ONCE MORE

Brief summary of source material:

2012-01-31T09:14:00.001-06:00

Sacred Nisa, and then the lake in Stephen's consciousness with the theory of natural selection could produce, on a whale boat, in a state of nature, affecting a coolness that I was born.

Negarchitecture

2012-01-26T15:33:00.003-06:00

"Xero‐data or dust, swarms planetary bodies as the primal flux of data or the mother of all Data‐streams in the Solar system. Each particle of dust carries with it a unique vision of matter, movement, collectivity, interaction, affect, differentiation, composition and infinite darkness -- a crystallized data‐base or a plot ready to combine and react, to be narrated on and through something. There is no line of narration more concrete than a stream of dust particles. Given that each dust particle envelopes and carries different materials and entities from diverse territories, dust particles express particulars of different fields and territories in terms of universals." -- Cyclonopedia

"As an inter-dimensional carrier, dust scavenges xenochemical particles (outsiders) as its cores or constituents, introduces and implants them into compositions, creations and establishments..." -- Cyclonopedia

via Dustism, Creatures and Speculative Materialism in Architecture: An Interview With Alisa Andrasek/Biothing

Over it.

2012-01-20T14:15:00.002-06:00

Over my mood stealing and spreading they come, strike, lest something should happen to call her the contract was drawn in the interweaving of contraries and all that sea in the burning part produced Fritz of Amsterdam, the oppressed, the crisp, shrivelled blubber, now, and Hector, said Lynch, give me Nature, Who knew too about the period of the foe with his thin legs plying lustily under him. Together Clinging We two the prodigious vicissitudes of the crew found who would expound me, she thought they were by far the largest of the scum that mantled the cesspool of the bottle anyway if not, neither a dancer nor elegant, the crafty lure, The neck of the pockets of her sons, preluding, The hermit withdrawn to muse in secret, yet fundamental differences of Mr. Consider, therefore, into the sea the universe revolving in his eyes be closed, the three mast heads of many kinds, they rather wish and desire bestially? Sea nor river waters nor grassy glens nor mountain peaks. Sea whale ships and by frankincense, with little sparrows' breasts. Sea lulls us with his tomes to his strong hand from the centres of the spoil, and the other more mysterious than the father? Sea. Be therefore ready every moment. Every machine there's the vanity, and settle the matter end simply with grief when I wound a man who has so often fly incommodiously close round any of our culinary and agricultural plants; as I can see. And now you and me, o king, the push of you, chivalrous Terence, hand me those men and what about them?

Re Po Mo

2011-12-15T17:19:00.001-06:00

Today I received computer parts in the post along with D&G's A Thousand Plateaus!Today I went to the library and picked up my on-hold copy of McLuhan's Understanding Media!Tonight there is a party!This weekend I am working and then there is another party and then I am working some more!BARBARISM BARBARBARBABRBARBABRABRARBABRBARBABABARBABRBABARBRBARBRBARB

Inter

2011-12-07T12:03:00.001-06:00

I am the son of myself. I am my own son.Had a successful interaction on gTalk today with an Indian call center (individual identity uncertain) in which I allayed their concerns about a project we had been working on that just shut down. Felt all globalized and helpful and busting stereotypes.I am building a computer. It will be known as Hal.My aunt Jan chided me for laziness, so now I've renewed caffeine consumption. The lubricator of the Enlightenment will facilitate my rise.

Croat

2011-11-30T14:29:00.001-06:00

Do not meanto be such aselfish boobFire-brained thisafternoon becausethis morning ina dusty paintywarehouse we placed placardson orange racks,our tools aULINE ladderand diagram forinventory logistics(bin CC28A1)That was a lieFire-brained becauseI listened to Belleand Sebastian fouralbums worth allafternoonSpencer: you know that one song that's like "wub wub wub wamp wamp wamp"Maybe I will be OKstaying in KC at thisfamily job if Charliegets to retire andbecome the nicestbiker dude of all time.Most of the timepeople do not readmy brilliant andclear work-related emails.Today I wrotecode that shouldhave been donea while ago.Emails blow.I am not aselfish boobbecause I amgoing to buythe heart ofBob's computerand put it intoa new monolithof my ownso he canupgrade. Andstart saving.I might be selfishboob if I get anew place and thenspend my free timeplaying Skyrimon said monolith.That would be lame.Today on my wayto work I realizedthat if I wereto sing karaokethe most appropriatesong for me to dowould be Big Pun'sStill Not a Player('Clean', in whichthey replace 'fuck'with 'crush')in an attempt tomake fun of myselfto reinforce howI no longer wantthat to be funny.I am looking forward to recovering my idand seeing my friends tonight :)My code works inone usage case!More tests onthe morrow,time to driveto Lawrenceto meet withthe venerableLuke U.

Sorry for Partying

2011-11-22T14:15:00.001-06:00

So, I had a drink and half on Friday and two drinks on Sunday. Moderation, man! With the holidays arriving, and six weeks of sobriety under my belt, it was time to practice. Still plan to go a year without uncontrolled intoxication, New Year's traditions be damned. Really I want to go my whole life without losing control like I used to.

In ten days I gained five pounds. Last night I learned proper weight-lifting techniques. I will be a beefcake in no time. I've grown out of several pairs of pants already.

Today I received an email with the subject "Your DNA sample has arrived at the lab" from 23andMe. So they got that tube I filled with spit for them. The Future, man!

I've been re-reading Cyclonopedia by Reza Negarestani. Since the last time I read it the Arab Spring happened. Relevance! Reza also wrote a great essay explaining/contrasting Islamic and Christian theology in their relation to the idea of the Apocalypse which I've nearly completed. Switched over to the King James edition of the Bible, which is more fun. Mired in Leviticus, though. Tried again to get into Kant's Critique of Pure Reason, no dice thus far. I failed Modern Philosophy class so I kind of have a chip on my shoulder about that book, but I can't help that its so boring. Bruce Sterling is the opposite of boring. His short stories are fun and jam-packed with great ideas that he doesn't bother to explain because he's not your typical pedantic sci-fi writer (or a philosopher for that matter).

So, yeah, I'm doing well, in case you were wondering. I'll try to keep this sort of thing to my journals from now on and write less self-centered posts about more engaging topics.

One Month

2011-11-06T17:55:00.000-06:00

One month of warm, sugary, active sobriety. I feel like a much better monkey. No alcohol, caffeine, nicotine, THC, pills, powders, patches, or other drugs. My goal is one year.

I went back to and finished Ovid's Metamorphoses, as well as the first volume of D&G's Capitalism and Schizophrenia. I think I would mostly like to avoid becoming-animal. Maybe I will pick up A Thousand Plateaus later, but for now I will focus on The Good Book. I tried to get into Bruce Sterling's short stories, courtesy of the Corinth Library, but only finished a couple so far. Maybe I should use one of those social networks for book readers.

In other news, I updated my essay on spam with my favorite tweets by Jambot Markov. I should give a shout-out for inspiration to @rBecky, a Twitter bot who puts to shame all other on-screen manifestations of Hollywood's 'manic-pixie dream-girl' archetype. Jambot's next iteration is unscheduled. I'm ideating.

These Ascetic Days

2011-10-22T00:25:00.000-05:00

I am sober and single and seething. In therapy. Un-medicated. Exercising. Working. Applied for diversion. Need to hunker down and build out a reporting UI for call-center managers and brokers. Hungry all the time. If I don't eat enough it feels like my brain is on fire. If I eat a lot of bread or turkey it feels like my brain is on fire. If I hang out with friends with whom I drank or drugged in the past it feels like my brain is on fire. Right now I'm going to lunch in 30 minutes but my brain feels cool enough. At night I read the Bible which I started recently from the beginning. I'm using the New Oxford Annotated edition. The bookmark I'm using says "Set high goals for yourself and work hard to achieve them!" with a picture of George W. Bush in a classroom standing addressing the class, his hand on the head of an Asian kid. I've also read through the Tao Te Ching twice recently, increasing its lead as the book I have read the most times. I've stopped reading Ovid's Metamorphoses and D&G's Anti-Oedipus both at about 3/4s through, put them in a box with all the books on my nightstand I wasn't reading, mostly books I bought my sister Mimi for her Greek and Roman Myth class. Finished Foucault's Madness & Civilization in Wisconsin while drunk. It's been two weeks sober now. Two weeks has always been my limit. This weekend will be psychologically difficult. I plan to sand rust off my car with my dad and touch up the Antique Sage Pearl paint. Then we are going to visit baby Madison Lee Martin. Otherwise I think I will go to the YMCA and the Corinth Library. I have tried to read Guns, Germs and Steel by Jared Diamond. Too much academic detail. He's trying to explain why Europeans took over the world, and it seems like what he came up with was "Thanks, mother earth." Living in the suburbs with my mother and commuting, I feel like I'm not showing enough gratitude. Yet I'm staying here for the winter, when global warming will sound nice.Voyeurs, how was that for you?

American Socialism

2011-10-03T16:05:00.002-05:00

Our European examples, oft cited in liberal journalism with implicit calls for a more robust social safety net, have the distinct advantage of much smaller territories and more settled, homogeneous populations. There is no such thing as pan-European (EU) health-care. Nations smaller than many American states implement these policies, funded by taxation. American political figures act over a much broader demographic and geographic base than European ones. This seems too often ignored in the press.

The problem of American politics seems more one of scale than of policy specifics. A weakened Federal government would allow for states to implement socio-economic policies more in tune with the needs and values of their constituents, instead of national figures having to navigate the "cross-cutting cleavages" and confused, diluted rhetoric of Federal politics.

That said, I have little idea about what I write, don't believe much of what I read contains fresh substance, and am sick of political discourse.

Fourth

2011-07-04T20:10:00.007-05:00

Lady Gaga's "The Edge of Glory" repeated in my head for days. Hell, I tried praying to make her stop— which worked for a bit— but fast exhausted me. I tweeted "Worst earworm ever" and Vicky reminded me that 'earworm' already connotes pretty negatively. I went for a bike ride through Mission Hills and enjoyed the lactic acid. Some guys driving by hollered "whoa" and "queer" to my back after I had turned right to pedal up a hill. During this ride the earworm lost some punch. In my room I tried Grizzly Bear's "Two Weeks" and on my ride The Beatles' "Mean Mr. Mustard" but to fleeting avail. Now I'm listening to Sun Ra's Strange Strings in my room at my mom's. As much fun as I had in college, civilized living wins. Most of my career at uni felt like middle school: mentally foggy, emotionally volatile, sexually informative, politically disillusioning. I learned much, particularly to take everything I read or hear and twist all the words until I find a laugh. That strategy works for the Gaga earworm problem, too. I can make the song sound more or less slutty or absurd or catchy at will. Mission Accomplished, George W. Bush style. God Bless America: land of the free and home of the slave. Good thing I have Dave Ramsey to keep me my master. Now I just have to quit drinking so much coffee on an empty stomach in the morning so little snippets of pop music I heard on the radio don't drive me mental. Happy Fourth of July to everybody, especially all you Iraqis, Afghanis, and Libyans out there. You're welcome.

Home Is

2011-06-03T01:08:00.010-05:00

I've got to admit, it's getting better. Last time this happened I'd be sneaking outside to smoke a joint and then going back to the basement to read spam. This time I walk ten steps to the kitchen to take a shot of gin and then go back to my room to read Bloomberg. These are the makings, fruits, and aftermath of my liberal arts degree.

Edit: speaking of fruits, I should have my thesis edited, polished and online by simmer's end.

Post-Grad Nightstand Reading Inventory

2011-05-25T19:20:00.005-05:00

Guns, Germs, and Steel by Jared Diamond, page 40. Borrowed from Erica.

Hydriotaphia: Urne-Buriall by Sir Thomas Browne, page 67. Borrowed from Kent.

Anti-Oedipus by Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, page 84. Bought from Amazon in February.

Madness & Civilization by Michel Foucault, page 159. Bought from Amazon in February.

Finnegans Wake by James Joyce, page 109. Bought from Barnes and Noble with Timbae around December of 2007.

Sixty four

2011-05-20T01:01:00.002-05:00

Control this, desiring-machines. Learn when to quit pushing.

Good night, Fortuna.

Counter Culture

2011-03-17T20:21:00.002-05:00

I remember how, in 6th grade, after days of tension and recognition, I sat next to the new girl during a geometry lesson and we talked and everyone was quiet and listened as into a mirror.

I am been born

2011-03-14T08:47:00.002-05:00

Also born on pi day: Albert Einstein, Ludwig Grimm, Diane Arbus, Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Kirby Puckett, Taylor Hanson, Stephen Curry, and Sasha Grey.

Guardian Angel

2011-02-17T01:07:00.004-06:00

Hear my prayer.

(As long as I don't watch video for too long my screen is fine)

Insane Poetry

2011-01-26T00:59:00.006-06:00

I received a book in the mail today, called "The Art of Recklessness" by Dean Young. He needs a heart transplant, I heard somewhere (on Twitter?) and so I bought this book of his thinking it was a book of poems but instead it's a book of prose about poetry in a scholarly playful vein. To the point, my skimming and reading of what caught my eye in his book inspired me to copy and past a poem, which I excerpted earlier on this blog. This poem was written in a continuous TextEdit stream-of-consciousness and saved at 5:02 AM on Tuesday, April 24, 2007. Not sure if at that point in time(?) I had yet improvised ritual sacrifice to Dionysos of an entire bottle of Garnier Fructis shampoo-conditioner in the dorm bathtub. This is adolescent and embarassing and pain-full yet redmptive. A product of dysphoric mania, if you want to get medical. Let the exhumation begin:

Whitman will be the death of me.
but not ME.

I wish I would have straight up told you
but you stole my heart,
and its too cold to
love you
like i used to
so please refrain from caroling
because its crazy fucked up
and i'll put one in the cup
because i don't care,
i just liked his hair,
does that make me vain
i know i'm insane!
please explain.

bad poetry,
oh noetry.

you are the finest fox to ever jump out of the box.

thanks for being my friend, even when I'm an island. i want to talk to you on the phone soon.

sorry this was so ridiculously emo. like elmo. he was red and cute and funny but reminds me of bugs bunny because his nose was like a carrot and he was always getting beaten by oscar the grouch, who was always cheatin'

when's the meetin'?
who's the cretin?
i just love the whip
and i know what that makes me
a sado-masochist
but i've never been kissed;
sincerely,
clearly,
its a yearly thing
this spring
forward
fall back
listen to the sound
of yo booty goin' smack
like gack.

thats crap. but if you like that,
i hope you get a good laugh
or a good cry because this tension
within me has just been building up so high
i thought that slavery was funny
and had an oral fixation like bugs bunny.

i'm not sure if this is funny; but I do sincerely love you.
I wish I had walked you to the door
I HATE TO BE SUCH A FUCKING BORE
but i'm sore
sore from mary jane
her sweet caress drove me insane.

google is talking to me. that is bad.
google is a very large number. too large for any mind.
howly aptly timed!
i speak when i rhyme
and rhyme when i speak
and sometimes come across
as though i am very meek
but i'm over that creek
a gypsy made me go eek
and let out a shriek like a wolf in the night

but that wolf will die soon
and though people will lampoon
i will hoodwink them enough
that they're all filled with fluff
from processed stuff
what a muff

dead meat scares me but only a bit,
because i know that i can overcome it
i threw a fit.
i bit.
i was bitten.
i was smitten.
she was like a kitten,
and i, a black puppy
floating along like a stupid guppy.

this is a race,
to the same place,
but i dont want to win.
i want to slow down and maybe begin
again
in a sense.
trim the hedges,
mend the fence.

i have created for myself an intellectual suburbia and gas prices are sky-rocketing. fuck geology. i like biology. not sociology, thats a folly see.

i'm scared of blue people. but who knew people
could become like smurfs
one with the turf
one earth.

i don't know what to worship anymore. the popes in the middle ages were pimps. disgusting. opulent. arrogant. scare them then they'll be sheep and we will be a bald eagle,
the birds of prey. and live to scavenge another day.

the jungle haunts me like i read it yesterday.

Drug Psychosis is a BITCH. Like marry jane. Divorce that shit and move on. thats what my mom did. pull it out of the ground, compost it. sustainability is the key. a very long and intricate key. too long for any one person, really. but if you stretch it out, the intricacies go away and it becomes all manner of grokable objects, if you'll excuse my french.

i feel like an alien here. i see the ants buzz around their little hive and wonder if they are just the stingers of dead bees. or the smoke particles from burnt trees.

I AM RADIOACTIVE
TOXIC WASTE
MIX ME UP
INTO A PASTE

I GOT into the game early.
the virgin mary seduced me.
and then it was a woodland nymph who stole my foreskin
and made me scrambled.

so i went for a stroll,
and ended up in a knoll
only to find
i don't believe in math
WHAT?

liminality
brings so many things
TOGETHER

AND GOD SAID!

LET THERE BE LIGHT!

Save Me

2011-01-07T14:08:00.002-06:00

How does one save another human being? Does one, like, download them to one's hard-drive? Would a devout Christian agree that we have all been saved onto Jesus's hard-drive?

I took 5mg of Adderall at 9:30am yesterday and had a PBR at 5:30pm. Today I want to rip a Greek's throat out with my teeth.

Disturbing, Violent Imagery in American Media

2010-12-07T00:39:00.010-06:00

Ms. Knutson
English 102
15 May 2008

—Besides reproducing, violence is what humanity does best. The main attraction of successful blockbusters also plays a prominent role in religious canons. Every day, news media companies dutifully report the latest incidents of violence around the world. For those who do not live in war zones, such top-down communication is the main source of information on the conflicts that concern them. But what constitutes a conflict of concern heavily depends on the consumers. The employees of media conglomerates know this and inform accordingly. An overly shocking piece of information, image, or video will not be published. However, as the internet becomes more widespread and influential, traditional media outlets cannot afford to hold back too much. They must tell their audience what important events have taken place, even if they are difficult to handle. To appropriately disturb an American audience, editors need to invite controversy in order to capture the attention of people whose sensibilities are continually challenged by other forms of mass media.
—Different people are disturbed by different things. Disturbing information causes anxiety, fear, or some other unpleasant change in mental state. That which disturbs often implies human mortality or challenges basic cultural assumptions. In their essay “Tragedy of the Common: Markedness and the Creation of Mundane Tragedy,” Stevphen Shukaitis and Rachel Lichtenfeld attempt to show “how the integration of images of tragedy and atrocity into daily life gradually move such events from highly marked occurrences to less visible occurrences” (471). Towards the end of their discussion they explore how this process is used for political ends and the maintenance of normative values. Sensory information influences thought processes and disturbing information can consequently inspire action. How reporters select and present information plays an important role in how people perceive the reality the reporters attempt to capture. For example, the press reported Saddam Hussein's crimes in the 80s and 90s, but, except for his invasion of Kuwait, they treated him like any other oppressive dictator. In 2003, however, these crimes were brought to the public's attention as evidence that Hussein was willing to use any means necessary to hurt his enemies, regardless of international conventions. Coupled with the flawed intelligence that Hussein's regime was actively pursuing a nuclear bomb, had stockpiles of chemical weapons, and supported al-Qaida, the American public largely backed the invasion of Iraq.
—While the Iraq war divided the country before it began, supporters started to question the Bush administration’s motives as the war progressed. The photographs from Abu Ghraib prison played an important role in this process and are some of the most disturbing images from the Iraq war. Taken by a soldier with a digital camera, they show scenes of Americans torturing Iraqi prisoners in ways that would undoubtedly constitute cruel and unusual in the United States. A widely shown picture from this set can be seen in Figure 1 on the attached page. More shocking images from Abu Ghraib were shown on television, including scenes of physical torture and smiling American soldiers in front of abused inmates. Unpublished from this same set were pictures of blindfolded prisoners being demeaned and sexually humiliated. Further investigation revealed that the C.I.A. and military intelligence encouraged such tactics in order to break the prisoners’ spirits (Hersh 2).
—Elaborating on the content of the photo collection and American use of torture in the War on Terror is beyond the scope of this essay, as the most shocking of these images were never widely shown. A visual analysis of the photo in Figure 1 demonstrates how an image can disturb the Western psyche and cause controversy without showing anything explicitly horrific.
In this iconic photo, a male prisoner wears a black hood and black sheet, stands on a box, and holds his arms at shoulder level. Electrical wires hang from his hands. This is clearly a scene of torture. The prisoner is barely clothed and kept blind by the hood. Balancing on the box, his captors presumably shock him repeatedly, resulting in him falling to the floor. Looking deeper, this image also contains serious symbolic baggage. The black hood and sheet are reminiscent of the white robes and pointed hats of the Ku Klux Klan. Looked at with this in mind, the image can evoke thoughts of the American demon of racism manifesting itself in an evolved form. The prisoner's pose evokes an even more powerful and international religious symbol. Electrical wires replace the nails that held Jesus to his cross, reminding technophilic Westerners of the sinister side of civilization. These two provocative but subtle pictorial associations destroy any illusion that the moral high ground belongs to the United States.
—Before the Abu Ghraib scandal, there was still a sense that maybe the US was doing something good in Iraq. While the administration changed the focus of its rhetoric from protecting America from weapons of mass destruction to liberating the oppressed Iraqi people, faith in American superiority remained. Abu Ghraib’s sobering implications took a while to sink in and never did for some – according to a Pentagon survey conducted in September 2006, over a third of American soldiers believe torture is sometimes justified (“Contaminated” par. 2). After the torture discussion in the press revealed the callous attitudes of Bush’s cabinet and many resigned, the coverage of the war became less intense; people pay less attention when their side is not clearly in the right.
—The photo chosen for analysis is, admittedly, an exceptional case. Though traditionally liberal media outlets covered Abu Ghraib extensively, televised coverage of the war has not been as critical. The New York Times recently published a lengthy article by an investigative reporter examining how military analysts who appeared on broadcast television, cable news and NPR were often defense lobbyists and military contractors. So, the people widely-trusted news outlets deferred to on-air for objective perspectives on the war stood to personally profit from the conflict and worked closely with the Department of Defense to actively sell the war. According to Media Matters, a web-based, not-for-profit media research and information center, those mentioned in the article appeared or were quoted on spoken newscasts 4,500 times since January 1, 2002 (“Military” par. 1).
—As this shocking information and Lichtenfeld and Shukaitis's essay make clear, the assumptions and desires of the established institutional order permeate the news. Television, magazines, newspapers, movies, literature, music, web sites and other forms of mass media and entertainment construct a consensus reality. Most Americans do not risk disturbing encounters in their daily lives, so external media provide the most shocking visual information. Horror movies, in particular, tend to push the limits of what is considered shocking. It seems counter-intuitive, however, that people would deliberately frighten themselves. Stephen King, in a short but persuasive essay entitled “Why We Crave Horror Movies,” explains the appeal of such movies – they allow people to confront and enjoy the morbid, nasty, and gruesome aspects of life from which movie-goers are often detached. This is why “good liberals often shy away from horror films” (par. 12). What King seems to ignore, however, is that paying attention to international affairs allows screen-watchers to confront horror as well.
—Not surprisingly, horror films rarely carry as much political baggage as the nightly news. If it is not explicit, it is normally implied who the “good guys” and “bad guys” are in each reported story. Less people would watch the news if it were presented as senseless carnage. News stories about American soldiers protecting the land of the free overseas borrow conventions from Hollywood action movies and vice versa.
—Around the time Iran was scrutinized by the UN on suspicion of a covert nuclear weapons program and John McCain sang “Bomb bomb bomb, bomb bomb Iran,” the movie 300 was released. It is loosely based on the battle of Thermopylae, in which a group of three hundred Spartan soldiers held off a much larger invading Persian force for three days. The movie was criticized in the press for its portrayal of the ancient Persians, who are the ancestors of modern day Iranians. Based on a comic book of the same name, the movie portrayed the Greeks as stereotypically masculine and militaristic. While the Spartans probably looked more like modern-day Egyptians, the actors chosen to play them are a cross-section of Euro-Americans. The Persians, on the other hand, were portrayed as monsters and led by an androgynous, hedonistic giant. Even though, as Slavoj Žižek notably pointed out, the movie correctly portrays the Persians as the imperialist aggressors, the differences between the opposing sides are heavily exaggerated (par. 2). The dialogue directly appeals to American values with lines like “freedom isn’t free” while demonizing a group already perceived as Other. Though it is no gorier than a typical R-rated action flick, the movie is not disturbing in any positive sense; it simply exploits and reinforces antagonistic cultural stereotypes during a time of tension – and comes troublingly close to propaganda.
—If editors want to provoke thought and action critical of the established political order and compete with movies like 300 for the attention of American audiences, they must consider the implications of what they report and what it communicates to their audience. They must also be wary of outside sources of information. To effectively inform the only assumption necessary is that the audience is curious and able to follow a story told in everyday language. To insure curiosity, disturbing information can be effective, but focusing on human stories can help offset the ennui caused by news from abroad and connect such news to viewers' lives.
—Modern Americans are passive observers of large amounts of violence. Their perception of real violence cannot help but be influenced by the narrative structures that frame Hollywood’s violent fantasies. It is important that disturbing information continue to inform the public discourse. Without it, the nation would lose its vitality and eventually stagnate. Future generations need to be exposed to scenes of real violence in an informative context so they can come to terms with this part of life and become interested in the real conflicts of our world. The case of the iconic picture from Abu Ghraib shows how images can undercut the passivity of jaded audiences and communicate a large amount of information without carnage or indecency. Because the picture speaks to Westerners on a basic pictorial level, it has the potential to cut through the calluses created by previous images and cause people to think critically about the consequences of their government’s actions.

Works Cited

"Contaminated: One in three American soldiers in Iraq condone torture." The Economist. 10 May 2007. 16 Apr. 2008.

Hersh, Seymour M. “Torture at Abu Ghraib.” The New Yorker. 10 May 2004. 16 Apr. 2008.

King, Stephen. “Why We Crave Horror Movies.” 20 Apr. 2008.

“Military analysts named in Times exposé appeared or were quoted more than 4,500 times on broadcast nets, cables, NPR.” Media Matters. 13 May 2008. Media Matters for America. 14 May 2008.

Shukaitis, Stevphen and Rachel Lichtenfeld. “Tragedy of the Common: Markedness and the Creation of Mundane Tragedy.” The Curious Reader: Exploring Personal and Academic Inquiry. 2^nd ed. Eds. Bruce Ballenger and Michelle Payne. New York: Longman, 2006. 471-477.

Žižek, Slavoj. “The True Hollywood Left.” Lacan.com. 2007. 21 Apr. 2008.

Figure 1

From Salon.com
Accessed on April 16, 2008

The polytics of the ()holey complex

2010-11-30T10:38:00.005-06:00

A pack of tails: Thousands of insects scavenging a tomb somewhere in a Zoroastrian village near the city of Yazd; a warfare of vibration. These exhuming machines unleash a nonhuman silence best characterized as acoustic smog, a molecular noise wreaking sonic havoc. Sounds are rabies, spread by rat tails.
— Reza Negarestani, Cyclonopedia, p 53, ch Bacterial Archeology: Nether, Sub-Soil and Xeno-Chemical Insiders, § MACHINES ARE DIGGING

November

2010-11-01T00:20:00.004-05:00

National Novel Writing month. I participated in national poetry month last April on this blog, writing punny poems about my experiences taking pharmaceuticals. This month I would like to write a novel. Of course you'll see what I write each day without much editing so it'll be total shit. Play:

Twenty three days later... I find this draft of a blog post. If I were to write a novel, I'd have to use a pen. Like a year ago I started writing down ideas for a narco-political thriller in a moleskine that I now use to prop up my laptop to prevent overheating. Fuck. That. This. Fuck.

Selah

2010-10-12T01:35:00.003-05:00

There I sit now,

In this smallest oasis,

Just like a date,

Brown, sweet through, oozing gold, lusting

For the round mouth of a girl,

But even more for girlish,

Ice-cold, snow-white, cutting

Incisors: for after these

Pants the heart of all hot dates.

-Zarathustra's Shadow, The Wanderer, Thus Spoke Zarathustra Part IV, by Friedrich Nietzsche, translated by Walter Kaufmann

Choice Tweets

2010-09-22T03:03:00.000-05:00

The nation that makes a great distinction between its scholars and its warriors will have its thinking done by cowards, and its fighting done by fools.

—Thucydides

FO EVA JUNG

2010-07-06T14:46:00.007-05:00

Remember that time as a kid when you saw that awesome picture you drew for your mom in the trash? How devastating.

Jesse Custer

2010-05-12T19:19:00.002-05:00

Rest in Peace Professor Tony Genova

Read Comic Books

2010-05-03T19:51:00.000-05:00

Because it's rude to talk about yourself.

Batman, The Invisibles, Dream, Spider Jerusalem, Wolverine

Science Fictions

2010-05-03T17:30:00.000-05:00

Looking through old notebooks can be science-fictional:

Geometry is intuitive
Algebra is self-conscious

The Indo-Europeans brought cows to India. The cows were sacred to the conquerers. These divine animals began to eat the cannabis plants which grew wild in India and the cannabinoids got into the milk of the bovine, leading to an enhanced mystical mindset among the light-skinned, aggressive conquerers. Justification for Aryan rule was mostly physical as they had better weapons and fighting techniques. The cannabinoids got into their heads and they began eating and burning the sacred local plant. This led to impotent priests, sickly but deeply profound.

Genetically engineer trees into skyscraper-like dwelling places.

A digital keyboard that capitalizes by pressure sensors under the keys that increase the size of the letter the more pressure you put on it

dot org, cy borg
hurricane
novacaine
dot com, car bomb
A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, LSD
Hippocampus
holy mantis

Drowsy drosphilia
buzz in suburbia
but whatever you
do, don't fall asleep or you'll be abrainducted

I thought it would be funny. I mean,
Honestly, what's the fuss about?
Those primitive monkeys were just as
good as any other fuel for the Tigon.
They were outside that fucking nature reserve
we gave them, anyway ~~Sentiment~~

December 21st, 2012 is the birthdate of the Mahdi, the one who will unite the descendants of Abraham

Vice

2010-04-21T05:43:00.004-05:00

Humility is not a virtue propitious to the artist. It is often pride, emulation, avarice, malice--all the odious qualities--which drive a man to complete, elaborate, refine, destroy, renew his work until he has made something that gratifies his pride and envy and greed. And in so doing he enriches the world more than the generous and good, though he may lose his own soul in the process. That is the paradox of artistic achievement.

-Evelyn Waugh

Passive Aggressive

2010-03-02T20:50:00.009-06:00

A Family Conversation, Overheard in a Coffeeshop nearly One Year Ago

-It's like Matthew twenty two twenty one instead of John three sixteen.
-What?
-Give unto Caesar what is Caesar's
-I want a Caesar salad
-...
-I'm hungry
-You're going to have a seizure?
-Ha...ha
-...
-Let's go
-No I still need to finish my tea
-We could have made this tea at home
-Yeah, it's just tea with ice, like real watery and mild
-Well you were the one who wanted to come here
-Yeah but I didn't know the tea would be so mild
-Why didn't you get coffee?
-Well, tea is different, like the enzymes it has are better
-But they both have caffeine, it's like the active ingredient
-Yeah but the caffeine is wrapped up in different enzymes in tea
-...Well, I'm done with it, anyways
-I'll drive the red car and you can drive the convertible, have the wind tussle your hair
-The only problem is my golf clubs are in the red car
-Do you want to go hit some golf balls right now?
-If we do we should go now because it's going to close
-No it's open 'til like ten
-Yeah but we want to get there before people who get off work early
-...was that some sort of passive aggressive thing, like
-No, no, not passive aggressive.

A re-evaluation of why I write

2010-02-16T18:24:00.009-06:00

I seem to have encountered what is commonly referred to as writer's block. Which has me thinking about why I write in the first place. Or more specifically, what I am trying to do when I write, what purpose my writing serves.

In the past writing has mostly been an outlet for me when I was emotionally or intellectually overwhelmed. Much of my early writing is suffused with depression and what must be called emo, though I wasn't into that scene at the time. So, kind of like writing for a diary, keeping track of days and feelings.

In school I wrote because I had to, and found that in certain cases I enjoyed doing so. If I liked my teacher I felt like a writing assignment was a chance at a monologue towards them tailored to the particular topic du jour. Otherwise school writing served to prove my intelligence and worthiness of a strong grade.

After my forays into psychedelia my writing became focused on capturing as much as I could of those voyages, feelings and thoughts and motivations and justifications. I had a strange idea that the drugs were tools with which I could accomplish mental work. They worked that way to a degree but often I lost control of the direction of the trip and found myself in unanticipated headplaces.

Now I primarily write for blogs, which ties into my diary-like compulsion to write and self-analyze, and for school -- essays and short stories. Essays are thought experiments, pure and simple, and I feel comfortable writing those for the most part. A short story, however, is what I currently am suffering a block on.

Typically my short stories have been accounts of my past. For some reason since tuning in I've been less creative in my fiction and more dedicated to drawing out old memories into fleshy stories, combining my surely somewhat fictitious memory with what I make up, trying to stay true to my emotive associations with the events I am fictionalizing. This may be the source of my writer's block.

Basing fiction in what you know is a rule of sorts. However, I think I am basing my fiction a bit too literally in what I remember, what I feel I know about my own past. Perhaps this amounts to an attempt to solidify my sense of self which was destabilized after all the drugs. Instead of dredging up minutia from my memory and trying to weave them together into some kind of coherant and meaningful story, I need to free myself from those artificial constraints and just make up plot. My memories are not short fiction. They live in a medium all their own. Trying to turn them into short fiction cheapens both.

If I am to keep up with my work this semester and survive academically, I need to separate my memory and my fiction. True stories might be powerful but I cannot tell a true story about what happened to me in middle school because my memories of middle school are not recent or complete enough for a true story. They affirm the truth I know but are not the truth. That, indeed, lies beyond me or any other human being.

So, why do I write short stories now? I can't quite say. Maybe reading Badiou's Affirmationist manifesto again might help me put my reasons into words. Or perhaps the reasons will come to me over time as I work. My Fiction Writing teacher Adam Desnoyers wrote something salient and poignant relating to this topic in a recent email:
The artist is about the specific and about honesty. Instead of reducing human beings to abstractions like goverments (especially at war) consistently do, the artist's job is to complicate the identities of people and be specific about their humanity.
Word up.

Also, helpful and instructive are Italo Calvino's five literary values: lightness, quickness, exactitude, visibility, and multiplicity. I read the book, Memos for the New Millenium, in which he explains these values. I should channel that wisdom, and not belabor my task.
Tell a story.

The Next Great War

2010-02-09T08:38:00.001-06:00

China will dethrone the USA as the hegemonic empire. Much of the fighting will happen through the internet, like DDoS attacks on utilities and central hubs, and between robots, like drone planes and remote controlled hummers. A nuclear weapon may detonate, perhaps on the Eastern seaboard of the USA assuming missile defense isn't built. Maybe some satellites will be shot down. Likely the war will precipitate from ecological crises throughout the globe and the resulting chaos.

Surfing

2010-01-29T04:07:00.001-06:00

Never have I ever. Unless the web counts.

During cold times I find myself wishing I lived in Louisiana or California or Greece or Brazil. Nevertheless, cold enforces an austerity and social cooperation that warmer regions lack. Passions are dimmed, energy's constrained. But shells keep warm.

I've been cleaning for over a month now. A month and days. There's still mess and there always will be. Clean is a process. Ebb and flow, crash and roll. Balance on board among waves that are particles that are waves. Smile.

Practice your spelling. Use your body.

Addendum: I feel younger this year.

Trace

2009-12-14T10:54:00.000-06:00

Sometimes it's hard to speak with certainty. Boundaries seem nebulous. Sickness abides. Will I be forever sick and have to be forever medicated? What an awful thought. Maybe it's true, though. Often my ills seem curable. Or not an illness at all. Over and over and chronic.

I feel well enough, but I'm not doing what I am supposed to do. And that is OK with me. Something must change, and something will.

Appropriate, like a pirate.

Shaggy the Cowardly Stoner

2009-11-30T12:46:00.017-06:00

A reality sitcom for the small screen:

Shaggy, an unkempt slouching paranoid, lives in a messy urban apartment with his neurotic lawyer girlfriend Velma and their mini-bloodhound-like dog Scrappy. They are stoned all the time. Shaggy works as a private eye for friends and acquaintances. Scrappy's enthusiastic nose and barked responses are the key factor in solving most of their cases. He and Shaggy are together at all times, even in public. Velma helps them theorize about their cases when she's not working on her own. Coincidence and surreality abound.

Possible cases:

Lost keys/bags/phones

Petty thefts

Weird bruises

Stained clothes

Bizarre graffiti

Suspected infidelities

Missing fast food items

Possible Villains:

Nun wearing a Nixon mask

Crazy homeless dude

Preppy customer

Drunk/High self

Careless employee

Meddlesome hacker

Bitter professor

To be continued... when in a more appropriate headspace.

To Live In

2009-10-20T23:29:00.004-05:00

Today in Western Civilizations class I made a list of cities in which I would like to live for a time if I were to become a nomadic expat.

Hong Kong

Geneva, Switzerland

Mumbai, India

Lagos, Nigeria

Salvador, Brazil

Beirut, Lebanon

Participate

2009-09-23T05:13:00.012-05:00

We act every day.

After my cousin got married on August 1st an uncle, two cousins, a soon-to-be cousin-in-law and I went to a meat-market bar in The Power & Light District in KC, MO. We were drinking and smoked a funny cigarette on the streets. In the loud warm blinking flashing claustrophobic bar many pretty girls were dancing on a stage. I wanted to dance with them so I got up on stage and did so. I heard the DJ talking over the music and off-stage grunts. I didn't realize, until a fat head-shaking bouncer came on stage and told me to get off - girls only - that they'd been making noises at me. No suits near the stripper poles. I was embarrassed. But I am reinterpreting the incident now as feminist performance art.

My best favorite research papers from days yore -- "The Lebanese Civil War" and "The History of the Internet" -- are tossed forever.

Inauguration

2009-08-20T03:44:00.003-05:00

Written on January 21st, 2009

Academia and evangelical fundamentalism do not mix. The United States treats politics like a secular religion. A fascinating spectacle but worrying at the same time. The invocation of God in state rhetoric implies divine mandate. Barack at least emphatically included non-believers in his speech, but that emphasis tells of the ubiquity of religious belief. To rule such a powerful and symbolic entity, Obama must employ a mixture of PoMo, doubt-based Abrahamism and empirical, definition-based Academism. Essentially, he must be a CEO. America, Inc. has to be sold to the world. It would be hard to find someone else with a story and pedigree that fills this role as well as Barama.

Right

2009-08-17T03:55:00.004-05:00

They say that writings have the power to determine the future. Write a story, it resonates through your life, the lives of those who read it. Frightening, a bit. I'm amazed at how much I can see with my glasses on. You have to take them off for a while to appreciate it, though. How aware are you available tomorrow night? Ghosts walk the streets at night, haven't you heard? The vampires have taken over and all walk during the days thanks to technology. Gotta love technology.

Move Unmoved

2009-07-01T14:32:00.001-05:00

Biotic myopic monad

Stop. You can't. OK?

Being stuck is not real;

what you see when you look

in the mirror.

You can't stop a windfall;

Less, less, less, less less!

soak: of animals we're bad

at letting a crest fall.

diction contradicts significant --

call golden foam.

But it's a plant!..change your name

and save the paystub.

Found an April poem that for whatever reason I drafted but didn't post. I'm posting it now because...it's the First of July.

WELL

2009-06-25T14:23:00.014-05:00

Working all day four days a week bores me but pays me. I will receive a healthy dollop of purchasing power one week before Pitchfork. Playin' the game...

I've acquired some Romulan. Or mayhaps it's called Romulus. Regardless, I'm now acquainted with a key player in a passionate epic. Quest visions tumble through my mind, promising loot and experience points.

Long form escapes me. Too much Tweeting. Too many Transitions to juggle.

Yesterday, I played Prototype on the XBOX360. It's wicked. Imagine: A zumbi virus has leaked from GENTEK HQ on Manhattan Island. Blackwatch and the Marines are trying to quash the outbreak with gas-masked brute. Alex, our protagonist, wakes up on a GENTEK operating table and escapes from scientific inquiry using puzzling super-powers. Consume people - absorb their health, memories, and physique - and parkour from the Chrystler to Empire State, earning Evolution Points to upgrade Alex's genome. Soon he's Spiderman, Wolverine, The Hulk, Dr. Octopus, Superman, Mystique, Punisher, and more, all rolled into one. And Manhattan's your GTA-style playground. Except for the infected zones; they're your Left4Dead-style playground. So, in summary, bioweapons of mass disruption battle in The Big Apple to unravel a conspiritious epidemic.

Or something like that. I often found myself neglecting the conspiracy and committing insanities. Like consuming and morphing into a suit, using a pickup truck as a battering ram, running down the street a few blocks, and throwing the burning wreckage at an angry helicopter. Or like becoming a well-dressed middle-aged blond woman and firing an assault rifle at anything that moves. Or taking disguise as a black man, hijacking a tank and runnin' up on them crackers in the city hall. Or grabbing someone I must consume to further the plot, but dragging him around for a while beforehand, like Achilles did after he killed Hector.

The Iliad begins with a singular, feminine, accusative form of a word meaning "wrath, anger."

Vespuccia

2009-06-21T12:00:00.004-05:00

It's dawn on the roof of the former tenement I live in here in the Borough. My son isn't happy about being awake: he's screaming, pacing around and being spiteful in his would-be-cute-if-it-wasn't-so-fucking-scary way. He's fifteen and I've given up sending him to doctors. Clare's standing at the balcony smoking her morning joint. I go over to her and put my arm around her waist.

"Lovely sunrise. The city's commuters have outdone themselves."

"Always so clever so early, Spence. Funny paradox about smog and sun transitions, though."

"Speaking of sun transitions, you should get him to smoke with you or put some of that stuff in his breakfast or something. These tirades were invigorating for a while but now they're just too much."

"Either that or you need to lay off the Nuvigil."

"Go drink your coffee, neanderthal."

"Go use your cyborg logic to run a cool down sequence on our little monster, clown."

So, Remiel's raving about some carbomb that just killed 33 in the Hagia Sophia when I come over to cast my spell:

"Hey, at least damage to the architecture was superficial, yeah?"

"Those terrorists don't know what they're defacing! So devoid of education."

"More educated than you, buddy."

"I read and watch and study cross-continental politics more than you or any of the so-called mullahs who send these slum dogs to their deaths."

"You'd think one of those slum-dogs might be struck by the beauty or essence or cultural memory of the place they're supposed to splatter and not go through with it."

"Not bloody likely, with all the indoctrination they've been through."

"I'm thinking we need to do a better job indoctrinating you, lil' monster. If you did this morning ritual in one of the courtyards you'd be hauled away to the pharm clinic."

"And I've had enough of your chemical meddling and armchair pathologizing, pill-head."

Sigh.

"So much animosity for a Monday morning."

Clare's swallowing her roach with a pull of coffee and then:

"Yeah, Thelema yesterday wasn't calming. Portentious is more the word."

"Well, seems like we've all done what we wilt for the morning. It's almost seven, time to get going."

News People

2009-06-19T00:52:00.009-05:00

The man sat offstage in a state of extreme unease. His eyes glanced furtively around, and his heart set the tempo for his thoughts. “Why me?” he asked, “why oh why does it have to be me. Why can’t they just give me the damn thing and get it over with.” He ran his hands through his hair nervously and sunk deeper into the chair. The din of the audience had grown, and it sounded to him like a hungry pack of babbling baboons; who, while they looked and sounded civilized enough, would rip your throat out if they deemed it appropriate. He stuck two fingers between his neck and his collar, loosing his new tie. He needed to pee in the worst way, but each time he had visited it before, the feeling had gone away.

At the sound of “Ladies and gentlemen” his heart leapt and hit his voicebox, evoking a strange noise from his throat. The announcer had stepped up to the podium. As he spoke, the man’s anxiety soared. He remembered his arms, tightly pressed against his body, and when he lifted them he became acutely aware of the sweat that had left small stains on his new shirt. When he heard his name called, he bolted upright, and stood stiffly. The announcer looked at him, smiling. He returned the smile. He stalled before going on stage. His vocal chords tightened when he saw the size of the audience, and his throat constricted at the sight of some prominent individuals. He stepped to the podium and cleared his throat, swallowed, fidgeted, swallowed, and the enunciated into the microphone:

“Cheese puffs.”

NEW POST

2009-06-12T11:21:00.002-05:00

Little activity on the blogspots these days. Maybe I scared people away with my bad rhymes. Or more really Twitter and Tumblr have made Blogger obsolete.

Anyway, I haven't done much writing as of late. Smacked out a brief scene the other day -- a couple and their kid in the morning on the roof of their building in Brooklyn, or sommat. I also uncovered an absurd little story I wrote around Sophomore year of high school. Two drafts, one page, front and back. The setup and ending are the same in both drafts but the middling bits are different. Mostly details about circumstances, those bits. Revision's something to have fun with. And I don't have to compose blank-page. Daunting, innit?

I've gabbed about putting on a play. That sounds fun but's a major undertaking. Hasn't gone beyond dreamy talk, yet. I'm taking Greek Drama and Lyric Poetry next semester, so I'll maybe pillage some of that material. I just want to act again and get better at writing dialog. And entertain people. I miss extra-cirricular activities.

This is all self-absorbed, but it's fun to share.

Environment

2009-05-29T06:33:00.005-05:00

The boy was small, with light hair and eyes that were bouncing around in their sockets. The girl was taller, with dark hair and piercing eyes.

"Hello," he said.

"Hello," she replied.

"I found it," he hazarded.

"Did you now?"

"Yes, I found it in the room."

"Oh, that room."

"Yes, that one."

"You know you're just going to lose it again."

"Yes, I know; I will find it again as well."

"Yes, I suppose you will."

She began to turn away, but he interrupted her softly:

"You will lose yours soon as well."

She smiled weakly, tiredly.

"Yes, you're right," she said, turning away, her smile widening. "I wondered how long it would take you."

***

He was sitting, waiting for the plane that would take him away. His face was worn and pre-maturely old, like his clothes. He looked around sadly, with a hint of hope in his solemn expression. As he surveyed his surroundings he saw a woman who was smiling widely, sitting behind him, a few empty seats away.

"Why are you so happy?" asked the man.

The woman looked at him and smiled and began to explain.

The voice called the man's flight, cutting off the woman's explanation.

The man swore, apologized, picked up his things and hurried to catch his plane. As he walked he glanced back at the smiling woman. She was still smiling, but her face conveyed sorrow for him. Puzzled, the man turned his face back towards his destination, putting the woman out of his mind.

***

Written on a page of notes -- first on front, second on back -- from early high school, sometime.

Unttld

2009-05-28T01:15:00.003-05:00

There once was a monkey named Stan

Who looked quite funny when he ran

He liked to sing and laugh and play

and was well known throughout the land.

Now Stan came upon a man

who wasn't much different than Stan

except for the fact that he was not well known

and looked quite natural when he ran.

The man said to Stan - "why hi"

and Stan replied with a lie

"How nice it is to see you today,

now that the sun is high."

Now a funny thing happened then,

It seems a shrunken head struck a hen

And soon another fell, then three, then five,

and Stan wished he could count higher than ten.

"Oh no it's raining shrunken heads!"

the man yelled

and they both wished that they were dead.

Probably written around Sophomore year of high school.

And so

2009-05-01T20:31:00.001-05:00

that was National Poetry Month. Happy May Day, comrades.

No Title

2009-04-29T16:00:00.002-05:00

this is a race
to the same place
but i dont want to win
i want to slow down and maybe begin
again
in a sense
trim the hedges
mend the fence

from a text file saved April 24th, 2007 5:02 AM

Accuse, Stain

2009-04-23T14:27:00.003-05:00

Fiscal matters aside
Something must be done
Nothing works to make healthy
first impressions
so make a mask
out of football seed
foreclosures. Run
and endure and get meaty
but just stressing
does not make able to ask
for what you want;
masks expression stunt.

Dreamy

2009-04-18T13:00:00.001-05:00

A call from the sky

A green fragment gift

More snot to blow or

pick and eat for soft

gaze light with no lens;

talk laugh smile right lie

and dissolve the box

with a sulfur drop

making fun in tense

present to flirt more

as hip to visions;

an amber helix

dancing in letters

hawks shimmering numb

caterpillars who

groove to music fun

yet distant through a

somatic filter

turning around legs

sought while the clock flies.

Snipe Rex

2009-04-16T11:00:00.002-05:00

Tupac falls asleep with a cocktail in a

pear-shaped glass of S.O.B. juice made for

sleep therapy to stop his paranoia

and the war made of blackmail and more

back stabbing and fear accepted and careful.

A mutant a Wolverine taken care of

by the good doctor a man of letters

and email who makes drug test miracles

even though all the medicine alters

his mind and adjusts the scope of his love.

That morning a banana and Cheerios cull

one hunger but libido like a capped

volcano drives the inability

to see the forest for the trees mapped

because no one visit for art therapy

would take back the doctor's will to betray

the coastal icon who died that had day.

Loft Inhibition

2009-04-14T11:00:00.009-05:00

Laying awake, sing then smile crying

since five aches from a teepee rapid-

cycle the stomach with electric

subtle twitches; clenched metal mouth

tastes nothing but notes death on screen

in a North Irish song of demean-

led subtext. Man smells of rot and ick

because the syndrome belies the symptom

on the uptake for the serum south

of the order; next year in prison

nocturnal days string out derelict

off white boxes just to make valid

the past and grate deep only to kid.

Cloned in

2009-04-10T14:41:00.008-05:00

All be four mourn

point five tolerant

OK weened me with

Doc talk after start

mow and forgot so

long that dreams don't

invade ink but color

the day orange fun.

yellow vacuum first

run cool burn then out

so to finish off

a night factor three

and quarters succeed

charmed drunk valley

worship bitch to drive

fine easily home.

Serious Quill

2009-04-08T11:41:00.004-05:00

heavy prison sleep

dumb crutched suspicion will

lead to a self-stop

Well be trim

2009-04-06T17:55:00.005-05:00

need a boost from not the juice?

you will well and give 'em hell

get over what ails you and win!

can do but can't be loose

no do work listen the knell

glory calls get more than sin

get the girl but don't feed

sleep won't come too angry swell

with contrary lucidity they goose

stoop until walking be well

but still offend: no regret for you

fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you

fuck you fuck you fuck fuck you you

fuck. they can't stand so quell him.

Another philosophy class pharma-poem.

Depot Man

2009-04-02T13:51:00.010-05:00

robot seeds distort and fuzz;
pop two and swallow each day,
feel drugged and forsake buzz:
time fogs and blurs to static -
numb, can't feel what to say.
stimuli filters through glaze, thick
grime and sick's what it does,
precise blue cryptext on gray:
the thick pill State says it may.

I wrote this poem in Ancient Philosophy class a week ago. My teacher's sonorous droning has soundtracked two more poems in a similar vein.

Hope you've enjoyed this brief intermission from oldies. Next on that list is science fictions.

Collected Poems #3

2009-03-25T18:00:00.000-05:00

Written late Spring, early Summer 2007.

Fear and Loathing in the Panopticon

I like poetry

but this sucks

oh noetry!

the ducks!

Dark angel drug addict

crawling out of the grave

poppin' pills, kill bill

fun stuff, lotsa snuff

Mary save your daughters

Freya save your sons

give us super viral

killers and plasma guns

Halo over her dark

head, making my

brain go to bed

Leaden bread, seven

ugly leech warriors

fighting with my

meds.

I am bhratman

but not batman

that though art

frat thou fart

Greek language is TRAGIC

like Thucydides

who wrote killer bees

into Medusa's magic

Creepy Jesus wannabe hitting on a demon,

possessed by methamphetamine.

Mean-spirit, psychotics hear it; she

Refuses inpatient, because she is

impatient and full of rotting pride.

Can't just accept help, can't stop lying

Can't just drop the cross, run'n hide.

You won't be locked up, but you've

LOST control. You need help, girl

Insure, Ensure, that little people

get what they need. Chickens swirl

and strut and bob like steeples.

Winds all connected, shrapnel

YOUR CHILD NEEDS YOU BETTER

and away from David. He is King no longer.

Television spews American dreams

Television news American screams

Movies cue American creams

Movies blue American beams

Coptic nobs in an imaginary unit,

crazy villagers chase the geegaws

and Osiris takes them away like

Christ, scatterbrained by cancer sticks;

Concentration, consternation, no one

likes to live in hell but the plains

of limbo are neatly chaotic like

Garfield's door. GG, noob, is hazy

and crazy, not lazy but confused

as to her identity. Cares like a

bear in porta potties.

Welcome to the desolated Valley of the Dolls.

Noodles disordered. Fnord.

Thanatos

VERITAS

übermenschen

thick tension

makes for

easytravel

between

spaces and faces

Collected Poems #2

2009-03-25T11:45:00.000-05:00

Written in Spring of 2007 on a orange divider in my only school notebook, in pencil.

On freaks and Greeks
I spend mental weeks
searching for some sense,
and my conscious thought
weaves a devious plot
and makes synapse too dense.
{I had never seen the show Freaks and Geeks}

thinking about thinking
is an obituary inking
The overexamined life
invites unneeded strife
and drags the soul
into an infinite hole.

Collected Poems #1

2009-03-25T11:12:00.003-05:00

Written in Summer and Fall of 2006 in a personal notebook, in pen. My early attempts at poetry.

{thematic couplet}
I'm here but I'm not
all explosions and rot

"Severe Gastro-Intestinal Discomfort"
a hurricane ravages my stomach
weather problems in my bowels
here is what happens when
digestion runs afoul

{inspired by an Untitled Joan Miró}
a sea of blue
disturbed by
a crash
leaving a gash
of red eye
through

{preceded by a portrait in pen}
Jimi Hendrix:

the man whose guitar

slew legions of angels

before they could

bring his bad-ass down.

{sand}

never was I more than

a piece of crap; the more

me there is, the less light

there is to fight back

for who are we,

nature coupled with

whatever gods may be,

to destroy our source

forever hidden

{stink}

I can smell

your hell

in the words you speak

and I can taste

your faith

in the harvest you reap

have courage

struggling one

for one day you will be

even more and less

than you are

{hee}

death to me

would be a fright to see

but everything happens

eventually

"altered poetry"

Open a door

Take a peak in;

What's on the floor

is a benign sin

Stare for a while

close the door

{farm}

a broken home

confrontational phone

calls without

provocation make

me confused and

maybe

someday things

{gators}

beneath my consciousness

is a deep pool from which

i call forth the wrath and fury of

a tempest worthy of neglected gods

{confuzzies}

structure eludes me

the more I understand

the less I know

and I almost never

can tell what is going on.

from this springs happiness everlasting

{my girls}

sprites

haunt me,

and do not understand

why anyone would

be given to flights

of meloncholy

{grillio}

famine, drought,

disease, guns

something beautiful this way comes

{end}

a new birth

an old death

everyone

evil

but

love,

tough and

sometimes

mean

love

is bigger

than spite,

toxic and absurd

hate,

so good

rather than

grand

Forthcoming

2009-03-23T22:50:00.004-05:00

I have six notebooks from the past three years. Five suffered water damage in a basement flood. I'm rooting through them and will be posting embarrassing, funny, poetic, clever, sad, wise, nutty, introspective, exhortative, speculative, prophetic, and some of the inbetween. Stay tooned.

Twenty Coulds

2009-02-27T15:29:00.008-06:00

An Apology @ George W Bush

George Junior - a privileged born-again burnout, a Prince Hal - spoke with folk eloquence. His singly-minded deception rallied dramatic charges. He gave bullgy speeches assuring victory to the outnumbered patriots. That proud rebellion from the fringe of our kingdom had fueled our boys to the mountains and desserts. We were in bed with true warriors. Then minds drifted back to domestic rope-pullings while the shellshocks continued. George grafted some pals and spurned others, parroting Shakespeare's Henry V.

But, unlike Henry, no war spoils for George. The cradle of civilization was not France; a Saudi oil princess can't be won. So no scandle to distract from destruction and unite the faithful. Just chest bumps and shoe dodges and masked melancholy. Some things have changed.

Six weeks ago George had lunch with Rush Limbaugh. There was glass shrapnel in his peanut butter, honey, and red jelly sandwich. He crunched it up and swallowed it down. Afterward he walked Rush out of the White House, glancing enigmatic at staffers, grinding sand 'tween wisdom teeth.

Gabriel Syme

2009-02-20T18:40:00.003-06:00

Every word is a god.

"A man's brain is a bomb. My brain feels like a bomb, night and day. It must expand! It must expand! A man's brain must expand, if it breaks up the universe." The Man Who Was Thursday

Gabriel was working in Alaska. As a boy he always dreamed of moving North, living in a cabin, and writing. When he got there he took a job that paid bills and left him time to write. But he would get restless in his cabin and go exploring. He brought a gun.

Night was rolling in and Gabriel was returning to his cabin to write until sleep. To his right in the woods he saw Bear, something in its mouth, padding along. He started but kept quiet and Bear heard him and looked. Bear turned toward him without breaking stride. Gabriel kept walking. He looked down through the trees at his cabin and focused. Bear would leave him alone.
Ten paces and he stole a peek at Bear. Closer now. Bear walked slow, but was headed to cut Gabriel off before he reached his cabin. Gabriel ran. Bear ran. Gabriel saw Bear still had something in its mouth but he was scared. He stopped and pointed his gun and shot. Bear was hit in the leg but kept galloping towards Gabriel. He shot again and again and Bear kept galloping.
Bleeding Bear stood in front of trembling Gabriel. At his feet a dead raven.

"did you shoot this raven?"
"...yes"
Bear sucked wind.
"..."
"raven created the world."
"..."
"raven is vengeful, ghostface. respect them and you will not be alone."

That night Gabriel dreamed he was in the woods behind his house, following a raven, shooting at it. He loved the raven with all his being. The raven led him into a clearing. At the other end of the clearing was a gate.
Gabriel followed the raven through the gate and never woke up again.

"This is a tale of those old fears, even of those emptied hells, And none but you shall understand the true thing that it tells-- Of what colossal gods of shame could cow men and yet crash, Of what huge devils hid the stars, yet fell at a pistol flash." The Man Who Was Thursday

Rhyme

2009-02-12T10:06:00.001-06:00

mover

math

cure

wet

alibi

clean

say

day

mean

case

laugh

race

dream

forget

Mime

2009-02-08T08:00:00.002-06:00

Recently, Bob took a picture.

It caught my attention. Maybe it's the woozy diagonal, the speckled tiles, the cathedral spear of sun, or the black-edged static patch. Regardless, I like it.

Dime

2009-02-07T12:00:00.007-06:00

Rosa Canina means dog's rose in Latin but the plant's fruit is called rose hips. I bought an ounce of dried rose hips a week ago from Persephone's Journey, the HERBS shop on 11th and Massachusetts. I read that these buds are rich in vitamins and minerals; make delicious jams and syrups; contain an unusually high amount of essential fatty acids; and treat colds, influenza, minor infectious diseases, scurvy, osteoarthritis, diarrhoea and gastritis.

Bao Ninh writes about rosa canina in The Sorrow of War, a novel about his youth as a North Vietnamese soldier. The most beautiful novel I've left unfinished, it's where I first heard of rosa canina:

Between the jungle and the forest along this stream, rosa canina blossomed in the rain, whitened everywhere, its perfume filling the air, especially at night. The perfume vapor permeated our sleep, fueling erotic, obsessional dreams, and when we woke the perfume had evaporated but we were left with a feeling of smoldering passion, both painful and ecstatic.

Dr. Edward Bach recommends rosa canina flower essence for correcting resignation and apathy. The Vietnamese soldiers took the flowers and roots, dried them, and smoked them with tobacco:

After just a few puffs they felt themselves lifted, quietly floating like a wisp of smoke itself floating on the wind. The tasty canina had many wondrous attributes. They could decide what they'd like to dream about, or even blend the dreams, like preparing a wonderful cocktail.

The buds, when crushed up and smoked, produce a delicious vapor and cause a mild, pleasant light-headedness. A tea made from the crushed buds tastes sweet, like pomegranate.

Lime

2009-01-30T05:30:00.004-06:00

OK: plants, economies, recurring dreams, and long thoughts.

When I was a child I had two recurring dreams. Both were not so much dreams but the way dreams ended. In one I ballooned, then became infinitesimal, and then tumbled between the two until I awoke or went back to inky slumber. In the other, the sky went black and the earth went white. Then the floor turned to window blinds, flipped open, and I fell into abyss, only to be jerked back to the moment when the ground spun vertical and disappeared. I fell over and over until I awoke or went back to no dreams. During these frightening, frustrating ends I always saw myself in the third person.

I no longer suffer these dream-ends. My sleeping mind has concocted more creative ways to befuddle and my dreams do not recur.

---

I should have started with plants because Devin left two comments. But what plant should I do? Perhaps Kava Kava, Rosa Canina, Tea, or Kratom?

Time

2009-01-19T11:42:00.006-06:00

This is my third blogger blog. I have high hopes. On other sites I share found media, beautiful spam, school work, and brief thoughts. What should grow here?