Thursday, July 31, 2008

first time

Off to Houston. See ya'll when I get back.

Groovin' to Stevie Ray Vaughan & Double Touble's "Texas Flood" Texas Flood
Cause everyone needs some of those blues and moves.

Raggedy Anne & Doctor Robin

What I remember is a Doll House.
I never had one, always wanted one.
My cousin had a grand Doll's House. No clutter or Barbies surrounding the fortress.
It deserved a moat.
My psychiatrist had one too. But the people were too small.
Way too small to be realistic to relay what was going on in my household.
She had me play with the little people. There were girls, and boys.
Or should I say men and women, always up for family role-playing.

It was a sick game, playing with these fake people who obviously looked nothing like my parents. I tried and almost enjoyed ignoring that fact. Maybe it was better that the father of the Doll's House looked like Ken rather than Peter Pan. He for sure lacked green legging, and no weights or records were laid astray in the house with equal rooms and a wrap-around porch.
Even as a child I was picky with my circumstances. Judging every single object which was suggestively and strategically placed in front of me, and decided what I was going to include and what I was not. Man those doctors know how to multi task.

I can't tell you what came first the role-playing or the questions. I have unconsciously blocked out chunks of my life, and cannot recall a single thing. Excluding Robin's seventy styled office, orange ugly shag rug included. The files cabinets smelled of old people, and no one was ever friendly enough. Lollipops sparked my interest during my first visit, but I soon became bored. I was too young to carry a purse, even with polka dots, so there went my personal book options. No headphones, no cell phones, nothing. I was seven.

At points in a day it's more likely that a scent, piece of furniture, sound, or notebook will bring back more than what's occupying my skull. Pictures are stuffed into memory box after memory box, and I have no idea why I keep them there. When will I decide to go back too far and contemplate what was long forgotten? Do I even care? Still tough, I can't unleash this damn Doll House. The only genuine childish part of this is what processed my playtime: Carvel. On the ride with my grandmother I would order a soft-serve ice cream with rainbow sprinkles in a cup. Always in a cup. I was going to get my hands dirty later; I didn't feel like jumping the gun. Tapes of bunny rabbits and narrators my mother knew played in the car over and over. Patterns and routines ruled my life. Nowadays, I prefer on orderly day followed by chaotic night; but back then I had no idea the structure of my afternoons were to stick with me for life. Every Wednesday: bunnies, ice cream, and plastic lies. I find it rather odd later on in my life I would read the play, A Doll's House, by Henrik Isben. I analyzed it with surmounting curiosity, indulging a lifestyle from a girlish perspective, rather than a child's. One, which for better or worse, I would never experience. I would never have the destructing immobilness of furniture and a man who didn't bother to look twice at the dust creeping after week two. Instead I would have the constant shock between entrances and exits. Without warning. Always given a ten-minute notice that a red truck was parked down the block.

The disturbing instances with charlatan toys combined with the sour taste of a stranger asking me to repeat, repeat, REPEAT, could make me gag. These Dolls weren't like my American Girl Dolls, prim and proper, nor did they resemble the iconic yet devastating Barbie. Instead, they looked raggedy. Tired and confused. They were dirty, and other children played with them too. Maybe that's why I thought people in the television were real when I would get ready for school, and move away from the screen when I had to change. Though, I never had a television in my room (thankfully), so I needn't crane my neck too often. Or maybe dance phrases make more sense when I have to repeat them back to the choreographer. Silently begging myself not to fuck up, because I needed to respond with the right answer, the right moves. I'm not slick. Never have been. Maybe that's why I now demand the reality of every circumstance being brought to my attention. I can't stand living in ignorance. Give it to me. Fuck the bullshit; I want real people, in my face, telling me I need to drop ten pounds in order to land my next gig. I'm digressing.

I had to reinvent private events to this woman, like a puppet strategically placing the figurines. Children in one room, adults in the other. Black lab in the garden, waiting to be fed or for someone to pick up its shit. I took the liberty and increased my pitch, when someone else was speaking. Pitch as in volume, but looking back I was pitching to my doctor. Feeding her money and advertising weakness, sans slogan. Clearly not me. I know who I am, right doctor?

The fucked up part is, I don't know what the results were. They were locked in that damn filing cabinet, like my photos in the memory box. Do they even look back or just keep prescribing? Keep on swimming. I was given an extremely cool key at some point in my childhood. To this day I have it, and couldn't tell you what it opens, or closes. But I day-dreamed, while she encouraged talking, taking my key and opening her drawers of secrets. The papers spoke, like an owl gram from Harry Potter, and then evaporated once they were done screaming. I think it would've been kinda cool if I were to open the draw and find what you would under the sinks. Cleaners, liquefying experience to a void. Poisonous statements too rotten for your eyes. A black hole representing couch discussions and phone calls. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is genius, really. The key also worked for secret attics, something straight out of A Little Princess. Forbidden to play with the real people, she played with cleaning supplies and rats. Danger; but always mature for her age.

The rat, my doctor categorized me, and the intense reality, which I had to relive though toys with serious bone issues and a lack of class, suddenly stopped. One day I stopped, and refused to continue the Wednesday pattern of dismal memories, which I would soon close off anyway.

"To be able to be free from care, quite free from care; to be able to play and romp with the children; to be able to keep the house beautifully and have everything just as Torvald likes it!" (Act One)

"Your squirrel would run about and do all her tricks if you would be nice, and do as she wants." (Act Two)

"At the next fancy-dress ball I shall be invisible. There is a big black hat - have you never heard of hats that make you invisible? If you put one on, no one can see you." (Act Three)

And in the end, there was a black hat, just so you know.

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

night light

Amsterdam 2008, fell asleep to Explosions in the Sky "The Birth And Death Of The Day", All Of A Sudden I Miss Everyone
It was perfect.

Now, Sigur Rós "Ára Bátur", Med Sud I Eyrum Vid Spilum Endalaust

Tuesday, July 29, 2008


On a different note, can someone please explain to me why the Jonas brothers are on the new issue of Rolling Stone? QUESTION MARK.
I don't get it.
These fellas are new in Tinsel town for five minutes, why are they getting on the cover of a magazine LEGENDS have once graced? And looking way too tan to have been in the recording studio for months.
Yea, whatever, they're from Jersey.
BUT, ya know what editors, so is the big BRUCE, and he just had a concert in Jersey.
7 encores people.
Seven. (He only does that in Jersey)
I doubt the Jonas brothers have little more than seven songs.

First the stars of The Hills, a few months back, which I can't even get into because they are the worst actresses/liars/fashion designers/representatives of reality in the solar system. Though they had like the biggest MTV opening in recent years or something like that, (clearly I boycotted the article AND undie-spread) it's a fake TV show people buy into!! My cat can entertain better, and I don't have to awkwardly watch her chew. Oh, AND the girls aren't musicians whatsoever. You are an iconic publication, and have the respect a millions of music lovers. You increase fame ten-fold, influencing and encouraging new fabulous artists. Are thirteen-year olds your target market? I'm gesticulating to a keyboard. This really agitates me.

Come-on RS! Let us stare at the beautiful face of Jimmy Page some more. It's 2008, but I still can't get enough of that man. What's Phil Collins been up too lately? Anything!
If I see Miley on the cover next month, you'll see my issue in the trash and Spin in my Prada.

For kicks: Genesis Follow You, Follow Me

Press- Her Drowned World Mirrored

Just finished "Life With My Sister Madonna", by Christopher Ciccone with Wendy Leigh.

I have to admit, I felt guilty at the counter purchasing this book. If my brother wrote a revealing book about me during my mid-life I don't know how thrilled I'd be. I wouldn't want my friends, co-workers, or lovers reading it. If I had muses for years and was suddenly turned into the muse, there would be major issues to be resolved. Embarrassment is an understatement. But I am not a pop star multi-millionaire. I couldn't pay people to remove it off the shelves. At least she looks good on the cover, unlike Carrie's episode with New York Magazine. That would've been horrific. Plus with all the negative press w/ our Material Girls current drama, the timing must be horrid on a personal level. Though, Madonna's been through a lot of crazy shit, so maybe it's another walk in the park.

An easy read, the book is not as bashing or evil as I originally perceived, and Christopher is insightful in his own right. He is the younger brother overshadowed. Predictable. But his love never teeter-totters for his sister, only stints of bitterness. Instead of being more interested in Madonna after the read, I'm more interested in researching Christopher's interior designs. His talent for decorating shines through the memoir, carrying his intelligent and learned nature in every endeavor. I dig his concept of diving into new projects without really knowing what he's doing, learning the process along the way. Brave in a creative way. Holler. He finally finds himself near the end, but throughout a lot of the book I'm screaming at him, "Just tell her how you feel!" He submerges a LOT of anger.

Sean Penn lived with Bukowski, a badass writer and a drunk. I learn about Madonna's knowledge and experience with modern dance. Go mid-west! Kate Moss was doing bad things back then too. Madonna isn't the only one outed here. Celebratards should close their blinds for about a week. Though, I can't say I wouldn't retaliate if my sister outed me in an article, which sold MILLIONS. Money is a constant theme after the necessary childhood chapter. The stage, I find, is the place where fond memories and fun survive a twenty-five year career. What I really appreciate is that Christopher didn't bullshit his sister. Unlike Elvis and Monroe's minions, he kept it real with Madonna, which probably contributes to her healthy and non-destructive present lifestyle. Is this American Life Madonna dreamed? Go read, and see for yourself.

Now off to her concert in a month!

Monday, July 28, 2008


Bronze fables of trolls and lollipops,
Sucking on imaginations.
Mint green skylines, nostalgic of a rugrat golf course,
Eat it up.
Too old for comfort, yet the familiarity of mean trees creates an appropriate balance-
Victorious villain.
Swords slash the princesses and giants
Devouring crowns, one ruby remains on the classified head;
Ready to be invisible yet?

Glass ceilings break upwards,
Smashing seagulls and pigeons, the oil for the sky.
Drifting acutely you find a dress too short for its owner,
Plastered to a green rope, hoping to "catch"
Something new and into resting. Intro. Ultra.
Tendons snapping, clogs gagging,
Free in-crowds look at paintings outside.
Where do we want to be?

Also inspired by another painting at the National Gallery.

Sunday, July 27, 2008

from town to country

August 9th, 2007.
I spent the summer studying in London.

My group was at the National Gallery, venturing however we wanted through the museum. I was contemplative and moody and bothered and curious so I left my friends and wandered by myself. Room to room I took notes, as I always do in museums when I travel, which is always overwhelming because I can never record it all in the time frame allotted, and makes me irksome I can't retain everything in the glass cases. Leather book in hand, was meandering, and literally diverted into a straight path to "this" painting. "What's happening?!", I thought. I couldn't stop my legs from dragging me as my Jack Russel does-pulling me to see closer. What is this an advertisement for a bad horror film? Keep reading. I was literally drawn to this picture (pun intended). There were hundreds of people at the gallery on this day, and more hundreds of magnificent paintings bordering "this" one. But I couldn't take my eyes off it, and walked as if hypnotized until I was standing a foot from it.

For some unknown reason, not a single person in the hallway was looking at this painting. I had it all to myself for minutes which dragged on for hours in my enchantment. Lets be honest here, it made me cry, and I have no idea why. I am NOT that emotional of a person. On the defense, I read and watch tons of emotional/thoughtful/suspenseful/sad what have you movies, books, art, and it takes a good line or scene to trigger me. Yet, the chills were withstanding while I gaped and forgot my chin abilities like a child in front of Willy Wonka's shop. What I finally came to realize was that this picture, with a frame shining like the light at the end of the tunnel, which I promise you you'll see in a moment, gave me a thirty-second connection with my father. The rainbow. The rainbow stood out in the picture as if I had never seen one before. Like a baby experiencing the feeling of sand under their toes for the first time, or a teenagers first heart-break, or a sunset with a new lover. The awe was something unexplainable, and the moment ended as soon as people disturbed the string between the picture and I. Maybe they saw a young American girl loitering a tad too long, not too sure, but I could promise you there was no glitter or glam about this. Just a random calling, which i succumbed to. Lingering in my thoughts and then brought to reality, I scampered in my head, "Not enough time!" I needed to be alone with it longer. I yearned to be Constable in that moment. The poetic nature of the photo wasn't something I'd normally be attracted too. Not modern in the least, nor representative of grungy poetry like Ginsberg. It was classic, and I thought of Wordsworth and Blake. I guess London was getting to me.

I should probably reveal the painting to you, but I only wrote it down once the moment passed, so I'm trying to retell this chronologically. John Constable's, "Salisbury Cathedral from the Meadow", 1831. The coolest part is, a week later my family and I were scheduled to go to Salisbury to see Stonehenge. Of course I manically noted to visit Salisbury Cathedral, hopefully from the meadow, and get this EXACT view Constable drew.

Forward to ten days later, we did see it. I say we, because I practically begged my family to come with me, and proclaimed my own self-righteous need to "connect" with the artist. "I AM an artist, mom". Although I came to find Salisbury Cathedral in fact is quite popular for tourists in Salisbury, probably because it's the biggest looming church in the quaint English town. Although, it is stunning...and a little eerie. I tried to ford the river (more like a small stream) and searched for a meadow surrounding the outskirts of town. I must've circled the site three times, counter and clock wise. Nada. Took me a little too long to admit to myself that things had to (or were forced) to change since 1831. Hellooooo I was standing next to a gift shop, and had 10 options on how I wanted to scale a picture. Key chain or 3D frame M'am? My dream would have come true if a rainbow decided to pop up that day, August 19th, 2007 (the day after my birthday). It didn't. And that's okay. I realized, what you see in a museum from the greats is something portrayed from their eyes and hands. You can see what they saw, but have a completely different experience. Also, not many people have the opportunity to be in a city where a painting was inspired, and actually search out a very, very specific locale. Though, Constable's reality is questioning, especially after you study the comparisons of the artist's portrayal and my own photography "skills" below. The colors of the sky, blurred edges of reds and oranges of the rainbow, and the possible accuracy of the forlorn drifters almost annoyingly made me wonder if a day like this ever happened. I would surely hope so because I love fairy tales, and to me Disney could base a wonderful scene in far far away with this photo. Casting the perfect princess and villain lurking behind the shadows of the Douglass Firs. Ultimately, the picturesque town brought me closer to an epiphany-Esq emotion I have ever felt in my life.

[Constable's photo from; others my own]


Ever since I read then saw Into the Wild, and proceeded to take a Geology: US National Park Systems class, I have been secrectly hoping to suddenly gain the climbing and navigational skills (and bravery) to drive cross country. I'm craving nature's high-strung society; guaranteed adventure with great records, black coffee and a reliable sound system for the in-betweens.

Here's the ghost itinerary:
Highway 90--head north west.
South Dakota: Wall Drug, Badlands, Mount Rushmore, & Black Hills
Wyoming: Grand Tetons, Yellowstone
Utah: Arches, Zion, Bryce Canyon
Colorado: Grand Canyon, (go rafting on Colorado river), Black Canyon (Gunnison NP), Great Sand Dunes
Arizona: Petrified Forest

I think that's a start. Any one know how to start a fire?

Thank you Professor Pride. Wish I could post some pics, but I want my own for this excursion.

Thinking of, Eddie Vedder, "Hard Sun (Main)", Into the Wild (Music for the motion Picture)

And why not, another trip the Smokey Mountains. I was so close to getting there while in Manchester, TN and missed out.

Friday, July 25, 2008

"This Sky" The Derek Trucks Band, Songlines

and I'm gonna quote John Mayer here,
"I wonder where I am I wonder where I am In relation to you"

yummy yucky

You jiggled on bricks and he contorted his
smile to a frown, making it difficult to recover, basically signing off
before the project began underwater. Flows of fins and tails splash
on these tales of foolishness and rivalry just laugh they'll
eventually understand you are making fun of them. Thank you lips,
bitter dimples and terse jaws replenish every new awakening, every
picture, and grasping the telephone, which saves you every time, you
fall weak by stars who align those friendships. Pocketed schemes
make you feel good as you ascend the stairs into limbo because
nothing has changed, you might as well have remained a fish, a
fish with big sunglasses slam dunking the way to grass roots and a
big fig tree whose moss makes you drool. Bacteria swallows your cake batter lies and glazed fingertips, diminishing their original work and effort. Soapy compliments fill lungs of loafed bread, waiting to fatten. You coax wheat into becoming sugar, tainting the smell of pies lengthening those legs, whipping kicks into tart attitudes. That oblong body is representative of a segmented diet, ham sa. Classic floozy, classic waste.

Thursday, July 24, 2008

me too

feelin' crosseyed

listening to The Morning Benders, "Crosseyed" off their great new album Talking Through Tin Cans

"I tried to cross a bridge today". me too. the bridge of blogsphere.
read read read
please please please

more nature books

About a month before I had read Bryson's tale, I finished The Man Who Swam the Amazon, by Martin Strel & Matthew Mohlke.

Che Cosa? Did I read correctly, you swam the AMAZON…as in river? How does one physically accomplish such a feat? I'm not one to brag on my lap-skills. Well, because I have none. Therefore, to me this was a call of the wild kind-of epic title I had to purchase. I mean come on, wouldn't you be curious to see if this wasn't a publicity stunt or plea to save the piranhas.

Martin Strel, a badass distance swimmer has been swimming for decades. He has completed (and set records) for swimming the Danube, Mississippi, and Yangtze. The Amazon flows through three countries in South America. Starting west in Peru, meanders through some of Colombia, and gushes into the Atlantic at Brazil. Strel began the water journey January 26, 2007 and finished with his team April 7, 2007. While I was studying anatomy and modern drama in heated buildings bordering snow covered High Street, a man was swimming the Amazon. What is he doing now?

Kids listen to your soccer coaches because this was a team effort. Yes, Strel is the human body setting the pace and doing ALL of the physical work--but he would not be able to do what he did without his mates guiding the currents, protecting their safety, filling the boat with supplies and gas, videographers documenting the entire experience, and doctors to help him cope with physical and psychological exhaustion. Months were determined by routine and current mileage. Strel would only stop for a quick lunch, but his days were surrounded by murky waters, bobbing logs, and the predicament being eaten alive. Though, the book tells us Martin Strel did not think within the structure the Amazon gave him. Matthew Mohlke, his right hand man, who for most of the journey was in the smaller boat, ensuring speed and guiding Martin with hi-tech machinery and his wits, recorded the daily pace and duly noted the routine which created this book. He tells us Martin would be someplace else in his mind. He loved to tell himself stories in the water, getting lost in his teenage years spent in Slovenia. To him memories would keep his spirit alive. We think of memories, laugh, and move on with our day; but Martin would indulge in the past, using it to push him forward towards the future, one mile at a time.

The villagers welcomed Strel and team at almost every port they docked at. They [the inhabitants] of the Amazon began nick-naming Strel, "El Hombre Paiche". "The official name of the Paiche is Arapaima Gigas. At fourteen feet long, it's considered the largest freshwater fish in the world". Strel became one with the water. I say this because he was not attacked AT ALL. Read and see for yourself. Do you know how many fish and animals inhabit the Amazon? A LOT. A lot of creatures that can tear limbs and search for blood. Ever see that awful movie Anaconda? Yea, that's one animal. You've got crocodiles, river sharks, piranha, pirates, drug boats, the scene is set for catastrophe. During a part of his adventure, freshwater dolphins nuzzled up to Strel, curious in love and marriage. A mate, if you will. When a dolphin, one of my favorite animals warms up to me, I'll know I'm safe.

The motto:"I swim for peace, friendship and clean water."

I dig. Check out this book. Not for literature's sake, but for a sense of adventure I doubt we will ever relate to.

[pic from]

just passing through

Recently read Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods: Rediscovering American on the Appalachian Trail. Bryson is a travel writer, among many many MANY other talents. He lived in England for almost twenty years, than came back to the good ole USofA to rediscover different aspects of our country, and to fulfill some personal business with nature. He has written numerous books, and the glossy cover with the cute little bear was the first to catch my eye. At the time I wasn't interested in Europe or other continents, or wanted a history lesson, but instead was curious about my own surroundings, about the country we label: home. It's hard not to have feelings of animosity when out country is in the current state it's in; but i have to admit this book reinstated some sort of pride for our land, literally.

A Walk in the Woods: Rediscovering America on the Appalachian Traill is about hiking the Appalachian Trail, otherwise known as the A.T. It spans fourteen US states: Georgia, Tennessee, South Carolina, North Carolina, West Virginia, Virginia, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine. Over 5,000 miles of trail. It takes me nine hours by car to drive 500 miles from Ohio to Jersey. You do the math. One can begin north or south, Maine or Georgia. Well you can begin anywhere you want, but I would want to start at some sort of beginning point. Oh, and a drop-off point with blinding neon signs pointing "This Way to the A.T.! " does NOT exist. You have to hike to get to the actual start of the trail. Good Luck. Thru-hikers are people who hike the entire trail, without stopping--and the feat ranges in time, depending how many miles one hikes each day. Some have done it in four months, others six. Bryson's original goal was to hike the entire trail with his friend Katz (his hilarious and fabulously pseudo-named book companion); but didn't make it through the entire trail. He spent months camping and crossing state lines, and then decided to step off the trail for a while. He maintained a solo hiking routine later in the summer, setting goals and completing daily hikes in Vermont, New Hampshire, New Jersey, and Maine. Think about driving from the side or edge of your state to the other, then think about walking what you just drove through, then add 13 states. The trail does not go through each state entirely. Some just cross over corners, making a zig-zag through mountains of folklore and American ballads. Irregardless, it is truly a test of human will.

When I first picked up this book I had no idea it was going to inspire me as much as it did. All of a sudden I wanted to leave the city behind and exchange it for nothingness. I started to draw with my handy road atlas by my side, and imagined what kind of apparel I would take with me. I thought of my own endurance level, if i was too young to need a reawakening, and what it felt like to sleep under the stars--no smog no street lights no noise. I recently went camping for five days, and was surrounded by thousands of people and activities to keep everyone from boredom. I have learned, we had it easy. I was slapped with some sort of altered reality check not even twenty pages into the novel. The Appalachian trail is one of the oldest trails in the United States, but is totally desolate. Thousands of hikers attempt it every year, but very few get past three days, let alone the entire trail. It is complete woods. There are markers on trees to make sure one stays on the trail, but the loneliness is palpable. Snow storms can put you behind schedule for an entire week, and don't forget you are lugging around a thirty pound pack, with clothes, sleeping, and cooking supplies. I don't know if I could ever accomplish this; but I know I want to try. I doubt I could hike the entire trail, and I most certainly want to go with a male companion, because people have been murdered on the trail. Not many, but hate crimes and disappearances have happened.

Imagine consciously making the choice to suspend technology and electricity month after month, reaching a goal by foot. Immersed in the woods, knowing anything can happen--aligning oneself with bears and history. The possibility of getting lost is highly likely, shivering up a hill is a welcomed custom after a week, and you can only hope nothing as happened to your loved ones; cause cell phones would ruin the picture (I don't see how you would get service anyway). Wait wait WAIT! All this negativity is forgotten, a mere hop skip and a jump when you witness the spectacular views. You are walking the valleys that connect the mountains, and tracing steps, not roads, little ever have...dotting a map to be different. Think about arriving to your first summit, knowing it was mental capacity and quality of quadriceps pushing you forward to reach the only place the air could be so crisp, aromas of forestry waking your senses to a place you haven't felt since kindergarten, and being on the cusp of cascading greenery. Taller than the tress and physically standing higher than you ever were outside of an airplane. I think this is amazing. I know I talk of this as if I have already done it. I haven't. But Bill Bryson is such a phenomenal writer you feel you are right next to him, scared and laughing at the same time. His comedic timing is perfect and takes the reader off guard with chuckles of nervousness and anxiety. He is humbling and brilliant- filling the landscape with new information every step of the way.

If you dig nature/hiking/travel/humor/possess a certain state pride/like books then I highly suggest picking up a copy of A Walk in the Woods. Maybe after you read it, we'll go together! Maybe.

[pic by]


the power is back on after the storm.
i need a lullaby.

Grizzly Bear, "Lullaby" song from Yellow House.

i have felt like a pilgrim at other times in my life. many candles were lit and camping flashlights pulled from the cupboard or under the bed. why is it that as soon as you lose technology you want to tell someone about it?


"It's the price of rootlessness. Motion sickness. The only cure: to keep moving." _Angels In America

You're bleeding. You are bleeding red white and blue for your mother and father. Your temples burn to save someone, pulsating to protect that blood someone else is losing; pushing you to the next door, next
call, next step, next mile, next month? The soul serenade needed stems from the womb.

Pleading with the sky, exhausted from the arguments and logic the stars seem to respond with, one leech on the back which will never leave until it's over. Suck, drain, drip, loser. The doctor needs to seal the letter of a death certificate, explaining the extreme hemorrhaging and oozing, to god. You cry to a man you barely know, tear staining his white coat, I can predict it all for you, well except the hospital part. Machines act as an orb for our futures, signing the receipt before it's even printed, claiming all rights to face value, and property tax. Memories will be swiped clean, faces covered by blurs, mocking you will a glint of a smile in the background, explaining the past.

Your house is burning down as you sit there, in the cold den, your imagination mixing with reality; your childhood is hard to remember since the black stamp ended what was always sure, always certain. The guardian has turned to you and the position needs to be filled, because ours is gone. You will never eat cupcakes or eggs the same, confiscating easy ways and lies to ease the pain of a depleted soul. Music though, music will probably be the hardest to overcome. I can listen to Suspicious Minds and still enjoy it, but then I need to take a valium. Your age is obstruced by the gush of anger. Being appropriate is bullshit. Numbers equal time and time lost and time forgotten and time found and the number of seconds you wait, hoping for the image to stop re-playing itself in your mind. They all end in: How do you say goodbye to a finger, how do you say goodbye to suit? Ask me why I like hands.

Across the universe, nothings gonna change my world. Beware, you will become aware.

timeless asbury

I walk the boards. Crickety crack smash hell wooden blocks of wood nailed together. Underneath the sturdiness of the planks wet sand drips down from yesterdays tsunami. Darker shades of gritty brown sense of touch dribble through my broken fingers. Limped crackety crack. Visuals. Ashes spread through the wind, they could be yours. Breezing through my hair, the inbetweens of my left foot. Bare and given out to all brown sparkled dot on this nostril, point it out to you in the veil. Lets go get fucked up and die champagne lemon snickers, frosted glass lips, limes fill jeans stool waves. Clamity clam diggers walk down the shore digging for creatures wanting moonlight aligning lamenting flip flops come to my boards and lets search out the broken down palace of 70's ice skaters and old marijuana joints. Chowda Chowda soupy taffy counters of tan fucked bitches loving late night ice cream dreams. Trashy light bulbs ignite this pre-scene ashes ashes we'll all fall down false games lets lose twenty bucks for a plush cartoon, you lush keep walking this boardwalk never ends, like something wicked this way comes carnivals of tempting desires drowning out the clackety clack woosh of sea salt. Spray your taste through the metal bars of that cage aim for not right forearm target aim fire. Circles. Idiot it will immediately turn back to the beginning and eventually you'll walk till your hat floats. (1/26/07)

i would like to record this and see what happens. maybe try to make clacking noises w/ my tongue and that annoying throat noise that can go on forever, for the boards. the jersey shore has extreme highs and lows.

hue scene

“The modern picture of the artist began to form: The poor, but free spirit, plebeian but aspiring only to be classless, to cut himself forever free from the bonds of the greedy bourgeoisie, to be whatever the fat burghers feared most, to cross the line wherever they drew it, to look at the world in a way they couldn't see, to be high, live low, stay young forever -- in short, to be the bohemian."

[photo by inkycircus]

yellow tunes

Mobius Band's, "Taxicab", off The Loving Sounds of Static
"middle of winter". story.
new years eve, well new years 3 am.
no taxicab.
no coat.
snow storm.
not enough bubbly to surpass hyperventilation and angry screams of Miranda protecting a guests' health and dignity.

new york taxicabs now have touch-screen televisions with eyewitness news 7.
i have been gone for way too long.

London taxicabs accompanied by DJ Sammy and a video camera.
those cabs are classy and painted black, probably got the idea from Mick.

Venice has water taxis.

Jamaica has crowded taxis.

"introducing the old days
clogged up, blown out, framed in a case"

eventually one picked me up.

Monday, July 21, 2008

"I Slept with Bonhomme at the CBC", Feel Good Lost, Broken Social Scene

the perfect beach "I'm thinking" song.
Checkk it.

guilt, eh?

Speaking of modern, I hope you’ve heard, not as in heard through word of mouth but actually listened to Beck’s new album Modern Guilt. His eighth studio album ponders upon religious questions and his most self-admitting guilt thus far. Beck begins from birth, with his first track titled, "Orphans", and asking “if” he’ll meet is maker. Does it exist, and will I get there? He is alone and not alone. Working through concepts of being “stranded”, then comparing images of standing next to other “orphans in a tidal wave’s wake”. I imagine people standing on a beach before a tidal wave, all in the same position as everyone else, and then suddenly alone and drowning in water, suffocated by silence. He continues to braise issues of global warming and greening in "Gamma Ray". We’ve been smuggled by gas, but Beck compares “ice caps” and “Chevrolet’s” to something like a carousel, “going round, round, round”. Our news reports and enlightening essays keep telling us we need to change. When will the change come? When will the circle become a flat land, and will we fall off the earth as once conjured by man?

Beck wonders where his guilt stems from in track five, "Modern Guilt", when he admits, “Misapprehension is turning into convention don’t know what I’ve done but I feel ashamed”. Has Beck turned to convention? His lyrics are hard to decipher because his engineers, including the infamous Danger Mouse, have made the music behind them upbeat enough to get past his crimson take on individual displacement in modern day society. At times I find myself drifting from important phrases to the actual tune, and can’t quite fathom how Beck always is always successful in accomplishing great riffs and harmonies alongside dark writing.

The entire album is full of question after question, overwhelming to the philosopher, and the Mad Hatter could possibly be the only one to supply a satisfying answer for "Soul Of A Man". “What makes the soul, the soul of a man? Beat my bones against the wall/Put a bank note on your bond”. Does money complete a soul? Make it (the soul) happier? Make others jealous? We keep trying.

Beck winds down with "Volcano", telling us he may have been here before. He writes, “And I've been drifting on this wave so long I don't know if it's already crashed on the shore and I've been riding on this train so long I can't tell if it's you or me who is driving us into the ground”. Most likely, it’s probably all of us. Driving literally into ground filling potholes with nitrogen laws and motions to pass for flying machines. Music driving us into the ground with knowledgeable intense ideas we can’t answer perhaps until it’s too late. Anyways, you should indulge in a little or a lot of questioning time, and take a peek into a great musician’s mind, which was gracious enough to give us a little insight.

[pic from rock-city radio]

Where's Tinkerbell?

Recently saw "The Savages". Had been meaning to for a while. In the movie while Wendy Savage (Linney) goes through her father's dead ex-girlfriends medicine cabinet, the prescription bottles are labeled Pagan Pharmaceuticals. A slight bash at our modern day dilemma with bottles (both plastic and glass), society! (exclaimed as Chris McCandless would), and too much time (and money). Philip Seymour Hoffman and Laura Linney's characters are named John and Wendy. "Peter Pan" ring a bell? My question is what the purpose of taking two characters from a story, most are familiar with, and indicating struggles of depression, anxiety, and ability to handle reality? The movie does a fantastic job of portraying the naturalism of their lifestyles, while prescriptions and stressful care-taking underlie the backbone theme. Is modern medicine the reality, or something we can persevere without? I guess you have to watch it to see for yourself. But I'll say this: Wendy and John are no longer in never never land, but in fact face the brutal cold of Buffalo, NY and the coveted nature of nursing homes, family traumas, and sibling one-uppers. The only magical realism we witness is part of a literal theatre production, and the magic of dog hip therapy. Seymour has two of the best scenes in the film, one being when he pulls a neck muscle and is hilariously strapped in some sort of brace around his jaw, holding him up like pulley would a brick; and the other when he rants on America's ability to hide death amongst landscaping and exercise.

Overall, I constantly questioned what exactly was savage about Wendy and John. Came to find nothing about their character narratives were corrupt, but instead their haunting past with their once savage father, and how abruptly situations presented themselves in their routine lives. Their reality is something we can all relate to, or might be able to depending on relative trauma; and I recommend watching three (you have to give it up for Philip Bosco's portrayal of dementia) splendid actors portray life ironies.

[Picture from Fox Searchlight]

the script for "Trigger Ballads", a dance composition and recording

Creeping cigars taste similar to your unknowing elbow, wretched roller skates trip and fall into the boons, a cart full of hay lays the waste I never knew. Busy. Tacks and bullets and screaming banchees wait for me in the bank card, sliding, dripping with invalid bold print on a receipt. In 1965 a soul rocketed eted eted off the river-bank into making babies. Dirty children with saliva old fish scales and plastic bottle bags hanging from their limbs, broken from the start. And he says it’s the Russian effect, special effects of lighting bolts with thundering clouds marketed so you're scared. Yes, it works, creepy sinister film marketed so you’re scared no longer invalid of the pretentious early work remarkable in its study of whales and crocodiles. By chance you say yes and become an extra in the industry, just one along the line of many, opening the mouth in fake awe hoping to get a glimpse on yourself on the playback. My parents were extras, and yes no we all are as well, watching the fake King Kong fall from the remake of the twin towers, falling falling falling falling. Falling! But Kong never crashes, only lingers and is rewound to go to the top, again.

No more story telling, that’s enough of that.

Yea wait scratch that. The ship is sinking, the ship is sinking, the ship is sinking, the ship is sinking. The ship is sinking! The ship is sinking ball point certificates faded finger points, yet again. Again finger points pointing at the finger with the finger, on it, with, all around. Edited etchings and a blue-light illuminating lobsters, and a table with five boots in a circle kicking you out. Kicking you off, kicking you out. A boot goes round in five, it’s red, blue, purple, pink…but nothing. Actually it’s nothing. It’s all in my imagination, I mean this really doesn’t exist. I’m just making it up so I hope that it happens, so that I hope that I have something to write about when I go back home tonight. About the colors, and like rooftop junking, aero-top dynamics, rocketing, lights. But it doesn’t really exist, because the ship is sinking, I mean it really is.

Makes my fingers enlarge wow this is a miracle can’t believe this is happening discriminating my fingernail, donkey, tell me why my mind keep expanding but my body stays the same I can’t understand. I'll ask The Rachels for advice seeming to divide this line between conquering and ignorance. Tell all. Tell me do you prefer sweet or dry? Dry will not be suitable always, yet certain circumstances demand the dry perception of your persona and revealing anything but being fake we'll watch a movie and pretend we're someone else for a weekend, or four hours. For hours? Four hours. Hours hours drop slowly. Hours hours drop slowly in the cabin fever time pulling strands of hair from my comb which enlarge this trip. Lets go for a walk to cleanse our souls, and specifically create a difference between us and them. It'll be well worth it, I pinky swear I will forge that these bangs under my eyes are not wrinkles but only signs of my stress leaking from a brain needing a tangible outlet, outrageous responses to the condemning lyrics of musicals, in Venice, winter storms lead you to your prey. Am I talking gibberish? I hope so. I hope so.

Check. Check.

We're on and on breaking dawn, chit chattering and moving these pawns to unravel the game and be kinged; sweet silver knight grasp the lovely-locks and move two steps to the first-fighted bishop, withdrawing the ultimate place from the game, creating coy nerve-ending shell of pieces left untamed, unfinished, unwanted. Check.

The First Attempt of Admission

Love legs ache to touch, yearn to be pulled by the scraping of skin.
Against a blanket and revealed mattress, “miss” comes to mind as you remind yourself
Not to miss the irrelevance and squishing of seconds- all will turn into years as you miss,
Miss the shot to make a move; a piece of plastic fights its way to a metaphor,
You are the crown and the empty space was once the golden ring,
They tell you: The ticket not to be missed.
But what’s in it anyway? The legislative longing for rules to pass for fair forestry regulations and reason as dying salamanders attempt to camouflage amongst chlorophyll and candied flowers,
Dandelions whisper in the pages of describable grass: “go miss go miss go miss.”
Freeing, as one acts upon the cold slates of academia,
It’s hard to not smile when the letting go has already happened,
And the admittance becomes a sickening reality.
You are not where you thought. Years later you still have opportunities to become what you became on paper.
The toes sprawl from sad thighs, and step out to make another attempt to ace loneliness.

It’s the deer and you, dreary dear,
Face to face stark comparison
Man versus man, two and four legged
Yet whom has the advantage with dark machinery lit up by eyes of rotten power?
Yellow defeats green in the primaries, there is no left or right in the woods,
No black or white within the revolutionized creatures, smarter without words, instead their irreverence to a man with a gun, or a pair of curious eyes, or an empty canteen refilled by a lack of svelte shapely torsos and the other seventy million sins,
Take your cardboard god billboard and make a mine, pardon a mind,
To your winding roads of ignorant footpaths, if you manage even to walk.

Share my breath, my love, two chests barreling onward through minutes of sparkling darkness, with you in glimpses of futures and wire-rimmed furnaces,
Telling miners stories from photographs,
which still make you itch with resistance to care.
Pillow me, softly as does the moss to the ground, unshaken by bouts of infestation,
Willowy and curvy, like sunset roads endless to tires and songs.
Contact me, signal something similar to sunshine on sand,
Sing your pleasure across oceans and find the fingers that type you these words.

mountain memory one

Zurich, Switzerland. [Part of a series of backpacking adventures]

I don’t remember seeing hiking on the itinerary.

The one city where we had the least amount of time was of course, the place we got lost three times. Three times, in one day. We started off the beautiful morning in Zurich, Switzerland with a venti Americana. Typical. Please, I know. Originally, we wanted to relive our childhood at the Chocolate Factory, but it had been closed since May. It was now late July. Supposedly, the chocolatiers keep telling the people, “Next month” but apparently it never gave the slightest hope of returning to life. We had a day…therefore called for an immediate change of plans.

One of Zurich’s trademarks, Grossmunster, is a 15th century style church, and it’s notable twin towers are topped with octagonal domes. The church was a five-minute walk from our hostel, and was not crowded AT ALL. In fact it was our four feet versus the bats. We were the only ones who climbed up the spiraling stairs on that beautiful sunny day, and I was oddly reminded of the hunchback of Notre Dame. I needed a bell.

I have no affiliation with bugs, and wanted nothing to do with the creepy spider webs, and imaginative bats lurking above me. Yet, all thoughts of sixteen-legged slimy creatures crawling on my back were gone when I saw the view. Breathtaking. I could city the entire city of Zurich, the calm river flowing consistently and serenely through mountain towns. Slopes and peaks filled the landscape, beckoning visitors from every angle, and welcomed footprints. Valleys reminded me of Candyland, a board game from my childhood, which by the way I always thought would make a great modern day dark comedy. I wanted to taste the green sugarplum troughs, linger in the trees of licorice, and soak up the sweetness of the Swiss. Other spires waved back to us, turquoise and reds hands were endearing. I lost myself in the view, and had to remind myself to keep balance. I was after all, in Switzerland.

Next plan of action was to visit the Rhine Falls. These are Europe’s largest waterfalls, tumbling 3km west of Schaffhausen. Making moves, we visited the tourist office in the train station, and asked for track numbers and times. OK, swell.

[As a side note, can I just say I love that Switzerland trams are above ground. Being a born and bred New York City girl, with the underground as the only optimal way, it’s nice to get to scenic route every now and again.]

We’re sitting in the air-conditioned tram, thinking we’re headed to Winterthur, a transfer station. My companion conveniently started to nod off, while I meandered around looking at the maps…placed strategically, thought not phonetically to help you. Through a series of picturesque winding roads, startling town names, and lots of watery mouthed-attempts of naming the latter, I see Winterthur. Exactly in the opposite direction of where we needed to be. Trying to subdue my immediate panic, I secretly hoped the tram might decide to be geometrically correct, and make a full circle. This does NOT happen in Manhattan; therefore I do know why I assumed it would happen here. Never assume these things.

I hear, “Baden” then “end station”. Echoing in a clever American-Swiss rhyming scheme to raise my blood pressure, my inner sailor had now returned, loudly, after being subdued for over four weeks. I was confounded with our bad directional skills, priding myself in knowing the New York City subway lines pretty well. Mostly angry because of our limited time in this wonderful city, I enjoyed the scenic route, but wished and whined for the lost forty-five minutes of our return. “Baden” was not like the bustling stops in Zurich. We were standing on tracks in what I’d like to call: Nowhere Land. Literally, not a single person around but a Blondie and highlighted-Blondie with gaping mouths and eyes, searching for something moving within the tear-blue mountaintops.

A little while later, when we saw life, I buffed my chest with New York confidence and a sly smile (and maybe some batting of the eyes from my friend), we ask a conductor how to get-back to Zurich HB. “Six minutes!” A sigh of relief. Luck was with us. As if we had just been given a free winning lottery ticket (remember we were college students), we see the fast train approaching and gleefully wander to the edge of the tracks. The yellow and blue painted walls never looked so comforting. Funny how that happens, something or place so foreign, vibrant, and new suddenly seems old and familiar when a new unknown predicament crosses ones traveling path. Any who, thirty minutes into our ride, a friendly lady comes over to check our tickets, and informs us, the ticket, which we paid 22 Euro for, (and here’s the punch line), was invalid! Score! Déjà vu…F*!@# ! I whip out my Europass, and shake it in my hand, trying to calmly ask if it shall suffice. Catch twenty-two, it worked, but we didn’t have to spend the 22 Euro for the other ticket. Yay, there goes my lunch!

To calm your nerves, I will tell you we did NOT get arrested. Though, the embarrassment of sitting in a first class cabin with nothing but a camera to my name was almost on par to handcuffs. Whoops, my mistake for not wearing my designer backpack and practical Manolo hiking heels. I mean could we have screamed, “I’m a lost tourist!” any louder? Lets just say we stopped bragging about being New Yorkers for a while. A long while.

Almost two hours later, still searching for the Rhine Falls, we finally board on the correct trains, and at this point I’m positive we have the system down. Damnit, I created those maps…I know where I. Am. Going. Counting down the stops to Schloss Laufen, dubbing my voice with the recorded one next to my ear, the thrill of a final destination was itching my curiosity to liberally move my body closer and closer to the window. The announcer then announced the name (as he or she should), and the train stopped two seconds later (what normally happens). Clumsily taken off guard, we thought aloud, “Maybe it just had a glitch…?” “Stuck on the bridge?” To defend my supposed intelligent nature, I want to explain to you that our befuddled nature sprang from the abruptness of the train stopping. If it had slowed nice and steadily, I assure you, we would have gotten off.

We got up and stood directly in front of the door…ready to jump. The doors opened. I barely visualized concrete, or any sign of life because the green bushel in the Alps likes to play games with “adventure-seekers”. This couldn’t have been the stop. There was no room even to walk off the train let alone a posted sign with some information. Nothing. No Tom Sawyer-esq. piece of wood with an arrow facing the wrong way. No color-coded symmetrical postage. Just to be sure (again), we press the button to let us off. It opened. It closed. Only speedy Gonzalez could have jumped the tracks in time. We didn’t move, but the train did! Three feet later, the gorgeous waterfalls were visible, but we’re still on (the now) stupid, train! Are we idiots? The water was clear as glass, oh wait, I’m behind the glass…never mind.

Predictably, I embodied a sailor, and we begrudgingly trekked off on the next stop, and followed the signs towards the Rhine Falls. The signs pointed towards the forest….

It’s been my dream to visit New Zealand, and hike the wondrous mountains, hoping to see a goblin or something from J.R.R.’s trilogy. But, it wasn’t my idea, nor on our itinerary to scope out the wilderness of what is known as the Swiss Alps. I have thermal underwear, socks, and a Columbia jacket…tucked snugly in a tupperware under my bed; ready to be opened when the leaves decide to fall in the United States. You know what, I even have summer hiking gear, but for some comical reason I was hiking in blue Hollister flip-flops. Where’s Waldo? Now I had the full opportunity to embrace the scenic path, and my only thoughts were: Texas Chainsaw Massacre. The perfect path was windy, not too steep, had the occasional biking couple, happy in their placid route, who came and went so quickly, even they couldn’t help us if we got assaulted by a chainsaw. Reality: nothing to scare me but bugs. I nearly fell off the edge because of a few bees, curiously smelling my perfume choice for the day. I was running circles around Chelsea, whipping my hands to warn the bees, flies, and mosquitoes, “I will jump!” Hey, if I would’ve fallen at least I could’ve seen the Rhine Falls.

I couldn’t help thinking, if my family and friends were thinking about us right now; they would not for a second fathom my location. Hiking in the Swiss Alps in Express jeans, without bug spray was not my ideal European moment I had been imagining since planning this trip five months ago. But, when I look back I can appreciate the randomness of the entire situation, and laugh. Reminiscing makes me appreciate the beauty of the mistake, or mistakes, and the only thing I wish I could do better was change the soles under my callused feet.

Forty minutes later, we found life. A little bopping touristy area, with two or three cafes, a gift shop, and an appropriate downhill trail, which led to the falls. We stopped at Les Cafes Cuendent, and sat near shrubbery. I was one with nature at this point. The only thing I could understand was “chicken nuggets” complimented with a glass of pinot grigio AND coffee.

Eventually, we made it, and the adventure was one hundred percent worth the hike. The one Euro we spent on the entrance fee wryly reminded me that nature does not have a price. The roaring sounds and dramatic scene was spectacular. Now, I kind-of enjoy telling this brave and “daring” story to anyone who will listen.

wagon hop

Starting to join the lists of bloggers today.  Hoping to cover lots of topics here while remaining indoors from the harsh heat of July.  There's an structure of letting go some sort of intimacy with ones thoughts on here; But the invasiveness is alluring in some way- -reminds me of tourists in a cave with nothing but their eyes.  No cameras, money, or alcohol.  Their only judgement is based on what they see on that specific day, maybe a school of aquatic snail, a lost snorkel, or some local who's bored.  

A cave is blanketed by it's dwellers.  Therefore, it's always changing.  Green blanket stems from many ideas of mine.  I live by New York City, and at times I imagine the skyline view from the Hudson is blanketed by smog or money or dreamers from out-of-town.  If the skyline was blanketed green would it even exist?  I'm not sure.

We blanket ourselves, at times when we're cold at a concert.  Or perhaps when we want to hide truth, or express truth covertly and for some sort of purpose...maybe for a job.  A song could comfort the writer, which can comfort the listener, blanketing their emotions.  A destination can insist upon taking the blanket off, and seeing the area for what it is from a certain perspective. Whatever the reason, I'm accompanied by my thoughts here and experimenting.