A Town in the Distance

Farewells are in order.

A town that evoked Peter Pans and existential fans deserves a proper goodbye. A shack where cards were dealt and egos were dealt with. The fear was all around us, the loathing in the mirror. All the characters we met, invented, insulted, I thought I would make them a typewriter graveyard. You stole a dead woman's diary, and her blue dishes next door. We smoked to kill the time; to watch it leave with the smoke and the daylight. While you rarely listened, when you appeared with a Tarot card tattooed on your chest, I supposed I was somewhere in the ink. We were a treasury minting phrases and memes.

The sweat, the bikes, the whiskey, the smokes. We lived well. We observed the strange and the sycophantic. We committed crimes. Switchblades, narcotics, psychotics, the absurd panorama of the fore-granted, the theatrical and the fleeting. LSD, christmas lights, foursquare, beer by the case, piss, public pools, parents, parties, perversion. Each one deserving their own eulogy, let's call it a mass grave. Let's call it a pizza. Let's call it even. All of us were present, all of us gifted.

Sad to see the giant tranny who loved Electric Feel and Edie Sedgwick's wardrobe go. Sad to drink coffee alone. Can do without the sweaty scene hangouts with the accompanying photography, the Hep C positive guy who smoked crack on our porch, the bottom rung of bureaucratic employment. Will drink to the architects of this emotional fallout shelter, the shrapnel still on the battlefield.

This was the year of upheaval. There were the years of deconstruction both academic and personal. When you get your cliche card punched by the avant-gardians of a de rigueur aesthetic. Days that passed too quickly in a vacuum. The seal broken, out in the world we traveled. I told you once of a train that was leaving, where would you be when it stopped. Maybe our relationship was like gravity, this shared belief to keep things moving. Entropy is my new reality these days.

This was the year I would call the worst one yet. You were going to be the non-denominational version of a rehabilitation center for my attitude, and my ego. I thought I would grow and thrive, help you feel alive. For years now we have been passing cars on a one way street. Where are we going? It's been six years since we went our pilgrimage west. Our defining weekend, our shared zenith. I stared at a moon glazed in ale, at a night still and pale.

This was the year of it's not you, it's me. It is actually more minute and boring than that. It's now the year of knowing what I want, and knowing it isn't going to be easy. A new way to fail perhaps, but success has a way of surprising you. Our values were always different. I know I was your version of teenage rebellion. Your parents didnt like me. I didnt like anything.

We don't fit anymore. We can give this a stay of execution, but the outcome is going to be the same regardless. There is no governor to pardon this, there is no one who would want to.

Never look back.

It's a Sad Salvation

I was listening to Sufjan Stevens' "John Wayne Gacy, Jr." recently. I hadn't listened to it in a while, because it is disturbing, like Tori Amos' song about rape. But hearing it again, I thought back to the first time I heard it and I could remember it well. It is in a rental car in Seattle, on a quest to find Lake Washington and the greenhouse where Kurt Cobain took his life. I was so freaked out hearing that song on the radio, but also impressed. Growing up in a training wheels town, Seattle was the first place I saw where all the small town "artists", misfits, intellectuals, addicts with vision, can go. These big cities filled with soy drinks and literate cyclists. We all get to an age where we decide if we care more about safe schools or decriminalized drugs, or both I guess. A town where they show Almodovar and Waters for midnight shows.

You dont get what you deserve, you get what you negotiate

I watched Cecil B Demented, Drop Dead Gorgeous, and Kissing Jessica Stein while drinking some Christmas tequila. It was really nice. This roommate thing is starting to feel like a 1950s divorce and it makes me think what if there was nothing there to begin with. I suppose this is the new found marathon viewing sessions. I'm going to make a picnic tomorrow and enjoy this weather and away from the never-ending Netflix queue of distraction from reality. In all likelihood, it will either rain, or I will be attacked by pelicans/mosquitos/the elderly.

Simplicity

Reading a short story, drinking a dirty chai, thinking about rights: personal, reproductive, Constitutional. I hate(d) my parents, say the f word way too much. I write letters to the past and have no hope for the future. I love my friends, my books, my solitude. Trying to fuck life into a cliche, not to let irony kill me. With too much time getting away from me, I have less and less to say. The form is taking and I am trying to fill up pages with characters and stories. I've learned a lot. I know nothing. They say the best way to find something is to stop looking, so is the best way to love something to stop caring?

Still a sucker for a big nose, long trench coat and a government paycheck.

Strange

I was typing in my blog address and 1st Internet Church came up. Which is strange because I was going to blog about religiousness and free will anyway. The nature and burden of choice, personal responsibility and cultural influences. I know, that shit sounds boring, but it was motivated by my roommate sounding like a neoconservative asshole last night and my head refusing to explode at the right time. And then my sister confessed she wanted to try to raise her kids with Jesus in their life. Um what... I thought my cool atheist punk rock influence would prevent this, but alas, no. I mean they have their whole lives to feel guilty and terrible about being alive, masturbating, falling in love. It is hard to keep up with the separation of dogma and fanaticism, so why taint a perfectly beautiful child with that? Granted, there could be a nice way to explain the atrocities of the Bible, I myself had a Children's version of the Bible and see how I turned out. I know the prayers to St. Francis, Serenity, Nicene Creed, Apostle's Creed, etc. I am just really irritated right now by Jeff and his bullshit Machiavellian economic endgame and his strong arm rhetoric. People are defined by choices, but don't bemoan being a white upper middle class male. You have everything and you don't have to make hard decisions.

Astrology and/of The Avatar

Kingsley,

I was writing you a letter this weekend, to be transcribed onto the internet, to save you from my handwriting, as I know you hate that sort of thing. All the type is the same, the subtext is not underlined on the internet. But I was looking at my bookshelf and this book jumped out at me. I let you borrow it and we both loved it. I remember I got it a this huge discount book bin that mysteriously disappeared shortly after, like a Twilight Zone storyline. I thought about hipster culture deifying as only atheists can, the outdated and the forgotten. I hope we all learn Morse code as a lesson in moronic protest. My only worry for us is languishing in entropy, as the mundane becomes more attainable, and more desirable. I doubt we will ever lose interest in the fascination of ourselves in this universal backdrop of dead stars and variations. I love this mixtape site and the circle jerk of like-minded "purists". It's like arguing over heroin in NYC, circa 1975.

This post belongs to Joseph Campbell, Tom Robbins, Woody Allen and the Avatar.

Over 10 years ago, this friend of a friend introduced me to astrology. I suppose most of my friends have this person to blame for my categorizing based upon star sign, rising sign, moon and my mood at the time of introduction. It has also shaped my interest in semiotics, language, psychology, literature and pop culture. I love movements, what makes something fit and what excludes - Nothing includes like exclusion fits in this sentiment. It also complements my fascination with chaos theory and ordered randomness by putting things in boxes only to set them on fire. These cursory expositions on personality with their quaint adjectives and engaging anecdotes prove that as much as you know something, you know that there is room for doubt, without a doubt.

I watched Swimming Pool, which was great. I love a movie that can still pack a surprise in the last five minutes, like Vertigo. I also watched Everyone Says I Love You, Woody's foray into musicals. I suppose he will never get over NYC, himself, and his love for erudition seeking sex. I dont think I will either.

http://8tracks.com/obscenester/i-don-t-need-a-genius-to-have-a-good-time

No Expiration Date on Fun

I have spent about 20 minutes trying to find a proper nomenclature for Hazelnut Steamed Milk gentle readers, and all I got from two sources was a Steamer(David of Landfair states; "If purchased from Starbucks, something douchy with Hazelnut). So it is a Steamer kind of morning here in Sunny Florida. The pool is adorned with those who either worship the sun, or think cancer is too slow a process. I have been reading Harrington Gay Men's Literary Quarterly, eating Sandies, enjoying Steamers, listening to Radiohead. I can hear Anthony quickly coming up with the faggish long haired cat hoarding soft spoken Southern gay voice/persona as I write this.

Last night was spent eating hibachi and tiny octopuses, drinking green tea and eating red bean tempura ice cream. The Orient Express derailed a bit, but overall, a fun time spent watching drunken white people make a case for suburban chemical castration.

I leave you with this thought, "Are we the Proactiv(e) generation or what?". Also, whatever happened to trip hop and Lisa Frank?

The Temperature of Truth

I resent that my problems seem small compared to the world at large. The bread crumbs to my gingerbread personality would be of the artisanal sort. As crises of an existential nature are not covered by Obama's health care plan, I can only say this is it. I still value trailer-parks at camp value, not real estate. I wish I didn't like wine/cheese tastings, the big picture, aesthetics, twee so much. Or I guess admit that I do like these things as opposed to a value menu and a swimming pool. It's not that I'm deep, it's that I'm not shallow (thus obviously proving me wrong). I like mineral water, destruction in art, beauty in minutia, the moment, the then, SAT words, being the zeitgeist's cor(o)ner.

My sister and I used to call things/people "cheap". Not in the sense they were frugal, but in the sense they were histrionic, trite, garish, tacky (the entire cast of Saved by the Bell). I don't know why it made me laugh then and now, but I suppose it is indicative of something. My mother loved two things when I was growing up: depression glass and gardenias. Both are forever linked in my mind, mainly because when they bloomed, my mom would drive us to the nice neighborhoods and surreptitiously have her children steal these redolent flowers to fill the house. At the time, I thought my mom was unhinged (she is, but for different reasons and now there is pharmacological proof), but now I can think back almost fondly, and in a Faulknerian way on this simple act of familial bonding and trying to instill a bit of "class" in our apartment. I mention the depression glass because I seem to have inherited my mother's penchant for mismatched glassware. When I drink out of my Mayor McCheese tumbler, I think of these ridiculous rosewater shot glass sized things my mom would fill with the gardenias, thus instilling in me history and loathing for antique malls.

In honor of things past, and of trying to find value in the little things, I am going to make a peanut butter/honey sandwich, a boiled egg and an apple my lunch and pretend I am picnic-ing in my air conditioned room and Save Me the Waltz, which I got for a friend for Christmas, but never got around to seeing them, or sending it.

The Teenage What

It's the OC out by the pool. I am not an outdoors person, mainly because I am so white I glow in the dark and fear instant immolation stepping outside. I went to go get a French Vanilla dirty Chai latte (I know, historically inaccurate imperialism: In a cup!) and caught something strange. No, not the bronzing good looking teenagers. When I was getting my coffee, the TV was on Sabrina the Teenage Witch. Inexplicably, it was the only episode I have ever seen. I mean, this weird phenomenon that I see the same episodes of a show years apart, and only that one episode. Most curious of this tale, it was weird alt verse where everyone in Sabrina land has heard of and likes the Violent Femmes. And the Violent Femmes are in the episode. Seriously... weird. But makes sense as to why I would remember it, and in keeping with a day where I read articles on Victorian bachelors, psychology reviews of bad mothers and discussed Grey Gardens (Ghey Hardons).

Too many saviors, not enough crosses

I'm pleased with this hazelnut cappuccino with an espresso shot. I also had a thought of Jesus being used as a salesman. Instead of happy meals, we could have Heaven Jumpers, saving money and souls everyday! Or pulpit smashers about Jesus not being obese (duh, he walked everywhere spreading his word and sensible shoes). Then I realize I dont care at all about whether or not Jesus would endorse this sandwich.

But I still am working on my main theme ideas:
Four Horsemen walk into an ad agency
and a suicide note found in a thrift store overcoat.

My Victorian Perversions, and You

In attempt to be less of crashing bore, and less withdrawn, and inspired by my fellow bloggers/RL friends, I am going to try to keep you updated with my cultural consumption and the inevitable droppings (via poop and bombs). The more I withdraw and consider my position in life, the more I realize my affection/loathing for Woody Allen, Baumbach, Anderson(s)(Paul Thomas and Wes) as showing me my own life as someone with education and emptiness in equal measure. The descendants of the tennis set and welfare checks combine to make one surly, and dimly hopeful. Cleverness is not going to save you, anymore than Christ. So I'll leave with you a witticism of my own devising: "These are the days when Christ gets you paid and Dylan gets you laid."


Cat's Cradle - (Did you know Vonnegut got a Master's degree in Anthropology for this?)
Spook- Mary Roach. Science and its shenanigans with the search for the soul.
Blind Assassin - Margaret Atwood. Phenom noir novel within novel. Great aphorisms.
Following the Sun - A Bicycle Pilgrimage from Andalusia to the Hebrides. Wow, I know I am kind of a douche, but in the best possible way. Same with this guy, biking with his old Peugeot from Spain to Scotland, from the Spring Equinox to the Summer Solstice.

21 Grams, Lost in Translation, Veronica Mars, Buffy, X-Files, A Serious Man, Broken Embraces and most importantly, Avatar: The Last Airbender.

I like my myths violent, my enlightenment self sufficient and my comedy understated.

Liking Emilíana Torrini, Anais Mitchell, twee and Paul Simon a lot right now.

Any suggestions will be taken into consideration, or at least reviewed.

Come On Over and (Trouble)Shoot the Shit

When I was young, my mom told me everyone remembered where they were when Kennedy was assassinated. In our love of democracy and the notion of some kind of equalizer, America was hit hard by the loss of their prince. The idea of a suave, beautiful, family to rule over us, our delusions of our distant Anglo Saxon ways was powerful. That and Vietnam, here is our disillusionment in a decade. Well, I suppose in my own way, Kurt Cobain's death was that. I was too young to feel it, but I can understand why it was so painful for the generation that precedes me in time and the one I feel culturally attached to. He died in the spring, 3 days ago sixteen years past, but found today. I remember in high school I brought cupcakes for his death, in with a macabre flair only celebrated by the young. I heard Smells Like Teen Spirit in a Nike store one time and couldn't help but think so this is suicide. The reluctant voice of a generation is what all the magazines said, but it is more than that. The American notion of being obsessed and repulsed by the spotlight and the shadows cast.

Bulk Singularity

The room fills with conditioned air. The stark white walls are great for projection. So this is "living the dream". I have an eternity of nothing to do, I should be writing. I should be happy. He is just doing what he is supposed to do. He got the degree, he got the job, he got the luxury apartment. But there was a time we used to drive for shows, liberate bullshit, have similar interests. The house contains silence along with the super cooled air. I could be wrong about everything. The days of youthful vegetarianism, recreational atheism and stylized misanthropy seem like they belonged to all the other teenagers, even though I wore them as proudly as I could nonchalantly get away with. Judge not on the content on my coffee mug, but the contents of my dirty mouth. I need a war to stand my ground, as it crumbles beneath my feet I can offer a belief. When meditating, you are supposed to relinquish worldly things. I don't meditate, but I remember working shitty jobs I could do the same thing. I would look at every person and think about them doing something mundane, like going grocery shopping, getting the mail and then less mundane, like getting their heart broken or putting a pet down. These things that are supposed to unite us: patriotism, shared sports team just offers a case for nihilism. Everyone is the same thing, but as they say, God is in the details. This Pepsi or Coke government, with a splinter cell of Fanta does not inspire me with confidence. The removal of the label of the vice is the closest we will get to understanding.

I was reading this book that mentioned the First Law of Thermodynamics applied to human thought. Naturally, the analogy of computers was made. Our unique humanity is analogous to a computer, filled with files and programs. And then one day, it will crash.

Lame

I have been watching more films than usual of late and felt the urge to share. Broken Embraces was such a beautiful film, the scenery with the vivid colors served as almost another character. The art in the homes, the layout of the homes, the bookshelves... I loved it. And then I started thinking about themes of films and the difference between being entertaining and being important to the genre/director/zeitgeist. The theme of the meta-reality of a failed/faded artist in the film. Affluent white people with their failures vs. the war film vs. the heist etc. I just like seeing the world someone else might see it, instead the way I see it. I suppose that's why people watch films.

No life vest, but I can swim

Things have been rough lately. I like to say rough so I can think of a sea storm, like I am weathering my mediocre middle class problems exacerbated by a simple rhyme scheme. I didnt feel well yesterday and had these strange dreams. In the dream, the narrator (I assume me, but that was never verified) was announcing this recent stranger who for some reason was sleeping with another version of himself in a blue sleeping bag, a Freudian noose. I also was thinking about nooses, graves, bloodshed and other dark terrible things that night. So I want to share this story of something that makes me happy. A Patronus memory, as it were.

When I hear the song Cecilia, I think of this amazing woman who I was friends with who later left her husband after 23 years of marriage to live in New Orleans. That divorce was worse for me than my own parents. But before they divorced, the song came on right before an acid trip in which me and several friends/housemates sang this song a Capella into her answering machine.

There are a few perfect moments, dancing with a tranny in Mexico to Nirvana, eating dinner at a friend's removed relatives house and playing family board games with someone else's family, being in a care with someone you love and doing anything from singing to smoking to drinking to drugs to roadside diners to a Dairy Queen in Indiana to giving your two year old nephew chocolate ice cream and watching the snow while everyone else sleeps. They go by fast, faster than growing up, faster than ashes from burned bridges. If you are lucky, you have so many of them, you can stand to give some away. But if are you like most of us, you cling to the good ones like Mrs. Havisham in a rotting wedding dress.

Yeah, somehow I managed to take a good thing and turn it dark and sour.

http://8tracks.com/obscenester/we-thrive-on-bones-without-them-there-d-be-no-stories