this.passed

RECEIVED

2008-04-24T16:24:00.000-07:00

the aforementioned card was prepared and put with a bottle of bombay sapphire wrapped silver. the card was small, about 3"x4", and was made of thick red paper, cut and folded by myself. the front was stamped three times with "RECEIVED" in red ink. in the black laser jet inside, bold type was word processed and printed in times new roman, no caps. the card read:

"

comrades come in waves.

against our will, drinks blur, tides change.

thanks for everything. love,

matt

"

it was on both of our birthdays

2008-04-20T03:25:00.000-07:00

the day after yours, the day before mine. we met to toast the future, to kill our insecurities for just a bit and justify having problems that seemed lame in comparison to those around us. i'm sure we shared that feeling where we wished we had important drama and not this mundane, pointless shit.

fast forward a year and a few weeks. fast forward the drinks as well. sitting in the same bar with different company, though more solid in stature. slightly less drunk. a bottle as a gift is being thought up in my head, wrapped with slight spite, to be given to last year's laboring. card reading: "condolences. sorry to fuck over your friends and family, thanks for everything. Love, Matt". no, i think i'll change the card, for apologies and forbears mix to trite judgment.

rode back to the room in a cab. saw my father's face peer out the window at the tall buildings, and for a second saw him as a child. i feel this often still, helpless but exploring, and forget that we all feel it at times, even the best of us, no matter what. on the way up we passed a club. i remember peering at leather jackets and short skirts during adolescence and thinking, "wow, those people must know exactly what they want", being intimidated by their freedom, their smiles and deviations. now having been in that position, joining the ranks to compete for sex etc, i realize that nobody REALLY knows what the fuck they're doing. i mean, we DO, but then we have those moments that take out our earth from under us and leave us landing, like, "what the fuck". humbled, i walked up to the room. slept in swank with friend and family. went back to my own apartment the next night and realized i live in a vacation apartment, now and for the next week. it's a funny but nice feeling.

the blaring dawn is a white wall's only enemy.

how 'goes

2008-04-15T20:41:00.001-07:00

so i get into town (chicago) from portland (home from home) and feel the most comfortable i've ever felt here. shit was so easy, the train and bus were perfectly scheduled, the weather was ideal, everything felt like home. not that it hadn't before, but it obviously gets better each time, and it accordingly feels the best before i'm about to leave. as robin said, kind of in a roundabout way, "he's all about the final product and not the process", whereas i find myself in the converse of that. the process of meeting and getting used to and finding out and seeking pleasure is everything. the final product is nice and comforting and biting and makes life worth living, but it can often result in people being stuck. though i go back and forth, forever, obliviously, reaching the feeling now that i long to be landlocked, to be settled in a home. it'll come soon.

i bought 'mixed reviews' by aaron cometbus at left bank while in seattle. (thanks rachel for the discount). i read half of it on the plane, expectedly loved many parts, decided i'd finish it tonight and send it to forest in the morning. the plane landed and i checked my phone, walked off the plane and almost immediately after security realized i'd left the book on the plane. as i typed this blog, i was wishing i could put some little clever insight into it, cometbus-style, and then realized i had done it as i typed this last sentence.

skyline at sunset

2008-04-05T17:03:00.000-07:00

[stories of losers set against the background of a 30 brick busch.]

cold feet only breed action, like, move, or put on socks. the wind out the window didn't bring in much until i cut off the cross breeze (if that makes any sense). i put a cigarette out of the structure but the smoke only came back in smelling of gasoline below. the smell was bad and had an obvious sad addiction, mocking fee will. seriously.

this air is beautiful and toxic every single day. most everyone agreed that this winter was terribly Brutal; except for brant and i. the cold was gorgeous and encompassing. my muscles toned with uncertainty while they simultaneously atrophied with alcoholism. but i've honestly never been more sure and happy in my life. the litmus of leaving keeps my diaphragm breathing. it makes us stupid and dependent and fluid when our balance is because of gas prices. but that's where we're at. i fucking love being in jail.

[the set of large buildings in distant downtown glow as the last minutes of sun hit the horizon.]

bricks in walls

2008-03-28T18:04:00.000-07:00

a drop stooped in a bucket. it was part of a larger ejaculation that included nights mixed with mathematics. the sum total of all liquid spilled spelled out a proof that proved the predictability of non-formulaic metal. that said: the drop looked down between buildings, puffing a light cigarette, standing within the bucket but still upon a 3rd floor porch balcony. he burned the butt solely to shine, an east india brooklyn pale ale as surrogate sitter. as a drop copulates with the rest of the water within, he dropped the half finished stick down to the gated alley below, watching it's every move. as it hit, (as did the drop), each ash scattered horizontal to mimic the needlessness of concrete. the formulaic metal faded out. his vision blurred brick and stone and smoke together till it made text that held sense. shaking his head, he returned inside, still inside the bucket.

i lone

2008-03-24T15:51:00.000-07:00

the tide is running without water, old or new. an old hospital pillow comforts sand. a body thinks of sinking into sand, but relinquishes that feeling by look of other such sailors around. to live at sea is an envisioned comfort, but once you're there it's only turbulence, literal and textural. the land stabilizes, but too much stability can make you feel dizzy over again. be moved steadily, at an unchanging pace, to keep the motion of new a constant. if that makes sense.

to stand on a boat but feel like you're not moving. or, gently rocking, rather.

to run across a rock, but feel like the scenery is the same. the warmth of feet from soaked sun = the truth that people are the same everywhere. we always find those who will work towards our manifest and latent means, where there is no end. every life may expire, but there is no death.

and sorry to stray, but i don't apologize. sinking into sand, and wondering where the beach turns to water at each consecutive centimeter towards the earths core. visions of the mathematical equation that produces that answer dance in empty heads. i guess i'm just trying to say that i need a day at the beach, and a real beach, not a lake beach. a beach that is so warm and drunk that you entirely forget that there's land out there if you look far enough. but there are many (MANY) things around us, in our immediate eye, the we do not perceive.

Dancing in the Back Room

2008-03-12T12:25:00.000-07:00

It's like a split into two. There's the first person narrative, perhaps our life at work or our common conceptions of conversation. The way we act according to social structure and what is expected vs. what we know to be true by personal subjective standards. This public person is our everyday, of course. But we play death games inside, and i know why, oh i know why, we do stray.

All i'm saying is love in haste happens regardless of our wants and needs. And as our first person narrates what's for lunch, the split occurs. We make mechanical fizzle apart, we go to play, we dance in the back room of our innards. And we can feel it there, it creating slight hemorrhages that definately cause pain but also sweetness at the escaping quality of liquid-spilled freedom. The dance doesn't last, and its transitory nature is inevitable due to the fact that we can't lose blood for long. And we know it'll stop, and it won't happen again for a while, but we hold our breath for that next time.

This is about our mind. (s).

reflections on reflection

2008-03-03T19:58:00.000-08:00

a while ago, i wrote a blog on mirrors, revealing the benefits/tribulations of living the life of projective/reflective material. it was metaphorical in the sense that i have the habit of psychologically and personally projecting back that which is projected onto me. it's kind of complicated and tedious to understand, and i don't even understand it completely myself, but it happens. at the time i wrote the blog, i just flirted with the idea and stabbed at alliteration. imagine that!

today i took a slightly more sober stab at a similar situation. i revisited an establishment; both physical eatery and past person. i tried to classify thoughts.

1) mirrors must appear so. (obviously).
2) the company you keep matters to mirrors. (secondhand smoke still harms, and in my case, it's still chemically addictive).
3) social position is quintessential. (sad, but only true to those on a slightly higher rung).
4) one mirrors through the eyes. (see similar contact-based commentaries).
5) the decption of a two-way mirror can always be a cutting factor. (see lines below).

at the physical eatery, i tried to ignore the past person that became myself. i stared into a very small fish tank. i imagined my slight reflection in the glass, that of a normal self image. it carried absolutely no weight. but then i realized that one could completely ignore their little transparency and see the mocking simplicity of the square foot bounded by water and scale. the fish swam beautifully and helplessly. they had no chance of doing anything but live a sterile and dead life. i used a third lens and took a drink of the water from a dented aluminum can. if my fractures today cause anyone to not imbibe a similar drink, i would feel worlds away from those fish right now.

2 @ 10:59

2008-03-02T20:59:00.000-08:00

(pm)

the first involves the seasonal version of cultural lag. i always think that the winter will slow me down, i'll hibernate, i'll stop going and settle, and lose touch and be subtle while single, and just sleep. then winter comes and i fucking turn it up, to compensate for weather, to show my lack of confidence in dealing with cold and new clothes. like change is that rough, and i always forget about it. then spring comes and i want to go out, but i'm exhausted and lonely from all the follies, all the overcompensations that ice slip tried to play off as breakdance. and i'm stuck inside when the weather's nice and can't talk to anyone anymore. the well: the reasons.

the second is the budding of a new style of nothing. let me stop to quick the catch, i just stare out of a fucking bus window and play off the irrelevance of apathy. like, i'm really thinking about something, really trying, but i'm just echoing lyrics in my head that have lost meaning in the repeating. "at least i can breathe," i tell myself as a strange-eyed customer tells me that "any day above the dirt is a great day". i now know that anything worth fighting is a meaning for short and painful knees. we all bite our hands at the end of the day, and it's those that still have hands left that do the grabbing of things, certain goblets and breasts and artist-type artifacts. (my) eyes drop as the ideas hit below the floor.

Reruns

2008-02-24T15:44:00.000-08:00

I put this on myspace, but i like it so much i had to repost it. it's only because i read it over and over again to myself. this was it:

the public execution of dichotomy.

(Thin Blood b/w Thick Nerves)

by: the by

(this kiss, that which we talk about during the waking warn. slowly open the eyes, slowly bring light into focus, even slower come to focus on an object. stare. start to widen the eyes, keep the mind clear, perhaps envision a light version of popular song that could be drunk with the morning water, the one that sat by your bed all night and is the perfect temperature in the normal february freeze. indoor.)

(now think of a world, one that enshrouds the immediate surroundings, lit like butterfly and marriage alike. you are totally powerless to your significant (m)other, the provision. you are a slave to this person you wake with, but only in a sense that struts and makes conscious and LOVES the fact (TRULY loves the fact) that we are all slaves to chemical impulses. it's like that shit is ignored so deftly by truancy that we think free will is our guiding (blinding) light, our fucking (fake) safety net. you are a slave to this person, and she is the most beautiful thing you can ever imagine, and all you can do is follow her direction, and it is all you need. want dies with the afternoon garbage. this kiss of a breath, forced to retinal focus, on this last sweet waking dawn.)

this kiss is neither poison nor prison. this kiss thins blood, deadens nerves, thickens skin. sleep brings release.

typeset, honesty, and memory lapse -

2008-02-18T20:36:00.000-08:00

i've recently commented over digital airwaves that i think typing is significantly different when done on an antique typewriter. perhaps partly aesthetic, but mostly due to basic structure and function. you have no delete key, letters set in ink, much more force behind each finger, pushes that seem to matter more in weight and metaphor. and metaphor creates the art/life mocking balance. for example:

"A good friend told me there’s no longer any such thing as non-fiction. Perhaps we construct ourselves around stories so much that the lies we live substantiate themselves. Nonetheless, I tell myself that, but for interest rather than comfort. As they say: once you see something in fiction you’re significantly more able to process the idea, making the reality of it that much closer. The daydream catapults the real, I guess. We become the tale told."

i wrote that a while ago, but i put it in quotes this time to distance myself from it because i think it sounds stupid and arrogant now. i typed a "letter" to a woman today, the one i commented "over digital airwaves" to, and all while she was in the room, in bed, never saying a thing while the walls bounced with key clicks. she later read the letter when i was gone, saying that it was well written. my only response was, "i meant it". it was sweet and neutral and changing.

she bought the typewriter for me as a valentines gift. it was quite a gesture. since then, i can't help but be confused due to the density of time.

*the wonderment i experience at alcohol-induced memory lapse lies not in the pleasure-seeking aspects achieved by the brain, (though that helps). the curiosity is mostly with the psychological and philosophical implications of such a state. i like to embellish the positive deviations created by dream, by movement completely devoid of meaning. i've learned to disregard dreaming at night, and rather daydream continually and make movements that are not of the body and still are completely muscle driving bone. mind dead, but mind released. and constantly working through slight fissures in the most simple things, stepping over cracks and trying not to smile at the cutest bartender in chicago. that was a paragraph that could be a thesis, which mocks the fact that it's tiny clumps of pints that could be many many breaths.*

the ab.sent emotion

2008-02-11T20:30:00.000-08:00

i woke up today and went to sleep with a synth review. karen (new) had hurt hip, slept strange, computed as i kept sleeping in on my (our) day (days) off. i could only see a flinty beat in the foreground, a press of 70's electro that seemed new even today.

in the only dream recollected, i looked around a corner constructed from rock. i saw a LARGE dome, an archaic building, but built from perfect gothic architecture and deliberate structure. it was nested neatly inside of a much larger cove of gigantic rock, a solid giant that was much older than the dome but entirely there to protect and house it. i was terrified to peek around at it, but at the same time amazed. as i awoke from the dream, i immediately thought that i'd seen a real place in my dream. like, that place, in the world, somewhere, and i'd just visited it in spirit, but not in physicality. and i felt like i might visit it sometime soon?

with eyes opening (still that morning), i remembered my own similar conscious feelings about the Duomo in Florence (Firenze), Italy. that's a huge fucking dome, too, and as i walked around it in sheer spectacle, i cringed and marveled at it's fright and luminance. that was in the summer.

being the highest point in Florence, i vowed i would never go to the top (called the 'Cupola') as i walked around it in the street. a day later, i forced myself to try, believing direct experience can be a positive tool to battle old irrational fears with. i made it to the base of the dome when i couldn't get my body to move upward any more; i continued back down the way i'd came.

that night i remember having the most acute sense of death, at least that i can consciously remember. i had TERRIBLE allergies in europe and was on mixed and new medication, which ran out (apparently) at some point in the middle of the night. i woke up with nose completely blocked, eyes entirely crusted shut, bugs buzzing in my ears, and throat swollen to mimic the feeling of breathing through a straw. i was in a dark damp cheap old dorm room, but for a few minutes i had NO IDEA that was the case. all i could think of was how scared i was, and how i was dying, and how i could do nothing about it. which didn't help my breathing troubles at all, surprise surprise.

i usually don't feel like i'm dying. so that scared the shit out of me, and i forgot about it till this particular morning and this instance of dream. i think it's good to feel sometimes. makes the fear of death a bit more rational and close to your heart.

"the duomo in the dream, the feelings when i was there, fear of death." said to myself.

the ever.present emotion

2008-02-09T07:55:00.000-08:00

don't ruin your life for cocaine.

though i really don't mean to push my opinions on others. i've just heard of a good friend of mine who i don't speak to anymore and their troubles with current situations. it makes me sick to my stomach. i've had very brief stints with the drug, only isolated incidents where i was quite drunk and hardly noticed it's presence. a quick absent smell or numb gums, and only at the generous offering of others. i mean, i even eat meat if the shit's free.

and i've eaten some pretty tasty meat for free in this fair city. and i dabbled in one instance with white in the city, up north at a neighborhood mexican bar, with co-workers from the store. again, a positive 'when-in-rome' instance, but quick and isolated. for me, it's got to be pretty drunk but very conscious, which is a hard line to toe sometimes. i suggest it: it's always good to know what you're dealing with. ignorance only hurts understanding, and as obvious and ludicrous as that sounds, it's still hard to know at times.

the troubled stomach begs to sleep, and i clean dead skin off my sheets. listening to 'white dove' by john vanderslice helps, but it doesn't. i don't want to see anything bad happen to her. but i cannot do anything to help. i cannot. i pray to disney movies and hope their intoxicating qualities are washed away by their propensity for positive emotion. nothing can save now. i hate submissives to chemicals, but i guess i live it as well. and we all do. i pray for silence and forgetfulness, but i know i don't believe in anything that can hear prayers. i'm combing my hair, i'm putting lotion on my skin. please help those in need if you have the ability. please don't ruin your life for cocaine.

eye // update // email

2008-02-06T10:54:00.000-08:00

snow soaks into clothes but gets ignored by skin. tones of soft are absorbed with time; over a year into an album, i still have yet to catch some things. like head/heart/lips, and that's at the very beginning, and that is it, and that is all. i saw the woman who i connected eyes with again, now named 'jen', knowing her name because she approached me. she asked me if i used to have a beard, and that she didn't recognize me without one. she said i 'had' nice facial hair. she seemed very nice. but i probably won't see her again. we'll see.

the following is a copied email, not cut, and now paste. i like it only in reference to weblog'd diary, and how we can all look back later and say, "i think i remember that day". for, the only thing worse than bad memories is no memory at all. though i'm not sure if that's true, in any sense.

"i turned the heat down to 60. i fed the cats the rest of the tuna. i ate the leftovers. i took out the trash. i replaced the garbage bag. i forgot to brush my teeth. i clothed and walked home, stopping at milk/honey for a cup of coffee, kinda because i wanted to see if anyone was working who i could say 'hi' to, but mostly because you told me to be good to myself today. so i started by buying a cup of good coffee. but then i arrived home to some roasted beans in the mail from portland, which was very nice, from forest's g/f. but they're whole, so now i'm on a mission to find a grinder. i just crushed a bit for the french press using only a pan and a scotch glass. i hope you're doing well at work.

xo so xo,

matt"

--- spotless black fabric ---

2008-02-01T09:01:00.000-08:00

i recently wrote a large soapbox on economy and misperceptions. it was preachy and annoying, so i've changed it. the best parts included:

"the sad truth about most people is that money and fashion are big determinants of self-worth and the perception of others. however, it is pretty solid fucking bullshit, and i think it helps to be conscious of that."

it's interesting to see the effects of money on such a mass scale. i've sworn that i'd never get a large black felt jacket, and then i saw a friend in one the other day. s'how it goes, i s'pose. and it's a strange feeling to get bad looks at a bar for breaking their obvious rules about importing beverages, and then to say to the man in charge: "don't worry - it won't happen again, mostly because i'll probably never go to this place again in my life" and meaning it. not in retaliation, or with spite, but just in complete truth. probably the reason why trust is much harder in these parts.

speaking of which: 1) there is a woman i find terribly engrossing and adorable. she feels similar, or so it seems, and it's hard on both parts to know what the fuck is going on. but it's so lovely we don't care. interesting? who knows. all's i see is eyes. and; 2) that girl who caught my eye and was written about a few blogs ago (SEE: past blogs down page) caught the eye again 2 days ago. then, today was in the store, but i shaved beard totally and cut hair dramatically. in response: NO eye. she was just into the beard. bummer.

but it's an interesting and lovely and turbulant and calming time. time for sleep, and the best dramatics of relaxation to take hold. i love the feeling of singing lightly to one another on the bus, and i hope to feel it's kiss and intoxication again.

Prewreckwizzits

2008-01-25T07:56:00.000-08:00

Requisite - (adjective) made necessary by particular circumstances or regulations; (noun) a thing that is necessary for the achievement of a specified end.

You need clean clothes to get a job. i do laundry at Bubbleland™ but i already have two jobs i don't want. Though i like the structure and the exercise, i certainly don't like the money. i LOVE the people. The working class is the place to get to know, though, when getting to know a city. One could walk around the loop, the downtown 'scrapers, the nice restaurants and popular clubs, the beach, all those destinations meant for mass consumption: you'd only know pop culture references in relation to the specified city. But to get to know the people is much more indicative of the place. Then you realize that they're pretty similar to those who you knew before, and place becomes just another dock for personality, for ideas, for everything you already knew.

You need confidence to harbor believability.

i've made mistakes, i've tried too hard, i've drowned in my own sense of quiet-half-asleep loathing. But i'd have it no other way. "We learn infinitely more in times of change and times of crisis than in times of comfort". It's true, it's true; we know, we know. But say stupid things and only realize how it comes out of mouth and into ear, such a manifest mistake but such a latent blessing. i think we all need to learn to make fun of ourselves, do stupid shit, eat it on purpose. It seems to me that one key of life is to do that shit we're all embarassed about, but be able to do it while dead drunk OR stone sober. Hard, but rewarding.

Prerequisite - (noun) a thing that is required as a prior condition for something else to happen or exist; (adjective) required as a prior condition.

you take this motherfucker? neato.

2008-01-21T21:17:00.000-08:00

or so it said on june 12th, 2006, 1:27am. wow, i just looked at this, and thought it was neat, and thought i was looking at it for the first time. then i looked below, and it made me cringe and cry at the passing of time...

though cringing and crying aren't bad. "and i'm not happy, and i'm not sad". write? like when we're lying in bed and minds wander, as brant and i conversed over indian food up north. like, why am i here, why is anything here, why does it all matter, and why are these such stupid and functionally pointless questions to be asking, because there is no answer, and there never will be. right. though we silently conclude that the answer lies in the moment, in our company and the delicious food in front of us, soon to be part of us. and i topically conclude (as in: you can see the pattern of letters upon this digital page, and you can (in the medicinal sense) thus relate it or apply it directly to a part of the body) that i'm not writing this for information or suggestion or pity or anything like that. rather for connection, i suppose, something that resembles the defining moments of our lives, our sex, our energy, our general will to make another movement. and regardless of how that movement comes, chemical, traditional, habitual, spiritual, free or not, motivation blind,

i ask:

what did you do today? what made you feel anything today? what was the funniest thing that happened? did you kiss or touch or fuck lately? or love lately? more importantly, of course, but being direct isn't always the greatest tact. sad but true. continuing: how are you feeling right now? how are your significant others doing? what have you been up to lately? how is the weather, your living situation, your immediate surroundings? are you healthy? what social event impacted you the most? do you understand why it did? what was the greatest endeavour lately that made you stop questioning all of this and just FEEL, but then come back to realize how important these questions are.
what did you think about creating lately? why? (and always follow with why why why).

as i am quite sure that most who read this won't literally answer these questions and type them out to become topical once again, i hope some do. and i hope all who read this will ask and answer these questions if in nothing else but silence. "catch the spirit", or so says my jingoist coffee mug, as it has been refilled with hot water so much that the echinacea is completely strung out and purely ornamental. tea makes me feel nice.

these ends don't tread on means

2008-01-20T17:57:00.000-08:00

it's interesting, to use chemicals for ups and downs, as i've ascribed and tired to death before. but the cradle of consumption is one of extreme comfort, even coming from an anti-consumptive station. the odds, for sure.

the dreams contained a pamphlet, professionally done, about how i have no clue as to who i am until i've shot crystal meth. the fact that it was being sold to me by a long time crush of mine didn't help. i awoke clutching my arteries, the ones that poke out opposite of elbows and are a constant sign of what-could-be. they frighten due to their critical qualities.
the following were of muddled friends, mainly hard floors vs carpet. again, a comfort issue between my feet and the floor. the atmosphere between me and you. even if it's miles or molecules, the difference is negligable and noticable.
think hard and stay still. rain drizzling around and onto me, but unfelt. breath extends to create a sphere around my body, again unfelt. only static and seen. sexual encounters came and went, again unfelt. thought i did end up kissing my pillow upon waking. it made me appreciative that i have such a flower pattern on my pillowcase, as i definately felt the colors encase fading fake emotion. well, not fake, but from an entirely-self-constructed source. yet, isn't that what everything comes from? dream or movement: isn't every origin of feeling constructed from inside?

it's interesting, to use chemicals for ups and downs, as i've ascribed and tired to death before. but the cradle of consumption is one of extreme comfort, even coming from an anti-consumptive station. the odds, for sure. and i hate the idea of repeating myself, but i love it in practice.

(Illinois is) no state to be in for a relationship

2008-01-18T20:57:00.000-08:00

WHOA
so this girl walks into the potash bros. supermarket. i work in the basement, the wine cellar: the sandburg wine cellar. hence, i didn't see her walk in, but i still knew she had walked in because she was staring at the olive oil in aisle 1. as i came around the corner to come upon her, she turned her head at me. and we locked eyes for, maybe, honestly, 3 seconds.

now, 3 seconds seems like a short time when you say it out loud. but when it concerns eye contact between strangers, it's fucking significant. most every other enounter will never contain eye contact AT ALL, and when it happens (at least in this city) it's broken off immediately. as i broke it off (the stress on "i") and walked away down the stairs, i couldn't help but think, "what can i stock upstairs?????"
so as i walked around, looking for work, i knew exactly where this girl was in releation to me, kind of as a sixth sense. and i felt she knew the same, as she kept looking over at moments and catching my form as well. her form:

honestly, i could tell you little about her form. baggyish jeans on a vaguely slim body. no idea about breast size. blue jacket. slightly hippie, which only means 'not perfect jeans and not spotless black coat' in the city. this city. i can tell much more, however, from the neck up, as i am a TOTAL sucker for a cute face. accordingly: medium length hair, but the sides were braided and tied back. kinda baggy eye lids, which sounds weird but was quite endearing as it brought out her eyes. (the eyes being really the only part of her i communicated with). very pretty (VERY pretty) blue eyes. and upon reflection, maybe they were only blue due to her jacket. who knows, it all went so quick. but quite pretty very pretty. GREAT smile, (of which i'll get to later in the story). continuing on:

as she shopped for who-knows-what, i rigorously restocked all the shit i could upstairs. chateau st. julien chardonnay, penescal tempranillo, budweiser 6pack cans. and i kept catching her gaze. and she kept catching mine. and i went downstairs for a few seconds, then came back up thinking, "she should be checking out right now..."

to which i looked at the check-out line, only to see her eyes meeting mine.

she left the store, leaving me not with a sense of longing but instead with an invigoration and livelihood that made me realize one doesn't need uppers for this feeling. (i've been leaning on caffeine heavily these days). i was giddy. and it only compounded when i had about 10 mintues to think about it and text my friends about it, when she walked in again.
and she kept shopping for more groceries! i subsided the "why is she here again? who is she shopping for?" thoughts with the "oh my god she's back!" and the "how can i communicate with her!" thoughts. again i restocked; again we caught eyes. she went up to the deli, to which i responded by bringing up wine that belonged on a shelf that is close to the stairs that lead from the deli.

and as she came from the deli, our eyes met for a lasting time. i nodded and looked away. as my head turned, she smiled and said "hi..."
and then i turned to return the greet, she was passing, i said "hi", but she was already passing me.
it was fucking awkward, but very cute. and i got to get the first close glances of her smile, which was very large, and very sweet, and almost made her face contort in a weird but gorgeous way.
i went downstairs as she was in line, took my boss's business card, crossed out his name and wrote in mine, and had the plan of going up to her as she left and giving it to her as i said, "here. you dropped this."
i went upstairs and she was gone, but i was glad because that was such a stupid idea. upon reflection, i guess the best part of our 'relationship' had come and gone, anyways.

this whole story is true, and it's the closest i've come in chicago to open and honest true love.

a breath of fresh coffee

2008-01-16T08:16:00.000-08:00

reading lives, i find comfort in the fact that others flail in the face of failure. i love to hear when people fall and scrape their knees really bad, because i'm all like "whoa, i scraped my knee REALLY bad, like 5 years ago, and it still hurts in the cold!" and i fell yesterday, and i'm planning a fall next week. so cheers to pubilc forums and keeping up with friends, and no cheers to alcohol because i've drank about 15 drinks too many in the last 3 days. i was planning on sobriety // i guess it'll have to wait.

speaking of cold, it's finally chilling down here. getting negative, and it's really nice that a girl here knitted me a little tie-on yarn mask, though i haven't been wearing it. perhaps i will when i shave, or start riding a bike again. i've recently decided i'm giving away the bike i got for free (found by miss kladzyk), to the street. good karma, eh? i've also been pissing in a returnable milk jug and pouring it in the sink when the bathroom is occupied. saves water, i presume. at least i'm not putting a balloon over it and collecting the resulting fermentations for further consumption? butthash: czech it out.

but borrowing to infidelity: my life will be interesting in the coming 7 months. don't know where i'll be, who i'll be with. just got a credit extention, but re-paying a large loan. my brother's getting fucked over in a divorce, but it seems to be in a positive, life-changing, cathartic way. motherfucker (not literally) wants to go to europe this summer, so it looks like we'll go for a month or so. from how it sounds, it'll be a lot like the plot of 'the darjeeling limited', which is interesting because i loved that movie, and my brother's never seen it (and has no idea who wes anderson is or what ANY of his movies are) yet came up with this travel-to-find-yourself-with-your-brother idea. quite a timely coincidence. i still need to defend my thesis and get my graduate degree, which i will lest my family and friends lose all hope in my intellectual abilities. i've already lost faith in them, but i hope (for THEIR sake) that they are still intact within my brain and its faculties.

but enough with that shit. here's the REAL news: Duthie's Golden Mole

now to brave the chicago cold, which is slightly worse than the flagstaff cold. not by much, though. think of flagstaff with a lake, that's about it. though the people (in general) are much more cold, which makes it slightly worse in perception. bummer. BUT, luckily, this pre-modern world is set up to seperate us nearly completely from the natural environment. cheers to gulps of stale air!

at the moment

2008-01-09T21:37:00.000-08:00

when i die, i want others to see me as i was. why change it? keep my clothes the same. this can be a legally binding first will and testament.

they could be untouched, or torn, stretched at the neck. maybe coffee spilled all down them.
their state, created by clashes with my body, together or falling apart. if there's a giant red expulsion out the side, then it would make sense to have it on your clothes, so people could see what happened, maybe a last communication i'd have with others, right?

suit? shitty rags? bland? that's what i am. if i didn't want to be killed in a work-monkey outfit, i'd never wear one. if i wanted to hang myself with a neck tie, i'd do just that, not wear it. there's merit in dress, i know, i know. but wear what you're comfortable in. why sacrifice skin just for others, for the job, for money, for a better sense of less investigation. i'm not saying don't be yourself, but feel yourself. there's a difference.

but why dress it up. i remember my grandmother's funeral, all the make-up, the awkward dress. they said it was to see her one last time and say goodbye. i said goodbye the last time i saw her, and seeing her in my mind will always suffice because i have no other choice. why dress it up. it was only alien to see her in make-up she never wore. we are what we were, and we always will be. and i know my grandmother died with men on her mind. no shame in that.

Smiles for Similes

2008-01-05T22:17:00.000-08:00

The bill collector's tab is gaining insight, but not nearly as much as my own sense of sending people cheap gifts. My internal dichotomy can explain:

i dont want to go outside but its really nice out . id like to see the city but i kinda want to just be lazy and stagnant . i write about internal struggles , meaningless to the outside , and usually something that seems a lot more important while drunk . i catch myself in sobriety and stop with all the second guessing . laying in bed and catching on sleep , i can only think of the weakest moments of myself and those around me . at the core . . . we are all terrified . so i put that to rest as well . i think the general posture of fright and failure is harbored within us . so we can relate to each other in the time of our most need . and so i wake up to less headaches and the comfort of coming up from such stagnation . from such sleep .

I sent in the bill; the money in my account is sufficient. Not much left, but I'll make more. Then I'll send it away. Always keep one step ahead. That's all you need. Explaining the car-crash that is my sense of adventure, perhaps we can gain insight:

obligations to brothers and others mean nothing unless they are obligation to the self . i picture a trip abroad not in the greater sense of exploring new terrain and understanding new people through language . i picture a trip abroad as fist fights and pale drunk nights and finding the greater sense of why you breathe with the people you breathe with . which seems just as valid as the former, if not more so . and i will explain it all later . but for now , i need you . but for now , i sit awake when i should sleep . i keep my droning dreams safe within the workday routine . i still feel the most motivation when i should the least .

The way it OUGHT TO be.

i AM my grandmother's grandson

2007-12-25T23:43:00.000-08:00

the food and drink were amazing as always; the arizona cold was severly more than comfortable. warm. home. and after it all, a talk with my grandmother (most generous lady ever????) and my mother (most beautiful lady ever????) revealed that my parenthesis converge sometimes. we talked about the personal and the political over final beers of the night and it made me realize that: 1) our realistic political situation is dire, 2) relationships are trite and trying, but terribly sweet and ideal at a rare best, 3) the constant holds steady only in trust, which i have overarching with my family(friendsincluded), 4) broad political policy can sometimes mean nothing when interpersonal-interaction is mutually fulfilling, and 5) a smile means more than words in the same way that actions mean more than verbs. i love my grandmother more than she knows, and i don't know if that means i DON'T show it enough or i CAN'T show it enough; i feel, through the phone, that Brant agrees. i hope a paragraph explains more than a series of text messages can, and i'm sure that my hopes are confirmed as i smell (in my memory) buttery rolls my grandmother made. (and made only earlier today).

Today.

2007-12-23T14:25:00.000-08:00

I started to think that if you wrote down your daydreams, they may start to substantiate themselves. it's like if you don't move when you first awake in the morning, and you really think about what you were dreaming, then write it down, then read it later in the day: it becomes real again. i remember daydreams constantly, but if you don't stick with them they tend to escape into the general unconsciousness. the part that's just a feeling and not an image. i considered doing this as i watched people at my work trying to catch a bird who'd entered the store and was trapped by large front windows. it was a cute little bird, maybe a swallow. i don't know birds much. but greater than the obvious spiritual rejoice that came when it was trapped in a box against the window and then brought outside to freedom, i noticed how everyone entered that bird (those working and those shopping) and concentrated on the plight of it. memories wiped clean. the comfort of being trapped in the moment always says 'fuck freedom' to me.

notable daydreams in groups of five with no particular order: 1) drinking st. germain again, maybe finishing off the bottle myself and then creating a new mixed drink that turns in the new mojito or something and makes me a lot of money 2) bringing some of my favourite people from the city of chicago home with me to have a nice overnight drunk and to be shown exactly what the benefits of the small town are all about 3) actually physically breathing in sand at a beach while wondering why that seems so pleasant 4) forgetting everything 5) being trapped in a hotel room on my own accord, having the beach or the city or both right outside, with beautiful weather, but staying inside all day, rolling around in stale sheets but making them your own, not necessarily doing it all on purpose but because of a lovely person to stare into or a movie marathon or just the comfort of being trapped.

the city traps you, too. but in a very sweet blanket that you don't want to crawl out from. and it'd definately be a crawl, and it'd probably make you appreciate the distance between your fresh air and your soft ground.

Ardent Prescriptions

2007-12-16T22:16:00.000-08:00

dont love your lost because the pain is unbearable but you might end up better in the forgotten footsteps of fabric seed

another bad couch decision, every football game heightens ignorance. "just kick left, moron!!!!" nothing opens prior questioning regarding sobriety. true, under vectors weigh xenopobic years. "zzzzzzz," as the sound of sleep takes him away.

i WISH i could sleep, i wish i could SLEEP. and i dont want to tell you what to do says the brain to the body in an ever expanding modulation of shape . the way that chemicals shape actions . the instance of cell revolutions every 7 years coming back to haunt us in the next 21 to bring to consciousness that the more we change the more we embody tired analogies . like the brain v computer . like its a contest of an able and appropriate comparison . like we think we know exactly what we want out of life when in reality we have no clue what we even want for breakfast and just end up eating only out of habit

"i'll take my prescriptions, those that the doctors of faith have dilligently apportioned for me"

"and i'll watch you all the while, taking swift notation of each shadow created by responding personalities, and how it shapes the dimples in your face"

"and youll cry and respond with twitching eyebrows? to hasten my judgement? but for what recourse?"

"i'll only say this . . . . . that i only condemn your life because it is INTENTIONAL in its ignorance."

"i guess the difference makes all the choice"

"..."

The Road to Recovery!

2007-12-10T09:09:00.001-08:00

last night was spent at a dive called ronny's, after work all day. abe (treasure mammal) played there to a small but intimate crowd consisting of mostly people from arizona. we made jokes about shitty arizonan restaurants that we love. nothing sums up arizona like the california burrito.
anyways, we danced like idiots for 30 minutes while abe flopped around and it was the most fun i'd had at a show since i've been here. and i've been to a lot of very neat shows here, very entertaining music that i was lucky to have an opportunity to see. but it's all still so consumptive and spectator based. being a substantial part of something makes it multiply infinately. and the dancing included grinding, hugging, skanking, falling, everything. the most fun i'd had at a show since phil played, perhaps. ahhh, to friends and a warm glimpse of arizona again. if there's ever one man flailing around to a drum machine and irony, i'll always stand up and dance.

on a lighter note, i came home and took a bite of a poppyseed something and started to eat it, when brant said, "yeah, renae gave me that," after which i spit out what i hadn't yet swallowed. i saw it this morning, was hungry, thought about my current stance on food (i'll eat ANYTHING if it's free), and then threw it in the trash. and as i stated to brant: "really, honestly, without our stupid superstitions regarding ex's, what ARE we?" right?

Hedonism

2007-12-08T00:04:00.000-08:00

In the world of hedonistic ideals, words mean nothing.

however, i will try to use words to describe this simple nothing.

Brant went to a bar. he got into a pseudo-political conversation with some rich boy acquaintances. he did nothing but drink their schlitz that they bought for him. the whole time they were totally in his face, yelling at him, cursing his politics because he had longish hair and "a pretty little moustache". Brant's friend Megan fought them with words while Brant just sat back in awe. they berated him in the thrid person off nothing but appearance. the men used the excuse, as defense, that they couldn't grow that "pretty little moustache" in a week. Brant has a beard. He got them VERY irate by saying, "you know what??? I LIKE THE ARCADE FIRE." they responded with awe and shock. they apologized at the end, saying they were the liberal ones. the city is a great place to meet people. this whole blog is true.

i sat at home with hot tea and talked to forest for 90 minutes. in the middle of the conversation, my hot water had just reached a boil and i filled up the thermos to steeping level. immediately afterward, i saw a roach on the kitchentop, right against the wall and on a towel that i put clean dishes on. my skin tingled with intrigue and joy as i realized the possibility that i could actually kill this creature with BOILING WATER. i went to pour, it scurried a bit, then i hit it with a healthy douse of deadly essential liquid. it died instantly. i felt like a candy kid on parade. i'm ashamed and amazed and loving at the same thought.

i may just go on, forever, killing bugs with hot water.

Brant said i should save some for those guys at the bar. He only meant it in the kindest way possible. He is very drunk right now.

(Faster)/(Speed of Sound Bytes)

2007-12-01T17:53:00.000-08:00

biking up elston street to visit the abbey pub for a sweet and smokey night with madlib. nice bike lane; very smooth road. i remember thinking it was nice to explore yet another vein of the city, but immediately thought that claire would probably think that i should've been doing this same thing 4 months ago. [claire is a woman i've met recently who is very active. she laughs in the face of complacency but frets at the midwestern winter. it's cute.] i sum up my internal monolouge with a dillinger four quote: "it comes down to me in the end // the more i know, the less i comprehend // it comes down to me in the end".

translation: self-centered realism. we all need to do what's best for ourselves first in order to then do what's best for others. they really are the same thing, though. and if you spread your mind too thin, shit gets lost in the gaps. just know what you love and focus. take your time. it's better to know a few things really well then to know many many things briefly. the more i know, the less i comprehend. (and i practice this in ideas, but not in people, as my hypocracy dictates). be comprehensive and comprehending. at least that's what i got from it.

taking the artery back, california ave to potomac and rockwell, i thought cars for a second. i thought environmentalism and image and evolution. many people bike to save the planet, orsomethinglikethat. many drive to harm it. many move around in ignorance of all the issues. regardless, cars are quite an amazing facet of modernity. i still bike because it's cheaper and faster (at least in the city) and it makes me feel better physically and mentally and spatially and socially. but i'm still in favor of the end of the species, earth most likely going with it. it's interesting: i've noticed, the same people who talk shit about babies ("i don't need to live forever.....we have enough people on this earth already....") are the same people who are dramatic about the species ("we're heading to an unnatural end.....humans are worth saving..."). come on, pick a side. we deserve to die, and it's already in progress, so fuck it. do what you feel like, whatever makes you happy. 'be like the boy', as they say. and again, my thoughts summed up in a d4 quite: "smoke 'em if you got 'em 'cause we're never gonna learn // and dance upon the ashes of this world."

translation: smoke them if you have them, because we are never going to learn. and dance upon the ashes of this world.

the show went well. madlib mc'd a bit, but then battled an amazing drummer named kareem riggins while on turn tables. he faded his own stuff in and out and played samples and scratched while kareem wailed on drums, kinda jazzy but broken up break-beat shit. quite intense, even though the crowd wasn't as into it because there was no mc to cheer at. the show ended with pb wolf dj-ing/vj-ing, mixing old classics with new shit, and everything in between, but with the videos for each song cued up with the records and projected onto a big screen behind him. pretty neat. but the drumming took the show, i thought.

Deferred Memory

2007-11-28T19:18:00.000-08:00

as in response to that which is forefront? perhaps. but it's day 5 of sobriety, and hearing a friends blog of feelings conjured up by each brand of beer made me taste it. but then i thought of a bagel and tasted a bagel, and then i ate one. needless to say: my syntax is a little wrek'd.

but so i was reading, then i wrote a couple thesis pages before typing, in my head, and then my mind drifted to blog before i got the stuff down. but it's there, it's there. again, syntax error. but it all comes out in the end. "In short, acceptance or non-acceptance of an identity between ceremonial symbol and ceremonial referrent is a matter of membership in a community, and not a matter of fact or logic." (Szasz, 40). The meaning we ascribe as we imbibe is a total social creation, and we can therefore do what we want with it. I can't help but think of the flagstaff ceremony, that which took on drink as blood of scene, elixir of causation for most it seemed. WAS it blood? perhaps.
but the causation comes only when consciousness arrives on the scene. meaning: there's no problem if problem isn't identified as such. i went to shows sober for years, then i hit a point when i saw no use in it. i continued to get hammered at shows and had the time of my life. every show was consistently more fun than the one before. and i went to a show here and there and wouldn't drink, and had fun, but not quite as much. as you might imagine.

i guess it was the consumption of hedonistic mercury. eh? it's like the normal curve. once all the days are outliers, the outliers become the norm. the stardard deviation twice up is blackout or death, that twice down is a shitty movie or a book that doesn't make sense. and i DO overstate the case to make the point. but man, it's like a dream, one that i'd still like to have every night. "The human need for social contact, for a communion with others of one's own kind, is second only to the organismic need for the satisfaction of the biological requirements for survival. In the satisfaction of this need for sociability, ceremony plays an indispensable part." (Szasz, 39).

i could live off weed cookies and beer forever, i think.

--------------------

Pity for Previews

2007-11-23T09:57:00.000-08:00

-----------------
I contemplated the population that lives 30,000 feet above us. Those who are always there, always moving, always excited about change or terrified of cramped space. Babies always crying and students always drinking. A privileged population, having the funds to afford the view they get. Those that were at window seats could see the forest below, but not for the trees. As I walked outside, I studied.

The tips of green. The melting of buds into petals falling. The scales of sunshine that scraped against rough bark bites, insects emerging to make it all real. And even though this was the least of the dense (I was only on the airport grounds), it still afforded me the slight touch of something natural. I pitied the population above.

-----------------

As the plane skidded to a halt on the runway, my feet scoffed the outside sidewalk. It’s quite funny to know an airport so well and breeze through it, whereas one can wander in the same architecture for dizzying days and not get anywhere. I’ve been stuck in airports abroad for so long that this journey seemed easily elapsed in narration.
I called the appropriate people to report on my safety. It’s easy to forget that the population who lives 30,000 feet up is statistically much more safe than those of us who inhabit the land. But we always lapse it when airborne and thank our lucky eyes when they see the soil again.

My good friend picked me up from the airport, a friend who would be getting married on the last of my four days in town. All along the drive, from the plane to his work, his work to a bar, a bar to a restaurant to his home, every sight conjured up old images of recompense. I even had a sense of nostalgia for those places that I’d never visited, therefore never had memories from except for the fact that I’d seen them from the car many times over. Store fronts with no purchase, restaurants without consumption, benches walked by. Advertisements ignored. I still gazed and wished I’d visited every one of them.

we are our own celebrity

2007-11-15T22:40:00.000-08:00

we know the words and play out scripts to t's and x's. we say last names like middle ones, breaking into yet more levels of relation like we mean it. and we do.

i communicated with a fly 3 days ago. like a morning where the dog whines to be let out, a fly came buzzing at my head with such intensity that i knew something was up. it HAD to be saying something. i tried to hide under blankets and it just landed on my headspace repeatedly. then i tried to shoo, opened a window. it went out immediately. i felt like i'd raised the dead.

we keep it typecast, just to stay sure. but break out of the familiar and you find yourself not only lacking self and celebration, but also adding fear and strife and the godforbid of growth. type into templates and rank the formacies therein. who's best? who's better? odds are chasing you, i can hear them.

and at nightclub, at music scene, all faces remain intact and complaced. everyone is celebrity to some extent, in their own grandeur delusion, my own inclusive. but nothing matters; everyone and no one is special. that whole dichotomy really makes sense sometimes. others not, i guess. but, to quickly evaporate from that scene while inside of it::::::::::::::::::::

i just look at a picture of winslow in the summer sunset. i'm immediately there, i'm warm and fed and loved and have a perfect brain lift going. it never ends, that fleeting memory. the picture placed on the top of a desk sinks past the screen and into my heart for ALL it's worth. blind my eyes, starve my eyes. i'll be there soon enough, love.

BATTLE$ W/ANIMALS

2007-11-09T10:42:00.000-08:00

so, this one's more of a normal post. not stupid psudo-creative prose here, just dictation of my mind's narration. well, maybe i'll weave some in, steadfast-like.
so, i saw a great job and might get fired from my show. or, vice versa. Caribou and Battles were playing up the street (well....a 20 minutes bike ride, but still on the same street...) so i bought tickets earlier this week. it was a late show at the metro, so i could possibly make it in time for both headliners and still work that night. just to be safe, i left work 10 mintues early (i'd come in early the past few days) and the store was almost closed, i finished everything i needed to and closed up the wine shop. then, the manager of the store up stairs gets in a huff because i'm leaving (i went out of my way to say bye to him) and kind of said he'd tell on me, which was ok by me. he was asounded, for some reason; i guess that's not how they do things there? news to me.
anyways, biked to the show, caught caribou RIGHT as they (he) were (was) starting and it was qutie beautiful. sold out show, so i didn't get that great of a place to stand, at least sound wise. but then battles came on and fucking ROCKED it. i really couldn't believe how good they were at doing what they do, making crazy orchestrated sound while still keeping such a rock mentality. quite a knowledge of their instruments and the countless gadgets to process them through.
on the long bike home, though, it was quite a journey in my mind. i went from 'i probably won't get fired' to 'what if i do get fired' to 'i kinda hope i get fired' in about 7 miles @ maybe 14mph. it made me realize that i like the job, but there are the drawbacks (i mean, i only make minimum wage), and i know i could find something better and probably more lucrative to do with my time. i'd mostly miss my boss, alan, who's quite awesome. and i've never been fired from a job, so that whole experience could be good to go through, kinda like going to jail the first time and finding out how you feel about that. anyways, i bet i'll go in and just get a talking to and apologize and not do it again, but we'll see. i mostly just hope i get my chamomile tea back that i left there.

i love it when the body fails

2007-11-05T08:15:00.000-08:00

this capillary life:

take everything harsh and depressing and produce a finished product in a clean but sincere and indepenent manner. and she's milk, and she's apples. i'm scotch and brandy and instigation. the lip disintegrates! the throat closes up purposively! and strange things grow on skin you didn't even know you had. the itch twitches with spite. i'd cut off all my hair, everywhere, if it weren't for clean walls and their depressing digressions.

but i love it when the body fails! falling newsletters keep a record of it all. vague internet posting helps seal the deal, with understanding lacking because of the final crush that the audiance doesn't care. build me a buliding! help it stay clean, though. because if you give me the keys but no instructions, than what good are you anyways. i'd rather have the experience, anyways, not just the dime-dozen naming of a project, a prospect. i wish we had mutants 10 all over again.

that was all pre-shower. now, this is all post-shower:

feeling cleaner makes the body good, but makes the mind muddle, the hangover bubbles. does this even matter anymore? ahhhh, no. maybe? to be continued

bringing up the sun.

2007-10-27T02:15:00.000-07:00

and i know it's not even cold yet but i still wait for the sunset. two limbs, favored by wealth, feeling like magnetic pulse. phone phone phone hurts head but remembers putting on a tux for brothers wedding. he thinks that washington is a nice place for breath, he being me. type i s w r o n g s o a ll he favors is the flavor vanilla. irish import, nonetheless. and the type only wants the pattern of letters across the screen and fountains for the threat of apology. i'm sorry that i don't mean less, mean more.

fake leaves and real response flowers make my dreams come soon. i hear snoring and i feel ok about that, about him and his even minded collectedness. and the words only want to be meaningful and collected; they only want plurality when the verb agrees with it. so: squint. make all on the page, digital or otherwise, make them all careen into black ports and small white canals, to the degree that your laziness can only move through them at the speed it wants, that which is dictated NOT by others but by the one you call home. here's to sweet liza.

Dreams*

2007-10-13T17:29:00.000-07:00

I'm standing in a small room that breaks into a much larger one. But in between is a winding, long spiral staircase. I realize it's my teacher's house, a good friend of mine. As i ascend, i get halfway up and am startled by a baby falling headfirst, very fast, straight down the middle. I was terribly freaked out and couldn't look; i remember some cleaning, some screaming, but an overall calming effect afterward. Even through death. ???

Roland was talking to his dad. Roland, a friend from prescott who i really met in flagstaff, and his father, who i've never met. Their conversation via telephone seemed nice, as i could hear both sides in person from the same physical location. Suddenly, i'm in a liquor store, with Roland pushing bottles off of shelves, clear plastic liquor jugs, and as they bounce off the floor i quickly pick-up and replace them. We continue this, and though it makes sense that i might be annoyed by it, we're laughing the whole time. It's like a game that we both are having fun at. It continues till i wake.

I awake on a couch. I've totally been here before, but i have no idea where i am. The worn parts of the couch where dirt and soot have collected are even familiar to me. I roll over as i roll my eyes and in an instant see 12 people that are warm to me and white with welcome, but they're gone in the same instant. Then all i sense is smells: bacon, hummus, stale alcohol, and that smell you get from old clothes that's really familiar and comfortable but at the same time unrecognizable and disgusting. It makes me hungry and vomitus, and at that point i write a pop song for every person of which i remember their middle name.

*houses equal relationships, those between you and any other object (person); water (liquid) equals sex, that which is libidinal in all and each individual; self and environment is a reflection of worldview, paradigm, and id, that which is buried becomes unearthed through physical environment and the surreal projection thereof. Cue blue screen.

On Sincerity

2007-10-11T09:15:00.000-07:00

Well, on sincerity and the public forum. because, i'm supposed to let you in, to an interesting and believable extent, but not so much that you know all i know. if we knew all that each other knew, we'd never speak again. eh?
as with the survey, it IS pretty stupid. but the point of it (which is relevent, i think) is that everyone has input on who a certain person is dating (or has dated). i mean, it's probably the main thing talked about between friends when the relationship is happening. however, the opinions are only welcome on a one-to-one basis. i've had many people say "oh, i like this person better than that person..." but put it to a public forum and it seems quite shitty and insincere and just plain fucking weird (hence the last voting option).
so my questions: are blogs just for banter? maybe to make us laugh or feel better 'bout ourselves? when disclosing personal information, does it have to be positive and discrete? i guess the weblog (as has been studied a lot as of recent) is a front, a face we put on, an extention of personality. and if it's to everyone out there, it tends to be edited towards the best we can put out. i guess the poll was just a notice of that. the barrier between personal and public. i tend to prefer the personal (obviously), but resort to public often. the fall wind, i guess.

notes on activity

2007-10-08T21:11:00.000-07:00

strangeways, here we blog.

so, to break it a bit, yet again. [life as a social experiment, always]. [and ps? remember, life and art are the same fucking thing! honestly]. i broke this weekend, went on a vacation to my home, and was quite active. (no, not sexually active at all. though i did join the mile high club by myself in the airplane bathroom, which was quite uncomfortable). (leg cramps and such). but yes, anyways, i was the proverbial headless chicken, loving nothing more. the people of the town of flagstaff are so fucking amazing that i can't express it enough.
BUT, it's so crazy, it's so strange to want to be everywhere all the time. i feel inadequate to many people, like i'm just turning their lives into circuses. cirqui. the plural of circus, whatever that is. anyways, as for apology...
i'd just like to say that i sincerely love all these people around. even though my head may be in a fucking cloud. of weed smoke. not even of my own toking. but, it's like, i LOVE jeff lowry! and i only saw him for a night! and i left brant here, we've moved and i'm already planning all these trips home. i remember answering a question from a game with celeste and sarah and rené, which went something like "if you could steal one thing from your best friend, what would it be?" to which i said something i'd steal from jeff (his art skillz), and rené said she'd steal my social skillz. refering that i was indeed her best friend. and it felt so weird to hear, especially considering we were in the process of breaking up, and now i hardly ever see her. how can it be? how can change ever be anything but directional?

and i go home and don't even call ryan narce. and, perhaps, just maybe, i've had some of my most enjoyable conversations ever with that guy. i felt so close to him at moments and then at times so so so distant. when he and reuben and i discovered laughter again it was so golden, and then nothing. is public reflection anything but a cry for help, approval, need?

i'm just putting this out there to vent my hungover sense of solids. like, i keep eating and eating and i'm not full at all. i know i'll awake and be biking downtown to work, and the morning oxygen will make it all better. but, i'd just like to say this: i miss so many people who live far away. fuck, i even miss brant when he's in the next room. fuck this computer. i sincerely need to just create some art or literature that i can sell for a lot of money so i can just spend my life driving around and laughing with loved ones. and DRINKING.

(revisions)

2007-09-29T22:55:00.000-07:00

and all significance aside: i should try to take my compliments in stride. but i still can't.

through the process, certain things have come to my attention. here is a list in paragraph form, meant to bombard, to abstract and obstruct as much as to inform. as much as to relieve and relive. i feel like individuals are mannequin billboards, passivity only reinforcing that. activity makes the advertisement real, makes it seem less like an advert, and creates the sexual experience. the glass shield of popular communication feigns interest. i've come to terms with the following: whether jobs or relationships, they are all out there. so why stress? there ARE employers who need work done, money to be made, they do in fact need YOU. a job will come. you will find means to live. on the same: there ARE people out there who love you, or at least want to. they WILL come, there's connection to be made, they do in fact need YOU. so why worry? i've come to believe in that about jobs, but not about relationships. which, upon realization, makes me quite a bit more open to the fact that i'm single in the city. and where everyone is beautiful, looks look like they matter less and less. situation, place, and timing are pretty much every determinant. it's all about how you market yourself, right?

so 4 short but busy weeks have taken me to the brink of new themes. who cares about jobs or girls or even clothes to wear or things to do? all of it will come, and we'll live it out, put it in the laundry once in a while, list it at moments and forget it at others. and as i come to another one of these hopefully empty, ecstatic, manic realizations, i plant myself backwards on a bus seat and watch north avenue die in 42 blocks...

i sit as the combustion engine works for me, my two dollars burned into lungs. our speed still controlled by thin rubber wheels, for it's the bikes who dictate the speed of the cars just before rush hour. during the hour, bikes kill cars for miles. i'd love to if mine wasn't flat at the moment. -------------------------------- i can only look left. i window shop the window shoppers and think i might need something more to fit in. or something less. just not anything i have now, which is the whole point of capitalism, right? change is money. and quite literally, the man who's expecting some as you come off the kennedy expressway and he's washing your window, giving you a paper, you spare a few coins. but he moves like a robot, dude's skin is like leather. he smiles as you pass, but don't expect that same smile when you see him in his own element. i like to hope that he'd crush my skull, he'd crush all of our skulls, if he had even half of what the 'haves' had. --------------------------------- i see an ideal house, everything, kitchen, office, living room, all within 10 blocks. it's exactly perfect, pristine, but behind think paned glass. store fronts. like oasis gold fronts. look but don't touch; buy it if you don't need it. fuck, those curtains alone could've housed a hundred of those street guys, kept 'em warm for years to come. but they only hang in effigy, symbols of the thinnest of our leaders. ----------- oh fuck, leave it to good music, an empty state of mind, and other important things to do. i almost missed my stop.

the focus

2007-09-23T13:19:00.000-07:00

[and as he wrote, he took a picture of a picture, with a window in a half-reflection. it was a picture of her. the view making her seem like she was in the room with him.]

on passivity: a sure-fire way to tell? don't keep the gaze. look away, look down especially. down AND away. it's how to tell. in my station, however, i toe the line. being passive in regards to romanticism, but quite active in how i interact with people everyday. i'm not THE passive, but just being that way, much more than before, in some aspects of my life. that being said:

-i biked by. very little time to lock eyes, but it happened. we probably both wanted to turn our heads but our muscles wouldn't let us. they're controlled, you know. plus, i'm sure i would've hit a car, and she would've hit a wall with that guy she was walking next to. but the feeling was still there.

-i was at the restaurant. a woman at a large table was turning her head. as our faces connected, the moment came in the gaze were we smile, look away, interpret thereafter. the smile definately came, but she held it, for, like, 3 seconds. WHOA. it was i who broke it, walked to the other room, told a co-worker (dave). he poked fun at me, i was all like "don't look at her, she'll know we're talking about her..." and he was all like "i KNOW, but she WANTS you to do that, idiot." it was funny. i didn't catch her eye again.

-i got in a small tiff with a higher-up. i kept eye contact and held my ground on my point, only making my case stronger, but only digging myself deeper. those lower need no argument, only order, only work. i backed down, held my place, stayed lower. all was well, but with slight frustration. s'how it goes.

-i heard a voice through a camera lens, traveling at the speed of circles, some digital static that's easily ignored. her voice rips through the cornea, alters reflection, so much to the point that i'm simply lying in bed, staring at an unconscious wall. the gaze is kept by both parties, i include. the space between atoms becomes just a constant noise, that of connection between the movement of chemicals in two seperate brains. they move in similar patterns, and in analogy, the synapse is gone. or filled, rather. words used: take 8 minutes and divide by 90 million lonely miles. sun in a comfortably occupied but mostly empty room.

--------------out.of.focus------------

a speaker for speech, at relay, ten thousand feet

2007-09-19T23:16:00.000-07:00

the ways and distance at which we communicate.

ahhhh, jobs. job one (1) = restaurant. job two (2) = wine store.
1+2 allow cussing. which is nice, but taken for granted at this point in my life.
2 requires specialized language, but you can really say whatever you like within that frame. to the co-workers in my department, we can talk at will. to the co-workers outside my department, we can talk if we want, but we don't. normal grocery store workers, outside of the wine cellar, seem seperate at the moment, not much contact with them at all. BUT, freedom of speech is nice. pays much less though.
1 contains free speech within co-workers, but much restricted speech with customers at some times. but pays quite well. ?
at 1, i was bussing and thinking of all the beautiful things i could've become, when i answered questions posed by tables and got the reprimand for talking. TALKING. the job calls for no talking. they look the other way usually, but in this instance, i cannot talk, even when spoken to. ??? i talked my way out of the situation, to the boss, basic human rights as my defense. but still, a weird thing to feel. people right in front of me, but my place within the structure of the job/establishment overrode my natural instinct. lame. but i put up, i keep composure while giving in and keeping quiet. of course, 20 minutes after that some people come in, ask me what's cool in the area. they're from tucson, just here for the night. they ask where i'm from (flagstaff), they ask if i know adam fromhoff, who just moved in with them. of course, they say all this, and i have to answer on egg shells so as to not make management mad. but it worked out, i dealt, and still do, due to position.

then i come home to the comforts of satellite driven communication that keeps me sweet with all i knew. know.
i should keep those face to face closer. i come home to one of my best friends and talk on the phone; he makes a beat on the computer. i type into this glorious box while he gets tired, watches the other box, and heads to bed. is it the alienation of the city, or my prospect of keeping close when far away? the west coast is all i know, the east coast is new and unknown, the midwest may just be middle ground. but purgatory always was the best for talking, the waiting for judgment, the cleansing and suffering, the threat and promise of something new, some change, some verdict. the process.
the absence of the spoken word is replaced by clicking, the sound of music, television characters, foot steps. microwave *DING*. more subtle clicks, then a small inaudible chirp and a brain twitch that signifies a message being sent on wireless waves, national networks, the orbit of shallow thought. though shallow in diction, mode, and medium, not in meaning. texting 160 characters can still bring quite the smile to my face at times, make the heart race ten. but then the sounds wind down. the sound of one book closing. creaking of thin metal frames, wooden bases.
-
i put on a small fan for familiarity, and for some soft steady noise to drown out the voices on the street below.
-

touch and 'speech'

2007-09-18T00:23:00.000-07:00

the sense of touch as new.

as i crushed empty boxes at the cellar, boxes of bottles ranging from 3% to 60% abv, i felt new. not good new, though it didn't matter at all. how many wine boxes have i broken down in the last 3 years? maybe 1,000. but now, i knew i was new, i felt under the gun, under pressure, under some kind of superficial standardization. could i be messing this up? i felt like i may have been doing it wrong. -i'm sure i wasn't- though the feeling was still there. crushing boxes, meant for compacting, recycling, disappearance. boring work. . . . . . . i couldn't help but think of intimate touch, that which brings skin amongst itself, and how if it's missing for some time the alien qualities come back. you forget what a kiss feels like. a real kiss.
and then when it comes back, we think 'yes, o h y e s t h a t's what it felt like!', like it never left but the spinal shake did. a jet just flew overhead, and i didn't even notice.
that happened at one point, well, many points, within the last relationship. as it broke down; then a semblance of structure came climbing to touch, we were scared to touch. when it happened it seemed new and therefore somewhat sacred. the empty room that was our relationship vaccumed sunlight from reflection. or maybe that's just my perception.
regardless, our touch felt new, but it was not. i longed (and still long) for that new touch. i have crushes, 1.5 of them at the moment. round down, for sanity's/slash/society's sake. and i feel like continuing this stale touch with the un-won lover would be, if nothing else, unfair to my current crushes. crush.
i file boxes, major and familiar brands on the larger shelving. the odd-ball beers go down the hall. most bin wines stay near the conveyor, destined for higher things, a quick shelf-life, rapid turnover, but sub-par reviews. keep in the chilled section for a better taste, more appropriate for meals, better to bring home for dinner. sale items get labels stripped each and every tuesday night. and each day i work, i get more and more and more used to every one of these small insignificant easy details. and how the routine keeps me grounded, it only keeps the longing for flight ever present.

perhaps i'll talk 'speech' next.

(manifesto)

2007-09-16T11:44:00.001-07:00

this isn't a new blog presenting new ideas. it is simply my views, reflecting my stories of [men] and wo[men] around me, my experience specifically. it is as much self-indulgent as it is a way of dealing with my current situation. so: excuse me in advance. the apologies, however, being part of the theme.

in essence, this writing project is describing a large part of my life at the moment, which entails my current job(s) and "dating" strategies. before i moved, i was very much in control of my work situations. i managed a store, worked with professors, made my own hours, was my own boss (in a sense). i played a much more active role in my employment and acquisition of means to live. socially, it was quite gratifying and sound. after moving to a different city, i've chosen to take positions (and subsequently stick with them) which fit me in a much different position than i was preveiously. i'm a busser at a restaurant and a new worker at a wine cellar, both jobs of which i am nearly lowest in the social order of each specific group. [though, each differs in interesting ways, which i'll go into later]. the difference being the ways in which my 'self' is expressed, not only through how i control my work but also how i act in each situation while working. again, specifics will be explored later and will make up the body of my writings. this is only the frame.

this employment situation will be coupled with the idea that i'm single, kind of in the 'dating scene', but don't really participate. personal feelings will be explored, mainly from the standpoint that i'd very much like to be in a monogamous sexual relationship, but have no interest in the competitive aspecet. i have no plans of asking anyone out on a 'date', no drive to go to a bar and jump through crowded, smoke-filled hoops, no interest in filling a personal void with anything short, transitory, or easy. it's just where i am at the moment, perhaps. as you may or may not be able to tell, i am of the opinion that our current social constructs that dictate who we connect with on intimate levels are very constricting. (i.e. in these scenes, the male almost always takes the active role still, and as one who is uncomfortable taking and refuses to take that prescribed role, is usually left out of it altogether). gender roles will definately be explored more in detail with my specific lens, that of a male, that of one in a society still very much rooted in patriarchy but unwilling to accept it, though definately still benefiting from the structure, but being choosy in how it benefits due to personal preference. all the while trying to be conscious of the gender line, that of power in dating and relationships, that which is ever so fluid and hard to see these days, the dialectical nature of liberation and oppression still lingering in all of us. i'm also growing a beard, which will make it even more confusing.

in total, i'm not only making excuses for who and where i am, but i'm also hoping to gain an understanding of myself and consequently grow from this experience. for, if one learns nothing in the harder times of change, then will we actually ever learn anything at all? comforts are bliss, but they can only take one so far. i hope you enjoy reading this. sincerely,

matt