tigerbaxter
baxter |
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Fri, Dec. 18th, 2009 06:41 pm
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my sternutation begot a conflagrant guest room. i stayed in bed, lying in the room's center, counting the tongues in the flame. my woolgathering allowed the dog's death. and i attended a lodge banquet, a roadhouse feast, in night, in privacy. The Humanitarians were together, in the long mossy, ivory hall, some seated, many standing nervously. "is it jaundice?" whimperingly asked the fisher, to which the doctor replied, screaming sotto voce, "quiet, John! he's starting." a cursory glance passing the mirror above the mantle i notice determination in my countenance, dogedness. it's odd. it doesn't accommodate me, or the spaces, or the missing memories. i looked into the eyes of a man prepared to say his full and true name. a monologist ready for biographical recital. i lied for safety, for cowardice, for fun. i lied to keep eating, to get drunk. i lied to take women to bed. and that, all that was worthy and wonderful, but looking into the eyes of a duck dressed as a bear, i had to grin; the grin of the jackal, the limp frown of the fraud. under the first floor there was a bedroom. on its walls hung paintings and photographs of sailboats. a large window faced the street, though the view was interrupted by a large trunked, healthy brown tree. snow fell. i wore a necklace of imitation gold and crucifix. when standing, the cross swung down to rest above my navel. in this story, everything happens as it should. all characters are as happy as possible, provided their circumstances are permissive. all events rational, each scenario plausible, every situation domestic, familiar. universally, endlessly deciphered by itself, through its use, to serve the purposes of its users so that they might continue to unearth self-evident truths and write down shorter and shorter axioms, truer and truer aphorisms. a letter from the future reads "rape is wrong" and we, the people, declare the future a holiday. hurrah, we're going home, for the first time. i can rest blame on lack of representation for my frustrations of the time. the telephone rang but hadn't. strangers called my name, then disappeared behind corners and had never been there. with a pair of thumb and forefinger sets i removed my teeth, eyelashes, toenails, fingernails, pubic hair, and eyeballs to find, with the arrival of morning, that i could see, clench and grind my show-bones, scratch the patch of fur above my penis, swat the flies from my chin with thousands of abbreviated, improvised ass-tails. prognosis 0 the best i can offer is an approximation. i'd say twenty miles past those hills. follow the pylons. you should be fine. the more sober i became the younger she seemed, the younger she became. foraging for antonyms. forever less a moment. the aspirations of anthropoids. i counted seven mismatched blankets, throws, afghans, in seven distinct yet similar shapes, not one long or wide enough to adequately cover an average sized man. it was as if she had gagged her own bed. i found her bizarre. she'd traded in her father for a husband but found that her husband, though similar in build and general appearance, was nothing like her dead father, so she left him and her daughter to the wolves, to each other. a short woman, Julie, had the face of a porcelain peach stamped with a red velvet kiss, a weak chin, and eyes so big they met at the center and called you a rascal and asked you for a drink, begged you for attention, slapped your crotch with a gloved palm and laughed at your grimace. wake up man! affusion and led zeppelin! she's standing there, right behind you – sir, to your back. she knows, she must know her boluses are vanished, and vanished into your crowded carousel carpentered of one and friendless wildness. realizing her voice again, differently. i'd planned to call her until it was far too late. it's very late. i won't wake until necessary. her, and her as philadelphia, and her as a distant passenger, and her as a cold vestige of sobriety, a current of monatomic resilience, as my best friend; i called after her in the ending night, nearing the coming sun. i'd been lonelier, but was very lonely. i'd never been smarter, more sure, and all without innocence and distraction of wonder. i envied myself, sobbing in my doctor's office. she had no idea what to do. she touched my shoulder and pulled away, speaking to me as i were a domesticated dog whining for food. there was money and it was there. i wanted to be married. i longed for the cohabitation of marriage and nothingness. at each glance i noticed people and humanity. i had allergies. we were in limbo, james and i, and a number of others, inconsequential cohabitants. during this stage, or phase, or trial, or lesson, or something, we were left guessing what would come next. after death i'd hoped for nothing, or a direction but received the same existence as life. only the physics had changed, and not greatly. no guides, all gods still missing, all truths still false. james and i assumed something came after the limbo, considering the limbo came after life, but we couldn't be sure, not of anything. the living couldn't see us, or maybe it was they couldn't sense us, or smell us. this was one of the criteria that led us to understand the stage. there was no reason for us to think we weren't also living, just differently, though our vision had changed. either that or the world was disguised, or revealed. it's easier setting down to sleep with someone, forgetting that you haven't fretted and pulled your hair about all you haven't done in the day. neither of you have done anything. the diffusion of responsibility to one's self is eaten by the counterfeit concern one has for another. "don't fuck with me, don't bother me, don't threaten me. i'm a lawyer-i'm your lawyer!" my throat crushed like a raw egg in his wrench-grip. this, being your final chance, should impress upon you the gravity of your errors. i've received each of your letters. someone brings them to me in the night, as you've stamped URGENT numerous times across each tan envelope. the frantic brand, the lie, is smudged, crosses itself, appears desperate. please don't think you haven't been in my thoughts. i've come to think of you as a child – strike that: i continue to think of you as a child; a rotten, sneering, spoiled thing, which won't let alone until it's been scrutinized, it's dress over it's head, yabbering because it's gotten what it's wanted and it realizes that means nothing. holding attention, like a mystery prize, keeping it hidden from you, that's entertained me, but i've grown tired and am no longer willing to play. so here it is and how it shall be. you'll pester me once more and not again. the spell out one more midnight missive and i'll speak to an employee (who's a very good, reliable employee - exhaustive) elucidating my consternation in a candid way that will startle him. as i impose on his counsel he will attempt to calm me and after i seem appeased he will ask your name. i will give him your name. this valediction is irreconcilable, irreversible. i write to you in the name of better times, good memories, and favors among old friends. god be with you, and goodbye. i imagine you singing her songs, or they're your songs (the sorceress has divined them, in her name), playing an electric guitar. i stand arms behind the crowd, the autist, as you're sometimes Robert Plant. i hope you're not listed. occasionally i'm found drunk. i've been caught making mistakes. rumours, rumors. come, face me. i'll be portrayed by the cop in the spermwhale costume. come find me behind the curtain after the show. i'll be conquering the all-black tiger and the fern green dinosaur with its limp wrists. the wine was redundant. two skinny, biddable legs in corduroy britches jabbered along the boardwalk clamorously. the wake blinded your pouting, dogie ears. liquescent dander, commixed in the rectal chamber of a fat sultana, kept the segmented stumps stumbling onward. it's the same mixture of magic and jest, joy and hoax, that motored a three-digited jonquil hand to pen your obituary hours after the same hand had pecked your bottom and pushed you off the pier, lips taut agape in a mislaid scream, to be nipped and chawed by wayward waterfowl. beasts are uninterested in plastics. i touched down in your father's Antonov An-225, millions of tires slivered and shaved by the gravel of your parents' esatate's landing strip. i'd come to collect, but you were out, and i began waiting. "You may find that you bruise more easily or bleed more freely." led zeppelin   
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conceptual
thank you everyone's different |
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Wed, Dec. 16th, 2009 01:24 pm
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Burma Superstar with Amy Cafe Gratitude the botanical garden possibly return to Albany Bulb one last White Chocolate Dream try to watch a movie in Moffitt Bakesale Betty's go look for KitchenAid parts at Urban Ore BAM for http://bampfa.berkeley.edu/exhibition/netart_mckaybake a tart with some of the graduation strawberries pray for people to be at open gym volleyball go browse the rest of new Berkeley Bowl also some finals also leftover-Woolsey party also trannies or something with Matthew? oops I never called him back
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trunkspace
thetrunkspace |
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Tue, Dec. 15th, 2009 10:09 pm
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Full Article Here: http://alternativepress.com/features/cover_noshows.htm. . . There are a growing number of independent show spaces all across the country that have seen success in a dwindling economy-which helps promoters and bands alike. Venues like the Trunk Space in Phoenix, Arizona, Skull Alley in Louisville, Kentucky, Transitions Art Gallery in Tampa, Florida, and Rhino's in Bloomington, Indiana, have taken the idea of setting up a basement show for your friends and taken it to the next level with real sound equipment, stages and people collecting reasonable prices at the door. As a result, they've become institutions in their cities with the ability to host bands that may have previously played at more traditional, corporate venues. . . . Its an okay, brief, piece. Nice compare/contrast of the economic realities, and the harsher side of booking 'n promoting shows.
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deathbomb
deathbomb |
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Tue, Dec. 15th, 2009 12:21 pm
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Hello Deathbomb Friends! Everyone is doing their best of 2009 lists. I see them all over the place. Honestly, I didn't listen to much new music this year, so I don't think I'll make one. I read tons of comics though! You'll prob see some sort of best of 2009 comic book list on my comic book blog: http://prayforresurrection.blogspot.com/ I did hear some awesome music, like the Gay Against You LP on Upset the Rhythm and the new VNC / Moore Brothers split 7". For the most part, I'm in the dark with music haps of 2010 though. So, if you want, send me some links to your favorite music of 2010. I would love to hear it! 1. NHY / Smell Anniversary Fest in Jan 2. Captain Ahab / tik///tik END OF IRONY TOUR 3. Hello web 4. Upcoming LA Shows 1. NHY / Smell Anniversary Fest in Jan ---------------------------------------- ---------------------- Very excited on the lineup that came together for this. Fucking ROBIN WILLIAMS ON FIRE back from the dead! Fri Jan 22 and Sat Jan 23. Check this out! FRIDAY JANUARY 22 : Robin Williams On Fire (from San Francisco; first show in over 20 months!) Mincemeat Or Tenspeed (from Philadelphia) Realicide (from Cincinnati) Simo Soo (from Australia) SATURDAY JANUARY 23 : Lucky Dragons Mi Ami (from San Francisco) Foot Village VNC (from San Francisco) Misscincinnati $7 for 1 day or $10 for 2 day pass http://thesmell.org2. Captain Ahab / tik///tik END OF IRONY TOUR ---------------------------------------- ----------------------------------- This March the new Captain Ahab album, 'The End of Irony' will be out! And they will tour the western us with tik///tik. Mark your calendars, most the venues are still tba, but you better know what day this comes to YOUR town!!! Thur 18 - Oakland Fri 19 - SF at Hemlock Sat 20 - Portland at Rotture Sun 21 - Seattle Mon 22 - Vancouver BC Tue 23 - Portland Wed 24 - Boise Thurs 25 - Salt Lake City Fri 26 - Denver at Rhinoceropolis Sat 27 - Albuquerque at The Rio Grande Satanical Gardens Sun 28 - Phoenix at Trunkspace a fews days off then Fri April 2 - San Diego Sat 3 - Los Angeles at The Smell 3. Hello web ----------------------- Well, what does the web have to say this week? 20 Jazz Funk Greats included Foot Village's 'Anti-Magic' in their best of the year list: http://www.20jazzfunkgreats.co.uk/wordpress/2009/12/14/best-of-09-no-1-all-the-kids-are-revoltingHere too! http://socketsrecords.blogspot.com/2009/12/sockets-best-of-2009-britton-powell.htmland the awesome FMLY gives Anti-Magic the best art of the year award, we are honored: http://thefmly.com/2009/12/13/jams-of-09/4. Upcoming LA Shows ---------------------------------------- ------- Tuesday December 15th at Women http://myspace.com/womenofcrenshawBeing (ohio) Peter Kolovos Moment Trigger Let Go Of The Rail Obstacle Corpse Thursday December 17th at Women Lavas Magmas (pdx) Sterile Garden (colorado) Algiers (pdx) Drowner (seattle) Jess Coble Human Hands FRIDAY DECEMBER 18 : Benefit to help fund the completion of a KARP documentary… at the Smell http://thesmell.orgImaad Wasif Bipolar Bear Old Blood David Scott Stone Friday, Dec 18th LOTS O’ CRAP presents http://lotsocrapzine.blogspot.com/at Echo Curio http://echocurio.comTREMELLOW SIGNALS SNOWSUIT NO BABIES WHITMAN Sat Dec 19 Scrap Gallery 46350 Arabia St., Indio, California Foot Village Gram Rabbit State Rec more... Mon Dec 21 Sean Carnage Presents at Pehrspace http://seancarnage.comNicole Kidman Kevin Greenspon Snowsuit No Babies and here is a xmas song for you: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xaBI8IghiG0word! brian
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tinkbell
Bell is Cyclone |
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Mon, Dec. 14th, 2009 12:17 am
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(-death in june) (her face to the storm...turning and turning... bells tinkle) ( People who hide are afraid! -Anonymity is the best disguise -You are afraid...The crack of the neck The gut shriek of thunder The blood call of lightning She said destroy in black New York... Into that darkness Into that darkness Like jackals howling Like flowers unfolding.) *** Thanks to getting back online, Fujichia and Mangenerated: http://fujichia.com/page/1http://www.mangenerated.com/blog/*** In general, I'm doing very well. In certain moments, both missing my best friend and getting ready to leave so much I care about at the same time can grind into the heart, and at these moments, I might be tempted, if some poor ghost wanted to take over my body for the next week so I could sleep through it, but still I know that I would not want to feel anything else than the whole, or risk that the ghost would not give my body back.  regressing
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tinkbell
Bell is Cyclone |
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Sun, Dec. 13th, 2009 06:30 pm
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The kinds of things you think of when trying to do research at night on a weekend:
I saw a random comment last night about drawing from photographs, with the opinion that it's copying. In illustration for stories, I do research and some of that is visual, for photographs to learn about the situations, and a fun part of that work is to encounter new things. I don't always draw directly from them, but sometimes; I don't want people in stories to all look like myself or whoever I could make hold still. At this point I can do fairly realistic faces from imagination but I've drawn from live models since I was 15 and from magazines long before that (like a series on Perry Farrell's face), with a drive to draw as well as possible, whatever that meant to be then and does now. I still need to look at a person or thing to get something that comes closer to how I want the image to look, and a photo or photos are often a good source of information, though drawing straight from a photo is never too satisfying because it's such a paltry experience compared to drawing from life, and the composition needs to be your own. I have done some photorealistic drawings I've from my own photos, but those seem to me to combine the two areas, principles of both photography and drawing, and which are not as frustrating and a very different thing that from photo-reference for illustrations because the composition is my own, it was from a scene from my own experience, and I can change what I like or not, if I have a reason. I've still had a lot of mixed feelings about those, though they are works that other people have liked. Those are never illustrations and they take a long time, but have taught me things, like patience.
My reactions to the comment were positive in the sense that someone has a sense of value about art, but also came with the sense of loneliness, in that drawing is the hardest thing that I know and few people know the experience exactly. Using photos does help make things a little easier, sometimes, but only if you can use them right, as any tool. Besides the rare photorealistic work (and I wish I could do more only in the sense that I've sold almost every one of them I've done except one that I love), I work from observation or from my head for "fun" or "practice". Neither word is exactly right, but in anything related to illustration, or some project directed by a subject or idea, I use some reference. Not for the composition, which I do think would be copying if not from a frame I chose in a shot, but to catch some detail that I can't make up but want to be convincing to the eye. Anyway, the fact that drawing is something I've spent so much time at is not that important, it's a personal thing; but drawing from photographs for an illustration is not easy either. Hunting down a piece of photo reference that is what you're trying to look for is time-consuming, but also of value in itself. You are looking for something special and find things you don't expect. So other than the annoyance of the time spent searching, I forgot that it's seen as a negative thing.
I have thought of photos as cheating before - I've thought a lot about this. In general, in life, I've caught myself in wanting to cheat or make things easy in different ways, but just the knowledge that you have a choice forces the choice, or so I believe now. You have to live up to your decisions and to be honest with yourself or some other part of the world will bite you on the ass and you have to admit that you were wrong and that will last longer than any momentary ease or satisfaction. And they will bite you even if you're not. I don't think for a second that I'm wrong to use photos (nor do I feel bitten, exactly) but still am reminded about privacy; that maybe your practices, especially on something that you feel very personal about, should not be open to the public. Of course, I'm writing about this now, so whatever.
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tinkbell
Bell is Cyclone |
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Sun, Dec. 13th, 2009 06:07 pm
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The first Dirt Palace brunches were to raise money for Books Through Bars, when I was coordinating that, but Sasha and the rest of the DP organized that. Chris Mulligan cooked for the first one and probably another, and for a BthB benefit bake sale at a show.
More recently the DP has done brunches to raise money for the house, very fun, with printed menus and picture-pancakes. Tom and Walker have done a secret restaurant at their apartment, and Chris M. did one last night, where the ginger-cardamom homemade soda and beer he made were $1 and $2 but everything else was by donation. That was chaotic but great, and he's the most obsessed cook of anyone I know; and also a great friend, though I don't see him that often. Exactly the person I needed to talk to today, about possessions and attached emotional states and about how a sense of meaning can disappear from what it was attached to in words.
I unconsciously tried to lose all my possessions today and instead only managed my phone. Natalie and Jessica took me to Calla Street for a breakfast that actually went on until dusk. I talked to Chris and Emily later by the fire, about similar things, and then walked outside to the lake behind Calla Street and Roger Williams Park with Jessica. I hadn't been to the graveyard, which Jess suggested. We were mostly quiet, coming away from an intense discussion at the house about who was what icon from food marketing. (I got to be the Vermont Maid from maple syrup, though that was a last-minute guess, and Jessica the Braggs lady - whatever.)
One corner of the graveyard has recent residents of the area, where they are many recent immigrant families and almost all of the new graves have Spanish names; some are from the islands (Dominican Republic, especially) and many are probably Catholic, which could be a link to the black-and-white photos on graves in the French-speaking part of Belgium, the only place I remember seeing those. Otherwise they were similar to what was known as the Pauper's Graveyard in New Orleans; I don't know the other name for that one. I don't know if it's there anymore. I went in August of 2005, a month before Katrina. This one had an entrance from Broad Street made from a chain-link fence, and is called "Oakland Cemetery." There were homemade crosses and many stuffed animals, brightly colored fake flowers and figurines, garden-fences around the graves, often with a real stone (unlike in the Pauper's Graveyard) but also homemade crosses. One was for a seven-year-old boy with a carved styrofoam cross, many toys and a little glass box, shaped like a house, on top of a metal post with lit candles. Other graves were obviously visited on holidays, with pumpkins, christmas decorations and a "happy birthday" balloon. They had been a lot of activity, and it felt more like a loving, sad party.
Leaving in a week.
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