Whatever you think, I love my header photo.
This Stance , or Distance - Kerrie Keller
Sleeping alone is painful to relearn
as a void demands it’s own extinction.
The borders of the self are difficult to discern.
Clouds embrace – gray and undefined
miles, mountains, commitments, apart.
There’s a tidy contract for the mind
but nothing calms the heart.
Sleeping alone is painful to relearn
as a void demands it’s own extinction.
The borders of the self are difficult to discern.
A bright, July, super-summery, sweaty, hot-hot-hot Saturday afternoon spent in my room , drinking tea and lemon iced-tea reading Ginther, Denters and de Waart’s Sustainable Development and Good Governance (Martinus-Nijhoff) and Kerouac’s On the Road (Penguin), listening to Radiohead – The Bends (‘95). The confusion was as always there, all along. C’mon now.
I’ve written an autobiography. Just, I didnt much care for my name, and so changed it to some Jack Kerouac. Nice rhythmic name.
besides which Lucille would never understand me, because I like too many things and get all confunsed and hung up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.
**
God was gone; it was the silence of his departure. It was a rainy night. It was the myth of the rainy night.
**
Kerouac wrote the above stuff. I thought it.
Why haven’t words been invented for music. Words that would convey the cry of a sax, the grunge of the guitar and the disciplined-yet-rebellious sound of the violin. Why dont words like sound exist?
“…rather, and closed her eyes, put her arms above the head, opening and closing her hands as if trying to catch something that kept floating away. Her narrow hips swung like a slow pendulum, and the movement would have gone practically unnoticed under her spacious white dress if the thin material had not been slightly see-through and sticking to her in all of the spots where she was sweating.” (Cayling Capra-Thomas)
“Blowing a line of coke off a sticky table in a karaoke room, I realize that I fucking love Oasis.” (Lewis Rapkin)
Modern guilt
Is all in our hands
Modern guilt
Won’t get me to bed
Say what you will
Smoking my cigarette
Don’t know
What I’ve done
But I feel afraid. Beck.
Im an epi scope alien.
I was sitting in the last row of class, something about noise pollution and law, reading Bad Trip - a collection of the best poetry about the worst travel - when I smelled it. It was this sweet-fermented smell. The mix of musk and molasses. It was the smell of a perfectly aged book.
We all know how books are to be read, deciphered, and underlined. But a book is bigger than the black letters it contains. I, for one, despite being in the “going to” space-age, prefer paper to lcd or kindle. So yes, coming back, the book – the book smells this smell, and it feels different too. The pages seem to have grown fluffier. And the small cracks on the ribs, almost like wrinkles on a gracefully aged hand. An aged book.
And its not the only smell. They go as far as Beethoven does from Younger Brother. There is the smell of class six to class ten NCERT books. Those plastic covered, ribbed with brown tape books. There is also the smell of law journals, i mean I love it. The smell of cheap paper, more so the feel. The paper seems to get thinner and more translucent, the smell is stingy, too. The Highly chemical smell that some of the new space age recycled paper books smell like ( I tried deodarant to Allure). Tintin comics also smell different, the white in the comics seems to become more life like. Magazines are a world apart, they smell like starch and caustic soda. Though it must be noted that some magazines like the New Yorker and old National Geographics do smell a lot better. Newspaper becomes brittle, almost delicate. It’s a riches to rags story. So smell.
?
When I am fucked in the head I write. So before you form judgments and draw the oh-so-scary-conclusions, in real life I may be better.
You see the new header, Im guessing. Yes I know it is out of place. I mean whats a photo of a bunch of faces doing being the banner for a cynic’s blog and little else. I mean was it really long ago that I wrote on my non-belief in the benefits of communication?
By this time the readership of the blog dropped to an all time low. It was like fall in Blogosphere. The erudite skeletons of tournefortias and the coldness radiating from the black asphalt of the road. It was a time where snowflakes that came to rest on eyelids constituted beauty and happiness. It was a time where everything was empty.
The Trip of St. Bernard
The St. Bernard asked, what went wrong? / The Bee replied that the trip to Mars was too tiring / So the St. Bernard nodded his heavy and fluffy head in the most lazy way and strolled off with midnight vultures into the night / The St. Bernard went on a long trip.
Esca
402 West 43rd Street
New York, NY10011
1 x Iced tea $4.50
1 x Spring vegetables with ricotta $17.00
1 x Soft shelled crabs $24.00
1 x Trout, Complimentary
1 x Sorbet $9.00
1 x Pineapple tart $9.00
1 x Double espresso $5.00
1 x Glasses Prosecco $9.00
Tax $10.56
Tip $26.56
Total $114.12
Do you know the broken rubber gasket around the soot coated exhaust pipe? Do you know it? It keeps you moving. You don’t know it. Its not the glossy, the loud, the bright that is life. It’s the soot. People ask me for stars. All I’ve got is the solidified wax drip on the side of an extiguished candle. No stars. Also, I do not believe in communication. So from red telephone microphones to late night heart pour conversations, nothing.
And then we all die.
Its that time where I should be writing. I ought to write, right. With all the migration and the magnetic disorientation, this is the time that late night diary entries are made of. But I shall not. I shall stay silent. I shall let the vine grow to cover the entire wall. The ivy clad wall. There is some sadness, some confusion. The fumes mix to a fog of melancholic stale vapors. Fan sounds seem amplified, questions and thoughts are killed in their infancy, days are spent on rippled bed sheets, the sweat wet tips of my hair resting on the pile of pillows, reading the horrible-selfish-and-super-fucked Bukowski and the Beyonce of the Beatniks – Kerouac. So you can well imagine the state I am in. Thats all, that’s the weather in my head. Dark clouds and darker thoughts.
It’s a cat eat fat-flea world out there.
So? said Fia.
What do you call the art/science of using alphabets as graphics? e.g.: [m\.] [||>>.<<||]
Productivity has gone down these days.
LOISTERAFAGACIOUSTASTIC. new word.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Go read Ogden Nash on Tse Tse. Go go. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
Y’know Ive realized there are only two kinds of people that’d read this blog: the [=~~censored~~=] and the fucked up sorts. If you’re not one of those, then don’t take offense. Just, we think, y’know. We think.
FFK: Fucking Filter Keys. Seriously. f.u.c.k.i.ng Filter Keys. Don’t worry, they are not a smoking apparatus.
Magic monkey juice. mmmm.
Y’know I donts likes this much. No, not much. Fuckin’ ’ell Tom.
A new service: Call Busy Divert Message Service.
Ode to the best tee shirt ever.
C’mon, you know it by now.
Okay, I should go now to … bye,
m\.
I took a decision. I finally fucking took a decision. Now we shall see if it works or not. Lets see. What’s the worst that could happen? I get blown to smithereens? okay, thats not new. So, lets try getting blown to smithereens another way.
There was this one story about how Thomas Alva E. said his thousands of failed experiments were what led him to that one successful one, I don’t quite remember. Im not even looking for that one successful one. I just want to beat Edison’s thousand failures and have two thousand failures. There.
Oh and, happy independence, America.
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