The Block

Allison Goldfrapp, I'd like to hear you say there's no time to fuck to my face.
Thank you for appearing on my iTunes at this particular moment.

On an unrelated note, either I am subconciously aware of what my computer is doing judging by the noise of disk activity or by newsensory awareness of some other sub-real form of heat it is emanating, or I am TELEKINETICALLY AFFECTING THE RANDOM PLAYBACK OF ITUNES.
AmAnSet on my iTunes now, just when I was thinking of them.

Tim and a Sabrina stopped by for a couple of early morning hours. The chilling was good. That beautiful kraut is always a new kind of treat with knives out. Or the same kind of treat with knives out every time.

I spent most of the evening reading before they got here, and I think I'll finish the article I was working on before I finally do retire this early Sunday morning. Maybe I'll go have a diner breakfast at the crack of dawn before I do, though.

The block and the distance around it and how fast I can go on my bike. I spent a lot of time alone as a kid, thinking on my bike, in something like a square mile around my house in the East Bluff. It only just now, as I was going to write about something else, occurred to me that maybe all that time spent out in the city alone was maybe a little odd for a kid, with 90% of my time out of the house spent happily daydreaming and moving.

But, before I do forget

the block as a space with corners drawing long, boring lines in total ignorance of the violent broken-mirror trees irrupting and turning fractally up and down through the visible air and the invisible mud, lightning striking twice but always decapitated while the neutrino sees nothing
but what block do these desirous creatures crawl around in flat slicks of colors and musk, marking them with the meant fingerprints that I wish I had been there first to paw on them?

shut up

If it is a magic moment that you are looking for, you’re not going to find it, I tell myself. I’m going to do better to enjoy a cup of coffee and stare at your white shoulders where your sweater falls away from them, to imagine I can smell the flawlessness of that skin, smell the change over time as my eyes map from shoulder to neck, from white skin to freckle to bra strap, the color and the textures change. I don’t see myself when I see you, I don’t see. Inside the gestalt under an awning shade, your hair, curls and circles and shades and smells and intents, recovering myself unwillingly only piecemeal, a last handshaking carrier signal that maintains my vision as a thing in the swim, stuttering I-I-I-I, would you shut up already?
What’s your favorite color? Have you ever been to Buffalo? There are any number of things I don’t believe you can tell me, that I don’t believe I would understand if you tried. Giving up on magic moments, don’t want to communicate. When your sweater falls away from your shoulder and makes a thing called my smile the best I can do is commune.

winterback

my eyes felt like wet batteries, and piss on you, and reasonable people shouldn't agonize over what's going to happen next
all around me the women are taking the reigns, and I am taking the reins, and I am hauling my ass to the internet to read why bother
because, just like the next person, I can pick myself up and leave
I'm gonna put this party in a box and keep it till there's a reason to take it out again
take it out when I'm feeling younger and my eyes aren't rusted and there's not the smell of algae
all the free booze in the world
all the free booze in the world
won't buy me a good time next time

Now, stay drunker longer and with less fuss!

And, you know, if that's not your thing you can avoid a hangover, too. the devil is in the details

Under Big Thumbs

I still feel the threat of nuclear annihilation
I really think this fear has been put on the back burner recently. Nukes still exist, right? Can you imagine that there was a time when you didn't have to have a sickly patch of non-reciprocal total death woven into your reality quilt?

The media give almost no indication of any state of reality, only a relation of a few people to it from the point of view of a few, maybe the same few as the first few, maybe not.
But I'm not worried about any of the shit I'm supposed to be worried about, I guess.

...I didn't feel tragic at all, but only weary, and sort of comfortably detached.

In time for Presidents' Day Hunter Thompson has left us.

I opened the only book of his that I own, his novel The Rum Diary and just opened it to the middle and read the first passage I found and that was the heading for this entry.

"...because down in my gut I wanted nothing more than a clean bed and a bright room and something solid to call my own at least until I got tired of it. There was an awful suspicion in my mind that I'd finally gone over the hump, and the worst thing about it was that I didn't feel tragic at all, but only weary, and sort of comfortably detached." (121)

Hell's Angels changed me. Who of the living occidental boys is still with us? Who of acumen and vitriol?

Into an age darkening, the call is out for some who will point their fingers at the heart of our malaise, to channel the shit and razors of our epoch and articulate them into speech.

Who of these living is left?

Lights are going out. Americans wanted.


Image from BoingBoing.

居酒屋！居酒屋！居酒屋！

Last night Tim and I shared two pitchers of Sapporo at my favorite joint in this whole city, ケンカ (Kenka), an honest-to-goodness 居酒屋 (izakaya) on St. Mark's. Loaded and full, and ridiculously cheaply so, the night spun out relaxedly from there.

I would like to have this cd

On my stereo- sometimes these things take you by surprise

A happy, sober Sunday morning.

Coercion of the Corpus, Cake Mixing the Mind

I was reading Warren Ellis today about music and musical knowledge, about being the Beatles, about being Phil Spector. Last night I was walking home from a pointless trek in the cold (I went out, knew I wouldn't stay out, knew I couldn't drink, but went out anyway) thinking of selling all my synths and effects and patch cords and software and whatever because there just aren't enough hours in the day to be musically creative and to read, to just get off one's ass and head out onto the street. I thought I was just an enthusiast. But that "Mind Gangsterism" Ellis talks about is the thing I think I could really put my finger on if I just sat down with the chance to do it. How do you do it when you have school, friends, and this shit that just stares at you telling you you should be using it if you have it? I guess you stop drinking.

Style Undies: Children's Lingerie and Sleepwear

That's what the sign says.

I have written a plan for what is supposed to happen next

And it involves procuring some of this for my very own. I met a girl who didn't believe in the restorative powers of vitamins. I challenge you to lose faith in the restorative power of very disturbed girls from outer space. The becoming-Matt of the cosplay girls, the becoming-cosplay girls of Matt. Thanks to Manny for the link.

n-1

1 and 2. Principles of connections and heterogeneity: any point of a rhizome can be connected to any other, and must be.

"...Drunkenness as a triumphant irruption of the plant in us."

"...The becoming-wasp of the orchid and the becoming-orchid of the wasp."

Non-sequiturs from A Thousand Plateaus by Deleuze and Guattari.

How am I feeling? Social. A bottle of wine, a gushing surfeit of friendships, new modes, extending pseudopods, people everywhere. How could I leave New York?

I am also coming to realize that it's not so bad to be a student, and that on my own terms. Tomorrow I'm having my first bowl of pho since last May or June. And that on my own terms.

I'm gestating a few things.

Voices of the Deep

During dinner at Nyonya last night, a great Malaysian place on Grand between Mott and Mulberry, I interrupted conversation with the lovely jungen fraus not once, but twice to take calls from people I haven't heard from in a long time. A call from a very Khoroshaya Deva put me off balance. Why then? Why not all the other nights when I could have easily taken her call since I last saw her in December (November??)? I'll be putting a call in to her today on my way to school.

I got the DD-20 Giga Delay pedal. Fucking with the delay intervals on this while simultaneously modulating the delay interval on the delay effects already built into my keyboard should produce interesting waves of sound, new universes, new modalities. I may become a plant. If you believe in rock 'n roll, can music chain your mortal soul to the mortal coil of a peony, make corn blind, grow a mustache on rocks? Are we out of jazz? Have I caught something?
In related news, I read Deleuze and Guattarri's "Rhizome" from 1000 plateaus yesterday, volume 2 of their "Capitalism and Schizophrenia."

Noise, cascades of sound and we abandon depth perception.

It is passing?

the songs are maturing like wine, the mother-slime floating on their surfaces, and in the outside world I need a haircut

Every worm to his taste. Some prefer to eat nettles.

The end of a day that has been slightly more productive than those recent ones I can compare it to. I'm sipping on some Suntory Single Malt 12 year whiskey. I'm at the beginning of chapter 5 of Tanizaki Junichiro's Some Prefer Nettles. The whiskey is working like the worm in the proverb upon which the title of the book is based, burrowing into me with its must and memory, and Henry Valentine Miller's words ribbon up to me from inside that barrel that gives scotch its color and flavor. "Now works the calmness of Sheveningen as an anaesthetic." Happy Henry Valentine Miller's day, for today would have been better served to have him its inspiration, that last living boy in the occident, than any of these paper sweethearts applying themselves to love's ministrations with the terror of failure in their veal-white hearts. Do people still fuck? Do people still not fuck? Has it all become a matter of course?
And here I go, periodizing fucking. What an asshole.

A Laz for a willing lass, this boy is trying to come back to life. That will be my personals ad.

Apparently they still fuck in Scotland, if I can invest my faith in the poet of Arab Strap, Aidan Moffat's lyrics to Loch Leven: "A flash of sun between her thighs/a perfect black shape to protect my eyes". Or how about Glue's Sex without love is a good ride worth trying/but love without sex is second only to dying?


I had my first exposure to Pulp yesterday, thanks again to Val, and the healthy sexual abandon of A Different Class floored me. Never since Kahimi Karie's What Are You Wearing? had I listened so avidly to a description of a girl in her delicates set to music so raptly and, unlike with Kahimie Karie, never had I believed so deeply that not a word was cheapened by irony.


Clarity, do you remember when I wrote for you "Silly A-ha, nothing or a cup of coffee instead," and all the same that coffee still gave me the shakes and my room was still a mess, and still I missed you (because here I am a full-body aneurysm of love twisted up like a balloon animal and I'm writing ad copy)?

Bearding at the ancestors, the pentagram hung between my antlers, the white girls coming and going, the yellow girls with their infinite kindness you're never sure are there at all, all this squinting at the second hand to try to make them out in their passing instants, watching to see if the sheets change. The whiskey, in any event, has always been good.

It's raining, it's a mess, but the week is underway and it's wonders are promised. And that is almost better than the whiskey.

A Simple Rule For Living in the Same City as Me

Do not own large umbrellas.

there was a party

There was a party last night. I went. Now I'm home. Time marches on and I am very little changed. I'm feeling rough.

From a party

Mike Doughty is opening for Polyphonic Spree on V. Day in Brooklyn. I'd like to go, but don't think I will.

phantasmagoria

never anything but happiness

I am becalmed.


I imported some photos to my pasokon tonight, and in looking through them, inadvertently scrolled through the recent ones back into the first I imported, ones from my first trip to Minnesota. It doesn't take much study here, now, to look at the face of that beauty I once called mine to see that there was never anything called love in those eyes, never anything called happiness.

But, onward.

Today I read Habermas. More Habermas. Before that, before I left the house, I opened "Little Birds" by Anais Nin and got a boner for a few minutes.
This evening? Coffee and talking with a pretty girl, beers with comrades in scholarship.
Tomorrow, class, and who knows what else?

Flickr has changed

Flickr.com has changed its photo sharing site so that you can only post photos to your blog if you make them public through their service, and then only if you use the automated posting function in Flicker, which posts every photo as a link back to flickr. You can edit this out of the HTML, but that's annoying.
soon this will all be up on my own domain.

If it ever gets finalized. Is it supposed to take a week to transfer ownership of a domain registration?

The Joy of Being Chosen

The caption reads "The Joy of Being Chosen."

I think this also applies in NYC.

The last thing

I have one more thing I'm going to say before I sleep.

It is this:

I have serious misgivings about girls who a) look really sexy and b) look like they're having a really good time in their photos on Friendster and Myspace. The reasons are as follows:
a) I have the strong suspicion that they do not need more friends if they are already sexy and having a good time, but are instead trying to cultivate some kind of cheap celebrity, and b) they are dumb sluts. b can usually be corroborated by the profile.

Ok!

Deep Six

Deep Six on Big Black's "The Hammer Party" caught my ear and put me into about 30 minutes of Big Black today. It begins with "He was a plug-ugly son of a bitch." Not much call to use plug-ugly these days. Gonna try to work that one into conversation.

oh

And did I mention I've been really horny? Fuck.

Almost nothing like it

I have gone from really horny to really depressed. I drink, I drink, I drink because when I don't I don't I don't I get really depressed and overstimulated. I am going to experiment and see if I go crazy by the end of the week with no drinks. I was such a productive hangover yesterday.
Val really liked "Excuses for Travelers" by Mojave 3. They are a very good band, but mainly just because "Excuses for Travelers" was such an unforgettable fucking album. It is quite possible everything in that band's members' lives led to that band making that album. It is quite possible it is all downhill from there. But you would have to be a linear time fascist who liked excuses for putting people down if you thought that. Having been a traveler in need of excuses, I really related to this album. I still feel like one of those. I feel like a fish in the desert. I want a drink of whiskey.

Astrological Police Blotter

When I was 16, jupiter was not only rising, but found already quite high, smoking crack in the red-light district in the 10th public housing development, completely missing his rendezvous with venus who was going down in the 10th house of ill repute and wrecking any chance I had to see tits for the first time. Jupiter is now in the house of detention.

俳句です。

冬終る
短くて変だ
ケツかゆい

誰も知らない

昨夜友達と最近出た”誰も知らない”って映画の見に行った。すごく長くて、あまりポイントは無くてちょう疲れた。本当に悲しかったでも。ただ、終わりで何か話しはまだ終っていないみたい。実はさしぶりに日本の映画見に行くのは楽しかったから、映画はちょっとつまらないとはいえ昨夜の方は良かった。その上、何も飲まなかった。じゃ、これからちょっと読まなきゃ。もう、日曜日と思わなかった。

27 Jennifers

Woke up early, tuned in to the Air America webcast, first thing I got (after commercials) was Mike Doughty singing 27 Jennifers. Mike Doughty's stuff (he has a new one coming out, I guess, Skittish is his old one, and there are a couple of live ones- smof and smang, etc.) is something I want, also. Good, good stuff. So much commodified beauty in the world a man is not permitted to buy.

You can get to Mike Doughty at this link.
And, if you're like me, you'll be watching to see if they archive his performance here.

Switzerland Revokes Ban on Absinthe

Anyone feel like a trip to Switzerland? How about the Czech Republic? Slovakia? (the Slovak girls are hotter.)
Guardian story here.

Music that I want

Gros- Radio Islas


Alva Noto- Transrapid, Transspray and Transvision EPs



Keith Hudson and Friends- The Keith Hudson Affair


Bibio- Fi

Now, how do I muster the scratch for these things? Anybody got a lead? Anybody know a guy?

Oh, and I'm (at least temporarily) implementing RSS feed capability to the blog. I guess if you have an atom reader it was always syndicated. The link is in the sidebar.

Medi- Medi- Kay- Kay- Shun

In a short search for feelgood, I discovered that there was the equivalent of approximately one and a half shots of Jack Daniels in my hip flask tonight. And I still can't concentrate and feel awful lonesome. But, I press on! There is a presentation to make in tomorrow's class with Aurora, and I must prepare! No matter that I haven't been able to think about it all day. (I've been fucking around with newsreaders and whatnot in the name of research, instead.)
I just learned that zaftig means:
of a woman : having a full rounded figure : pleasingly plump

Juicy.

Nostalgia Making Me Twisty

The Promise Ring playing on my stereo, me thinking of my good friend Josh who turned me on to them a few years ago, flashbacks of all those car rides in the Kiso Valley with Davy as my copilot.

Talk talk talk.
And thank you, Nami. My guitarist/singer/artist friend Nami drew this. I thought of this the other day when caffeine made me think I want antlers.

The Four Lit Chambers of My Heart

Some scenes from Gadi's b-day last night. Not much I can say right now. The mind is sluggish. The spirit, however, is quickened.