Tuesday, March 31, 2009

frownland (ii)

once more, my smile is stuck/ I cannot go back to your Frownland.


I cannot go back to your land of gloom/ where black jagged shadows/ remind me of the coming of your doom.


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Sunday, March 29, 2009

busy student tries to finish thesis*


i miss the creation from an arbitrary position. when you are expected to "create" something from the standpoint of deadlines and such, it hardly feels worth it. but when i see my last three pics side-by-side, i just have to grin:
1) abstracted column
2)outcrop perspective
3)magnified perspective


In a succulent nutshell, much of my time has been spent over such contemplations.


Saturday, March 28, 2009

Throbbing Gristle - Very Friendly

Transposed below is the spoken-word of Genesis P-Orridge. This is one of the first recordings (circa 1975) of the first industrial band, originally self-released and distributed to friends. These recordings were later compiled in a collection entitled The First Annual Report of Throbbing Gristle and released in 2001 on the Thirsty Ear label. Macabre, grotesque, but with wonderful vocal intonation, Genesis P-Orridge recounts the murder of Edward Evans in Manchester.

It was just an ordinary day in Manchester.
Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, drinking German wine.

Her mother had gone to bed upstairs. She slept very well.
They used to give her three Seconal every night with her cocoa.
And Ian Brady put on his best clothes, and his blue seude shoes, and he decided to go out with Myra Hindley, as it was six months, on one of those special days. So, Myra Hindley put on a dark wig and drove Ian Brady to the Mainline station, and while she stayed in the car, Ian Brady went cruising on the platform.

That night Edwards Evans was also getting dressed in his best...
And his mother, who didn't know that he was a little bit...inclined to the young men, wished him well as he slicked his hair and put on his winkle pickers, and he went down to the Mainline station.

He waited for about an hour and he was beginning to think there wasn't gonna be any train that night. And then somebody came towards him wearing blue seude shoes and it was Ian Brady. And he introduced himself and he said, "Hi, my name's Ian. I saw you, uh, down at The Viking last week. Why don't you come back to my place and we can, uh, drink some German wine. I've got a car around the corner. My sister's there, she'll drive us back. It's only in Hyde, it's not too far. If it gets late, you can always stay the night."

Ian Brady and Myra Hindley
Very friendly

So Edward Evans and Ian Brady went to the car and Myra Hindley drove them back to the little council house, said hello to the dog when they went in the front door, and her mother was still asleep upstairs. And she made some excuses and switched on the TV set. And it was "This Is Your Life" with Eamonn Andrews interviewing a Stanley Matthews. And she went into the kitchen, said she wanted to make some sandwiches for work tomorrow. And Ian Brady and Edward Evans sat on the sofa, and Ian Brady started to play with Edward Evans' fly. And he got a muddle, a couple glasses, and right underneath the photograph of Myra Hindley's mother they started to drink, drinking German wine.

And Myra Hindley went over, up the road, to see David Smith and Maureen Pobo, her sister. But David Smith didn't have his shirt on and he was drinking tea with his wife. They had the TV set on, too. "It's all in the Game"...'s only information. And she said to David Smith, "Why don't you come back to our place, David? We've got something rather special to show you." And he said, "Ok, let me just, uh, put on my jacket." And they both set off, walking through the night, walking through Hyde to their little house. On one side of the house looking...looking out onto the porch. And he knocked on the door. But he was used to that, because Ian Brady had some funny habits.

Ian Brady and Myra Hindley
Very friendly

And when he got inside the house he heard some funny noises in the front room over Eamonn Andrews' voice. And Myra Hindley said, "Why don't you go in there David? You might like what you see." So he opened the door while Myra went into the kitchen to get some more German wine. When he went inside he looked up at the sofa and there was Ian Brady chopping at Edward Evans' head with an ax. And he was chopping, and chopping, and the ax was going into the back of his neck and there was blood skirting over the Church of England prayer book. A few drops landed on the TV screen and ran down Eamonn Andrews' cheek, and some bits of bone and white brain landed onto the hearth, just near the brass brush that they used to sweep the chimney. And there was lino on the floor, which was lucky. And it took quite a few hits before Edward Evans gargled. Ian Brady asked David Smith for some rope which he had a stick he used to play with his dog. And they put it around Edward Evans' neck and they pulled it tight till he strangled, and he made a strange noise.....
and then he died! And he was just a lump of stuff, just a bit more information!

Ian Brady and Myra fucking Hindley
very very friendly

And when David Smith could...up to help him wrap up the body in polythene and take it upstairs, he make excuses, and left, worried, frightened. Very friendly. And he went home to his wife, Maureen Pobo, and he told her what had happened, and they agreed that they should have to tell the police. But they were very frightened, so they stayed awake all night holding one of their knives from the kitchen and hoping that Ian Brady wouldn't come around and say anything else. And then eventually it was morning. And they went out of the house at about 8 o'clock. And outside into the street, they didn't know who it was gonna be. It was Mrs. Bradley walking her dog, a little white poodle, and Mrs. Martin going to Lloyds Bank to clean the waste-paper baskets. And they went quickly up the road till they got to the red telephone box. and when they got to the telephone box, David Smith gave Pobo the knife and said, "You wait behind here while I ring them," and he went inside the phone box and he dialed 9-9-9...

And in the police station, a rather fat police sergeant who was trying to finish checking his football pool heard the phone ring and he said, "Oh shit!" And he put down his mug of tea which had a coronation picture of the Queen on it, and he picked up the phone. And when David Smith heard the policeman answer and say, "Yes, what do you want?" He told him, and he said, "There's been a m-m-m-m-m-murder..."

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Friday, March 27, 2009

First video

I mostly just wanted to record the music on the radio, and thought testing the video on the camera would be a good idea. Hopefully, more meaningful videos to come shortly.


Wednesday, March 25, 2009

conspiring against my illness

Such a fun, fantastic weekend, has devolved into the horrible situation of having to deal with an irritated, sore throat. This throat's morphed into a raw pain, covered in phlegm. It's a fucking drama queen. It got "a due notice" and thinks it's the end of the world. This throat had never been unemployed before, but then came the downsize at the expense of a floundering economy; the local clam-bar and juiceria have fallen along with the government IT specialist. It used to work for the Dept. of Homeland Security, but the coup of the NSA lead to Beckström dragging it along with him. This was merely to cushion the fall. My throat got axed from its position based mostly on vague accusations Beckström made of its failure to efficiently manage intelligence during past risk levels. It was such a vague accusation but one to be expected from an agency that experimented with domestic data mining; people need to be fired or let go because of minor infractions when a vie for power's at hand. The changing of the guard is met with fatalities of a superficial kind, yet an evil power won't have sympathy. All the for best yeah? No problems with being freed from cold war, at least that's the way I'd feel.

It took all of three weeks for my throat to find a job as an IT specialist for New York Life. THREE bloody weeks! There are some financial specialists who've been looking for a job over a year. This fucking throat of mine is out of work for a mere three weeks and collapses into a frantic paranoid state. It feared coming down with yellow fever and then not having life insurance, and also something about germ-warfare in subway corridors. I would say to it, "You're fucking bonkers! Are you panicking because of the likely hood of total economic collapse, or are you just insecure about not having a pick-ax to hammer away at that mountain of debt you've been chipping away at? I've always told you the banking system would get you in trouble, but some people have literally been thrown out onto the street because they allowed the media to pander to their deepest wants and desires. These blind fools allowed themselves to be stabbed in the back while their hands were severed. But a large collapsible SUV was promised if they complied. And to tie my digression with you...how can you afford that huge collaspible Escalade with 30" rims?"

After I'm done with scolding, this throat I used to call my own becomes a skulking mess. It doesn't wash, it sits alone and plays the same old James Bond game for the Gamecube it's been playing for the past six some odd years. It takes rejection so fucking personally! I mean, it DID find more work. Motherfucker's just a stubborn insecure prick. I think my throat fears socialism the most. It listens to The Savage Nation periodically and keeps a lot of commemorative currency as collectibles. If some ridiculous coincidence occurs that a PIECE OF HIGH-GRADE STOCK PAPER LAMINATED WITH SILVER PLASTIC ever becomes valuable, I'll sell my vinyl sleeves for fucking sushi platters. Mad spicy tuna...mad spicy tuna.

Honestly, this douchebag simpleton of a throat I used to have is so easily jipped. And now that his creditors have repossessed its fucking Escalade, he's got no way of commuting to work. The subways are out of the question. Cab fair is just eating away at my throats savings. It's become a nuisance and a slug, slowly being dragged down amid the transition towards a high level of connectivity. I don't want to appear mean, but it's come to the point where I'm going to have to evict this throat I used to have.

Telepathy is not yet an evolutionary trait, is it?

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Tuesday, March 17, 2009

pork stew

A pot of pork stew was cooked and served at 7:38 PM on 11 March, 2009.


soy sauce
redwine/apple cider vinegar
spicy brown mustard
garlic poweder
hot Hungarian paprika
chili powder
extra virgin olive oil
black/white pepper
brown sugar
bay leaves
mace (nutmeg)

2 lb pork, diced
2-3 tbsp canola oil
4 oz radishes, chopped
2 carrots, chopped
2 celery stalks, chopped
3 oz crimini mushrooms, chopped
2 scallions, diced
1 large onion(spanish or vidalia), diced
3 cloves of garlic, diced
1 inch ginger root, diced
28 oz crushed roma tomatoes
6 oz tomato paste
crushed red pepper to taste
Chinese Five Spice, pinch
salt/pepper to taste
1 tsp acacia honey
1/2 cup water

-marinade pork in a container in fridge for at least 3-4 hours.
-in a pot, brown pork in canola oil on all sides, set aside
-saute garlic, onions, ginger till onions are translucent/caramelized
-throw mushrooms into pot, cook until aromatic
-throw radishes, carrots and celery into pot, cook about 5-8 minutes.
-mix browned pork, crushed tomatoes, scallions into pot.
-add tomato paste until desired thickness is achieved. Add some water is too thick
-mix contents, bring to a boil on high heat.
-reduce heat to a simmer, adding spices and honey.
-mix contents, cover with lid and simmer on low heat for at least 2 hours, or until desired texture of pork is achieved.

serve with good rye bread or bread of choice.


Tuesday, March 10, 2009

November 2006

very, very hungry
I sit waiting for pierogis to fry. I smell the onions in the butter and oil and my stomach punchs itself in the face. I have had nothing to eat all day and it is 8:12 PM. The reason for the absense of food is one crazy schedule. of course, I've put things off, deadlines approach and my procrastination haunts my empty stomach. but there is something to be said about being hungry; hunger reminds me of our early human ancestors. I understand why people fast. there is some spiritual gain from fasting, yet there is also a biological one involving a re-adjustment of the digestive system. mentally, it reaffirms life's bottom line. FOOD. My hunger makes me appreciate food more, and in effect, it reminds me of what I have in life; I love the things I call my own. Through this, however, I do not deny I am very privileged compared to millions of other people. Self-induced hunger is one thing that makes me feel alive.

They picked his head, they stuck his feet in mud, they ran rivers over his back. He still could not hit a golf ball to save his life. Still, his best friend was dead, deader than Dan Quayle’s political career.

It appears his life was not exactly fit for foraging for compliments inside his wallet. His gestures were too subtle to be noticed by anyone, save his own mind and maybe the eccentric friend. But he knew only the crying game, the nude sculpture, and the lost-mold technique. Having seen him in deadly predicaments prior to his current eviction, I sent him candles: wick and wax in a box full of newspapers. He lights candles, jumps over them and places a piece of fabric underneath where his right foot lands. The fabrics are all chosen carefully based on hue, material and susceptibility to flame. He rhymes colors with genders.

Like genders, he is usually happy or sad. Two of the same means two different things to him. I first saw his inner conflict when he left a house with no sex. He walked straight for the nearest tree and burned it down with his Zippo. He planted a new tree within a fortnight. After leaving the house, sexless and disgruntled, he wanders to a liquor store, buys a fifth of vodka, usually, and drinks only one shot, vehemently. The remaining ethyl is then poured on a flower, usually a rose if he can find any, or else, as I have observed during later outbursts, a tulip, someone’s lawn, the windshield of a car, a pile of garbage, a fjord, a dog, a man, a little boy, a sparrow, a woman or a stop sign will take the place of the rose. The empty bottle is then filled with milk shakes and he mails the bottle to his failed lover. He sometimes, as he has told me, writes an original poem on the bottle; ties are permanently severed upon deliverance of the bottle. This does not always occur, this iterative tirade. His severance is usually followed by intervals of isolation. I once did not see him after he mailed a fifth of Smirnoff (filled with strawberry milk shake) to Leonard St. for one month and four days. When I do see him again, he is in denial of anything, carrying on his business without faintly any indiscretions, as if he had been working at the market for the entire month.

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Third landing demonstrator

I witnessed a mouse with a small sign in front of my apartment door pacing back and forth. It's a typical lateral formation just in front of the threshold of my front door. He's demonstrating general dissent inside apartment buldings built before 1900. These buildings lack the glitter and glam of luxury condominiums in highrises over looking the Lower East Side (they don't exist, not yet). I know these mice are from Long Island. I know they like to drink $7 smirnoff ice's and/or $12 banana daiquiris. Much to my chagrin, I can never invite them in and charge them for a cheaper daiquiri, since I've been off the rum for a bit now. I wouldn't even have spare vodka to offer, and I will not insult anyone with Mr. Boston 100 proof vitriol. No, my liquor cabinet is clean. I could offer some high-dose oxycotin, but then again I'm not going to let on just how many downers I'm taking per day. Also, I don't want a drugged up mouse to OD in my living room. With growing contempt for myself, I yell, "FUCK YOU, DIX HILL CUNTS!" as I try to hide my failed attempt at sensationalizing vermin demonstrators. The mouse ran off, things neutralized. Let them run away. Go visit your upper crust hosts on the 23rd floor. I've hung a piece of white paper, scrawled with a simple message for them:

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Thursday, March 05, 2009

Spare Change

After tossing in all fourteen nickels and eight dimes into the fare meter, I walked to the back of the bus and wondered how long the line inside the post office would be. The moment I sat down, I noticed the large glutton I'd passed while walking down the aisle. I wish I could have pontificated my objections to the Fatso Rizzo for throwing gnawed ribs onto the floor of the bus. He was oblivious to all matter around him, and instead of breathing, sucked in air only between the large chomps he took of his dead pig. He left no room for empathy, as he didn't even offer anyone on the bus one of the several dozen ribs I assumed he got from the corner BBQ place. I'm sure they closed shop after this guy trotted out with his palette of ribs. I wish I could have asked him:

When is a layer cake just too much? After the eighth spare-rib you've crammed down your fat neck. Let's put some thought into this gorge-fest. The amount of pig flesh consumed could be reduced to six ounces from the seven or more pounds you probably consume daily. I doubt you're regular on the toilet. Meat does not solve all problems, unlike the MEAT COUNCIL would like you to believe. If only you knew half the chemicals your meat probably contains, let alone what's on the COUNTRY HAMS I'm sure you dream of fornicating with. Because of the unsanitary conditions at many INDUSTRIALIZED FARMS a large number of pesticides and fumigants are being used to control pests who may otherwise damage a pristine strawberry. (Not that you'd ever be caught sucking down a strawberry with your greased up pudgy digits) Chemicals are also sprays on freight cars and cargo trailers to microbes and vermin don't eat it all before you can. DEATH is possible from being exposed to such chemicals. Even though you may get to be on TV for being a large Macy's Thanksgiving Day balloon it's not advisable, as such publicity is also extremely life-threatening. You may have somehow been inspired, but this is not the way towards a better end. AND FOR FUCK'S SAKE, PICK UP YOUR DAMN BONES! RATS LOVE PEONS LIKE YOU! If I could somehow procure all my necessary , I would sit cross-legged on top of a tenement and watch our life-giving orb set over the Palisades everyday.

Improvisation should be practices as soon as a child starts to write his/her name.

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