they know. And we know. In these instances it makes me wonder what part of self lept into control of the creator to make them do what they did, and to feel shame after, knowing some infantile or degenerate or reverse-gender bit took the reigns and made them do something, like the actions of a blackout drunk. Ooh. Interesting. And everytime that creator is confronted with his or her own work, there is the reminder-the soft bit in the shell-poking at them, remember being at the tender mercy of psychic forces, advertising something to the world that lurks within, unseen, hated, loathed by the creator and ultimately denied. I take novelist Henry James as an example, because he denied his first published work the affection and recognition it deserved. He put down other works of his own, but this did not stop him from collecting pay on them-nay, nay. This did not stop him from creating, in a self-defeating manuever, slaving over papers in the gloom, making something he knows he will not like. Or did he respond this way after seeing the works' reception? A question I'd like answered. Was he so insecure to formulate his own opinion after gauging another's? I note that his own works that did not have his enduring love were fine efforts, worthy of his name, but there you have it: no love from the maker, doesn't want to discuss them, or discusses them in the resoundingly negative. But it was his toil that made these things he hated, so I beg to wonder what it really was about these works he hated so much. This leads us past communication, or the need for such, and into the need for therapy. "Venting" is the popular term, but initialing, punctuating and putting in order the issues might be a more accurate description. Sometimes defining the problem is the most important step, and could actually suggest a solution intuitively. If you speak the problem, you could, as if by magic incantation, disturb it's hold on you-partially dispell it. Catharsis is overrated, and usually symbolic of more problems, I says, and is a band-aid or dressing, not the cure, for the whole body may become infected from the wounded limb, despite the best bandage: that thing needs medicine. But by all means, I'm not stodgy; so let it out, I say. And be forewarned that I may not listen.

movie: repulsion

A right cute girl, and sympathetic, but it was when I saw her sleeping naked on the bedroom floor that my heart fluttered. I became a fan in that moment, not just a disinterested spectator. This is a tight work, keeping to what could be called a bare minimum of detail to advance the story of this woman's decline, despite marvelous detail, and dreams, and the delusions are marvellous, too as they dominate the story. No back story, no tales of childhood torments. No blaming the parents or the indifferent community. The walls, oh dear, watch the walls.... I've debated in the course of preparing this bit, whether or not I would like to be in her bedroom as the midnight bell's chime, when the unseen fun begins, and I've decided I would indeed want to be there, if for no other reason than see what she does, for this is when she is at her peak of insanity, driven mad by the bells, seeing dangers that aren't there, and yes, she winds up naked on the floor. It's interesting, a minor milestone in cinema, to watch a woman's psyche degrade over a short period of time, but is it interesting to see something on film that happens around me in the neighborhood Wallmark every time I'm there? Then of course there is the glittering Fordist bit where the neighbors come over and find the deadwood. Not a fan of that, but it is a post-mortem, a damning bit for the little lady, putting daylight to her insanity then looking at it in it's uncomfortable splendor, under the eyes of a cross-section of society. That's Fordist, I say, in a film written and directed by Polanski. Fine performances and a modicum of quotable dialog. I've retained the bit where the landlord says "it's the trashbin for you, my lad" to the cooked duck or chicken or what-have-you. That bit has been stuck in my head ever since, long after I stopped wondering what Catherine Deneuve was doing after those midnight bells. Talented and tightly controlled, but perhaps longer on promise than anything else. 8/10

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

the joy of making part one. a short essay.

It comes from a foggy region in the front of the brain-this impulse to bring forth something-a ditty, a playpurty, a katydid-and hold it up as your own, perhaps as a child, shiny in birthfluids, in the air, before the community, begging it's acceptance, lest it should be cast aside as a common five-pound stone in the backyard. And in the early stages they all have such interesting potential-why, they could be, could do, anything great or small-and then it fades as the bright future becomes the dull present then marches further behind into forgotten history or rather, as their true characters come into focus from through the haze of the unconscious-there comes a grain, pockmarks, and naked pores that were smoothed before. "Such interesting potential" I muse, every time, like Charlie Brown running to kick the football, quixotic, not caring about the looming disappointment, only in the now riding a wave of that shiny future, driven, if somewhat dumbly so. It comes and must be lived with, sat beside, cajoled, befriended, and at some point, understood. You will one day understand yourself, and hopefully you won't be too old to care when it happens, or perhaps too young to care either. How many of us have the experience of understanding when the dirt of the grave is pulled over us? But to say, I did this and now I must grasp fully that which I have done is the next step in that one's destiny. Imagine the horror of the mad scientist with a monster-sized hole in the wall and the words on his lips: "what have I done?" Indeed. It comes soon, the regret does. Like a blackout drunk who has awakened in a strange place with bloody hands does the creator inevitably feel the tugging of doubt about what he has accomplished. "What was I thinking when I did this horrible thing?" And do think that way; don't ever let anyone talk you out of it. Be a pessimist about yourself and your own works. Trust me, it will look like humility. It turns on the chicks(kidding: if anything this is probably inverse). As they say, live with it, stiffen your spine and bear it, because you cannot put the toothpaste back in the tube once you have let it out, and to try to do so is a true waste of time and talent. Comes also the time when one's work is released into the world, innocent and defenseless, to stand on the unsturdy legs of it's own merits. This is a tense time for creators, for they usually have such high hopes, whether these are buried deep within or kept closer to the surface, and only disappointment results, for no work is an earthquake, a champagne shower, a light of truth for the world. Of course, appreciation is appreciated, but, again, usually never up to the expectation of the creator. But every monster-every creation-has its time to roam the hapless countryside. And I say, if you can't change the world, at least shape it in a positive way. Let there be some sort of moral or lesson for the audience to walk away with. Let there be a silver lining for a cloud, or a nice bit of frosting for a big cake-something to be enjoyed later, so someone can look back and say, "yes, that was good" and mean what they say. While the beast roams free wreaking havoc as it will and truly should, some creators hide underneath the bed covers, while others stand before their picture window and marvel, thinking of what his happening because of his or her own actions. We already know the ultimate outcome is disappointment, but this is the climax of the ride-not the slow stop at the end, but the fast paced excitement-filled culmination of artistic effort. "Did you see?" screams the authors soul, for to see is part of the equation, to understand another, and to sympathize or relate is the true goal, but these are all mere stones of a castle, a fortress built by the ego and swept daily by the creator, in darkness, quietude and cold.

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

the more or less you know

you make me mad sometimes because you think you know me. You dont.
Ive squared the circle, ive broken the wood in a whisper, and i might
be batman(i blackout sometimes, so this is actually plausable. Stop
laughing.) but i claim to know you, too, and we walk together in the
tall grass and butterflies. Hello mr. Hummingbird! Who is this you
ask-why just my friend.

Sunday, June 15, 2014

lessons learned from the original robocop...

first, most important: clarence bodicker doesnt like cops, and cops
dont like him. Also, when in detroit, dont miss a tigers game. Dig
that one. Coke between a womans breasts is pretty good. The lasting
lesson, the one i can never forget is 'good business is where you find
it'. Truer words never spoken, brothers. 1980s wasnt all bad.
Remember eddie murphy? This film speaks to me. Oh and punching a
television screen is great therapy; it acts as a fuse against worse
violence, like destroying a fleet of ed209's. But ive never faced
down ronnie cox at gunpoint with directive four echoing through my
circuits, so as they say, results may vary.

Saturday, June 14, 2014

That warm stuff beneath my wings.

what if i told you i had once broke wind with such force it lifted me
off the floor? This is unnatural, for i am a flightless fowl, capable
of only hovering a few feet off the ground for short distances.
Surely youve seen this. And yet i had accidentally discovered jet
power once. In my pants. Cause for consternation, for what other
epiphanies are a-waiting? My girlfriend will cut you right up the
middle. this old life is a funny, funny riddle. Will the old
theorems come to me this way? Newtonian principles? Time will tell,
my brothers; only time will tell.

Saturday, June 7, 2014

by my watch and ward, i could set my watch by the sound of you
crawling out of bed stumbling over our empty beer cans. Our children
you say, may the rest on the floor, until you stumble over them. You
are regular, like a geyser spewing warm subterrainean waters or the
tide pulling trash onto the beach. Thats what i like about you; you
make it seem easy somehow. Be good to yourself in the meantime and
tell your ma and them i said hey.

Friday, June 6, 2014

the daylight, jesus(an old story, morning glory)

I wronged. They giving me dirty looks again. Talking about the
basement. Dont talk about the basement in front of me. The expected
slapping of my buttocks with the chain. The fiends. The stone-faced
nazis. I live in the halflight of one the top rooms-a tiny, dusty one
with red rosy wallpaper that would suit only a very old woman. I want
them and jesus to give me the unfettered daylight, so that i might
know it like i know the gloom, but they deny me. With good reason.

Thursday, June 5, 2014

more useless corporatespeak

we will have a meeting-a come to jesus meeting-about first principles,
something weve been ignoring around here. Byob. As always,
pornography will be proivided by your immediate supervisor. We will
have face time. And flextime. And face time on flex time. Asses
will rip. Pocket protectors will empty. Laptop batteries will drain
away to infinite nothingness. We will feast on the still-beating
hearts of our competitors, pillage their homes, rape their women, and
enslave their younglings. Again, good happy success comes to those
who grab it by its warm sweatty balls.

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

an essay in the offing

with the barbarians at the gate, it is now time to think outside the
box. Any comparison of the two implies a complete misunderstanding of
each. Profit leverage and profit motive must align, or at least be in
the same fundamental neighborhood, or this company has lost its soul.
Good happy success is guaranteed if we follow these above outlined
principles. Founding principles give us the fuel to dream in the
darkness and climb out of bed with a mission statement like scorned
women. This isnt checkers, people; this is chess, and i say check.

Friday, May 30, 2014

And now a word about me and thee.

Kidding. You know me. Im a great kidder, aint i? Right now, i feel
so close to you. We might be tighter than macaroni and cheese: u,
the onion on my cheeseburger, and i the meatball in your spaghetti.
You have a great day, you hear?

Tuesday, May 20, 2014

confuseus say snake in potted plant is happy indeed. Also, women's
beach volleyball is sport of kings. And remember this: the beast is
in the heart and the murderer is firmly in the mind. Destruction is
the art and love is kept near the behind.

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

and now for something completely different....

so, weve embarked together on a little journey of personal discovery,
and i ask myself how many towels i soiled in discovering myself... As
is said(by one of my characters, and this is paraphrased), 'today is
another day'; i am awake, alive and alert. Hello. feeling good in
the neighborhood....

update on my latest

i have decided that while remaining my own best friend, i will reserve
the right to secretly hate myself if the feeling should overtake me.
So there i shall be, laughing at my jokes, complimenting my body, and
smiling into my own face, and yet, there will be a dark cloud, for
deep within ill secretly want to do harm to that guy in the mirror.
He vexes me so! Cripes.

Monday, May 5, 2014

Tweetle-dee(wouldbe tweet 5.5.14)

I'm tired of being my own worst enemy, so i relent, instead making an
effort to be my own best friend, and who knows from there? Maybe a
romance will blossom within myself and ill awaken in the morning
speaking the words "hey handsome" to myself. Id like that(?!).

Friday, May 2, 2014

Exxesistential confusion, and other such nonsense.

The possible pasts and futures reverberate between ripples, but,
what(and i suspect what) would make time splinter, shatter, fragment,
or unravel? Time: you cheap whore. Reality is a thin layer of
covering on the ethereal fabric. You cannot look at the edges too
closely without seeing the heavens lurking, placid, unknowing, unaware
of your troubles. With that damn glow. That damn glow. Reality: you
dont fool me. You also wouldnt think bs glows, but there you go.
The possible pasts and futures reverberate between ripples, but,
what(and i suspect what) would make time splinter, shatter, fragment,
or unravel? Time: you cheap whore. Reality is a thin layer of
covering on the ethereal fabric. You cannot look at the edges too
closely without seeing the heavens lurking, placid, unknowing, unaware
of your troubles. With that damn glow. That damn glow. Reality: you
dont fool me. You also wouldnt think bs glows, but there you go.

Thursday, April 17, 2014

a wouldbe tweet 4.17.14

Remember when we sat on the pier in our underwear and talked about our
dreams? We never approached understanding those dreams, and didnt it
seem there was always an apology lurking behind every description?

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

hi there. Its me again. And honestly, you dont need me to poke u
with a stick or hide under your bed, cuz truly, youre busy being
horrified by yourselves. Am i right? I have seen the enemy and he is
having sex with my wife. Poor bastard! All this niceness and
felicity is churning my guts, i tell you, and yet i yearn for more of
everything: a pat on the head, a fistbump, a good morning b$$$j$$,
maybe an encouraging word. I could stand it. Idk, idk....

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

e-greeting card 4.9.14

"gal, youre so beautiful. I just wanna take you home..... And have
you scrub my bathroom."

Saturday, April 5, 2014

ever thought about your little soul?

me neither. Thinking, though, the good and evil of the average life
span is vast. How could you possibly quantify all that sweet and
sour, love and hate? Some asinine points system? Context- hell, if
you put everything into proper context, which would take at least one
lifetime, you have your basis of analysis right there. But who has
the time?

Sunday, March 23, 2014

love those quotations 3.23.14

"No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under
conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed,
by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its
hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and
might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks
met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence
lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever
walked there, walked alone."

Thursday, March 13, 2014

editorial jotting 3.13.14

sometimes an emcee gotta take a break from stacking monies and writing
hardass lyrics, then he thinks about life-that is, life and honies.
You know, dookie? Some fly honies and desert wine to help me burp,
keep my mind off work, but its all str8 macking till i vomit down the
lady shirt and on her bare thighs. This is life, viewed from many
angles, seen from all sides at once-realizations and cognitions that
would drive an ordinary person mad. There but for the grace of

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

destiny fate and the other superfriends.

time-i speak of time now-, that little weatherbeaten man in the
circular glasses. Can you see him behind the big desk, or do you only
hear his occasional cackle? Yes, he has a sense of humor, or better
yet call it bedevilment, irony, contradiction, and flabbergast. He
has no emotions though, so dont judge his ill-timed laughter too
harshly. Bribe him with sippy drinks or suffer at your own peril to
his sociopathic ravages! Love will cool, hatred will destroy,
attraction will blind by his hand, and everything dear will melt into
the fog! Heed this mortals, for time, like the beast of revelation,
comes with great wrath and the crushing weight of a tidal pull because
he knows our time is short!

Monday, March 10, 2014

phantom thoughts this morning...

Is destiny a bleary-eyed old fool or a tender-hearted young woman? I
know fate is a hard, grizzled bastard, that "calls em like he sees
em", or is that a guise-a ruse maintained to sustain the natural
order? Do you feel okay? Does this any of this matter? Anyhow. Kiss
the babies for me.

Sunday, February 23, 2014

recitation of good stuff 2.23.14

Look not in my eyes, for fear/they mirror true the sight i see/and
there you find your face too clear/and love it and be lost like me./on
the long nights through must lie/spent in star-defeated sighs,/but why
should you as well as i/perish? Gaze not in my eyes. (i hope dp spins
the hater out!)

Monday, February 17, 2014

losing thy mind on the radio

maybe i did that. What do you know? So there i was, i says, and then
the past got slammed into a kaleidoscope, coming out tangled and
twisted. Was i really there? It doesnt seem real! White space, fog,
blankness, darkness, obscurity, concealment, and an aching noggin. I
drift like ishmael in the end of that book... Hello, listeners, you

Friday, February 7, 2014

it is i, i am that man...

i'll rewrite this book, in a fever, with love and loss, fame and
fortune, chills and spills, withering tears to shatter the soul and
laughter that lasts a lifetime. I am that man.(stop laughing,
da[][][][]it) telulah and mrs. Grymgorge must never meet.....
Villians gallery? Tell mrs. Litterbox it wasn't love, but it's not
necessarily over either.....

Saturday, February 1, 2014

enjoy the mental image, friends.

here i be, once more lying prone, face down, buttocks lightly parted
like a mouth passing a gentle sigh. And there is a smile on my face,
not a big one, but one nonetheless, as if satan himself were leaning
close telling me all i wanted to hear(again). Ready for my painted
portrait, i wot.

Sunday, January 19, 2014

dedication of future malarkey

To the people who tightened their suspenders and belts, spit in their
palms, breathed deeply, pursed their buttcheeks, then DID, and f*+ked
it all up. Thanks. My heart aflame; my mind wandering. Throught the
agony i see and am inspired by bright bluetinged bliss beyond my realm
that hangs like a haze-i know its pleasantly cool, a sweet blanket of
early springtime radiating throughst me imaginationicon.

Saturday, January 11, 2014

Collect ur sneezes, cuz im making a vinaigrette.

Yes, collect those sneezes for my vinaigrette. We will dine and then
feign death? "while you were sleeping" i moved ur collection of
shrunken heads and there may have been a miss, but i wont tell(less
than a breath away) by how much. Will be more sentimental next time,
cuz that puts buttocks in the seats!

Tuesday, January 7, 2014

i miss you, (kissey sounds)

so sweetcheeks, do you think i'll miss next time or will someone need
reconstructive surgery?