Monday, March 19, 2007

I die from nothing-thoughts. (I will die from nothing-thoughts)


Thursday, March 15, 2007

What happened to all the motivation in the world?

Saturday, March 10, 2007


look through the screen.......your face is looking at you, looking at you where you are not here. you are there.

You are here. I am there, yet I want to be where you are here.
To be at you are here. ….“you are here.” Yet I am there.

Thursday, March 08, 2007

The Altar of Pergamon (ars morendi)

Ars Morendi

I recently came across a book entitled "Old world death sequences in the everyday lives of Late Roman Empire hinterland tribes: vol. IV" that details ancient methods of dying without succumbing to temptation, juxtaposed with the consequences of dying in a poor state. It was interesting to read about the practices of the European tribes at the time, though undoubtedly influenced by Roman officers and lasagna collectors. (lasagna = retribution) Though full of in inaccuracies about the state of the empire, the book did feature, oddly enough, a section written by Ben Stein. It reads as follows:

The art of dying was practiced to simplify horrors in the world, as well as the tribulations that an average person of the time had to endure in everyday life. Yet, the actually commitment to a righteous ars morendi proved more difficult. Often times, people would just lie and have a witness advertise his somber, good death. This is akin to modern day obituaries of men and women in newspapers, giving them a sense of dignity even if they didn't rightfully deserve it."

What this fails to take into account is that most celebrities lie about their death so as to cash in on post mortem publicity. The common idea of the green-stuff (money) is synonymous to demons tempting a dying man with golden staffs or bejeweled crowns. Perhaps the man who once co-hosted Win Ben Stein's Money has already fallen into a Bardo of flesh, consumed by the greed of bills and notes.

A much more accurate text would be "The Craft of Dying: A Study of the Literary Traditions of the Ars Moriendi in England", among other texts.


When I used to get t’wasted on mescal and IPA, there used to be a saying we all would chant, or sing, or just plain belch out like a Garfield filled with lasagna. It was "hey buddy, keep yer load!" this chant would signify all the girls to get naked, tie pillows over their vaginas and then dance about. then someone would shout, "HEY YOU!" and the chorus would chime in the rest: “KEEP YER LOAD!” It was usually pretty raucous, something reminiscent of the evil altar at Pergamon so callously written about in the Book of Revelations. We took it as something more along the lines of Zeus worship. KEEP YOUR LOAD! HAIL ZEUS!

These orgiastic parties were quite pointless, actually. We were kidding ourselves; through blind debauchery we were actually in a state of denial, living a false reality. One evening our friend G, who was feeling a bit ill at the time yet nevertheless still wanted to partake in our Pergamon party, collapsed in the middle of mounting a pillow-prostrate lady friend of ours. Everyone stopped, took him up to the bedroom and wanted for him to make any signs of life. His heart-rate was slow, but very steady. He woke when I alone was in the room with him and said he wanted to take some valium. I procured some from the host downstairs and let him take the pills. He died within about 20 minutes, insofar as the coroner could tell us. I knew the valium wasn’t what ended his life. I don’t honestly know for sure, but he died with some shred of dignity. Some month’s later during his roommate’s moving process out of their old apartment I was helping her take down her furniture. G’s old bed was to stay, yet I noticed a book tucked flush behind the bed posts. It was a copy of “The Craft of Dying.” He had written in it, all sorts of odd little cartoon characters as if these were his notes while reading it. Odd, but simultaneously, expected. The book now lies flush in back of my bed post, ticked away until I can realize the grandeur of such a practice.

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Wednesday, March 07, 2007

wide open eyes (meandering)

i find my eyes are on the clock a lot these days. I feel pressured to get as much rest as possible before jumping up and running around, filing, writing, guessing, mis-interpreting (is that possible to do?) and then gallivanting, much too much gallivanting.

I will always feel like a stranger in a strange land, which leads to accusations of myself being an alien to society, an alien among residents. if i confuse you, it only means that i am even more confused, probably. i have definitely come to realize that a state of normality is defined by a sense of confusion.

"WAIT WAIT WAIT, i have a confusion."

"you have a confusion? well, you better get that checked out. You don't want to be walking around with a confusion sticking out of you."
4 day weekend back in Brooklyn, yet i know how it will go. Work needs to be done, but then I will have to sit and talk for hours with various people, family and friends, sit on the roof and watch the planes go by above my head (air-traffic fascinates me) maybe decide to go for a 3-hour-30-minute walk (always happens) which becomes a rendezvous with someone, unexpectedly, and a movie or more discussion proceeds unexpectedly (or maybe 3 movies) By the time i realize (i'm so bad at keeping track of time) it is past dusk and evening, dinner plans become inebriation plans, socializing, or just simply milling around waiting for people to become free. Maybe i'll go into a record store, or walk blocks to see if that good pizza place is still there. fade.......things become a blur of grandiose ganders and thoughts of going to sleep early to get a fresh start on the morrow. (which means waking up at 11 instead of 7.) Mutliply this by 4 days and i am behind schedule, yet i seem to have caught up with my privileged upbringing in a metropolitan (THE metropolitan)

3 hour drive back up north, sit and stare at the mirror. FADE)

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Sunday, March 04, 2007

working in a well

fell down a well and found some pretty good company. i might stay here and ask for my things to be brought down later. yet will i permit myself to work? (of course, you need to work in any condition. well, that is easy to determine)

warming to a certain tepidity. (Willets Point, Shea Stadium)