Continuous Cacophony

Disease as money stream

2011-10-24T19:58:00.000-04:00

“It is biologically plausible for hepatitis B to cause demyelination because vaccines are composed of organic compounds of viral or bacterial origin, whether recombinant or otherwise, whose purpose is to initiate an immune response in the recipient,: the Court noted in the ruling. “But if any of the vaccine antigens shares a homology with the recipient’s antigens, the host’s immune response will attack both the vaccine antigens and the host’s antigens, resulting in an autoimmune response. This concept is also known as molecular mimicry and is well-established in immunology.”

"Of course more studies are needed, but it is becoming more difficult these days to argue that there is no active immune/inflammatory response going on in the brains of autistic individuals, and even harder to contest that MBP is associated with at least one aspect of that response, although there are likely others."

"
Second, giving several vaccinations at the same time will mean fewer clinic visits for vaccinations, which saves parents both time and money and may be less traumatic for the child."

"The Harvard researchers looked at whether the vaccine can causeMS in healthy people."

The Conquest of America

2011-10-13T21:32:00.001-04:00

In August, 1949, American poet Archibald MacLeish had an essay published in The Atlantic that reminded readers of the true revolutionary force in the world, one that had sprung up in the late eighteenth century and grown much for over more than a century in the United States of America. MacLeish was the US representative at the foundation of UNESCO, as well as the inaugural holder of Assistant Secretary of State for Public Affairs before coming under fire by J. Edgar Hoover and Joseph McCarthy for his former association with left-wing writers and organizations. The essay, entitled The Conquest of America, warned about the denial of the true crisis — of shifts in civilization and culture — in favor of a fear-driven crisis, which was but one consequence of the cultural shift of community-based life to an envisioned liberation of the individual as participant in a new kind of democracy anchored by the Constitution of the Republic.

Never in the history of the world was one people as completely dominated, intellectually and morally, by another as the people of the United States by the people of Russia in the four years from 1946 through 1949. American foreign policy was a mirror image of Russian foreign policy: whatever the Russians did, we did in reverse. American domestic politics were conducted under a kind of upside-down Russian veto: no man could be elected to public office unless he was on record as detesting the Russians, and no proposal could be enacted, from a peace plan at one end to a military budget at the other, unless it could be demonstrated that the Russians wouldn't like it. American political controversy was controversy sung to the Russian tune; left-wing movements attacked right-wing movements not on American issues but on Russian issues, and right-wing movements replied with the same arguments turned round about.

All this took place not in a time of national weakness or decay but precisely at the moment when the United States, having engineered a tremendous triumph and fought its way to a brilliant victory in the greatest of all wars, had reached the highest point of world power ever achieved by a single state.

Communism is not a force which moves with that [revolutionary] current. On the contrary, Communism, like its authoritarian rivals, seeks to cure the sickness of the condition of man by turning back against the current of human evolution, to that decaying city of hierarchical and disciplined order in which mankind, at certain sacrifices of manhood, may find seclusion and retreat.

The one force which can claim the revolutionary title in the world we live in [...] is the force that Jefferson put into words. But though the hope has been betrayed and forgotten in one generation and another, the living seed remains: the seed remains and grows. It is this seed, this influence, this force, this force of revolution, which is the living thing in the Republic. Without it, the United States is so much land, so many people, such an accumulation of wealth. With it the United States is a stage upon the journey of mankind.

The Atlantic; vol. 184, no. 2; pp. 17-22.

Anemic Attitude

2011-09-10T01:04:00.000-04:00

How much is this?

Um, I think that one is $30.

Oh my God . . . I've bought something like this, SOOOOO many times in the past.

Oh, huh huh huh.

=_=_=__=_=_=__=_=_=__=_=_=__=_=_=__=_=_=__=

Lately, I've been mindful of my habits. I've greeted ritual with the same rigorous adroitness the demure Agent Moulder employs in the Pacific Northwest when facing unexplained phenomena: frantic research; sleepy-eyed rumination; lack of dossier; advocate of brevity; unorthodox trust and compassion with the locals; arriving just at the last moment to catch a glimpse of the paranormal/supernatural. In the end, I lose sight, and find myself returned to the beginning.

I try to be creative as I approach my ritualized day, searching for alternatives instead of relying on convention. I find myself, just as concerns of aliens or werewolves — ghastly anomalies — often elude our progress-driven culture, without total appreciation for commitment to an alternative. I catch a glimpse, the feeling dissipates, and I am done. I recognize the ritual, and then cannibalize it for spare parts to fashion a new reality. The ritual of my daily habits is incorporated into the virtual language of an altered environment. The ritual is broken, and I unload the stress of completing that ritual through the play of new permutations sourced from an exceedingly ambiguous provenance. Hapless repetition of behavior, schemes of procrastination, falling head first into a pile of dirty laundry — I am consumed from inside only to be regurgitated out onto the world. Less an implosion of the soul than vacuumed spirit. Too much salt, sugar, fat, grease, alcohol, smoke, negligence, body odor, matted hair, anemic attitude.

Into oblivion, obliterated and obtuse, witness the apotheosis of consumption. I refuse to believe in such worship of devalued signs, though ironically, perhaps this is a sign of the times; emotional refusal in tandem with willful participation. Compulsory without force, for the tether extends from deep inside the machine of society into us all. I do not fight systematic participation, only dread the day when I no longer have the comforts of forced recreation. My muscle become inflamed with tension; I am pained by the dead things consumed hours earlier. Yet I am convinced things are normal, and I have plenty of time to wait for an epiphany. Burgess Meredith haunts an opium den, as I haunt a neglected present.

Paradox of the post-modern worker/consumer

2011-08-14T11:42:00.002-04:00

"Here in lies the present paradox: work has totally triumphed over all other ways of existing, at the same time as workers have become superfluous. Gains in productivity, outsourcing, mechanization, automated and digital production have so progressed that they have almost reduced to zero the quantity of living labor necessary in the manufacture of any product. We are living the paradox of a society of workers without work, where entertainment, consumption and leisure only underscore their lack from which they are supposed to distract us."

These relics are among the left-behinds.

2011-08-05T12:35:00.005-04:00

"The additional rise of this stock above the true capital will be only imaginary; one added to one, by any rules of vulgar arithmetic, will never make three and a half; consequently, all the fictitious value must be a loss to some persons or other, first or last. The only way to prevent it to oneself must be to sell out betimes, and so let the Devil take the hindmost."

Splash 1 (Now I'm Home)

2011-07-22T08:36:00.003-04:00

I've seen your face before
I've known you all my life.
And though it's new,
your image cuts me like a knife.

And now I'm home, to stay.

The neon from your eyes
is splashing into mine.
It's so familiar
In a way I can't define.

And now I'm home, to stay.

And though this is our first meeting,
We needn't bother speaking
All we might say is understood.

And now I'm home, to stay.

The business of our feelings
rocks me like a whore
It's good to know
we won't be strangers anymore.

And now I'm home, to stay.

13th Floor Elevators - Splash 1 (Now I'm Home)

The Public Sphere

2011-07-10T21:12:00.005-04:00

"It seems to me today that [...] the idea is gaining ground that these ancient motivations [solidarity and family bonds] are no longer important, that they can be discarded without any consequences. It is believed to be perfectly possible for a company's successes to coexist with permanent insecurity and a continuous turnover of employees."
-from "Homo Globatus" in: On the Edge of the New Century — Eric Hobsbawm

"To go on waiting is madness."

2011-06-21T17:47:00.006-04:00

Some excerpts from the closing chapter "Insurrection" of The Invisible Committee's The Coming Insurrection

-In a country like France, where radioactive clouds stop at the border and where we aren't afraid to build a cancer research center on the former site of a nitrogen fertilizer factory that has been condemned by the EU'S industrial safety agency, we should count less on “natural” crises than on social ones. It is usually up to the social movements to interrupt the normal course of the disaster.

≤—_—_—_—_—_—_—_—_—_—_—_—≥

-An assembly is not a place for decision, but for talk, for free speech exercised without a goal.

-A nightmare of little pretenders to power confronting each other: elections. It is not a “general assembly” so much as bourgeois theatrics.

-Foil temptation of hegemony...constantly renewing itself, decisions crystallize organically from a collective presence, and opinion naturally take hold of the group assembly.

-Do not decide on actions; it is not “the action in question should govern the assembly's agenda." No not contract action to specialists; not abandon group action for sake of control and security.

≤—_—_—_—_—_—_—_—_—_—_—_—≥

-Mandated specialists are hindered in there actions, but are not hindered to deceive their “bosses.”

-Action gives rise to a broader form, not having a specific form attached to it.

-Circulate shared knowledge: individual reconnaissance...info organized into public archives (or forums)

-Decisions will occur gradually, not made, or forced.

More detailed overlook of the text.

A return to normalcy (3.5)

2011-04-01T00:31:00.002-04:00

"In a country like France, where radioactive clouds stop at the border and where we aren't afraid to build a cancer research center on the former site of a nitrogen fertilizer factory that has been condemned by the EU's industrial safety agency, we should count less on 'natural' crises than on social ones. It is usually up to the social movements to interrupt the normal course of the disaster."

Bright outlook on gold futures

2010-08-21T21:15:00.002-04:00

Precipitates caused by activity of organisms have greater significance and endlessly greater variability. These are often naturally combined with inorganic chemical precipitates and clastic sedimentary deposits.

Sulphur bacteria live in waters which are poorly aerated, or in those in which lack of oxygen and reducing conditions prevail abundantly present decaying organic substances. They can produce sulphur through their life processes, partly an elemental sulphur and partly as hydrogen sulphide. THE SULPHUR WAS ORIGINALLY DERIVED from the sulphides of eruptive rocks reaches the sea water in the form of sulphates or is present as primary sulphate of the sea water, and is thus brought into a form in which it can react with solutions of heavy metals; predominantly iron with subordinate zinc, lead, copper and other metals. There it can form sulphides again.

Its [pyrite's] tendency towards forming relatively large crystals, either idiomorphic or xenomorphic, often results in poikilitic development with inclusion of numerous other minerals ("Idioblastensieb"). This intergrowth, different from similar phenomena occurring in rocks, nevertheless must no[t] automatically be interpreted as resulting from a preceding deformation process. Reticulated or skeleton-shaped forms or growth can also result under conditions of very LOW temperature.

WHY WE ARE LED TO WAR

2010-08-18T23:27:00.001-04:00

In 2005, an internal National Security Agency historical study was declassified; it concluded that the Maddox had engaged the North Vietnamese Navy on August 2, but that there may not have been any North Vietnamese Naval vessels present during the incident of August 4. The report stated:

[I]t is not simply that there is a different story as to what happened; it is that no attack happened that night. [...] In truth, Hanoi's navy was engaged in nothing that night but the salvage of two of the boats damaged on August 2.

Merriweather springs a smile

2010-06-08T17:15:00.004-04:00

A FUTILE gesture for anyone who reads: listen to more aggressive music. [music break]

Some sorry post-modern influences ultimately lead you into a cul-de-sac of repetitive mantras and stress-management. Break the clockwork of mundanity.

Rocket From the Tombs - So Cold (1975, Cleveland....forerunner to both Pere Ubu and The Dead Boys

Peter Tosh severs ties.

Epitaph - Changing World (1971 Brit-metal band living in Dortmund, Germany) Bring your love of Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, and Cream)

Is there ever a bad time to tell someone to listen to DEVO? This is space junk.

2010-05-25T16:02:00.000-04:00

"Shared joys make a friend, not shared sufferings."

Commie Culpepper

2010-05-16T21:14:00.005-04:00

A utility worker on the Gowanus Expressway today resembled what the child of Mick Foley and Santa Claus would look like. His Thermos® was slung on with twine over his bright green shoulders. Takin' it easy. (slow ride)

No Trend - Teen Love

2010-05-16T20:02:00.004-04:00

They met during social interaction in algebra class.

She was expressionless at first, but then smiled to indicate submission. He rearranged his facial features to appear friendly. After determining that their popularity status was comparable. They decided that a relationship would be mutually beneficial. They were careful to be seen together at all the local fast food franchises.

He had a stylized speech pattern. She used all the newest slang. when they talked on the telephone, they had trouble generating conversation stimulus. They programmed arguments into their relationship to make their lives seem meaningful. They could act really mad, happy or even sad, according to the current pre-frabricated social circumstances. He had programmed his personality to conform to adolescent trends. She had synthesized her emotions based on accepted teen (?) characteristic. They had copied all aspects of their behavior from they had observed in society. At the school dance, they were careful to exhibit only behavior which had been approved by their peer group.

Ego conflicts, insecurity syndromes. OOooo yeah, they were really going good.

They were killed in an auto-wreck as they were driving too and fro. After drinking two beers, he was pretending to be drunk. While the local popular radio station played the latest pre-designated youth oriented top forty hits, he was decapitated in an explosion of flame and glass fragments. her body was fond crushed into the Dashboard. A (?) report described them as fine youngsters . They never got a chance to fulfill their career dreams.

Degassing the doldrums

2010-03-26T21:59:00.008-04:00

I've never flown before Halloween eve, 2003. I flew to Seattle for a conference. Met a pair of old fishing buddies who're both originally from out east, Flanders, Long Island.

I've been told that street-art is nearly absent form certain cities, though it must depend on the neighborhoods and their openness to such forms of urban art. You won't find ecstatic peanuts in Mid-town. PROVE ME WRONG!

keep those full-body scans to yourselves

2010-03-16T23:58:00.006-04:00

I see you’ve secured yourself a new credit card—frequent flier miles—and now you can finally go to that wonderful Cancun resort you saw on that show.

Aye, the best kept secret until that godforsaken Joe Francis spilled the beans (wrong parlance?) on the place. Gosh darn! It’ll be grand! I just love sunshine and I cannot take another winter in this dreary smog-ridden place!

let's elope in Singapore, but we'll have to veer away from our paths of excess.

Those aren’t substantial goals my fine-feathered dreamer. Your desires must drive you crazy. I can't imagine being driven in one direction or the other when trying to decide on which giant new plasma-HD-BD-ROM to buy. Don’t throw away all your money just because some stooge on the tube tells you the economy is back on its feet. It’s not, big spender.

Oh shush! you cynical libertarian! I want to have my cake and eat it! Enjoy this godforsaken mortal coil while you still have breath! Besides, I have enough savings to keep me afloat if things get really bad. You don’t even have a real bank account, just some two-bit Slovenian savings & loan contract in Lancaster.

Surrender your dreams. You’ve been born too late. 1920s housing boom’s an aging grandmother. Opine, lament, sappy nostalgia in a Seagrams fifth. You must hate the radical idea of a banana daiquiri. The American dream is s sham, dear comrade! Do you think I’m telling you this to make myself look good? I’ve shed all my unnecessary ego. This is not for myself! I’m trying to help you!

Then help me pick out a new pair of swim trunks for my trip! Wait, why am I asking you for fashion tips? Look at those rag-tag slacks you’ve got on.

(….blank stare, followed by a wry smile, exasperated shake of the head, leans forward…)
You need some serious peyote, followed by the most extreme groove of power chords, infinite reverb and chest-caving bass.

……are you sure insanity doesn’t run in your family?

I make few guarantees, and now isn’t any different.

VOUS AVEZ PERDU VOS ARTISTES

2010-03-06T22:52:00.009-05:00

"What special good would it do to found an Establishment if the few who gave intimations of high talent were instinctively excluded? I wanted a chance to preach to the President and to the First Lady. "Speak to the people a little more," would have liked to say, "Talk on television about the things you do not understand. Use your popularity to be difficult and intellectually dangerous. This is more to greatness than liberal legislation." And to her I would have liked to go on about what the real meaning of an artist might be, of how the marrow of a nation was contained in his art, and one deadened artists at one's peril, because artists were not so much gifted as ENDOWED; they had been given what was secret and best in their parents and in all the people about them who had been generous or influenced them or made them, and so artists embodied the essence of what was best in the nation, embodied it in their talent rather than in their character, which could be small, but their talent—this fruit of all that was rich and nourishing in their lives—was related directly to the dreams and the ambitions of the most imaginative part of the nation. So the destiny of a nation was not separate at all from the FATE of its artists. I would have liked to tell her that every time an artist failed to complete the full mansion, jungle, garden, armory, or city of his work the nation was subtly but permanently poorer, which is why we return to obsessively to the death of Tom Wolfe, the broken air of Scott Fitzgerald, the gloomy smell of the vault which collects already the horror of Hemingway's departure. I would have liked to say to her that a war for the right to express oneself had been going on in this country for fifty years, and that there were counterattacks massing because there were many who HATED the artist now, that as the world dipped into the totalitarian trough of the twentieth century there was a mania of abhorrence for whatever was unpredictable. For all too many, security was the only bulwark against emptiness, eternity and death. The void was what America feared. Communism was the name they gave the void. The unknown was Communist, and the boys who grew beards, the people who walked their dog off leash. It was comic, but it was virulent, and there was a fanatic rage in much too much of the population. Detestation of the BEATNIK seethed like rabies on the mouths of small-town police officers.

"Oh, there was much I wanted to tell her, even–exit sociology, enter insanity–the obscene had a right to exist in the novel. For every fifteen-year-old who would be hurt by premature exposure, somewhere another, or two or three, would emerge from sexual experience which has been too full of moral funk onto the harder terrain of sex made alive by culture, that it was the purpose of culture finally to enrich all of the psyche, not just part of us, and damage to particular people in passing was a price we must pay. Thirty thousand Americans were killed each year by automobile crashes. No one talked of giving up the automobile: it was necessary to civilization. As necessary, I wanted to say, as art. Art in all its manifestations. Including the ride, the obscene, and the UNSAYABLE. Art was as essential to the nation as technology. I would tell her these things out of romantic abundance, because I liked her and i thought she would understand what one was talking about, because as First Lady she was queen of the arts, she was our Muse if she chose to be. Perhaps it would not be altogether a disaster if America has a Muse."

make me a pennzoil-bombay martini

2010-03-06T00:58:00.007-05:00

"To what extent then are people artificialized today? A fascinating debate on the reviewer over a new proposal to make humanity immortal. The brains of old men much advanced in years would be repotted in the bodies of those in their prime, who would suffer nothing by this, for their brains would be in turn repotted in the bodies of adolescents, and so on, and since new persons were continually coming into the world, no one's brains would ever be permanently unpotted. Severe objections were raised, however. The opponents of this proposal call its advocates POT-HEADS."

Answer to Max Schreck

2010-02-16T23:00:00.005-05:00

Spoken at some point in the outmoded future.

"He also said—pointedly—that space travel nowadays was an escape from the problems of Earth. That is, one took off for the stars in the hope that the worst would happen and be done with in once"s absence. And indeed I couldn't deny that more than once I had peered anxiously out the porthole—especially when returning from a long voyage—to see whether or not our planet resembled a burnt potato."

Brilliance after the storm

2010-02-11T22:08:00.003-05:00

The aftermath of the epic battle with the snowstorm to end all snowstorms? An azure sky, with wisps of white clouds above the strewn bodies of snowmen and Dept. of Sanitation workers. Magnificent.

Aerosol ideology

2010-02-10T12:29:00.004-05:00

"The sun is setting on Cold War ideologies."

Volcanic aerosols continue to provide us with spectacular colors during twilight.

vindicate your losses

2010-01-26T13:00:00.008-05:00

sewn back two years

Vvvvv| IGNORE PARAGRAPH THREE |vvvvV

this is the way

2010-01-13T21:17:00.005-05:00

'This is the way you work a case. No matter what kind of a case it is, no matter what the state of its recall, no matter if the case is normal, psychotic or neurotic, or what, this is the way.

'The number of aberrations possible is the number of combinations of words possible in a language as contained by engrams. In other words, if a psychotic thinks he is God, he has an engrams which says he is God. If he is worried about poison in his hash, he has an engram which tells him he may get poison in his hash. If he is certain he may be "fired" from his job any moment even though he is competent and well-liked, he has an engram which tells him he is about to be "fired." If he thinks he is ugly, he has an engram about being ugly. If he fears snakes and cats, he has engrams which tell him to fear snakes and cats. If he is sure he has to buy everything he sees, despite his income, he has an engram which tells him to buy everything he sees.'

Hey people who read this! I might add more stuff to this page! I might not! I'm in perpetual indecision! But I'm so happy!

Be In My Video

2009-12-04T00:20:00.002-05:00

PLEASE BE IN MY VIDEO!

spicy-brown mustard as babyfood

2009-09-28T04:11:00.007-04:00

I was caught in rain last night and bugged out of a slumber party.

I woke up today with an exploding mind and too much latent suds.

Light-headed treks up and down two flights of stairs rendered thoughts of Tuesday runoffs impossible.

Broad strokes of paint on my walls also proved to be difficult.

All in all, today was not a productive day. There's still an old mattress leaning up against the wall to my right. Clean folded laundry remains in my hamper. As papers fly everywhere, I feel that clutter is starting to fly towards me at every angle due to some magnetic attraction unbeknown to me, and at a time when I'm trying to limit all my material possessions. I fall prey to self-induced anxiety and pace around the apartment only to find that I haven't done a thing all day. Soon, I realize that the rain has cleared and pigeons have once again started defecating on my windowsills, invoking the urge to hunt.

The latest travel/food show on TV explains how pigeon tastes sweet and isn't at all gamy. I always imagined a greasy texture much like that of guinea pig. I'll settle for randomly donated pieces of pheasant from the Italian diamond polisher my father sometimes sees at the local bar.

Staple Approach

2009-09-10T00:40:00.003-04:00

DREW PAVELCHAK
Staple Approach (2009)
mixed media

"A stapler and sheets of paper flutter and vibrate as they approach the moment of their intended unification. Never quite making it though, the time before that moment is instead emphasized: slowing it down, reversing it, and drawing it out into an infinitely long state of anticipation."

The Mattress Factory Art Museum

mausoleum

2009-09-08T20:25:00.004-04:00

Never give up.

Always be prepared for anything, from anybody.

Venerate authority.

Dreye-balls

2009-07-18T00:22:00.005-04:00

I'm pissed. I lost my super-cool shades (that I found on a bench in the park) and now I must ask Satan to bring unto me the gnomes responsible for thieving. My shades will be returned and the perpetrators' souls will be vanquished to oblivion.

(What? No, ma, I'm just kidding. OK...I'll make a peace sign next....or an anarchy symbol)

Cave Paintings

2009-07-13T23:31:00.005-04:00

A solo show by Elliot Sperber exhibits numerous acrylic paintings of the artist.

Some samples of his work:

detail of E & P, acrylic on canvas, 2008

detail of Awa, acrylic on canvas, 2008

chashama has a gallery in Harlem at 2016 Adam Clayton Powell Blvd. (7th Ave.)

Calm after the storm

2009-06-28T00:00:00.001-04:00

just in case y'all missed the amazing skies the other day in NYC

Prelude to Zombie Apocalypse

2009-06-27T00:45:00.006-04:00

Three years ago, I was at the height of my academic years. I had already completed the well-rounded primer that is a BS in geology, and was readying myself for the pursuit of a masters degree in a field which few know what’s actually studied. Bidding my time, I decided to take easy classes that seemed stimulating. Back to the studio with J** who still looked like Jamie Hyneman from the show Mythbusters; drawing glass is still hard as fuck. There was also the time spent with K***** meditating on Nazi propaganda and Mel Gibson films. From these discussions, it was suggested I read some philosophical essays and excerpts of dissertations that questioned the meaning of symbols and images in our present times. After admitting that I thought Susan Sontag was basically envious of Leni Riefenstahl’s craft, K***** suggested that I read Baudrillard’s “Simulacra and Simulation” in order to understand the “hyperreality” of our present age. It was after a short trip to the copy room that I received a Xeroxed copy of Baudrillard’s treatise on the symbols throughout society.

I remember being rendered numb after I’d finished Baudrillard’s philosophical discourse. I understood how this postmodern theory applied to my own ideas of stylized cinematography, yet the impact hit deeper. Practically overnight I became fascinated with all philosophical theories. Prior, themost interesting ideas I’d read were those of Turing. Baudrillard took the Turing Machine and abstracted it down to something that appeared to lack any traditional meaning. I began asking myself questions to which there were no answers. “Isthe profession I choose reality or fantasy? How much can something be corrected before it is perfect? IfI were to play a song on the radio, how many alien receptors would pick it up, dig it and then re-broadcast it over their airwaves? Do I have a genuine personality?” I realized that thetheory of simulacra could be supported through past conversations with friendsand family; thinking back to previous discussions.

Three months prior:

“I swear, I’ve never met anyone quite like A****.

“Oh really? Well, to tell you the truth, I’ve met someone just like him not so long ago. I used to think that I’d never meet the same type of person as such and such, but that’s not true. You’re bound to meet someone who fills the place of a former friend.

Two years prior:

“What do you think Norman Mailer thinks of the Village Voice now? I bet he’s against the things they publish.”

“I don’t know about that, but I’m certain he’s happy that there’s always another overweight shut-in filling the gap of counterculture commentary to be found on the Internet. Maybe the Voice will devolve to something like the comments section of amazon.com.”

One week prior:

“Why do hipsters constantly want to reprise things from the Reagan era? It’s as if Reagan’s ghost haunts the minds of kids with a horrible fashion sense.”

Later that night:

“I swear you can turn the Chase logo into a swastika.”

This all really means nothing if you, the reader, don’t know of Baudrillard or what simulacra are. And if you disagree with him, then this is all false. Then again, if there’s a reference to his discourse in The Matrix, maybe you’ll be convinced with kick-ass fighting scenes picked fresh from Hong Kong.

Some of my favorite things

2009-06-10T22:53:00.001-04:00

support LOCAL BUSINESSES

Located just before the Ponquogue Bridge (Ponquogue meanings "a level country" in the Shinnecock's language) to the ocean beaches in Hampton Bays, NY, Cor-J seafood brings to the regular and newbie patron a vast array of marine bounty, from imported fish (red snapper, chilean sea bass) to the local, seasonal fish caught off of the southshore of Long Island (blue fish are in) and regularly stocked tanks of lobster, crab and mollusks. The prices are pretty good, and you can have a whole fish filleted and cleaned anyway you like it. Keep the fish's head for seafood stock, i.e. soups.

In March, I had the pleasure of picking up two great flounders caught EARLIER THAT DAY. It isn't a surprise that a great smoker-of-fish (Acme Smoked Fish) buys Cor-Js' fish wholesale.

In late March, a miracle occurred: growler re-fills in Greenpoint at Brouwerij Lane. Regular beers here include Jever pilsner, Gaffel kölsch, Gösser lager and Gruut Belgian amber, all at a reasonable $10/growler. Think: hard to find imported beers through clean taps. You essentially get a pint for free with a growler.

Mr. Raven filled a growler. He's a tall man, Mr. Raven, and the 64 oz. bottle doesn't look that big in his hand. Bless Mr. Raven.

Buying beer in Binghamton

2009-06-01T23:31:00.004-04:00

The night would evolve from kosher marshmallows to four hours of poker.

I’d found my pace with battling hunger pains, when a homemade marshmallow was offered to me. The sticky morsel was dense and flavorful, light woodiness mixed between the gelatinous sweet tanginess. A surprise diner followed before I had to jet-out and meet the crew.

Parked in the lot behind where the shooting occurred. Binghamton has many oversized parking lots with many empty spaces. Whoever built these huge parking lots certainly didn't foresee the sparse population density of this city. Not once have there ever been enough cars to fill every space. Free parking is a perk during depression.

Shortly after embracing the warmth in the evening air, I walked down to the local supermarket to pick-up beer. What beer, any beer? No, the need for legit libations was in order. Smack me across the head if I ever buy Coors Light in your presence, reader. Soon, I had found my bottle of dubbel from Ommegang. Drink slow and proud.

I was waiting in line behind two women, one with a young daughter no more than ten years olds. She was fidgeting with magazines, picking up crossword puzzles and trying to solve them, placing them in front of Elle magazines while frantically twirling her hair in curls. She took a short look at me. I smile as politely as I can at the moment, but she just stares straight into my eyes. It’s amazing how certain small children can give you such strong penetrating looks. I wind up glancing away for a second, only to return my eyes to her restlessness.

After a few seconds of humming, the girl starts to do a little jig: a circular dance. The mother, who is having problems with some plastic card, looks at her and tells her to cool out. The other woman is just beside the mother, leaning impatiently on a 12-pack of Genny cream ale. Plastic cards come with PINs and this card is being persnickety.

The short interval of daydreaming was interrupted by the girl, who was now jumping up and down beside the Time magazines. The cover was that of Time’s covers for 2008.
“Barack Obama! Barack Obama! Momma, Barack Obama! Look look look!”
In her excitement, the girl knocked over some chocolate bars on the shelf just beside her. The other woman was now looking at me, smiling embarrassingly.
“It’s Barack Obama momma! Look! It’s Barack Obama!”
The mother responded, “Ok honey, let’s stop now. I see, I see.”
“It’s Barack Obama!”
Other people were now laughing and smiling. The picture of Obama is small amongst the collection of other Time Magazine covers. It’s a copy of a copy, a facsimile of the most important face of the dawn of the new millennium; the girl has no prejudice for tiny pixels.

So I say brand your figureheads as small as you want. You can grow bigger than them.

The low-key war against apathy

2009-05-22T14:33:00.003-04:00

Frank Zappa and The Mothers Of Invention - In The Sky - 1968

Death in the garden

2009-05-22T01:17:00.005-04:00

A far away noise woke me up three days ago. I shrugged it off as being nothing. Later that day, after eating and such, I decided to head into the backyard to tend to some plants.

I know the sounds of the wild are still present in the city, regardless of the chiding uncles I have. "The city's void of anything even remotely wild, other than the crackies that go scurrying when a Crown Vic rolls, blaring horn, flashing lights. Let's film that and put it on Current TV." Little do they know of the islands that backyards serve. Death and productivity are measured by the carcasses and juveniles (molting young birds). However, the territories of predators must be safeguarded. Protect: stalk, disembowel, move on.

The idea of tragedy is foreign to the feral feline.

Rocket From the Tombs - Amphetamine

2009-05-19T02:23:00.006-04:00

The past month has brought unto me many blessings with a few warning signs; successful in defending a thesis, yet still in the limbo that exists between postgraduate school and the "real world" of a 9 - 5 job that may never actually come. While I suppose my every waking hour should be spent looking for some work and finishing corrections on manuscripts, I've afford myself plenty of time for discovering unheard music. In my endless excursions into the depths of rock history, I finally made it to the oddly named Cleveland band Rocket From the Tombs (RFTT). Existing for only a year from 1974 - 1975, or so sources* tell me, RFTT spawned two very important groups: The Dead Boys, and Pere Ubu.

The Day the Earth Met the... Rocket From the Tombs compiles loft rehearsal tapes of the band along with two live performances from 1975. The recordings are nothing outstanding, yet are easy to like. One particular RFTT tune that stands out is "Amphetamine." Culled from one of the live shows, the country-rock tinge of the song is soon interrupted by explosive drumming during the chorus. The lyrics are nostalgic Americana in spirit, though I cannot help but cringe at the lyrics during the chorus. It's an endearing cringe though, since I've felt exactly as what's being sung many times in the past. Below is the song and my own interpretation of the lyrics, written by the late Peter Laughner.

Take the guitar player for a ride
He's never once been satisfied
Thinks he owes some kinda debt
It'll take him years to get over it

When you feel so green
Turn to your movie scene
And you won't know what I mean
But you don't know where I been

I get so easily excited
It's like having a party where you aren't invited

I took a kid down to the Harbor Inn
Oh, but the cops wouldn't let him in
But he's used to being turned away
He's gonna show them one fine day

With your shifted face
And you don't control the ways
And all that purple haze
You're sucked in cuz you're playing and you're playing...

I get so easily excited
It's like having a party where you aren't invited

Judy died far away much too soon
And meanwhile Kevin's shooting at the moon
And Lucy, the princess, would be smooshed
and all the knights just don't know what it's worth

I was standing on the ledge of the bridge
Staring down into the water's edge
It'll roll back and it'll roll away
Don't know why that I feel this way

You got to come on down
You got to come on down
You got to come on down
I'll never hit the ground

I get so easily excited
It's like having a party where you aren't invited

*Ain't It Fun: Rocket From The Tombs – Wiki – Merry Swankster (for song samples)

work hard for the same

2009-04-27T19:36:00.003-04:00

warm weather is a distraction when i need to work my ass-off to rid myself of this damnable jerkoff. i look forward to the severance package i'll be receiving: time-trip back to 1993. Just like the movie Big, only backwards. I'll bid this jerkoff adieu, to travel as far away from it as possible.

waking up is easier when it's warm outside.

Swell Maps - Another Song

2009-04-21T14:59:00.007-04:00

Swell Maps were one of the first artists to have records released on the Rough Trade label. Another Song is from their 1979 debut album A Trip to Marineville. Listen to Another Song and throw any corrections my way.

I wanna spend some time with you, I'm having just another day (Sunday!)
Just what does this playing pays? someone else's drugs (oh yeah!)

No one went in for my show, still the second gig (don't go!)
Not the best, but it still can get good. Ronnie does drinks till 3 (that's right!)

I wanna live my life with you – not really, it just sounds good (so good!)
Whadya you say we pass the time, do all drugs I got (so fine!)

Wooooooo-ooooooo-oooooooo-oooooooo-oooooo-oooooo!

Let me spend some time with you, I'm having just another day (Sunday!)
No more waiting, I can't control that. Everything is really good (suspect!)

this is just another song, let's just run along (gig's up?)
this is just another song, now it's gonna stop!

telling you i can't be without you

2009-04-11T23:24:00.004-04:00

i had the opportunity to go see my friend's new house last weekend, and also live without internet for an ENTIRE WEEKEND. it's amazing how the internet's become the primary medium for my age's demographic, the absence of which may drive some to go crazy. junkie's drying up, going through withdrawal...

as you can see from above, the "elite" amongst us operate fine with mobile devices that utilize rouge wi-fi signals in the ether, while the airport on this poor schmuck's macbook couldn't hold a signal for more than ten seconds. still, helping hands and good conversation always suffice for the metaphorical methadone, and i'd go crazy without either from the people i call friends. and with promises of BBQs and camp fires, jam sessions in the attic and hikes through the "honey trail," the 2009 summer nights are looking to be moments of bliss mixed with rapture and seasoned with mental clarity. Read: things i need more of.

Good morning, CURTIS (25 March 2009)

2009-04-08T03:05:00.004-04:00

when you pretend to be an insomniac, you wind up seeing the sun rise on an empty stomach. this is a signal for you to either go to sleep or take some more uppers. or, in this case, get out the camera and head up to the roof; the cold air is really refreshing, but only for a short period of time. I look at the "high rises" pic and think of the end of Fight Club, though there isn't much sense in actually going through with parking vans of explosives in the basement parking garages. I'm hoping a lot more of the high rise condos will wind up as affordable housing units, banking on my prediction that sales of "luxury units" will be next to nil. And if you really want to own a Hummer and park it in the basement of your high rise in Brooklyn, please just move to LA.

St. Ann's (east-view)

high rises (west-view)

corner (north-view)

CURTIS

soiree

2009-04-06T22:25:00.004-04:00

everything here represents value, and as you can see, we're pretty rich.

frownland (ii)

2009-03-31T21:42:00.005-04:00

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

click

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

click

busy student tries to finish thesis*

2009-03-29T03:26:00.004-04:00

cross-posted

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

*DELETED PART DUE TO DEPRESSIONAL BIAS AT THE TIME

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

Throbbing Gristle - Very Friendly

2009-03-28T19:21:00.002-04:00

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.....
[noises]
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..."

First video

2009-03-27T12:43:00.002-04:00

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.

conspiring against my illness

2009-03-25T03:14:00.004-04:00

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?

pork stew

2009-03-17T04:53:00.005-04:00

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

marinade:

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
cloves
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.

November 2006

2009-03-10T07:26:00.003-04:00

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.

Dead
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.

Third landing demonstrator

2009-03-10T02:10:00.004-04:00

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:

Spare Change

2009-03-05T03:25:00.006-05:00

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 chops 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 right his/her name.

Deprived

2009-02-19T06:20:00.004-05:00

Freely accepting the remnants of coldness that blow from a northern latitude. Days have been unusually clear up until this past one. I have the urge to remain awake at all times. The brain's active and not affording me snooze time. A long bike ride is calling me.
.
.
.
.
The dimple on the wall ... it must have been the sambuca/vodka shooters.

a mother rat had given birth to a small litter the week prior. There were tiny squeeks three nights in a row. M*A*S*H was on, Alan Alda was hatching some schtick to woo his secret admirer who'd sent him a love letter. It was past 2 AM and a sleep-deprived trance had set in. The TV began pushing itself away from me, it seemed tens of meters away. The image on the screen never fuzzed-out, my eyes focused on Hawkeye beginning to sound more and more like Groucho Marx. My eyes slowly move downwards, glazing over my stomach and chest. I saw little people mingling on a stretched out plain that was my gray shirt. They were feeling around my chest for a something, the glow of the TV illuminating their search.

My hands were now larger, vibrating gloves without motion. I couldn't see the ceiling. My perspective had now panned out, yet I looked at the screen and it was larger now. Jamie Farr was now on, clad in a sundress. His skin was tanned and oily. I marveled at his large schnoz. It matched his smile so well. His face filled up the screen without any problems. I couldn't tell what he was saying, but I knew when to laugh.

Hawkeye now had wine, waiting for his mystery admirer. Like a gray matchbox car bolting across the floor under the screen, the hypnotist snapped his fingers. Bolt up, stars etched onto my eyes. Walk two steps, see a tail. "WHAAAAA SHIT!" Like a hobbling hobo reaching for a machete, the small little league bat that was always in the same corner. The gray-tailed admirer was fast. It dodged a Nike, then the large textbook (was it Chemistry?) before flying under my legs. Straddling back and to the side, trying to wake up, hearing the laugh track in the background, the grayness now making its way under the desk. The computer was still on. You cannot escape through cyberspace.

I see this rodent cowering in a corner. It's young, without a mother. It cannot understand its fate. It is a foreigner, inferior. I wield power over it. Now i see the cardboard lid of a box. I take the bat and push the lid closer to the cowering grayness. It now is trying to climb up under the desk. I hesitate for a three seconds, before slamming the lid against the gray fur with the bat only one time. Rodent-cardboard-wood.

Skull. No movement. Remain squating, then fall on my knees, gradually slumping downwards and forwards towards the rodent. no laugh track, no cross-dressing, no admirer.

sambuca and luksusowa with one ice-cube x ~30. the dimpled-wall, that's lamenting the admirer. i hit it straight, open palm, wrist tilted 65º left of the normal. Spackling is cheap.

A Nietzsche Family Circus (iii)

2009-02-16T17:39:00.002-05:00

Whoever battles with monsters had better see that it does not turn him into a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.

2009-02-15T20:48:00.004-05:00

Today, it is commonly held that the pomegranate and not the apple was the forbidden fruit that grew on the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil in Eden.

There is a phone unlike any other phone. Eden may actually exist, but it's in Canada of all places.

entry-level

2009-02-11T03:02:00.004-05:00

Hello. I'm the new employee of your laboratory. What will my first project be?

sprunging spring

2009-02-08T18:04:00.004-05:00

most of it's gone.

hopefully for the last time.

Persuasion

2009-02-05T01:06:00.004-05:00

I write this in amidst the most uncertain time in my life. I am on the verge of completing an advanced degree, smoking and drinking more heavily than I've done since the summer, am moving back home to Brooklyn, have no solid plan as far as employment, and I've not even thought about how I'm going to afford the high cost of living when I return to the city.

Yet....

I can't stop fucking around with this damn smiley face!

Fan-FUCKING-tastic. I have a new plan to open up my own bike-repair shop. I just need a little more PERSUASION.

Bon voyage Olympus

2009-01-15T13:09:00.005-05:00

This was the last photo I took with the old Olympus CAMEDIA C-5000 Zoom, an all-around handy point-and-shoot. It was taken in the late afternoon on 12 Dec. while driving west on NY-17, just before the turn-off for Rt. 201. The 5000 equals the whopping 5 megapixels of the camera. even with poor lighting, I enjoy the silhouettes of the lamppost and power lines set against a typical cloudy day in Binghamton.

The red eucalyptus leaves is the first photo I took on the Canon SX-10 IS. Since getting it, I've already missed tons of great opportunities to test the settings out. Reading reviews of it, and ignoring the quibbles from the hoards of camera geeks, I'm very happy with what it offers and the clarity of the zoom. The only better sensor out there would be on a DSLR, and I am no where near that affluent (yet) to afford one. I'm hoping to hone my compositional technique on this camera before venturing into the blue horizon of DSLRs anyways. I look back at my old Canon Rebel 35mm-film camera and memories of the photography class I took in high school return. And there is always the WWW to offer a nice review of what I should already know.

(NO COARSE-GRAINS ALLOWED) STAY ON COURSE

2009-01-11T00:50:00.004-05:00

"My smile is stuck
I cannot go back t' yer Frownland
My spirit's made up of the ocean
And the sky 'n the sun 'n the moon
'n all my eye can see
I cannot go back to yer land of gloom
Where black jagged shadows
Remind me of the comin' of yer doom
I want my own land
Take my hand 'n come with me
It's not too late for you
It's not too late for me
To find my homeland
Where uh man can stand by another man
Without an ego flyin'
With no man lyin'
'n no one dyin' by an earthly hand
Let the devils burn 'n the beggar learn
'n the little girls that live in those old worlds
Take my kind hand
My smile is stuck
I cannot go back t' yer Frownland
I cannot go back t' yer Frownland"

last hours of 2008, Yellowstone must be silenced!

2008-12-31T20:38:00.004-05:00

goddamn, being back home in brooklyn reminds me of how much of a brain-drain i've been in. i am having the most articulated thoughts i've had in months! it's safe to say i won't miss anything about binghamton, save the people i've befriended there.

Still not sick

2008-12-28T05:31:00.003-05:00

Detritus, so much detritus everywhere. Things need a spring cleaning when the winter has just begun.

self-portrait

2008-12-24T01:11:00.002-05:00

I could do the Bill Cosby, AND the potato chip.

coldness envelopes

2008-12-22T01:10:00.004-05:00

Downer nostalgia:

I remember a commercial on the radio for Lollapalooza. I was 9 and listening to Soundgarden. Loud announcers……1994. Solar eclipse……”crocodile tears.”

Transformed sport:

my first experience leaving the bar ended in a joint being smoked under scaffolding to an audience of intoxicated hecklers.
my most recent experience leaving the bar ended in a malnourished metal-kid bumming a smoke from the former joint-roller.

Solstice songs:

Ohm+

Worst lead up to a round of shots

2008-12-19T07:43:00.010-05:00

me: It's obvious that most of the stimulus package that Bush gave Americans went towards the purchase of Chinese goods. We essentially gave our Federal Reserve Notes to China.

balding old man: Not all of it, I'm sure...some must have gone to Taiwan, or maybe Korea.

me: Same difference in this context. I guess not all of it went to benefit Chinese companies directly, as we probably really stimulated the outsourced industry in Asia. My point is, American industry wasn't stimulated very much. Ever hear of the North American SuperCorridor Coalition or the Amero?

balding old man: You've been listening to too much Rush Limbaugh, or reading too much Internet media.

me: (laughs) I'm paranoid for good reason, balding old man. Now let's have those Jameson shots and toast for a better tomorrow.

NASCO (conspiracy = reality)

2008-12-07T11:58:00.002-05:00

Sepia Saturday

2008-11-30T01:59:00.003-05:00

Sunny days return when you leave the grayness of a repetitive weather cycle behind. I found bright stars above my head while pissing over iron ore deposits. The next morning, I took a sip out of the cold stream while i let the sun clear the inebriation from my mind. I returned home where the haste once needs while meandering around lost transients was restored to my feet. Trudging on the concrete of a city while smoking a cigarette builds character if you have the right footwear.

In the plastic glass (blasphemy) of an overpriced beer, I glimpsed the grayness of former days. I cringed at the sight of a LIRR schedule of the Babylon line. Once UB40 segued into Madonna, I split the scene after having facile dating advise shouted me. In order of occurrence: soliciting of 2 cigarettes; urinating inside the 33rd St. station; arrival at an old haunt; meeting a former lesbian/coke fiend; drinks; fellatio; more drinks; e t c

I'd be lying if I said I always enjoy the sunlight, but I cannot stand the static social settings some people linger in. It's akin to living day after day of commuting to work while the gray sky above pisses wet snow on you while trying to pedal your adult tricycle through slushy puddle after slushy puddle. I try to embrace the impermanence of the world, and the grayness of some people's lifestyle makes me nauseous.

anal-eyes in the storm

2008-11-25T17:24:00.004-05:00

I have found many stories to tell, with many plot twists and intricacies of characters/players and controversial themes of microbial debauchery. In other words, I've been making progress.

Winter arrives early

2008-11-18T19:09:00.002-05:00

Hungover on the westside piers

2008-11-15T21:20:00.002-05:00

Ten years ago, on this day, I puked my guts up for the first time do to excessive alcohol consumption.

Not really, but man, I need to get to another beerfest.

3-XI-08 (Birthday month)

2008-11-03T13:43:00.002-05:00

It's been a slow existence since the beginning of August. My travels down south to Maryland having ceased, I've fallen into the repetitious motions of two kinds of work; financially supporting myself and the road towards a masters degree. As I trudge into the fourth month of this regimented schedule the manifestation of depression around me seems to have become accentuated. I've been focused on the growing worries and concerns of others, as a climate of anxiety continues to build around me.
.
.
.
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The dreams that define who I am have grown into old beakers, vessels for suppressed memories. Gone are the cinematic dreams of subterranean space wars, the banishment to the realm of garbage or devil dolls incinerating churches. I am in prison with a former lover, and she tells me that an inmate will rape me before the day's end. I am an observer of a deathmatch involving old friends I never talk to. Finally, I am on a trail in a vaguely familiar forest, and I am being led by an old elementary school teacher to a place where I'll be made a eunuch.
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As I grind rock down to the width of a hair, I am beginning to perceive that most advice is flawed. I say this after spending over a month's time, intermittently, in a lab that should be neutron bombed in order to disintegrate all the inhabiting Cold War ghosts haunting the lab's residing pack-rat. He surrounds himself with half-finished projects and obsolete machinery. Yes, I choose to ignore that corner of the building.

Zombie headcave

2008-10-27T20:31:00.003-04:00

I feed this belly (of the BAWT) daily, and I force it to regurgitate the food I feed it at least three times a week. Sometimes, it vomits over a ton of food at once.

Break from work binge

2008-10-26T11:48:00.004-04:00

I've been slaving away at completing this thesis, now a task that seems to be driving me insane. It is probably just the environment in Binghamton, both the city itself and the department of geosciences that has fucked me over, but I've grown very disenchanted with academia, a field that until very recently I had no doubt of making some sort of career in. I keep telling myself that after I finish this piece of esoteric literature, I can continue onwards to a more meaningful study with a more diligent, attentive advisor whom I already have developed an excellent rapport with. Then I find myself predicting the future way too much. I envision myself in 5 or 6 years in a light I don't necessarily want to live in. This is a detriment to my present work. I sometimes hate myself for it.

I've been drinking too much (coffee) and smoking too much (tobacco) and I haven't been taking pictures, writing prose or sketching any emotions onto paper, nor have I been reading the many books that I begin only to lay on the shelf and ignore. If I cannot accept this lifestyle, then why continue?

I feel like I've been lying to myself. I vacillate endlessly.

Stepping out of the trance

2008-10-01T20:55:00.004-04:00

I heard some extraneous account of whalers trying to save a penguin from a hoard of orca whales today. They killed tons of whales to try and save one penguin, the water brimming crimson from the spilled orca blood. I'll take this as a poetic analogy to how Congress is trying to solve the economic crisis. It should just allow the practice of fractional-reserve banking to die gracefully, or at least to transmogrify into something more stable. I'll continue to be a stoic observer.

Trudging into Oct.

2008-09-24T08:26:00.004-04:00

In the midst of having samples collected in Maryland cut, also in the thick of campus recycling and composting. the large amount of waste generated by any municipality, even a college campus, once you actually have manage it. i think the average for weekly pick up of mixed recycling (glass, plastic, aluminum) and cardboard (plus any stray paper, shredded documents) has been 13 tons. that's 26,000 lbs. It could be more if people recycled properly, yet it should be a lot less if people stopped buying cases of 8 oz water bottles. seriously....8 oz of water? whose thirst is that gonna quench?

Autumn cleaning

2008-09-14T11:33:00.003-04:00

Deterring rain, a mentor who renigs, revealing documentaries and tantric lessons. Humidity lingers in the middle of September. I'm trying to ignore the negative premonitions.

post-111 (post 112)

2008-09-08T20:27:00.002-04:00

a limerent mind falls prey to the beauty of an individual. limerence clouds a person's judgement, his common sense dissipates with obsessiveness. The devil would advocate to wallow forever in this passive longing, tells him to drive away and flee, to drive away is to dive deeper into abyssal despair. Introvert trying to embrace the external world. A kick in the eye, a stab of the lungs. Take on the habits of the limerent object, die a little bit more. this is what love is. this is the path of maturity, of growth. He envied the gardener, such as Chance Gardner, the empty mind, free of internal anxiety.

Convincing People

2008-08-29T13:16:00.002-04:00

Be compelling.

For Basil (i'm doing it, dear)

2008-08-28T16:03:00.002-04:00

The sun has left this sky and it's finally gray. I travel 180 minutes south and experience drastic increase in temperature. Late night bike ride in 48°F, it’s August. I’ve returned to working on the campus that scrapes its guts clean every semester. The ants (contractors) always dig and dig, emptying one hole to fill another. Come winter, this place will be a bigger mess than normal. Protecting my interests while sacrificing some time in the morning for work. PM hours are for “steady study” at the desk. The desk is cleaned, yet it still smells of old glue and burnt cellophane. It does not matter much, since I often find myself alone in the room. I will make it my own if people refuse to use the room for their own personal space.

I feel as if eyes are watching me. People wonder why I still linger around certain places. It is not for others that I live. I can remain in any place until I grow bored or understand things clearer. I run from a window to the bar, absorbing knowledge. The bar is where knowledge should dual and a winner crowned. There will be no need for peer-reviews, infinite drafts or canceled conferences. The bar is where true debate can transpire, which is where I need to go.

A break from traveling

2008-08-12T16:45:00.003-04:00

I used to look at the interstate expressways emerging from the tunnels outside of NYC and think of the the great country lying beyond the suburbs of New Jersey. Outstretched towards the west lay unknown territory beyond the industrial complexes of artificial marshes and sloughs. I’d imagine how the trucks would thin out to nothing amidst the forests and fields, with the occasional stray house with Amish and “country people” residing. The setting sun would cover this land with a soothing, profound glow and I couldn’t fathom what secrets and treasures lay beyond such a beautiful site.

I have a better idea of the “treasures” that lay beyond Bayonne in my older age. I also am beginning to find that much of what lies beyond, towards the west, closely resembles much of everything else. I could travel down the streets of Hagerstown and feel as if a familiar pizzeria in the deepest reaches of Queens is just around the corner. The marina in Cleveland bears a remarkable resemblance to the south shore of Long Island, minus the huge interstate that blockades it all in. Even excluding the shared Italian population Piccola Italia in Montreal bears striking resemblance to Bensonhurst. Larger differences among urban places are only noticeable if you’ve lived in a sprawling metropolis like NYC for as long as I have, while subtler differences that may be obvious to me will not be apparent to a visiting friend or relative who may even be more traveled than me.

Places share a common thread of consumerism, a thread that is now being stitched more and more into formerly poor areas of Brooklyn. The ubiquitous presence of Starbucks is an obvious example, as is the Subway chain. Many people are attracted to specific urban centers for the more local commerce of a specific restaurant or eatery, a specific clothing store, a favorite bar and the like. No one comes to Williamsburg to eat at the McDonalds on the corner of Broadway and Havemeyer St. They might want to come to the neighborhood for the excellent food at a Korean grill, or for the vast selection of brews at bars that cater towards the beer-snob. The national chains that open new locations are catered towards the locals, the older blood that has lived in the city longer and maybe lacks the financial backbone of people looking for the $15 dinner. *Insert vomited socio-economic theories here.

There is shared architectural design between cities, as well as a similarity in the infrastructure design. Some people find difficulty in knowing where in space they are relative to where they’ve just been. These people lack the foresight of recognizing the grid of a city. The changing grid structures throughout a city reflect different neighborhoods. Many people who haven’t grown up in a city often refer to neighborhoods as “towns” either out of habit, or because they fail to realize that there is usually a gradual change as you enter one neighborhood and leave another as opposed to a sharper demarcation between towns of a suburb or rural setting. I constantly wonder how the overall consciousness of a city will change with suburbanites flooding the urban grids. Again, the question remains, “What will the average face look like in 10 years?”

Legs broken, time for hand-walking

2008-08-03T10:26:00.002-04:00

I've been stomped, and I've been smeared against the wall. But as I peel myself off, I see the wall is at the head of a shinning corridor. I re-mold myself, and I embrace the pangs of being pressed into a thin, transparent film. Time to re-apply the dyes.

i see a darkness

2008-07-27T14:41:00.005-04:00

"I prefer the pleasure of immediate self-gratification over the luxury of convenience. There is a fine line between the two."

Witching hour saunter

2008-07-22T16:45:00.004-04:00

There is a happy round face that follows me wherever i walk in the new place i'm living in. the face follows slowly, but persistently. what does it tell me?

Differentiating past and present

I've been recognizing the present as it is. I try to walk backwards and forwards at the same time. I can detect the static things of the present, things that constantly remain. Drag race down the avenue, severed foot, black bags with ratfood, chimes hanging from fire-escapes, lost souls. The price of a beverage at the 24 hour spot has been increasing, accelerating without cessation. They still have 99¢ iced-teas in tallboy cans. When they disappear, i'll start looting.

The walk through the park is now a leisurely saunter from the polish bars to the hipster-infested "dives." I remember being afraid to walk through the corridor of london planes without a blade. I have pissed on the side-doors of the vocational school on the right too many times. It is dark at 3Am, but the darkness of the trek has dissipated. I could walk across the tar-courts on my hands and not have anything happen to me, wouldn't get mugged. And yet I feel a lack of charm in this safety. There exists an artificiality in the leisurely saunter through the park; I am falling in line with the class that's being pushed out. I need to conform to the proper financial bracket should I ever want to consider myself an independent here, for i do not have large parental subsidies. An independent: living away from the house I was raised in. Marketprices increase. I lose my money in half the time I would living up north. I would lose it in a quarter of the time if I wasn't careful.

The present passes blindly by blinded eyes. In this setting, my home, I crave the environment of the past, but with the knowledge of the present. I'd love to have known the people I now know back then. I would appreciate who they are now so much more.

Solitary scintillation

2008-07-18T14:31:00.005-04:00

Cruising at 80 mph, to a sticky swelter. Low waters, bright moon, thick air. Spirits fly past and smear on glass. It costs $5 to wipe away that spirit veneer. yet, moving STRAIGHT AHEAD past the past. I can tell the crust inside nasal passages indicates I've traveled far. Driving alone, the pleasures thereof, insular insomnia. No frantic frenzy, just private predilection for first-person perspective along country lanes. I constantly rue the city craters damaging by underbelly. Urban life can be daunting, which is why I always have durable kicks for limber migration.

"Always keep moving. Never appear lost."

rural Hudson Highlands

2008-07-12T00:02:00.002-04:00

A bit of a change from the discussion of squalid apartments.

The road leads back to the NJ/NY border, and goes right into Wawayanda State Park from the southeastern edge of NY state.

The end in a fortnight

2008-07-08T16:52:00.004-04:00

In the midst of cleaning up one of the worst places I've ever seen...no, THE WORST place I've ever seen, I give Rob Salamida my two week notice. after the 23rd I will be done forever with the spiedie business. Hallelujah!

Speaking of that worse place ever, if I can get my hands on that video I made on Rob's digital camera, it would be worth it for the gross-out value. Then again, maybe the mere sight of my former living space, that is, the geek-sloth domain, is bad enough. Yes, the son of my adviser (name withheld) and his roommate's living space.

the living room...or the son's room

behind his roommate's bed

I won't post the pics with the anime posters since I refuse to have anime anywhere on this blog. The gross-out value of the second image does not even come close to the essence of horror I witnessed in the place I've cleaning-up the past two days. The place is a first floor apartment. The family was evicted and moved out two or three days prior to us going in and cleaning it up. (read: declaring war on the 2 1/2 level of hell) The smell was putrid. There was a constant buzzing sound due to the copious amount of flies. There were swarms in each room, young flies grown from maggots feeding off snake and bird shit (they kept a macau and a boa constrictor) as well as off grease and disgarded food, and the tons of dirty diapers. (these people had young children) The amazing thing is, there was no evidence of drug abuse other than alcoholism, though that is enough to derange people who are already probably mentally ill. I mean, minimum wage never felt so awful. Talk about being taken advantage of.

Inspired insomnia (prelude)

2008-07-07T00:38:00.002-04:00

POPTONES has great observational imagery of a day-trip to the forest, a fantastic bassline, and minimalistic country-tinged guitar lines. That does it for me.

Drive to the forest in a japanese car
The smell of rubber on concrete tar
Hindsight done me no good
Standing naked in the back of the woods
The cassette played poptones

I can't forget the impression you made
You left a hole in the back of my head
I don't like hiding in this foliage and peat
It's wet and I'm losing my body heat
The cassette played poptones

This bleeding heart
Looking for bodies
Nearly injured my pride
Praise picnicking in the British countryside

Irony is a dead horse: post 101

2008-07-05T12:50:00.003-04:00

Five days into living on Clinton St. and I can safely say I am so much happier. The move and adjustment to the new place has been smooth. New people, establishing connections with former "mere acquaintances," a better environment to work. A calm, albeit lackluster 4th o’ July. Jerked chicken off the grill means full, lethargic demeanor. Easily upset dykes find offense to strawberries and blueberries arranged in the shape of the confederate flag on a jello cake, yet unbeknownst to them it was done by a Filipino, so it’s alright. Disgruntled at the age of 20-something, that makes for good party company. That and smelly, lame indie kids.

Old air

2008-07-03T22:31:00.003-04:00

I found this after going through the old bleeding heart of mine.

Lost Lake in south-eastern Finland

Sven tended to his garden.

life on a tomato stalk,
ruined by pesticides from the government.

Sir Sven knew his Kallavesi garden
a tumultuous affair.
Dead
cabbage for dead children.
Dead fish for the ravens
A feast of carrion.

Pouring life in a jug
I try to stay above the spoiled bottom.
I try to meet others who can help me,
not those who drag me down.
Try to help as many stay afloat as you can.
In the end, you'll help many of
your benefactors.
In the end, you'll grow to
marry one of them.

Now came the rain to wash out all the algae.
The fish, all dead, had lain their eggs
Shortly prior to the anoxia.
A small century, with much rain
Inifnite sun and patience.
A small century gave way to
Splendorous regalia.
Kallavesi had its place among countless
Immaculate and priceless.
In a small century, the garden had returned;
Bless those who had patience

-oct. 2005

Lincoln Ave. recap

2008-07-02T17:00:00.004-04:00

A recap of an early morning Memorial Day walk through the cityline of Binghamton, Johnson City.

after 24 hours of being awake, the calm of sitting in the rising sun on a cold morning is divine.

June ends

2008-06-30T02:20:00.004-04:00

I have packed all my shit yet again. I have moved my shit, yet again, in frantic maneuvers of the car I drive, running it hard, braking hard, and stopping for kids trying to not to run into traffic. I should have been a taxi driver.

I haven't showered since Friday afternoon. It's too humid, and the place i will leave forever tomorrow is just too disgusting in the mugginess. I'll have to shower at the new place before work. Fortunately, my towels are waiting in the new room. The new room also has illegal plants in it, left over from a Shayne "aiken" to leave town. they are thirsty and drooping as a result. it brings a smile to my face, even though the room as that trademark dank smell to it as a result. They should be out soon, though, or else eviction would be imminent.

I have been awake for about a half hour. it's now 0223. I knew trips down to Maryland would fuckup my sleeping habits. I slept at a rest stop for thirty minutes yesterday. The result was a stiff neck and an aching head/ear combo. I'd say worth it, altogether worth it.

I haven't been writing enough for my thesis during the past 2 weeks. At least I am getting field work done in Maryland. at least I've been enjoying the sweetness the fruits of life have to offer in Maryland. At least I will be out of the geek-sloth shithole tomorrow. (read: no more maggots in the trash pale)

The fly in the ointment

2008-06-26T08:48:00.003-04:00

I usually see flies about me, in this medium sized room (15x15) buzzing erratically around the room in attempts to extricate themselves from this shithole of human negligence. They are always met with the same problem, that of the glass window or the perforated screen. The fly or flies trying to escape (return?) to the outside world usually seem to be in desperation. There are those, however, such as the one sitting motionless on the screen at the moment, that feel the need to become the proverbial fly on the wall. It may crawl about, slowly, but it just sits for the most part and because background. If it's so inclined, it'll fly around, but in a more calm and smooth pattern, especially if the ceiling fan is on. I create wind, and the fly feels more at ease. I could easily kill it, but the day is burning away and I need to depart soon.

The demarcation problem the fly faces (perched on the screen, living at the fringe of freedom) reflects the problem my soon-to-be former roommates face; to sit idly inside and occasionally buzz around, versus being free to act as a fly should on the outside of your insular world. The fly has not created this world for itself, though the later (roommates) certainly have with their sloth-like lack of ambition and unhealthy obsession with things like anime and gaming, traits most have abandoned once the age of sixteen rolled by. Unlike the roommates (geek-sloths) the calm fly seems to be the impartial observer, actively intent on being passive. I can almost admire this, if i can admire anything about a fly. It has been coaxed into this situation via an open window, sans screen, and inviting opening for a fly. To exit, to defenestrate through that same window is a feat most flies seems to have a hard time grasping. However, the fly has flown into a shithole, and it must feel somewhat at home.

day-off dogma

2008-06-19T12:48:00.002-04:00

being selfless pays off in the end (read: good karma)

some people don't deserve selfless acts, though (read: geek-sloths living in filth)

some people still maintain their sanity through selfless acts. it pays in the end...or so we hope.

about to switch to 'safe-mode' to get the mind back on track

Small steps (progress)

2008-06-11T21:18:00.003-04:00

My adventures on Lincoln Ave. in JC will be ceasing shortly. Sublet on Clinton Ave. and a return to the westside after a little-over-a-month's absence. god, I cannot wait. Now we only need to await the moment when i walk out of the Salamida factory for the last time.

projected diligence

2008-06-03T18:58:00.002-04:00

It's the middle of my fourth week at the spiedie factory. I already feel myself growing more and more discontented with life in general. To think people actually work in places like this their entire lives. My ancestors did, and it's remarkable the generation gaps witnesses within the facilities. People still live like it's the 1950s. I think it's another example of how time is repetitive, how everything that has happened, will happen, or is happening now. It makes me wonder when will i work at a factory again. I guess I am already working there again....and again....and a fourth time.

grumbling (harsh light)

2008-06-01T16:34:00.004-04:00

you return home from an amazing, uplifting trip, were you experienced a fresh new breath on life, completed some work: "life is good."

...and you return to fucking crusty cheese and taco parts in the sink....in a dirty pan on the center-room table (it SHOULD be a dinner table) and all over the living room....we don't even venture there unless equipped with a mask. and of course, the ever present scent of rotten celery, body oder and....FUCKING OLD TACOS.

yea, this can't last for too long.

petere

2008-05-27T22:35:00.005-04:00

let's re-build our life. we got a strong foundation, but overpayed contractors. let's start with the former, nix the later.

packed_house

2008-05-23T12:41:00.001-04:00

time to move on to the city of JOHNSON. it really is a sad state of affairs.

Prediction, premonition(s)

2008-05-16T14:51:00.002-04:00

Field work is delayed by flashfloods. All the while i have the strongest urge to return to bklyn i've had in quite a while. I will, in due time, but i know i will have to leave it altogether eventually. I feel it will be an inevitability, marked by the transitions that will take place in the coming five to six years.

Jan_Coney_reprise

2008-05-14T20:16:00.001-04:00

light in the window

2008-05-11T17:11:00.002-04:00

back in January, things seemed pretty forlorn about me. now, replace forlorn with "moveon.org... .com... .edu"

In other words, determination and a singular superhighway.