There's a mole on my tongue that looks like North Korea, so I hereby declare myself an axis of evil. Business doors are open to outside visitors of any kind, and if they have a weekend free I'll probably run into them at the bar. I've met others before, others who wander the streets with daggers in their vests and money in their shoes. Some others keep metal pipes in their long jackets. They stand just inside the alley way. And what everybody else is doing is wrong, but they're driving the good cars with dogs girls like, puppies on the way. Every business decision was a mistake, obviously, because look at the reward. The Dream. Little children steal hub caps off your wheels at night, and pry into your locks for flaws, returning once a week on patrol to see if their new tool is the one that your lock will give to. Maybe he has a bag of fresh arsenic, a bag that has gone through many pockets, poison in powder form. Technology, technology woo. Leave your bottles out for the bums at night and the junkies start looking through your backyard, taking snippets of your perfection. With them they take the heads of pink flamingos, tiki torch wicks, loose screws off of your child's play set, the sandles you left on the patio before bed.
So it's about outside business, the axis of evil, North Korea burning a mole into my tongue.
A fresh orange blaze on the kitchen table, heads opening out
like half-balloons. I get out of the air mattress after a night
with a new bed-time. The blue corners of the bed unveiled
from feet-kicks in sleep. I eat eggs with yolks
so dark it scares me. The flower, orange with black moles
on the petals, should light the morning. My father already
commenting on its death, how it opens before it goes.
Recorded with S-L yesterday. Recording is always a harrowing, exhausting experience. I'm very anal when it comes to material that I'll have a hand in marketing and distributing. And it's very easy to get down and see art as a garbage dump and artists as mere garbage people who work there. Releasing a piece of art, in a way, can be viewed as a trip to the dump. "Art" being the dump, and humans contributing to it. The process is very similar, but recording studios are usually in someones keyboard filled basement. Even the man who works at the dump, the rock-processor. All he does is make big rockes littler. It's a process of grinding down a piece of wilderness until it can be used. Rocks are used to put over the fresh contributions to the dump, and artists grind down material until artists are ready to throw their music, or art, or words around in a cafe or beer hall. Bah. Enough of dumps.
Before recording I made breakfast for everybody and someone brought gin over for martinis. After recording all day I rehearsed with J-D and the R, as we have a CD release coming up soon. This week in fact. Wedesday, the 02nd of 06/04. at St3amer's Pub.
I purchased hair wax today. A first.
I had a very long sleep last night. Which was good. I just closed my eyes, and drifted off.
I'm suddenly into purchasing albums from the crappy record store. I find the cheap, old shit. Today I got: The Band The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down, a live recording from 72. I covered the song once, but never heard an original recording of the song. The album's okay. Talking Heads Fear of Music is the other album, and I'm not sure but I think I really like it. There's a song that goes, Heaven is a place, a place where nothing never happens.There's enough effects circa 1979 but not too much production, or that's what it sounds like to me.
Prior to my purchases, I ate sushi with Joy. Salmon tempura is good. So is a big, cheap, low-end sunomono salad. A big yam tempura. Although I didn't burn my face off with wasabi today. I think I got my tolerence.
Suffice to say, there's a certain oh my oh my to live cheesy music from canada --> my brother was shot by a yankee<--, but at the end of the day, when there's a midget outside the window, when the sun shines green onto the neighbors' rooftops, when a float plane tries to land on the street, when twinkies walk by in cars with broken umbrellas, I'd rather put in something that is more reflective of the right now, hello please, yes that means cheesy throw-back effects from when I wasn't born.
I wrote a story for the Monday contest, but I didn't submit it. Typical, actually. In grade school, I'd often do my homework and not hand it in, just because I didn't want to walk up to the teacher. And yesterday I got drunk and left my bike on the bus, and my fucking splash cymbal is somwhere up the island, or across town on a dead end street off the Gorge.
A rainy day out here on the west coast, nothing to do but sit back, open a book, get out the guitar, rent a movie. Drive to the grocery store, even if you're close, get warm foods, like a soup, or even make your own, a chowder, or a borscht. Get on the horn, make up for lost phone calls. Although I hate the phone and rarely talk on it these days. Back before then, I'd spend hours on the phone. Nine-hour, eight-hour, six-hour conversations talking on the phone, not hanging up when I said I would. I should make a couple of phone calls, but I got stuff to do, people to see in person.
For those of you who enjoy a stroll in the rain, do so. Wait till the afternoon, when the clouds get all of that night-anger out of them and warm up to us. Let the rain paint your clothes sticky and dark, or let the rain dapple light specks into the fabric of your shirt, or let it roll down like waterslides off of your raincoat. Look at the sun, one of the few chances when it is as small as the moon, behind thick grey, a bizarre core that only shows itself when the atmosphere veils it so. Stand under a big tree, dry. Sit down, take a nap, the ground should be dry, the insects gone down for deep cover. Let the hiss of passing tires scare off your enemies, fade them away, feel the space between your neighbors, filled in by the rain.
True - Blood
Troubled
Rehearsal last night was bad. But fun, because we hung out like nighthawks at the diner, munching on donuts, partaking in tea. I wrote some found poems. But before I get to that, I attacked J. in my sleep last night. I lunged across the bed and started beating her feebly, screaming like a retard ("Eeerrroooowww, muuuuchchccooooOOoowwwoooFrrmmeeemmaaemm"). She shrugged me off easily enough, and apparantly there were blinking lights outside. I may as well be a ward, psychologically repelling night-threats with my subconscious. It's damning my sleep and forgetting to remember itself when I'm awake.
Recording in a couple weeks. Getting very excited. I hope we sound good in the studio. We need to be tighter.
______________________________
FOUND 05/23/04
BANDERAS was the first woman in American Mambo Kings. "But now, from my heart," says Shrek. "You can hear Puss in his own fabled past." The kitty -- a musketeer who couldn't do French, just jumped and little cats mind cat-like beliefs.
taken from: The Tao of Shrek, By K. Monk, Times Kolonizer
FOUND 05/23/04
You're not Mikhail in one tablet.
You take boning up your anemic heart, which conjugated herbs.
In fact, they harm
not enough. Vicki says, "Resident Teens supplement
pregnant people." Sciences say, "Even if you deal
risks, your good-way benefits in tablet form."
Taken from: Take That! By K. Hall, Times Colon-izer
I'm drinking the perfect cup of coffee right now, the sun heats too much, but a whisper of breeze undercuts it with the right amount of irony, or milk. Either or -- the shackles of youth. According to Kenneth. Today I need to occupy myself. I should write a short story. That would be awesome. I need to stay away from empty pipes and booze.
Positive or ‘cataphatic’ theology, the ‘way of affirmation,’ must always be balanced and corrected by the employment of negative language.
The word apophatic comes from the Greek word apophasis, meaning negation.
causing "outright reticence in approaching certain matters."
positive statements about God, that He is good, wise, just and so on, are true as far as they go, yet they cannot adequately describe the inner nature of the deity. These positive statements, said John of Damascus, reveal ‘not the nature, but the things around the nature.'
http://www.geocities.com/stainlesskings888/apophatic.html
As far as examples go, you can't get any more celestial than the last one. But suddenly I'm interested in the cataphatic. Although I won't be using that word in the bar.
Did I end my notes on a cataphatic or apophatic level? I guess it's a sort of response. . . to say, "god damn, fuck you absolutism. there are too many adjectives and adverbs in your world, they don't anchor me. But you're alright. Just stay away from my children."
Works for me. Let's see. Who should be my apophatic, and what should be my cataphatic? (a) Brendle, (b) the farm
maybe the climax will end with the farm opening up and shooting flames up into the sky, and something that belongs to his mother will break and Brendle will fess up to breaking it. Or try and scam the system.
You follow Stephen around like a dead trout, upside down and meshed, shark skin pained by gears. And in the washroom, shower head asks who are you? where are you from? water around, echo fades.
A satellite wrung in from the forest, bleeps findings: tools understand, relay between me and the wilderness.
The button. And it's there. Graphs and pie charts spew out of the lazer printer, chapter headings gestured in red ink.
Wait for the owner behind the ditch. Rip the line out the back of your head, hooked with bad meat, tenured to shakra.
Turns out anybody who's anybody that shouldn't know about 'lil accident does. Well, knew I couldn't pull off a scam. Maybe next time. Scams rule.
Spent better part of the day playing music. Especially the accordian, a student model with limitations. It doesn't have many of the chord buttons that are used today, re: Ab, E, (I have E# but no E), etc.
For dinner: steamed asparagus with cauliflower, scallops sautéed in butter with lemon juice, fresh ground pepper, a lil mustard, and dill, and potatoes drenched in ranch dressing. I kept the dressing away from the scallops though. I figure the Ranch has too much flavor and I can't taste the bickery-bobs.
News: S-L will be in the studio in two weeks. Uncertain if it will be a full-length or an EP. I want full CDs. Always full-length. I figure if Sublime can put a half-dozen tracks of a crazy man hoo-hawing then we can muster up the tools to do something similiar, only with music.
School has started, and I'm totally disenchanted with everything. It all seems bleak and doom and gloom. I want to invest in S.C.U.B.A gear for when the tides rise and become warmer. The fish will be swimming behind the rocks, and I'll be there with my canyon of hidden air and spear for hunting. Of course I'll bring a couch filled with people who are important or close to me.
The insurance company just phoned me and informed that I will have to pay around 800 dollars to fix the vehicle that got damaged. Holy shit. I'm fucked. Like really fucked. I will have to get some more hours teaching and work towards a goal or something. Or something? Or something! This is a financial crises. Fuck "or something". I need a plan. Fast, easy, lots of cash. Maybe I should pawn a bunch of my instruments or live on the beach, away from city cars, red lights, and insurance companies.
If Onlys
If only I hadn't piced up those peacock wings during that sentimental walk in the park with Rose. She found them aesthetic, so I brought them home only to have the cockroaches bury their larvae inbetween the feathers then hatch and eat most of the leg off the kitchen chair. From there, pidgeons roosted on top of the cupboards, swooping down when in need of a snack. The birds laid some eggs against the wall behind the living room couch. Rose took fancy to one of the birds and even though there was no proof that the eggs belonged to her bird, she insisted on looking after the blue nuggets.
"If only I hadn't met you, Tommy," she aid. "I could be doing something else. Instead, I'm looking after eggs."
"But how do you know those these eggs don't belong to another bird?"
"A girl knows her eggs," she said, and opened a newspaper with a pen in hand. "Excuse me, but I need to find a job."
But she would never look. I would fetch the paper out of the recycling bin after she left and the pictures of politicians and kids of the week would be drawn over over, scribbled with ink.
Wouldn't it be Best to Outlaw Interplanetary Kisses?
If so, then what would a first move be? A hand-grasp against the wrist of an alien filly, or would we need to skip past the lead-ups, the nuances of 'getting to know you'. Skip the foot massage and the cocktails, although we should keep the cocktails.
When the process is cropped, should we try and keep the new process in conversation with the old process, or do we move on? Do we take it from that moment after the kiss: a goose-grab munchken smile reaching out, eager to skip out on the humane, forget about the process or mores and carry out the convenience of prostitutes.
(C) copyright, 2004
ESL Conversation goes like this: Me too go close dere, yesterday night? and the man, had a this."
I purchased two books of poetry yesterday. One is a book on poetics, and the other is a bookbook. A normal book. This was after taking a crew out to mother's day brunch at a sporty Café in James Bay.
Played a show in Nanaimo and had a great time. Joy has said much about it, and Ryan has the photographic evidence.
Rehearsed last night for a good three hours. Nothing like feeling warmed up to the drumkit, unthinking about fills and pulling them off. Although when I listen to the jam tapes I often wonder why I'm so wanky inbetween songs. Bizarre tom-tom runs with no pattern or time signiature. Unifished thoughts, directed at nothing.
Today I'll do some reading, try and be inspired by technique, and tonight we host the Monday Night Writing Thang. I always have fun. Although I feel like working on a short story, or something that will be more relevent when I look back to it. Not that there's any sort of animosity between myself and the Night. I just need to make as many excuses to write a short story a month. I just started one. I wrote down two feeble paragraphs the week prior and then tried to extrapolate some meaning, symbols, things to use as the "plot" develops. I want to resolve issues before the ending, but not all of them. But most of all, I want a chalice, filled with blood.
The sun came out this morning so I drove Joy to work with the top of the convertible down. It was cold when the wind curled around the windows and blew on the back of my neck, but the novelty of the sky has not worn off. When I got home, I picked P. up and we drove to Port Renfrew. We drove down to Botany Bay where we walked down the beach and up on these high rocks at low tide. At the top of the rocks, which were no thicker than thirty feet, trees grew up and into the air. The rock was steep around the trees, and they looked alone and about to die, even though their needles were dark green.
The drive home was fun. I was used to the car so I handled it better on the way back, but after my lessons, the vehicle took a hit going through a red light on my way to rehearse (which never happened). We swapped info and I'm going to settle it out of court with my own cash, as it was my fault entirely and I should be the one to pay for it. I can't believe I went through a red light. I fear driving again.
I've been cruising around in a Mustang Convertible for the past few days. I am already too used to having a car, especially one that has a removable roof. A bunch of us went to the Sooke Potholes on the weekend. I want to go there sometime this summer and spend the day climbing on the rocks and swimming in the potholes. Yesterday I went to the Esquimalt Lagoon. I had only been there once before, when a Russian woman drove me around for an evening in her truck some four years ago. We attached horns to the roof with some bungy cords. haha. Yesterday at the Lagoon, C. said, "This would be the perfect day to kill myself." It was a gray day. The beach, the water, the sky, the rocks, the building: all grays and glistening.
I should find out if I have classes.
Writing Thing last night, although I rehearsed with J.D. and the R. and missed out on three writing exercises. I've been listening to the songs a little too much and haven't been in much of a mood to play them. That and my drumming in that project is a little repetitive so it's not always the most FUN music to play.
Watched Big Lebowski after the writing thing with J. and M.S. while C. and L. played poker in the background. The landlords are away so we can smoke in the house without guilt. I want to start the monthly short story, but am unsure where to start. I have until the end of the month to write a story. I can start now and make it good, or start later and make it worse.