Birds are quick
But not as quick
As a tame lick
Upon the cheek
Of a sleepy geek.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Sunday, June 5, 2011
The Fallacy of Demeanor
A review of the trailer for Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris"
Watching the trailer for Midnight in Paris I became zealously aware of an implicit ah-ha moment. Unfortunately, I was not having this moment, rather I was percieving my mother having it, ruminating on the relationship between Ernest Hemmingway and Gil-Scott Fitzgerald, and of course their mid-wife, alcohol. Way to go Mom. But still, I was impressed by this trailer, and eagerly anticipate the release of the film. Not only does it star the ever-charming Owen Wilson, but it seems to reveal an auspicious motif of contemporary romance; the play between ardor and mystery, passion and truancy, substance and emptiness, or to be blunt, truth and irony. In it, we see the honest to goodness romantic, Owen Wilson, subject to pangs of jealousy caused by the impressionistic and strident character of a more "pseudo-intellectual" male companion of his own significant other. Then, as the clock strikes midnight, one man's pride and intellectual dualism give way to the others shrewd secrecy and will-to-wander. At the end of this trailer, one is left pondering, who will be the attractor, the amplifier for love's chorus, the gallant gasbag, or the vestal vagabond? I look forward to seeing this film.
Post Script: new series are soon to be posted to this blog, including: Interview, Exquistie Corpse, and taking a page from the quarterly column in Cabinet Magazine, an edition of "Legend" wherein I will contrive potential captions for an image selected at random (or close-to random).
Watching the trailer for Midnight in Paris I became zealously aware of an implicit ah-ha moment. Unfortunately, I was not having this moment, rather I was percieving my mother having it, ruminating on the relationship between Ernest Hemmingway and Gil-Scott Fitzgerald, and of course their mid-wife, alcohol. Way to go Mom. But still, I was impressed by this trailer, and eagerly anticipate the release of the film. Not only does it star the ever-charming Owen Wilson, but it seems to reveal an auspicious motif of contemporary romance; the play between ardor and mystery, passion and truancy, substance and emptiness, or to be blunt, truth and irony. In it, we see the honest to goodness romantic, Owen Wilson, subject to pangs of jealousy caused by the impressionistic and strident character of a more "pseudo-intellectual" male companion of his own significant other. Then, as the clock strikes midnight, one man's pride and intellectual dualism give way to the others shrewd secrecy and will-to-wander. At the end of this trailer, one is left pondering, who will be the attractor, the amplifier for love's chorus, the gallant gasbag, or the vestal vagabond? I look forward to seeing this film.
Post Script: new series are soon to be posted to this blog, including: Interview, Exquistie Corpse, and taking a page from the quarterly column in Cabinet Magazine, an edition of "Legend" wherein I will contrive potential captions for an image selected at random (or close-to random).
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
serenade for 3 minutes
In my own skin I felt old, I felt cracked by the sun, my essence evaporated into the ether. In hers I felt sunken and heavy, soaked with a warmth and mossy expanding.
-Have you ever wondered whether or not Tom Petty's affluent dialectic undermines the fabric of American mythology? Peter was beckoning through the window again, while he smoked on the front porch and stared into the darkness.
-Yes, I said. When I was in college. I put my pen down on the floor and took a sip of beer, cold and spiked with a splash of lime juice. A mossy expanding? That was an image used to describe walking through the woods in Maine during the summers, not being in this skin of "hers". Like mother like son, I thought, and began drawing a voluptuous and impish character beneath the text of my notebook.
My skin was moist, bare against the evening breeze entering through the open windows of the living room. I had just had an incredible shower and was wearing an oversize flannel shirt, unbuttoned, and a pair of tight fitting boxer shorts. I had determined that it was my most comfortable outfit, and thus an opportune time for me to freely form some insightful prose in my notebook. Comfort and productivity were mysteriously co-dependent for me.
So far I had one sentence fixated on an image of an dried up, empty self being replenished with lushish life through the skin of another. Clearly this was untrue, as I was quite content with my moist skin as I lay alone on this sofa and, scanning my own memory bank, could not identify the feeling expressed in the sentence with any empirical evidence from my past. But what was more apparent was that the image I had focused on while writing was not actually anything like "her" skin, but was one of myself, alone in the woods along the coast of Maine. I was masking something evident with something esoteric and erotic. A surge of endorphins must have escaped in my brain, because I felt good, and moreover felt better still for feeling responsible for this sensation, if only by the simple fact of my introspective probing. bubbles pop pop ahhh.....
I lifted myself to a sitting position, placing my notebook and pen on the floor beside me. My gaze fell over the top of the coffee table, settling on the cover of Hannah Higgin;s "Fluxus Experience," it's red cover and vertical text causing a pac-man sensation in my optic field. The back cover featured a quote by some Owen Smith, who felt that the book was "essential" for anyone interested in the "phenomenological bases" of fluxus. That is something I would like to know, I thought, and tickled the idea that a phenomenological understanding of just about any artistic concept or epoch would be "something I would like to know." Then I got real and remembered that I would just want to use that information to impress people or possibly score the attention of a lady. Notably noble.
Peter had romped his way inside and into the living room, apparently lit; he was humming. He stooped over the stereo equipment, intent on selecting some musical companionship for his sizzlin buzz.
Aren't you a little Hemingway he said, glancing at my notebook laying next to my glass of beer, mostly gone. He had come home earlier in the evening to see me in a similar position at the kitchen table, beer and pen in hand.
Elliot Smith's "The biggest lie" began playing through the speakers.
Nice choice, I said
Yup, peter said, standing upright and leaning against the wall, mouth slightly open and eyelids slightly draped over his dilated pupils.
Written any new songs lately? I ask
I've been singing them, but not writing them. Singing a lot lately.
Are they about anything special? I intend this to be sort of a leading question, testing Peter's wit.
Um, Yes they are. They aren't really songs though, but I have these themes that I think up, and I apply different words to the themes. Then the themes become more evident, and then I build on them. Like, its like, the meaning can't be directly stated. Peter swallows. But I guess I do it for myself, to figure things out, I see things better after I sing. Or, not better, but its like I see them, whereas I couldn't see them before; I just felt lost inside these themes and happenings and feelings. I don't know what I'm saying, but yes, they are special, I make them special. I should write them I guess.
Got any T-rex? I ask
Fuck ya ma, Peter jolts off the wall. The fucking slider man, motherfuckin spaceball ricochet.
Alright, I stand up, and with a thrust of my arms I throw off my flannel, bend my knees low and twist my arms over my head.
With my Les Paul, I know I'm small but I enjoy living anyway
Book after book, I get hooked everytime the writer talks to me like a friend.
-Have you ever wondered whether or not Tom Petty's affluent dialectic undermines the fabric of American mythology? Peter was beckoning through the window again, while he smoked on the front porch and stared into the darkness.
-Yes, I said. When I was in college. I put my pen down on the floor and took a sip of beer, cold and spiked with a splash of lime juice. A mossy expanding? That was an image used to describe walking through the woods in Maine during the summers, not being in this skin of "hers". Like mother like son, I thought, and began drawing a voluptuous and impish character beneath the text of my notebook.
My skin was moist, bare against the evening breeze entering through the open windows of the living room. I had just had an incredible shower and was wearing an oversize flannel shirt, unbuttoned, and a pair of tight fitting boxer shorts. I had determined that it was my most comfortable outfit, and thus an opportune time for me to freely form some insightful prose in my notebook. Comfort and productivity were mysteriously co-dependent for me.
So far I had one sentence fixated on an image of an dried up, empty self being replenished with lushish life through the skin of another. Clearly this was untrue, as I was quite content with my moist skin as I lay alone on this sofa and, scanning my own memory bank, could not identify the feeling expressed in the sentence with any empirical evidence from my past. But what was more apparent was that the image I had focused on while writing was not actually anything like "her" skin, but was one of myself, alone in the woods along the coast of Maine. I was masking something evident with something esoteric and erotic. A surge of endorphins must have escaped in my brain, because I felt good, and moreover felt better still for feeling responsible for this sensation, if only by the simple fact of my introspective probing. bubbles pop pop ahhh.....
I lifted myself to a sitting position, placing my notebook and pen on the floor beside me. My gaze fell over the top of the coffee table, settling on the cover of Hannah Higgin;s "Fluxus Experience," it's red cover and vertical text causing a pac-man sensation in my optic field. The back cover featured a quote by some Owen Smith, who felt that the book was "essential" for anyone interested in the "phenomenological bases" of fluxus. That is something I would like to know, I thought, and tickled the idea that a phenomenological understanding of just about any artistic concept or epoch would be "something I would like to know." Then I got real and remembered that I would just want to use that information to impress people or possibly score the attention of a lady. Notably noble.
Peter had romped his way inside and into the living room, apparently lit; he was humming. He stooped over the stereo equipment, intent on selecting some musical companionship for his sizzlin buzz.
Aren't you a little Hemingway he said, glancing at my notebook laying next to my glass of beer, mostly gone. He had come home earlier in the evening to see me in a similar position at the kitchen table, beer and pen in hand.
Elliot Smith's "The biggest lie" began playing through the speakers.
Nice choice, I said
Yup, peter said, standing upright and leaning against the wall, mouth slightly open and eyelids slightly draped over his dilated pupils.
Written any new songs lately? I ask
I've been singing them, but not writing them. Singing a lot lately.
Are they about anything special? I intend this to be sort of a leading question, testing Peter's wit.
Um, Yes they are. They aren't really songs though, but I have these themes that I think up, and I apply different words to the themes. Then the themes become more evident, and then I build on them. Like, its like, the meaning can't be directly stated. Peter swallows. But I guess I do it for myself, to figure things out, I see things better after I sing. Or, not better, but its like I see them, whereas I couldn't see them before; I just felt lost inside these themes and happenings and feelings. I don't know what I'm saying, but yes, they are special, I make them special. I should write them I guess.
Got any T-rex? I ask
Fuck ya ma, Peter jolts off the wall. The fucking slider man, motherfuckin spaceball ricochet.
Alright, I stand up, and with a thrust of my arms I throw off my flannel, bend my knees low and twist my arms over my head.
With my Les Paul, I know I'm small but I enjoy living anyway
Book after book, I get hooked everytime the writer talks to me like a friend.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Slow Teeth
When I opened the door to the kitchen from the bathroom I saw here lying on the table. Her back was flat against the cold smooth surface and her body rose and dipped over itself in the soft lamplight. She was pretty naked. The windows were black behind her and her skin popped and glowed. I felt like I was outside, the wind was all I could hear. Turning her head she looked at me and a lock of her hair unfolded downwards, fell into a still vertical thicket. Her sides were striped with flesh and space and depth. Her eyes were open, slightly closed and her teeth showed behind her lips. She reached across her belly and pushed her palm against the table, lifting her body up and coming to rest on her ass with her legs hanging from the table's edge.
Mitten, the kitten, stood staring from beyond the threshold, where the shadows of the house cut the light.
-I think mitten is smitten
-I'm gonna smitten the living daylight out of you. showing her teeth.
I was cold, and the breeze was coming through the open window, sounding bigger. goosebumps were raised on her bare thighs and arms.
-Let's get into the dark and becoming warm flowing minds.
-I'm gonna finish my beer.
Mitten, the kitten, stood staring from beyond the threshold, where the shadows of the house cut the light.
-I think mitten is smitten
-I'm gonna smitten the living daylight out of you. showing her teeth.
I was cold, and the breeze was coming through the open window, sounding bigger. goosebumps were raised on her bare thighs and arms.
-Let's get into the dark and becoming warm flowing minds.
-I'm gonna finish my beer.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Eyes
He must be able to see how I feel. I can feel him look at me, every time. It's becoming a distraction. Why doesn't he ask me to come home with him. what's keeping him here? why the fuck am I talking like this. I should just walk out of here right now. I want to be outside and I want the sun to touch me in the most spiritual way. I want him to be outside of me, and them come into me. I want to stop thinking about him. This is insane, I can't believe that my brain is working like this. I'm leaving.
My body is a hospital. Your ghost is getting high on the shit that makes you weak. The ground is so hard. I'm incapable, why the fuck am I incapable. It's a state of mind, I can fix this. I'm spiritual. I'm spirited. I'm gonna start running. The grass, I can make it to the grass, it will be so good when I get to the grass. Yes, my own island of grass. Oh my god I'm free, I'm crazy, I'm not a ghost anymore. I'm alone and I love being alone at the same time.
I'm a heavily influenced cat. A fox. My neighbors a little red hedgehog. Ha, I could eat him. My skin is so fox-like and my hair is wild and makes me wild inside.
My body is a hospital. Your ghost is getting high on the shit that makes you weak. The ground is so hard. I'm incapable, why the fuck am I incapable. It's a state of mind, I can fix this. I'm spiritual. I'm spirited. I'm gonna start running. The grass, I can make it to the grass, it will be so good when I get to the grass. Yes, my own island of grass. Oh my god I'm free, I'm crazy, I'm not a ghost anymore. I'm alone and I love being alone at the same time.
I'm a heavily influenced cat. A fox. My neighbors a little red hedgehog. Ha, I could eat him. My skin is so fox-like and my hair is wild and makes me wild inside.
I'm so happy for you
Not a cloud in the sky. Beneath the glistening flora of the roadside, a mosaic of light and shadow fanned through David's eyes. It was the first sunny day since the weekend. It was a Thursday.
This is nice he thought to himself, glancing at the grocery bag resting at his feet. It's contents were a pound of roast beef, mustard, swiss cheese, carrots, hummus and alfalfa sprouts. A six pack of Budweiser cans was on the floor next to the bag. David and his girlfriend, Abby, were going on a picnic. They had been driving for approximately 40 minutes, heading north towards a pond that David had been to countless times before. Abby was driving. The mix tape that David had been creating over the past two days was playing through the speakers of her white 1989 Honda Accord. Sebadoh, phaser guitar, loaded verse.
I love Sebadoh, Abby said, her eyes focused on the road.
David poured his lukewarm coffee down his throat. I do too. Do you know if Lou Barlow is singing or playing the drums? he asked, smiling at her.
I think he's singing.
I like to think so too. Then, feeling a wave of elation, do you mythologize anybody?
What does that mean?
Is there anybody that you know, directly or indirectly, that you ascribe metaphysical significance to?
I don't know how to answer that.
Sometimes I mythologize you. David smiles, beckoning elation, it comes, he feels himself doubly.
Do you mythologize yourself?
Yeah, all the time. Mostly when I'm with you. Like, I love you. I guess that's not a myth, but it makes me feel metaphysical. He laughs, and she does too.
Well, I love you too.
I'm getting into literary genres, and I think that applying literary significance to popular song lyrics is pretty fun. Basically I just wanted to say that Fleetwood Mac is magical realism.
There is a pause. I don't know much Fleetwood Mac, Abby says.
Yea me neither.
David can tell he is caffeinated and it's probably causing some illusions of grandeur regarding the interest of his private thoughts.
He reaches into his shoulder bag and uncaps a pill box. Shuffling through the different colored tablets he pulls out a yellow Valium and puts it in his mouth. He doesn't mask his gesture, and he doesn't say anything after he washes it down with a drop of cold coffee.
What was that? Abby asks, looking over at him for the first time in a while.
A Valium
How many do you have?
I think four more.
Abby reaches down to the cup holder and brings a can of seltzer water to her lips.
It is 11:45 in the morning.
This is nice he thought to himself, glancing at the grocery bag resting at his feet. It's contents were a pound of roast beef, mustard, swiss cheese, carrots, hummus and alfalfa sprouts. A six pack of Budweiser cans was on the floor next to the bag. David and his girlfriend, Abby, were going on a picnic. They had been driving for approximately 40 minutes, heading north towards a pond that David had been to countless times before. Abby was driving. The mix tape that David had been creating over the past two days was playing through the speakers of her white 1989 Honda Accord. Sebadoh, phaser guitar, loaded verse.
I love Sebadoh, Abby said, her eyes focused on the road.
David poured his lukewarm coffee down his throat. I do too. Do you know if Lou Barlow is singing or playing the drums? he asked, smiling at her.
I think he's singing.
I like to think so too. Then, feeling a wave of elation, do you mythologize anybody?
What does that mean?
Is there anybody that you know, directly or indirectly, that you ascribe metaphysical significance to?
I don't know how to answer that.
Sometimes I mythologize you. David smiles, beckoning elation, it comes, he feels himself doubly.
Do you mythologize yourself?
Yeah, all the time. Mostly when I'm with you. Like, I love you. I guess that's not a myth, but it makes me feel metaphysical. He laughs, and she does too.
Well, I love you too.
I'm getting into literary genres, and I think that applying literary significance to popular song lyrics is pretty fun. Basically I just wanted to say that Fleetwood Mac is magical realism.
There is a pause. I don't know much Fleetwood Mac, Abby says.
Yea me neither.
David can tell he is caffeinated and it's probably causing some illusions of grandeur regarding the interest of his private thoughts.
He reaches into his shoulder bag and uncaps a pill box. Shuffling through the different colored tablets he pulls out a yellow Valium and puts it in his mouth. He doesn't mask his gesture, and he doesn't say anything after he washes it down with a drop of cold coffee.
What was that? Abby asks, looking over at him for the first time in a while.
A Valium
How many do you have?
I think four more.
Abby reaches down to the cup holder and brings a can of seltzer water to her lips.
It is 11:45 in the morning.
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