Things No One Would Believe Anyway, or Private Communiques with the Irrational

Among the things no one would believe anyway but pretend to want to:

Astral traveling
meaning in repeating dreams
amnesia
night murmuring
old men who refuse to leave, even beyond the grave
true love
bouncing apparitions
succubi/incubi
your True Age
wives' tales
Peace, Love, Understanding

When It's Pink Instead

The results are still pretty hot.

NSFW video for a cool techno songenfunken. Easy Love the title? MSTRKRFT the auteur? I don't know.

Bukkakemashou!

You Can't Imagine How Much Fun We're Having

I've been listening to Atmosphere's You Can't Imagine How Much Fun We're Having the past couple days. Walking the city on my unexpected week off between jobs, Hockey Hair came on, and the sped-up soul samples grabbed me and the repetitive rhythms slew me.

"You Can't Imagine How Much Fun We're Having " (Atmosphere)

This Video is Awesome

"Sixteen" by Los Super Elegantes.

Me encantan Los Super Elegantes.

Mason & Dixon

I have just finished the greatest book ever written in my lifetime, the constant recollection of which has beaten the reverse panes of my eyes, and, indeed the whole of my insides, with fierce tears left unwept in public spaces for the sake of propriety.

"Mason & Dixon" (Thomas Pynchon)

Today a television advertisement told me "kids' pink- it does more than you think.

The Incredibly Long and Fruitless Commute of Mia De Capatista

Mia De Capatista lived for only one day. She would wake days and weeks before the sun had remembered itself to everyone. There were always two of her, two of her to redouble her worries. There was Mia, rising in anticipation of the repetition of her day, waiting in the performance of her ablutions in chronology's anteroom. There was Mia, proceeding dutifully about her day's ministrations. She was unhappy for two reasons: First, She, though uncommonly talented in that regard, had no one to love. Second, she, being a smart girl, could find nothing to assuage her of the futility she felt when she questioned her creator as to why such a young and vibrant creature should be given only one day whose call to await and whose disappointments and travails to encounter over and over without fail.

She kept a room in an ethereal ghetto called Bronks that flew above an island called Manahatta, which itself floated on the sea- it being the province of all girls with unreal fates. Each morning when her day, who was also her master, would, finally, call, she would emerge from her room dressed and perfected for presentation. She would proceed to a station of the metro and descend on a long and otherwise unridden train alone to the island below. The commute would tax the day of its supply of hours so that it was nearly dusk when she arrived, and she had nothing but drifting piles of tabloid newspapers to, not exactly pass the time, but at least stultify her as she rode. On her arrival she would make directly to a bar in midtowne, the place where she drew her day's pay. There she aided people, with her guile, with elixirs and lethe water, with the loudly trumpeting bloom of her young sex, in forgetting how they had gotten to where they were. She saw people there whose days were each new, pulling them off in new directions (aging them all too quickly, but they didn't seem to mind).

Under this bar, out of the view of the patrons, on a shelf on a level with her knees, were a row of semi-spherical objects twitching in the shadow of a partial obscurity. These were the quaking, undying heads of her suitors, numbering then 18, and there was ever space on the shelf for additions.

Mia's unbearable fate was unique even among those born into the strange prenatal contracts consigning them to the unseen, but not unfelt, shtetl where she lived, for her curse was not limited to having been afforded only one day to live and wait on as a handmaiden. It was compounded by the measures her day and master took to assure that she would never escape him. Her master's penalty for presuming to the station of one of her beaus was a sudden and painless denial of the suitor's body, resulting in a life lived forever after, undying, as a head on a shelf beneath her bar.

Notwithstanding its persistence in visitation or its jealousness of the beautiful 18-year-old Mia, her single day and master's blighted craft was proven all the more diabolical with the observation, as it became difficult to avoid making with detachment once eyes were laid on her, that, with such a curse in place, his Mia was the perfect device for amassing a collection of undying, lovelorn heads that would never fail to appreciate in quantity. Mia, for her part, had a penchant for rescue woven into her character that led men into her trap. It was no secret to her day and master that she wished to hie away from him and begin anew, and those patrons who made the ill-advised transformation from patron to suitor were well aware of her need for this and were drawn by it.

"You only have to be 18 to serve, but I usually don't tell people- sometimes people aren't comfortable with it, you know? But it's OK, you know, because we're talking." She would sparkle with a contained sadness, a martyrdom whose building discomfort only the perpetually young can sustain, flirting.

"I moved out when I was 17, I haven't had it good, but, you know. I'm working for awhile and saving for college," as she would lean closer, her words dreaming the symbols of the future.

If the suitor had found enough of his own unhappiness in the various days he had been given, and if Mia had given him enough drink to forget himself, he might feel called on by his need for ennoblement to rescue the poor, hopeless specimen from her long, hard-luck bad day-the quietly abided fate given to so many pretty girls.

It was unclear what her eternal day and keeper considered the punishable infraction, what signified an irreversible mistake of infatuation, but, ultimately, once a suitor had resolved to befriend the youth with a mind to reforming both his and her lives in the shape of a happy dream, redeeming all with some kind of rescue, His body and all his attachments to the world would vanish in the instant and his head would fall to the the bar he was leaning over, suddenly without the under-standing of its body. Mia would quickly and sadly place the man's head beneath the bar and clean up his traces before other patrons noticed anything, kissing the heavy thing lightly, out of sight, near where she washed the glasses. The confused head, for its part, was ever unable to cry out, deprived of its lungs and voice.

A pretty girl from the home of nightmares, Mia was no different than most. Even as her day gripped her and her prospects, her special awareness of her fate kept her locked within it, and she was forever taking heads and losing loves, wondering when her awful day would end. The heads, with suffocated voices, (if they came to themselves again) were trying to tell her, still gallant in their mission of rescue-
"Mia, tomorrow is over there. Don't come back."
"My love, don't come back."

H_________d

Thank you, Mr. Tweedy, for:

his goal in life was
to be an echo
the type of sound that falls around and then back down
like a feather
but in the deep chrome canyons
of the loudest manhattans
no one could hear him
or anything...

He slept in the mountains
in a sleeping bag underneath the stars
he would lie awake and count them
but the great fountain spray
of the great milky way
would never let him
die alone

(so he said)
remember to remember me
standing still in your past
floating fast like a hummingbird

what's been happenin'

I've been writing quite a few poems, working on some fiction, listening to Belle and Sebastian, negotiating the formation of a Smiths cover band, buying and selling books far in excess of my ability to read them, much less process the worlds and the implications of the points of view within. I've been listening to Japanese rock (Toddle, Ogre You Asshole, Niumun), still turning people on to The National.

Now Playing If You Find Yourself Caught In Love from the album "Dear Catastrophe Waitress" by Belle & Sebastian

I'd like to go to a reading or two, put my average heart on my what would be, but for my exceeding naivete and self-centered nature, average sleeve. As it is, any readings/slams/etc I attend I would have to attend with the mismatched pair of my average heart and these threadbare and motley sleeves of pointless ostentation.
Now Playing If She Wants Me from the album "Dear Catastrophe Waitress" by Belle & Sebastian


I found the book unreadable- it was either me or the translation- but there is an Oe Kenzaburo book, I think it's a short-story collection- called "Help Us to Overcome Our Madness." I like to think about the title when I think about how 95% of what I do, at least, even at its most sincere, is bailing water from my unnecessary blunders, or the unthinking creation of new subtle barriers to sincerity.

Now Playing You Don't Send Me from the album "Dear Catastrophe Waitress" by Belle & Sebastian

Above all, people need a long time, even to get it wrong.

Dostoevsky was an interesting one, one of these freaks of empathy able to flesh out all the furthest folded reaches of the human soul. You don't see many authors like him anymore, strange in this age of total information awareness, stranger when you contrast this age with his natal era. A lot of my favorite authors seem to work up to a single idea as they plow and occasionally plod through their careers, book by book. Ellis? How many times did he write American Psycho before he wrote it?
Who else? I don't know. Perhaps I'm talking out of my ass.

Now Playing I'm A Cuckoo from the album "Dear Catastrophe Waitress" by Belle & Sebastian

Here's to winning!

Now Playing Nothing In The Silence from the album "John Peel Radio 1 Session " by Belle & Sebastian

Police Cat!

Tyrone "Harry Potter" Buckles, police cat, is remembered today at a memorial service being held at Walton Mortuary from 10 am until 1 pm. Tyrone "Harry Potter" Buckles was best known among the force for his sense of humor, his tendency to step on all the cop radio buttons and siren controls when the officers he was partnered with were alseep in the cruiser.

Tyrone "Harry Potter" Buckles was also part of a controversy several years ago, as it became clear that, when women officers became pregnant and before they left for maternity leave, the cat would have to go on sabbatical, so as not to infect the expectant with cat scratch fever or rare, mood-altering toxoplasmoids from his filthy kitty law enforcement paws.

Tyrone "Harry Potter" Buckles, you will be missed.

Scenes from a diorama of tomorrow's world

...We piled into great earthships, huddled knees to necks in fast to-home ships, away, heavy with the promise of promise and promises to keep. No more the music of the spheres whose cadence to careen to, undulatory threads of light worn on our skins, but to the basics, to the beginning. To the brown nucleus we rushed, heeding light's pure admonitory instruction now understood: now not inviting, not beckoning, not free of encoding, but clearly, the stars were screaming, "flee- exeunt- away- to the mud, away from the stars."

The backwards fired light of a ship fired homeward burned some of us on the front, for our wistfulness drew us aft to see off our youth, and some of us on the back, for we were making already for bed.

Our flagship, our rusty hurtling can, was abbreviated in its regression full on the side, T-boned by the white, white moon, our earth mother's swat. Her empty nest was not advertising rooms for let, and the USS Heavy Retarder's trajectory was elided. She foundered side over side and hurt, but yet into the marble we first crouched on, Terra Firma. Goode Olde Worlde.

None were allowed by fortune to die on the Heavy Retarder, but we did find ourselves forever changed crashed deep in the mud of our first genesis, aching and sleeping in the awning of mud and, finally, lowered expectations. Those sons and daughters of heaven who found heaven too resplendent slipped, gymnosporous, into the eternal nap of a race's final convalescent groan for the sentenced duration of 1,000 forevers, free, at last, of the crushing expectations of mad and empty, needy and clinging, endless, endlessly promising and omnipossible space.

We and custom slept ever more deeply into the, conversely, crowded mud, we dull and slower children of heaven, we, promise's prodigals cast off.

Ya'll, yoose can buy this shizz

Hello. I have a cafepress store now.

It can be found here:

The most interesting thing about Madonna's career ...

The most interesting thing about Madonna's career is that she was a primadonna before her career even got off the ground.