NO DIRECTION HOME

I'M WRITING in my livejournal because this weekend has been a clusterfuck of nostalgia. I don't know if my hermitage is ending or not but today I was walking through a throng of people feeling dan-xiety and couldn't help but think: humanity is ugly. (& sticky, too, ie the little boy who tried to give me a high five and was REBUKED because of his clear and overtly booger fingers) -- This is all possibly a defense mechanism of solitude and whatnot but I haven't philosophized since my fish died(r.i.p. japhy) and I concluded that land is no place for a Beta.... Anyway, nostalgia is a bitch painted backwards with all the realization that your mindset of connectivity had always been disjointed and the people you're looking at with big dumb open(ed) eyes were strangers to you during your closest time together.

I guess the point is that I'm 27 and have only just begun to understand NEW SKIN FOR THE OLD CEREMONY and if that happened, theoretically, last week, then who the fuck was I eight days ago?

This should be read with the subtext of encouragement, not regret, like the first time you really see a beautiful flower, but not really like that at all, because flowers are dumb and should be stepped on because they often make me sneeze.

D'ya get it?

* We've come a long way from the AIDs awareness campaigns of the early 1980s.

* SCREEN SHOTS OF TECMO BOWL I mean, when was the last time any of us thought about Tecmo Bowl and the hours of dateless Saturday night fun we spent with our Wendy-the-snapple-lady sponsored beverage and disappointed parents.

* The New York Times reports that The Searchers was the first truly great American Movie that all others have tried to live up to. Uh... what? I guess its impossible to argue the scary hip factor quoting Johnathan Lethem provides them. [I'd like to be a total douche and say that the first great American movies were made the by French.]

I have been getting into some Herzog flicks lately, which is the perfect sort of thing to do at 2 in the morning turned up really loud, with headphones and a bottle of wine, possibly candles if you're into that sensitive sort of thing. With the exception of Grizzly Man, which I can't really wrap my head around [the stupidity of it all] his movies are almost always about caricatures of the 'common'. They move in bulky shady and staggered ways, slow and jerky, with obscenely quiet intentions despite an obviosu oblivion to the [almost always] dangerous environment around. There's this one painfully beautiful moment in the beginning of Aguirre where this giant party of slovenly Europeans are trying to move down this mountainside in the middle of South America. You see the mountains and the trees... you see them struggling with the necessity of carrying down wheels, crates of birds, and as a matter of sidenotes... aristrocrats. Nobody really seems to know what the fuck they're doing, and it's very real in a completely unreal sort of way, and never have so many looked so small by just observing what we all do on a daily basis.

I THINK Anne Carson
could write something beautiful
about empty cartons of juice
in the morning;
but I've only found
trouble in the thirst
of a new day

Mom's sick, Paul Auster is a new obsession, visitors coming, off the clean.


--

her wings are made of dust
and her eyes are painted shut
and she leaving thumbprints on the pictureframe
that sits in the corner on the desk

There was no escape. I went into the room, my heart in confusion, and saw the girl sleeping nt he enormous bed for hire, as naked and helpless as the day she was borm. She lay on her side, facing the door, illuminated from the ceiling by an intense light that spared no detail. I sat down to contemplate her from the edge of the bed, my five senses under a spell. She was dark and warm. her hair had been curled, and she work natural polish on the nails of her fingers and toes, but her molasses-colored skin look rough and mistreated. Her newborn breasts still seemed like a boy's, but they appeared full to bursting with a secret energy that was ready to explode. The best part of her body were her large silent stepping feet with toes as long and sensitive as fingers. She was drenched in phosophrescnet perspiration despite the fan, and the heat became unberable as the night progressed. It was impossible to imagine what her face was like under the paint applied with a heavy hand, the thick layer of rice powder with two daubs of ouge on her cheeks, the false lashes, her eyebrows and lids smoky with kohl, her lips augmented by a chocolate glaze. But the adornments and cosmetics could not hide her character: the haughty nose, heavy eyebrows, intense lips. I thought: A tender young fighting bull. -- Gabriel Garcia Marquez

chicks who make mix CDs and title them "FOR ROCKY" and draw little pictures of rocky dennis in heaven make me infinitely happy



(thank you)

i have much to write about, as it seems to be going on months since I've done so
but later,
always a better reason not to do something

a cure all for everything

it makes it sound almost convincing.

can the people between 6th & 5th avenue by 9th & 7th PLEASE tell me why their sidewalks are always caked with dogshit?!

i have never walked down grosser streets in my life. ]

everyday its a damn minefield.

I'm not sure how my brother turned into the pharmacist from a Norman Rockwell painting and I ended up with the mental stability of Caligula. But I am really happy for him. He has a lot of warm and loving friends, and it's nice to see a semblance of normalcy, aside for the fact that they're all Republicans and we watched Access Hollywood instead of football. Ahem.

I once thought about getting a penpal from another country. I'd like to read about the appreciation of running water and polio vaccinations. I don't appreciate running water, especially mine, since it smells like chlorine and feet.

I have a stack of unopened mail sitting neatly on my table. I don't think I've opened up a piece of mail in 7 or 8 months.

This excludes Netflix or the occasional birthday card. My bank sent me a seasons greetings card. My accountant wishes me well. I didn't even know I had an accountant, apparently our future together looks bright. Wine Spectator hopes to see me again sometime soon. The feeling is mutual, buddy!

Yes, I received your letter yesterday
(About the time the door knob broke)
When you asked how I was doing
Was that some kind of joke?
All these people that you mention
Yes, I know them, they're quite lame
I had to rearrange their faces
And give them all another name

One of my first thoughts every morning collects around image of coffee. The purchasing of it, the drinking of it, where I'll be standing, how much time I'll have if I'm running late for work, things like that, y'know. I'm not obsessed, it's just a habit I have, like putting on matching socks, that's become a part of me. There are mornings when I can go without -- sometimes I just don't have two clean matching socks -- and that's fine too, I'm not a caffeine fiend who drinks it constantly; sometimes I want tea, on a hot summer morning, maybe a smoothie. On a mildly chill winter morning the comfort of black gold is very appealing, and its a habit that goes without thinking. And I've come to realize that I am very very rarely ever satisfied by the taste of it. I don't have a loyalty to any brand or place. Starbucks is quite atrocious, and according to people my age in this location, it's supposed to be. The little hip shops on the sly (Orens, Mud Truck) aren't that much better, despite all the warmth that goes without saying in participating in the alternative-ness of it all.

I was on a park bench this morning, book laid out, when it dawned on me to question why it's such a part of my daily routine. It's obvious. There is nothing better than having that rare unexpected experience of having a cup of coffee that fucking hits the spot. It's never anything planned. You never say "hm, today I'm going to have a great cup." But when it sneaks up on you it's nearly divine. It must be how born again Christians feel about The Passion. I remember one time last year I was doing some work on a student movie project at like 7 in the morning on a Sunday. It was the dead of winter and we were shooting on the water. My bones felt cold. I had run up to a corner deli on Christopher street, not even thinking about what I would be drinking, though had you asked I probably would have expected it to taste like swill. It was hot but not so much that I would burn my mouth. It was perfect. I could literarly feel a wave of comfort with every swallow, like the marrow in my bones were switched on like an electric blanket. The soothing heat spiraled outward in perfect waves.

I was content.

I have been reading the complete Roman prayer ritual used at an exorcism.

This stuff is pretty intense,

I cast out you noxious vermin, by God + the Father almighty, by
Jesus + Christ, His only-begotten Son, and by the Holy + Spirit.
May you speedily be banished from our land and fields, lingering
here no longer, but passing on to places where you can do no
harm. In the name of the almighty God and the entire heavenly
court, as well as in the name of the holy Church of God, we
pronounce a curse on you, that wherever you go you may be cursed,
decreasing from day to day until you are obliterated. Let no
remnant of you remain anywhere, except what might be necessary
for the welfare and use of mankind. Be pleased to grant our
request, you who are coming to judge both the living and the dead
and the world by fire.


I wonder how Avalokiteswara would fair if he went up against a demon.


...god bless our mortal souls,
but not my snapp'd guitar strings.

i havent listened to boys for pele in like, well, never
its a pretty damn good album
and so is that new fiona apple cd

so, can anyone spare a tampon?

they dont sell candle wicks at a candle store.

and its not just a candle store, its a candle & accessory store. 

do any of you crafty people out there know how i can make a wick.  my rainy day project of candle making has been thwarted.

x free wine, germans, and hearing someone say "boy, what a war that was" makes for splendid internal dialogue.

x there are awards given to neglected poets (but only in america, i think)

x i am truly attracted to women with accents, however disguisting their personal hygiene probably is


i have been getting home well past my bedtime exhausted and wet, so tomorow i am taking a day off to spend engrossed in self reflection.
please feel free to call me so we can make small talk about the weather.

Is CBS retarded? Les Moonves said the other week in the NYTimes Magazine that he didn't care how cheezy the programming was, that our latest generation (yours and mine, i guess) wanted this kind of skewed-reality, in-your-face reality type shows that 'pushed the envelope', whatever the fuck that means. Now he's thinking about putting the creator of Laguna Beach in charge of the news corp.

I think there's a reason why shit like google (gmail et al) and apple have become so wildly succesful. Aside from the trend factor, they're actually products that DON'T INSULT ADULTS. They're clean and effecient, and they don't bombard the you with  pop up ads to win free 50 cent Ring ToneZ or ask you if some bleached troll from Aurora  looks like XXX celebrity. 

Just read the damn news off the prompter for fucks sake.   

I have decided to teach myself mandarin, so,

ni-hao ma, mother fuckers

this will require several packs of index cards and some nice sharpened #2 pencils. (i have been exclusively using pencils lately, btw)


i really, really liked the capote movie. i never really read any of his work; breakfast at tiffanys bored me to tears and i never picked up in cold blood (until recently). all i ever really knew about him was the whole "that's not writing, that's typing" quote in reference to kerouac's on the road. i thought that's something a total prig would say. and from what i picked up on the movie, the guy is a prig, but man does he have a stylish way of being one.

anyone who drinks themselves to death researching a book is pretty hardcore in my book.

in further news, i have been cultivating really dirty hippie feet these past couple of months. they are really out of control now. yesterday afternoon during a yoga class the instructor came around to support my downward dog and i felt very horrible for her.

After several hours of grand theft auto this weekend i have come to the conclusion that our thin blue line is ineffective, corrupt, and lacking in plain common sense.  I mean, you know I'm going to hijack your car and run you over, take the keys out of the ignition when you try to arrest me for gods sake.

I AM likewise feeling quite lame for not being able to get any hookers to get in my car.  I spent like an hour sculpting my gangsta body and none of these ladies wish to accompany me back to a secluded spot?!  just because i'm planning on killing you afterwards doesn't mean I dont hurt a little inside everytime you pass my el camino shaking your head.

ON saturday i saw some work-in-progress piece at the CUNY center by the bigdancetheater company.  it was informal comfortable and free and for anyone interested in the creative process (whatever the hell that entails) i'd recommend seeing stuff like this.  basically they'd perform a section, stop, and talk about it with the audience, work out sounds, visualize the dances, etc. it was pretty happening and for someone who swore off theater in any shape or form when I was 11 after seeing les miserables it was a good experience.  The essential description of their work is <i>[.]...known for their adventurous use of dance, music, text, and song to expand and refract literary texts, weaving seemingly disparate sources and forms into a seamless theatrical whole...</i>  the piece i saw included pushkin, ancient okinawan dance, and inspirational insurance company speeches. 

greenpoint avenue: 10:30 a night, sunday, a wild gray haired homeless man is slowly pushing a shopping cart across the street.  stops in the middle, traffic comes to a halt.  the first car to be inconvienced by this show is a mini van.  as it drives around him there is a hairy shirtless pasty middle aged man wearing a black choker collar drinking a from a milk carton.  he dismissingly shakes his head at the trouble maker with the shopping cart as if he just has no right to inconvience anyone.

i am officially hooked on arrested development.


  

my stack of unopened mail is larger than your stack of unopened mail

cast of characters:

THE BOSS: Mr. Crimple
THE TROTSKYITE (buyer): Comrade Adam
A CLICHE CLOSET HOMOSEXUAL from 1951(customer service associate): Barry
THE HIP-HOP GOTH CASHIER: Suzanne, or Susie
TOKEN BLACK EMPLOYEE WHOSE REALLY SMARTER THAN EVERYONE (shipping & receiving): Joanne, or joan


so chris took one look at the express letter marked "IMPORTENT" and said "hm" and slammed his fist into the table and yelled goddamnit. HE was a man who looked like a Viktor; his sweaters were really beat and his face look'd like a statue, almost dainty andd feminine, as if he just made his face in the girls room but forgot to close the purse. A meeting was called, corporate was unhappy, and there would be hell to pay.

MR. CRIMPLE - SO YOU ALL KNOW WHY YOU'RE HERE
ADAM - I DONT
SUZANNE - YEAH I'M NOT SURE EITHER

*Barry straightens his plaid shirt and looks plain shifty*

adam notices and recoiles in disguist
Mr. Crimple- We're here because we're not making any money
suzanne- what do you mean
Mr. Crimple i mean according to this letter our profits have never been lower

*Joannie rolls her eyes and fingers her wallet*

Adam - but we're a nonprofit organization
Mr. Crimple - i know that!
suzanne - the dark lord of bling has cast a curse on this room
Mr. Crimple - well lets not get carried away
adam - i think we know what to do
everyone: yeah. wait, what?
adam - we'll just make more money hm?

Mr. Crimple - yeajh yeah
adam - maybe increase some margains
Mr. Crimple - well i was reading this article just that thing
adam - perhaps take a good look at who we work with and see if we can cut back a bit

*everyone looks at joan*

Mr. Crimple - you know thats a last resor-
joanne - wait why is everyone looking at me!
barry - let it go joanie
joanne - no why. >>pause<< what the hell

suzane sucks at her COKE can and said: its not like youve ever appeared at your shifts' start, yo
barry - yeah you're always later than my steady girlfriend

barry chuckles nervously and then coughs, cause thats what barry does.

Mr. Crimple - alright everyone just calm down
joanne - you're all freaks
Mr. Crimple- we just need to get some perspective
adam - a little business plan
chris - right
adam - this is insane
christ - i need you on my team, i cantdo this without you
adam - team money!
Mr. Crimple- look its out of my hands
suzanne - barry there isnt any reasong with the powerful shadows and wisps, my nizzle.
joanne - can someone please tell her to shut the fuck up
Mr. Crimple - corpoarate is going to send someone over to help us get quote this ship steered right again qoute (he makes qoute symbols withhis fingers)
adam - we're a non-profit business for gods sake
Mr. Crimple - well
adam - i mean when the hell did this change
Mr. Crimple- apparently we merged

& so they diiid

[playwrights note -> this part is called THINKING]
SET DIRECTION -> the lights begin to fade,
not because the scene is over, but for dramatic purpose
[ **_.>here's why <**-]

adam thinks about his rent, and why his next door neighbor pays 4 dollars less for a much nicer apartment

Joanne thinks about what it would be like to be intimate with joan didion but also waht it would sound like to kick suzanne in the windpipe, but also about what it would sound like to kick joan didion in the windpipe while being intimate with suzanne

barry thinks about that neighbor boy, jimmy, and how he's always playing basketball along cause of his condition and wouldnt it be a nice gesture to teach him some ball skills but oh, also, conicidentally,how he has a very elastic windpipe

chris thinks about taking a giant shit

suzanne thinks about how stupid those kids are for wearing baby pacifers a few years ago and about how great VAPOURS lyrics are



stay tuned for SCENE 2!

Tags: sugar'd

i am homeless so come and take me