Friday, August 23, 2013

Ethernet (0).

If not now then not ever is how it is how it was and how it will be I'll write it like it I feel it proper punctuation notwithstanding.  What's new in world news?  What's new in politics?  I'm listening to garage and 2-step.  How hip I is.

Oh well oh well oh boy.  The green froggy staring at me with his big yellow eyes.  The lovely things God gives us coming home to roost.

Oh well oh well oh well oh boy.

Okay.  Last words.  Some beers.  Here it goes: angels dripping down from the drip drop black.  I can see the drips but the melting is elsewhere.  White like egg white bleeding out, not burnt yet in the rusty frying pan.  Little engravings for collars and buttons.  Somewhere somewhere down there, slashed and cut up, shapeless and formless, interbreeding with thought or something? God's little castrated children falling from the sky and flying all about 'til their wings get clipped by the humidity.  How it is how it was how it will be I'm saying it how I feel it.  Dead meat.

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

Starcross soulmate stilllife soliloquy and eulogy for pantheons of doubt.

I saw something unsettling last night.  Thank goodness I can't recall.

Last year I saw something horrible on a street one night in Los Angeles.  I was with my lover, who turned the other way.  On a hilltop, the way those hills out West in America have very hilly tops, we stood looking over dark water and beyond up on the coast over there houses and flats dotted the landscape like litter.  Dim streetlights were shining lazily at intervals in the arteries like fireflies, dying.  I told him it looked like home.  I told him that home (for me) was wherever he was.

Somedays he hangs on like dead skin; other days I fawn over a memory.  Badness comes slippery out of the good like the muddy newborn from a doe in a clearing in the woods.  In the bush, some would say.  Some would take one look at me right now and declare me MIA.  On a sabbatical of some sort.  Walkabout.  Well.  My heart, somewhere - somewhere, else. 

Do you believe in soul mates?  Do you believe in souls?

My lover was a great journeyman and a pathetic little mule.  He was a king and the lazy peasant starved for tears in his own depravity.  I doubt I'll ever witness a more gorgeous and stunning example of duality.  I believe we are all fundamentally divided into two(s and threes and fours and fives and sevens and nines).  He was A and Zed.  Janus headbutting himself.  He once described a strange image as we walked along a wooden lookout dug into the cliffs along a beach.  Seagulls amongst us, wings spread, hovering in the air, going nowhere.  He looked at them and he said they've no soul.  He said the brain controls the body; the brain controls everything.  Feelings and ideas and emotions are components of the brain, intricately connected to every each and every fiber and the lauded central nervous system.  So I asked him if he was a robot.  He said yes.  Then he kissed me on the cheek, lifted his big hands, taking my face in them, fingers through my hear, his lips kissed my forehead, they kissed my lips, he pressed his forehead onto mine and I looked into his big brown eyes, and he looked like a dog.  The brain controls the body, and the brain controls the heart.

On the other side of the world, I've stopped believing in souls, as an exercise, as an aside to this dream I'm having, of living, or dying.  My lover once said if I were any more dramatic, I'd shit myself.  I've decided that I am a robot programmed to believe in my soul's life and indecision and spontaneity.  My brain controls my body to behave erratically and lose itself in longing and in sorrow, to question the existence of 8 millions invisible forces that lay me down and touch me.  Tell me what to do and think.  What not to think and what not to say (just when someone asks me anything, anything at all, looking at me, wide-eyed).  It's good... it explains so much.  Now I'd like to go back to being human again.

My lover is out there.  Whether or not we shall meet again and be hand in hand I do not know.  I'd like to think I know that we all will die, but even that is unsure (to me).  I know what was and what is and that he still is.  I would love to say this... I believe in the triumph of the heart.  If he were to spit on our memories, turn a blind eye toward me as I drift away from him in eventual apathy, inevitable boredom, flee from him in fear of his big hands grabbing my arms, his big body pinning me down, his lips agape and his face contorted, snarling, heavy scents rolling off his tongue all covered in paranoia and fear and hate and sadness, his prying eyes, his lying heart, the gorgeous soul that hurt me and denies its own existence... if he were to spit.  Spit on me as I turn him away, again and again and again.  Whether I sleep on his chest or he fills my glass of water 'til it's so full he drinks from it before I do for fear it'd spill down my chin.  Whether this whether that, whether the ever-changing weather, me down here praying for rain, tugging a black umbrella down over my head in gale force winds, alone.  My lover is out there somehow.  Whether it is him or in the guise of another.  Somewhere and nowhere all along... how romantic.

If Virginia Woolf fills her coat pockets with stones and steps into the River Ouse, is it her and no other that speaks to you right now if I tell you that the eyes of others are our prisons and their thoughts are our cages?  If the ones we love are never to return to us, why must they insist on haunting us so, while the world insists we never know better, not until the moment where fate and flesh unite?  That little point in time that confirms everything and nothing at all, then, like all else, drifts away, shuffling about in the pantry, in the closet for a new disguise.

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

"Andy Kaufman." (At last, my heart's an open door.)

And as it came to pass a heap of our old, legendary friends were going to erect an empire based on truth and love and jazz from a pile of nothing, out of their arses, but instead they kind of just ended up falling off the face of the Earth, but not before one of them wanked off in a modest wooden goblet and called it an elixir and tried to patent it as the illegitimate offspring of fire and gold.  Before his demise he'd succeeded in that endeavour, and spent a couple years traveling the east coast and the midwest setting up tents in village squares and putting on a sort of a show.  One day he fizzled out like bad reception.  Like crooked rabbit ears atop the RCA Victor.  He was out like a candle.  The Dream of a Red King snoozing away in plain view of our leader and band of merry men (and women).  Ah well.  The harder they fall...

I myself lived off the backend of a broken oath for quite some time and as of now any discussion of my living arrangements reside closer to a distant realm of possibility, or maybe perhaps just a full-on abstraction. (however you wanna see it, my dear.)  They got a new record out, it's an indie label somewhere and it's Andy Kaufman from Taxi and a Jim Carrey film who was somewhat of a nuisance back in my youth if only 'cos his appearance meant the cartoons were long since over with on the Nickelodeon programming schedule (not to betray my age or anything, for i've always been) and I was now simply alone on a mattress with the creepo (and Danny Devito) on the screen and feebly (unsuccessfully) attempting to ward off an oncoming onslaught of angst in the onstead of my troubled little head (mind).  What a stranger, like myself.  Well I learned that Andy (like David Lynch, also putting out records) discovered Transcendental Meditation whilst attending uni, and he practiced it all throughout his life, and he practiced it to give him a sense of (something) inner peace before performances and wrestling.  It is a gift from God to peek into the skull of another, whether it be through intimate, real-time cassette tape recordings edited and converted to numerous digital audio files, like the Andy Kaufman record, or maybe at the morgue, with a close friend, or a prostitute, and a doctor of some notable state-recognized stature.  I don't reckon I'll be listening to the record, but I've considered Transcendental Meditation from time to time throughout my life.  These days I've got moments feeling drowned in the water in dire straits, and I wonder might I make myself whole again?  (If I was ever whole [i am a hole].)  (I have a hole [like I came out of my Mum, and then and only then I was whole, in the water, in a hole in her heart,] like an open door.)

On the telly they said a man named George Zimmerman is free as a bird and nobody can stop him now.  There's been much said on the subject.  I'd gone through and looked at the telly in all its wonder and all its programming (i was wondering who payed whom to play whatever), I'd gone and looked through and there were many people of all shapes and sizes and they all had something to say about this man's freedom, and they all had something to say about the things he'd done.  I've never known either him or the dead.  Do the dead care about the fate of their living makers, and do they, and do they look down upon their bodies and float down and kiss their own lips as the kissing the lips of a martyr, having singlehandedly (inadvertently [and with the guiding mercy of certain Powers That Be I'm sure]) brought the nation (world) to its knees?  Has Trayvon Martin become the zeitgeist, orchestrating his own funeral through an endlessly invisible web of social networking and electricity, to make everyone cry, and riot?  I know everybody has an opinion and then they get to talking.  There's been much said on the subject.  I simply regard it, as it does exist, and I exist, and I am a part of the zeitgeist, whether in flesh, or in blood, or in soul, so I regard it and respond.  But inside I've no response to this or to anything else.  There's just some thoughts floating around and wondering about something real coming out of it.  I'm not sure any man walking about can change the past, whether you behead a thief, or lock a criminal in a cage, or toss a murderer in a maze like a rat and have him offput by the scent of cheese, when there really is no cheese to speak of, just a scent.  With no moral judgement I'll offer this as a piece of art -- perhaps all of us caged birds enjoy a little cage rattling from an unsuspecting scapegoat, rotting in the earth.

In a room, inside, the worst thing sometimes is how the sun shines through the closed window and blinds.  You're all around something that's either there or not there, you're all in the middle of a million billion specimen slithering through their daily lives and nibbling on their daily bread if they're lucky enough to come upon it, or steal it from the mouths and the bellies of the havenots, or soak it in red wine.  There's moments where you don't know if you're living or dead because they don't tell us whether or not the sun shines in purgatory, or whether or not the conscious dreams in death.  Whether or not my physical body is here I can't distract myself from wondering with the apathy of a cold blackness seeping in.  God, I'm rambling.  Forgive me!

Telly's on now on TCM!  It's lovely.  The sound is off and occasionally I look up at the images.  I love these gorgeous black and white pictures from time to time, just glowing like aliens, or angels or little devils.  Sometimes there are modern films (rarely [by modern i mean like 80s or something]) and often there are films in color.  There are different types of coloring processes from those days, and I'm not quite well-versed in the matter.  There is two-strip Technicolor and three-strip Technicolor.  Technicolor in itself is only one particular coloring process.  I've heard of other -colors which perhaps I'll look deeper into, one day, someday on the Internet.  Today I looked up and caught the opening credits of a Doris Day film that professed to have been filmed in Warner Color, and presented in CinemaScope. 

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Mountain goats.

I've poison in me.  I gotta poison in me that makes it hard to relate and makes it hard to operate.  (though you can still type i see!)  Relax.  (it's [NOT] self-pity.)  Yeah well it's the best and worst of times among other, darker sentiments, each one of those less truer than the first.  I get tired of looking around and feeling a thin veil of loathing rising up to surprise my face with invisible hands, not mine.  My teeth feel like hard things dug into sore gums.  Sore gums bleeding everytime I brush, gushing red when I floss.  Relax.  (gonna end up like David Lindsay getting bombed whilst in the bathtub, eh?)

No, I was gonna be like Kevin Shields and raise chinchillas in a mansion while awaiting the arrival of the muse, not David.  (though the latter did manage to be the only known human, if he was such a thing, to inspire Harold Bloom's own misguided [?] forays into the realms of fiction, not the former.  though i never did read 'a voyage to lucifer', now did i.)  It was just 'cos I read an interview with him and it spoke of the whole be active! be active! sort of aesthetic from particular ends of punkish movements in the 80s or whatever, and how he never really could get down with it 'cos if it's not coming it's not coming.  I just spent some years on the other side of it, these mantras of work hard! da muse iz dead! bubbling up from the thinned paled lips of even deader father figures.  Ah well, so much for witchcraft and wizardry.  I'm drowning amongst muggles I see not anywhere.  Hotels are antfarms in a disenchanted demigod's eye, he (she) who controls the storms with jurisdiction over a little bit of the county, like Cold Miser and Heat Miser in The Year Without a Santa Claus.

Storms on my mind 'cos it was raining earlier and boy was it gorgeous.  Lightning in daylight, a gray triptych to the east of a cloud and a tree and a monochrome nothing, and to the west the sun was surely setting, and sending little beams of light thru raindrops and mosquitoes.  Turquoise was puking itself orangegreen and black.  I had had a cigarette beneath a cover, standing away from some others.  Then soon as it began it never even happened.  Now it's just night again, and the skies are silent, and the Rain Miser's just staring at different ceilings. 

I feel like I could be on a mountain somewhere, deep in a cave, sent by a village elder and imbued with a vague sense of purpose in that isolation.  I'd skin and eat muskrats then get killed by disease or the cold or a mountain lion or a mountain goat. 

Well.  So on another note, on another sheet of music... there's this wonderful blog I came across today:  It's just delightful.  This girl deserves a Nobel Peace Price, or a McCarthy Grant.  If she were to somehow obtain a McCarthy Grant I'd hope she'd use it wisely, 'stead of turning evil and spending it on a glittery way to commit suicide, like a wicked, poisonous part of my gestalt just might... or! maybe I'd buy a mountain goat!  I could keep it here with me, here in the city, here on the countryside.  I'd feed it things, mostly dead.