It's true. Not that I'm in any sort of trouble.
I'm feeling pretty exhausted, but excited in a way, too. I have no idea what that rough draft below means. I thought of it last night in bed in this sort of haze. There seemed to be enough layers to write about, but now I'm not sure why. But enough of that.
I recorded a three song demo yesterday with J., R., and G.M. Really fun. The studio was out in the middle of industrial part of town. Lots of rusted propane tanks and cars split in half laying around. A Pepsi machine, abandoned in the middle of a parking lot. But the studio itself was really quite nice. All purple inside, subtle lights putting hints of green and blue onto the walls. I'm excited to hear how J.'s songs sound with The Religion. Should be good. The rough tracks sounded decent.
Last time I was in the the studio, it was too intimidating and I didn't really know what was going on. I felt lost and directionless. First time recordings are like that I guess. But not second time recordings.
What I’d do to the Moon
Lucid dreaming, such a fantasy. I’d love to question Sam, a dream-character. Ask Sam Sam’s meaning, then twease Sam’s unibrow, give Sam some exfoliage cream. Then I'd pick Sam up by Sam's underpants, then fly Sam to the moon, which would always be full. I’d get to the moon fast. I’d reach out, grab the moon like a donut and reel the moon in. Once there, Sam would choke and die, Sam having less power than me. I’d want to rescue Sam, lend Sam some fashion sense, but I’d let Sam be the first body for my first mass grave. Then I’d fly back to earth and pick Stacy up by Stacy's underpants, then suffocate Stacy on the moon. Then back in dream-city, I would work up a sweat then sneak into Vanity Smurf’s bathroom and break his mirror and rub his underpants with my wet groin. After that I’d fly up Island and slit the throat of a barge captain, let barge captain's blood slide over the wet smell of dead trees, then I'd pick up barge by barge's underpants and haul barge to the moon.
Soon I’d believe, after the psychosis of murder set in, that each pair of underpants embodied a usless memory up for grabs. Like the time I wiped the counter, or knowing that the guy from the drum shoppe probably saw me steal his drumkey but didn’t do anything about it except talk about free chopsticks around the drumstick shelf. I learned a lesson my friends learned in High School, back when my friends and I shoplifted. I was the only one who didn’t get caught and banned from a store. The memory is that shoplifting isn’t bad, shoplifting is embarassing.
What if I killed the drumkey instead of the plaid cloth streaking the counter free of the counter's crumbs and grapefruit rinds. My brain could present me with a matador the size of a football field and with an ear for sitcoms. I’d kill matador, for sure. It wouldn't matter what matador meant. A matador would be a disgusting prize. I’d tell matador to get out of my city, then pick matador up by matador's underpants, sneak a look at matador's braided pubic hair, then fly matador up to the moon. Another body draped in a crater. What if matador embodied the metaphysics of the drumkey? What then! What if I trusted the brain to make the right decision, not knowing that brain has selfish pursuits and needs for real estate.
Sooner or later, I’d take Carl Jung up to the moon. Carl Jung’d be surprised, of course, as Carl Jung's so invaluable. I’d choke Carl Jung long enough to make Carl Jung question Carl Jung. Then I’d stuff Carl Jung into a television and leave Carl Jung alive in there on the moon, breathing up against the screen. The fog marks would make Carl Jung look unclear. Then I’d make a ritual out of killing off memories. For the last two moments of a dying dream-character, a dying dream-character would watch a blurry Carl Jung pressed inside a television.
Eventually I'd demonage my dead characters to two gargantuan craters and paint all the characters mauve. From earth, these would look like eyes. Then I’d paint more bodies into a smile. And during those bare-foot moments on my patio before bed, I’d stare at the smiley faced moon with a mug of low-end cabernet sauvignon in my hand. The rest of the world would look at the smiley face and wonder where the bodies came from, and who painted them mauve.
The kitty has just taken her first couple of bites of the new catfood that Joy bought. Hopefully this bite of hers will be the known time when Sambuca stopped being a pukey cat. She looks pissed off. Like a child who wanted to be a McDonald's, but had to go to Swiss Chalet instead.
Felt sort of insidious today. A traitor in the fine arts department. "Who are you kidding -- you aren't a writer? When did I decide this course of life? This lifestyle etc?"
Don't know why, but I spent most of the day with my head tilted down and ears filled with other people's music. Then I got home and watched "The Virgin Suicides" with Joy and that made everything better.
Rehearsed for four hours last night with Semi-Louise. That's a lot of practise. My hands feel like they should be taped up. The callouses on undersides of my fingers are spreading into thin, tough sheets. Not bad, but one developed into a blood blister, then the skin hardened over it, so it looks like I have this sick black mole where my index finger meets the hand. Fucker. I want it to go away. I've always been grossed out by people with visible birthmarks, and now I feel like one of them. Eww. The lower orders.
Plan for this weekend is to start on my next story, and rewrite a totally failed poem. Also I'm recording a demo with Jay and Ryan, which should be a blast. I think I'm up-to-date on my chops. Jay has also scheduled studio time in late march to record a CD. Whee!
1
I’d Like More Stuff Please
I’d like more stuff please
knitting-wheels or masks from New Zealand. Stilettos,
halter tops and open graves imported off a pig farm. Some
money with a goofy Korean on the front. Mayan
artifacts, smuggled unawares, cursed, and delivered. Bring me a man’s
toe from Black Lake, Hungary. A stein and stolen carpenter’s
toys, but please leave Thomas Mann behind. A bottle of Czech
Republic absinth, and some Plastic People. Prized
Lithuanian midgets, a rain barrel. A Japanese suicide note, his
shoelaces pulled under a train. I want a Gulag’s
rafters, a can of meat hidden in St. Petersburg. I don’t need
paintings or autographs signed by a well to do ballet dancer. I want
sugar cane harvested in Africa, and natural flavour engineered
in New Jersey. Dubya’s dick flayed and spread over
roasted peppers. I’d like a Spaniard’s pubic-hair, a maid’s
laced robe. Checkers stripped off taxicabs. A decayed
pump-organ in a friend’s basement. Bricks slid out of a Palestinian
fountain, or an old wall. A rotary blade purchased in Israel.
I’d like more
stuff please. I collect
things that go into storage. Don’t bring
mirrors. Bring blankets, filthy
or clean, fostered from an accumulation.
A thunderhead sucking moisture.
A pissing, hungover bladder.
2
Dirty Turtles Kill Themselves
Like a turtle, he had stubbed legs,
cracked arms and a mushed, bored face. His
intestines sinking into his testicles. He taught
chemistry and after class, retired to his thong
collection hidden in a desk drawer and formaldehyde
for lube. He made me learn, some said. He made a girl
slap her face with his dick all night long. She squealed
on him. He drove to the lake, stuck
a potato in his exhaust-pipe and leaned
towards a castle the size of a tooth picketing
the night, spires sending him onward.
And what about history teacher?
A turtle with brown cords and a missing pancreas.
His penchant for cheerleader pornography rests
secure in the video store. He pats lithe heads,
hugs a tight body after class. His wife
left. He’s cheerful, they
say. A nice man.
I had a vision for this Sunday morning breakfast. I wanted to fry up some potatoes, get them crispy, then fry up some eggs, and dip the crispy potatoes into soft egg yolk. But the potatoes didn't fry. Instead, they got mushy in the frying pan (?) and the egg yolks popped when they dropped into the pan. So I mixed it all together and now the pound of starch grinds in my stomach like a pile of shit. Falling short, in a big way.
I want firearms, so I can let off steam off the back porch when things get out of hand. Like botched breafasts. For those of you who don't know, I take great pride in breakfasts. Not any more. I'm never making breafast again.
I get so irritated lately. Maybe this means I should go to my friendly neighborhood dealer. I really want a gun. Or a hot bike ride. But it's fucking winter, and there are no leaves to appreciate.
I managed to pass out at around three a.m. then woke up at something like 4:39 am. Why? I was tired, I passed out. I want sleep. I have early morning, busy day. But no, the Jews won't have it. Blergh. Blerghblergh. It's 6:20 as I type, and I'm starting to yawn again.
Why the hell did I write that poem? Could it have something to do with the half-empty, giant bottle of redwine on my counter? Yes, I think it does. It was so logical at the time.
Draft 1
From the sidewalk we watch
a four storey battleship lapse
into the atlantic.
The ship’s fire and smoke curbs
a television-blue window
which absorbs framed echoes
from two sundry moments
– real or not – for us, the someone
beyond the windowsill.
Draft 2
World War One Stock Footage Projected on an Apartment Building Across the Street
From the sidewalk we watch
a four storey battleship lapse
into the atlantic.
A television-blue
window curbs the ship’s fire-smoke.
The glass panel frames
the echoes from a reel
and a screen for us the someone
beyond past the sill.
Draft 3
World War One Stock Footage Projected on an Apartment Building Across the Street
From the sidewalk we watch
a four storey battleship lapse
into the atlantic.
A television-blue
window curbs the ship’s fire-smoke.
The glass reflects echoes
from a reel and a screen
– real or not – for us, the someone
beyond the window sill.
Draft 4 - how long will this go?
World War One Stock Footage Projected on an Apartment Building Across the Street
From the sidewalk we watch
a four storey battleship lapse
into the atlantic
A television-blue
window curbs the ship’s fire-smoke
The framed pane sops echoes
from the reel, the tube – real
or not – for us, the someone from
beyond the window sill
Whooo. This semester already feels like a giant weight pressing down on my face, like an ass about to fart. To quote Chief Quimby, "This is going to get a lot worse before it gets any better."
It's not as bad as that. After all, I'm not being sucked into a hot-dog machine in a convenience store. I'm not a cop. I'm not Honky, or American. But there should be large payoffs by the time the semester is over. Three more stories, eight more poems, a movie, and one or two usable non-fiction pieces.
Teamed up with a girl named Ashley for the writing 320 class. It's always strange teaming up with a total stranger. Last time it was Miguel, and we hit it off, and made an alright short. We'll see how this one goes.
I'm working on a screenplay about Schizophrenia. But don't shriek back! It's not about victimization or how awful it must be to be "one of those types". I want to get right into the character's perception. Our leading lady apparantly has sunken eyes and is missing a pinky finger. She's also skinny and boney with crazy hair, which should look cool on film.
The basic idea of the film is to compare realities. Who's to say a different reality isn't real. That sort of thing. There's going to be a lot of killing by the Spectre, who will hopefully be played by Jason Praine. He's always trying to convince the heroine to kill herself, but instead he starts killing people around her, but it's all in her head of course, but she's unable to differenciate between what her brain is filtering and her "illness". I want to have a very small cast, repeat murders etc. I think it's going to end with a tree communicating with Aliens, and fire. And the Spectre will move via jumpcuts. An effective thing. I hope my teammate doesn't get freaked out by a total stranger writing fucked up shit.
But I want to make a killer movie. I want it to look like ten-minutes of genius. I'm stoked on the possibilities of narrative.
Bye bye. Please and thanks-you.
I've been plagued by wants lately, and I find myself questioning which want I'd want the most. The three latest wants are: (1)Time Traveling, (2) Lucid Dreams, (3) A Humorous and Embarassing Alien Encounter
From what I hear though, the Grays are up to no good. Agents of Lucifer. But imagine being normalized to those three things. Apparantly, everybody believes in time travel in the future, and there're a lot of people doing it (which only adds to my idea that most of the people I see, the masses, are constructed, vapid agents filling the holes, pre-programmed). Although if you get too close to a double-self, your time-histories can split, and sometimes you meet negative versions of yourself, then mail from friends long forgotten starts coming, from different addresses.
Lucid Dreams. Okay, I'll spend my nights flying and being in control of my dreams. I'd be able to engage my consciousnes and ask dream characters questions about the self and their daily plans. If they're good people or not. Apparantly dream characters don't react well to questions about the self. As if it's rude. But you have to start somewhere.
An encounter with an Alien. Always a classic. Also I've heard that Aliens doin't like time travel devices because they allow people to lock into Christ's Consciousness.
Or is it better to aim for an existence where all I ever do is bus back between work and home, waiting for the next day to end? I think not. It is also easy to not believe when locked in the daily routine. "I refuse to believe you! Now I'm going to go home and get most of my information out of my television and radio before going to some worthless job tomorrow. You don't know anything! ABC news doesn't have anything to say about it." Blergh. I'm a little bit sceptic myself, I guess. But those three things. So much fun to be had. "I think today I"ll chat up some Aliens, then see what happened on May 3rd, 1986 in the women's toilet in some food court, then I'll fly around in my dreams and engage the unconscious on a reflexive level."
A dream aware of the dreamer. I wonder if I could bring dream characters back with me? Sounds like an easy party. Hopefully they'd fade after.
To travel through time and be healed, go to http://www.hdrenterprises.net/
then find a vortex, and voila. Off into time.
Big Bad John's is always a good time. Beer, company, talking about writing. . .
actually, I don't feel like updating right now.
Reading an Indian book! Bad joke. The point being that the book I'm reading, "The Truth About Stories", is a postcolonial take at disspelling all of the documented myths about what Natives are. My planned reaction to reading the book is to assume that all Indians are great story tellers and novelists. Now that they've learned to read (thanks to which culture?) they can put out better literature! Even though it has the Native-taint, it's still better than all of that oral....
No. Actually, the book is very good. I'm trying to take something(s) out of each story told and it's good to hear the novelist's take on what has been done to his culture, how he backs up his wit with information, his information with stories, and his stories with wit. Very nice tone, and the voice is one of a kind. It's taken me a while to warm up to the self-reflexive tone in the First Nations Literature, but I finally have. Actually, it's just taken a certain tone for the style to work. My attitude is that just because a First Nations wrote it, doesn't make it good. Robert Wagamese (sorry Robert) I don't like. I understand it, but don't like. Same with some of the others (if this was an essay I'd be more specific, but nobody is giving out gold stars, so...). I haven't had the same experiences and found the tone of voice to be inclusive as long as one has experienced what the protagonist experienced. More along the lines of self-help? No. That's racist. More along the lines of, "Matt doesn't like." I don't like a lot of things.
At any rate, Thomas King the guy I'm reading now, has a good amount of distance between the tone of voice, and the stories that he's telling. I'm actually liking the book quite a lot. Plan on finishing it today.
I want to play more music. I love the new practice space. Love it. I want to play music there 5 times a week. I want to play music right now. I'll try and phone up Semi-Louise and schedule a jam -- maybe tonight. Just to play music. It makes me happy. And I hate not playing music for two weeks, because then the band has to wind back together, which means that we're losing work.
Okay. Plan for today: finish book. Begin rant assignment for W336. Rework short-story, catapult the bitch into a second-draft and save it that way on my computer (this is new for me, this kind of pre-planning). Usually I'm hammering away at the keyboard at 3 am, drunk and stoned, capitalizing on others. Not this time. Not at all.
My nose hurts, like someone did cocaine to it, but nobody has. It just hurts. It's a thick dry slate of mild pain. Argh. My guitar sits with strings flung off of it. Currently it's totally useless, as I have no idea how to remove the pegs on the guitar. I could probably research it, but instead I popped off the plastic nuggins on the black thing, which only makes things more difficult.
"Heathers" is a good movie. Very Seattle. I kept on expecting a cameo performance by Alice in Chains or one of the earlier drummers of Nirvana.
I have the fear. It's boiling and coming down all around me like the layer of oil above my head in the movie theatre. The time I went with Farrell, it changed my life it did.
CRAP
Moon shoots veins into the clouds
brings a baby on a vine
until Meredith reaches
out, touches the Moon’s hair and
whisps the bible with garnish: cilantro
I think.
Jebodiah closes the door to the fridge
No, he cannot eat today. He could gain weight
he could get shot. That is, after all, why there is so much
cheese and whipped cream in everybody’s refridgerator
it is used to fatten us up. We’ve signed a contract, declaring that we all maintain
a minimum weight. Two-hundred and ten pounds for men, and one hundred and sixty-five for women.
Jebodiah has broken the contract, and people are starting to talk. The Davidson’s have disbarred Jebodiah from their weekly powwow. They blame him for the frequent pickings of their youngsters. It was known that Delores Munfield, a billionaire's eight-year old daughter was having her hayday in the neighborhood. She felt like she could spend as much time as she wanted in Vice-Kill. Eventually she tired of killing, and moved on. This was when Jebodiah had decided to starve himself. After all, who wants a skinny trophy? He might be shot out of spite, but his carcass would make a horrible trophy. There is nothing fat or offensive about his lankyness. As a trophy, he would stand poorly. It won’t be long before somebody sends over the Squads to check him out. See if he’s eating his quota of cheese and whipped cream. He could have his house downsized for this. He hasn’t thought of that until now. Maybe when he returns, the third story and two of the washrooms will be gone. Maybe they’ll deliver pizza and watch him eat it.
Living here was all expenses paid, but nobody had control over their expenses at all. There were ways of restricting and molesting individuals who wished to walk on the line. Two months ago, somebody was shot in the middle of the night. Most believed it was some night-time hunter, getting his rocks off over his surprise, but some thought that it was the Squads who did it. The man was found with his testicles in his eyesockets. It was a message, some said. I’m going home to eat my cheese, said another. I need to watch more television and beat off onto the carpet and use an empty chip bag as a cumrag. Whoo whoo. I’m a train. Whooo whooo, said Mr. Davidson, who had taken to wearing a flak jacket, which was also a violation.
Maybe I should go home and make a couple of phone calls to the right places, Jebodiah thought. I’ll have to gain some weight, or else I’ll look more conspicuous. I need to gain at least 35 pounds before I can make any phone calls.
So that night Jebodiah went home to his refridgerator and two weeks later had Mr. Davidson shot. Jebodiah hosted his own powwow after that, and it was rather popular amongst the community. He did not allow Mrs. Davidson over to his powwows though. The end.
It's strange. Last semester I was the drunk poet. I took pleasure in pleasure and wrote poetry about it. But no more. Today I woke up and realised that I have never known anything about poetry, and that includes writing it. Suddenly my acquired understanding is gone. Even the voice in this entry is stilted and slightly academic. Hardly the markings of a poet.
I will try:
The snow, the snow!
brushes my roof clean
with winter sand
Has an attitude, like a mother-in-law's
step-father
That is not trying! Fool. Ether-wank. Ether-wank on the ether-page.
The snow fills in the space
between my neighbors
and my bed. The empty spaces normally occupied
by air are dusted with volume
and my neighbors seem far off
and alone, away from me
no longer a spectacle
Well I guess that's a little better. I've been feeling so alienated lately, and alienated poetry is not cool. Fiction is better for that. We'll see. Maybe I should buy a big bottle of redwine and smoke. That usually puts me in the mood for poetry. Maybe I need to stop reading "A Quiet Room", the poetry of Zen Master Jakushitsu. All of his "Green mountains" and "wind in the pines" are starting to feel too much like Red China.
Next Poem
I'ma gonna barf!
Hey, Travis, I've never liked
you, so hold still, because I'm going
to barf. Don't run off, like Suzy or Jeff.
Yes, they got away, but not without some of it
on their shoes. Hold on Travis. Hold yourself
right where you are.
I'm going to teach some Raymond Carver to D. today. But right now I need to drink my coffee and start my day. It's snowing here. There are about 5 inches on the ground, and I hope the rain comes soon to wash it all away.
Hello Ryan. This will make your click worthwhile.
Joy got all sick so we rented some DVDs and set up the television by the bed and curled up for the evening and watched the sky turn orange then fill up with snow.
I love those days when you can sleep in and still get everything done. Like today. I got paid in large bills today. Four, one-hundred dollar bills and a fifty. Pretty good, to get paid in cash. Then I workshopped my story at Namasté Café this afternoon over strong coffee and draught with Joy.
I want to rent "Waking Life" and "Dogma" and listen to the director's commentaries.
Oh my God, Canadian cinema can be boring. Say what you will about the Americans, but at least they know how to take the viewer on a sexist trip through explosion land ("I love this movie. It has a vampire AND and an explosion!" Phillip J. Fry). "Marion Bridge", the latest piece of Canadiana from some German lady, is nothing but a soul-wrenching piece of doggy poo poo. I love it when the director takes every possible action to avoid what the characters want to say. There is no way to count they amount of times "I don't know" was used. Even when the protagonist was facing her father, who impregnated her at fifteen, there was nothing. No sadness, no pain, no spark. They just looked at each other, as if by looking, they would come to terms with the most psychologically damaging even evah!
"Why are you doing this"
"I don't know. I'm just so damn mysterious aren't I? But doesn't that make me likable? Look at me, I'm attractive in a non-offensive way. I have charm, I have couture!"
"We're all sisters, and we have to LOVE each other! Even though we don't want to admit it!"
It's late. I want to sleep.
This is an extended entry.
Went to Milestone's for breakfast today with Joy, Ben, Michael and Michelle. I had some eggs with hollandaise number, as did Joy. Ben had a salmon omlette and Michael had a _____ with some _____. Michelle had tortillas with salsa and a salad. I wanted a salad. I'll have to get one.
Joy and I watched War Photographer directed by some Swedish dude, and he follows a famous war photographer around. The director attached a camera onto the war photographer's camera, so the viewer would be able to see what it is like taking pictures of dead people and starving people. I called it the cam cam.
The photographer was extremely honest, however, and his views on honesty and being welcomed into the misery that was exposed to so many people; how victims hope that through his photographs the word gets out etc. was pretty inspiring.
There was this one guy who had one leg, one arm, and lived on the gravel between two railroad tracks in a Jakartan slum. He raised his children ontop of a blanket.
Next we're going to watch a movie about Adam Sandler. You know, the one where Sandler is this misfit who meets a girl and becomes the community hero? That's the one I'm talking about. It's supposedly really serious, so I'll probably cry at the horrible, horrible lifestyle of upper-class suburbanites. How horrible it is to feel "out of place", whatever that means.
For dinner:
bagel (toasted), tomato, onion, mushroom, lettuce, veggie burger (chicken flavour), mustard, ranch.
bowl of curried rice noodles, w/ brocoli and mushroom
seaweed rice crackers
beer
A move. I am Jovial Bastard. I write jovial code.
midi 1
change autobot.exe to FONT SIZE 14
CD burn 35x 21 min @ 5 speed on 2.56 Gi/H
Change autobot.exe <---> FILLER 15 JOVIAL BASTARD
MAKE SURE the muffins are on HIGH and your journal is put away