9/13/09

i never claimed i was a stone, but you love a stone.

9/11/09

listening to neutral milk hotel's in the aeroplane over the sea for the first time in a while tonight. it's amazing how much of this album (every lyric melody word vocalization) has burned itself into my muscles and bones yet i can still get a charge out of the undeniable magic therein. the story arc still carries staggering intensity and grace while remaining as honest and emotionally devastating as years past.

don't hate her when she gets up to leave.

rings of flowers round your eyes and i love you

routines?
cafe monet tomorrow then school monday blah blah blah blah
;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;

i just miss giulia.

summer wrap up

it was a great one.

books read:

"big sur" by jack kerouac
"mexico city blues" by jack kerouac
"the red pony" by john steinbeck
"the tao of pooh" by benjamin hoff

shows played:

linnaea's (with tin cat, nate bridges)
the porch (songwriter showcase) x4
linnaea's (with your yellow dress and existential hero)
mitchell park (with cecropia, charlotte cornfield)
boo boo records (with stephen steinbrink, foot ox)
boo boo records (with paul baribeau, the boy who could fly)*
91.3 kcpr sessions
linnaea's (with spooky horse, existential hero, my name is circus)
the clubhouse (as a member of your yellow dress)

shows attended:

port o'brien (with the wheel and papercuts) @ downtown brew
sparrows gate @ the clubhouse
mika miko (with audacity, the secret tones, fun, shake sheiks) @ slo art center
dustin and the furniture (with wabash and y lime) @ linnaea's
black francis (with gardening not architecture) @ downtown brew

it was a whirlwind of music and relationships and new friendships and bike rides and wonderful things.

in other news, i am pretty depressed with my classes this year.

*defining moment

a shoreline

you can't hide in trapdoors of spines
all tied down your wings and blossoming bright
you will build and fell yourself tonight

spill out like a shoreline or a saltwater sigh
your splintering bones from crooked flights
far from widest waters and blackest land

would you stay beside or be divided, fed alive
to sink through feathered skin so white and killed
in your worst of weathered ways
in heavy weights of starry banks
my cold farewell will set your ship to sail, (sail on)

i feel me wash forth to pillowy shores
of stones and dreams and opened doors
you've traced yourself alone and far away

a million spans of a million hands
will leave you locked away
and at a shoreline i will always wait
your shoreline waits

8/20/09 thinking

i've been listening to nothing but okkervil river's "the stage names" recently, and possibly the biggest standout is the closing song, "john allyn smith sails". the themes of suicide and memory are so amazingly poignant, and the second half, in which the band breaks into a lyrically modified jam of "sloop john b" is one of the most stunning, epic moments in any song i've ever heard.

i just got back from seeing sparrows gate at the clubhouse - they were truly wonderful and it was great to spend an evening with rob and ryan again... great laughs/conversations.

i just realized i rely often on dates to categorize my thoughts. maybe that explains this running theme in my "blog" headlines.

i'm reading big sur by jack kerouac... it's incredible, one of the best things i've read in recent months. he has been influencing much of my writing style.

i miss giulia. really bad. i saw this random woman walk into the clubhouse tonight who deeply reminded me of her in some anti-explainable way. it made my heart jump. i don't know.

so hoist up the john b. sail
(hoist up the john b. sail)
see how the main sail sets
(see how the main sail sets)
i've folded my heart in my head
and i wanna go home
with a book in each hand
in the way i had planned
well i feel so broke up
i wanna
go

home.

8/15/09

We turned at a dozen paces, for love is a duel, and looked at each other for the last time.

8/10/09

if this week doesn't go right,

what will i do?

lately 8/08/09

black sheep boy
david lynch
tom wolfe
annie clark
wes anderson

seeing black francis again tomorrow, YES

the words

of will sheff are screaming through my mind right now;

8/3/09

i won't forget this

soundtrack;

this summer can be musically represented in the following ways;

grouper - dragging a dead deer up a hill
dreamlike states, letting myself be, inexplicable love

broken social scene - s/t
turn it up!, coffee shop shows with alex and steven, east of eden late at night, it's all... gonna BREAK!

sun kil moon - ghosts of the great highway
stuck in my room, feeling crushed and unsure; a concept album loosely based on dead boxers, how novel, the fleeting desire to be an americana slo-core artist, slow hypnosis, reading house of leaves alone at the book store

okkervil river - don't fall in love with everyone you see
being way over my head, feeling attached, something is being taken away; "i'm full of fictions and fucking addictions"

the velvet underground & nico
i am tired and i am weary

grizzly bear - veckatimest
washing my parents' car at night, reading the tao of pooh, the big city (santa barbara), detachment, distance

wilco - wilco (the album)
therapy through pop, play it nels

8/1/09

oh summer

today i saw adam pasion and ryan delmore with friends lauryn and olivia as well as new musical pals alli and cole. it was an enchanted evening. other shows have been attended and or played... mika miko at the art center, my name is circus at linnaea's.

and a week or so ago i had a lovely bike ride with marissa and then went to hunter's house for this jam session thing he had going in his living room. it was... loud

i've been making so many friends, so many connections, it's wonderful. as well as being able to tie up the old confusions and awkwardness with certain people...

here's to a wondrous season

7/25/09

sigh. i don't know. i don't know.

i wish i could figure my life out right now.

7/24/09

this world is too big.

charles bukowski

"There's nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is not death but the lives people live or don't live up until their death. They don't honor their own lives, they piss on their lives. They shit them away. Dumb fuckers. They concentrate too much on fucking, movies, money, family, fucking. Their minds are full of cotton. They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. Their brains are stuffed with cotton. They look ugly, they talk ugly, they walk ugly. Play them the great music of the centuries and they can't hear it. Most people's deaths are a sham. There's nothing left to die."

dream journal 7/21/09

me and my brother-in-law, jason, start delving into this expansive, yet unnamed, series of fantasy novels. we then work together to produce an ambitious film project based on the novels. i don't remember too much of the details. i wake up.

dream journal 7/20/09

1) i'm with my cousin, on a sidewalk cafe in what looks like the nipomo, ca area. after a while of awkward small talk, he pulls out from nowhere this board game that resembles a cross between the game of life and a drinking game. we begin playing, with rolls of the dice, moves of little pieces, and shots of brandy. i'm fairly weary of this game. i don't even understand the rules. i wake up.

2) i'm in some sort of basement with a random assortment of people i know from various points in my life. someone hands me two pills of dubious origin and effect and is persistent in having me take them. somehow i'm coerced into taking them. everyone sits silently while i get really nervous about what's going to happen to me. i wake up for the final time.

7/15/09

am i dreaming oh am i dreaming
am i
dreaming

you and i, we might be strangers

reading some good books.
making some wonderful new friends.
playing on the radio in a week and a half.

things are good right now. they really are. i'm so happy.

7/12/09

i'm still tripping out that i just opened for paul baribeau.

last night was a wonder of wonders.

autumn hands

your cold hands will become a home
to my dead murdering bones
these apparitions i would hold so close.

these patchwork lungs unfurl away
in distant corners, in tapestries
of golden oceans that would swallow us

and there's no need
or place for this.
heart chambers and hands hold it close
and i won't let it fall from me
your skin made of glass and wounded seas
held so close at your throat.

the fields are grey, as grey as the bones
of your autumn hands, burning out and burning fast.
our stories they unfold like paper maps.

and you are framed in fever dreams left too far
to ever reach. our spirits in the starry banks
left us here without a sound.

july 11, 2009

people who die in the desert do not go to heaven, but go to the sea.

p.s. i'm opening for paul baribeau tonight, this is crazy

july 8, 2009

recently, i ditched "a promise" and am unceremoniously scrapping it for parts

the new song is called autumn hands and should be recorded soon, hopefully.

maybe tomorrow be quick and painless.



out

age eighteen

can't come fast enough.

jeff mangum & will cullen hart on conversation

W: Doesn't it all make sense now?

J: No!

W: Did you, did you find the sideburns in the puzzle?

J: No!

W: They're in the bottom, they're taped to the bottom. Can I use them? Can I please staple them on? That is the key

J: You can do whatever you want. What you don't understand is that I thought it was a flower. But it wasn't, ok? It was part of the rat on the treadmill and it was this dude's legs watching "The Price is Right". Ok? And it was part of the blender. And I - I convinced myself for so long that it was a flower, I mean I spent years and years and years convincing myself that these puzzle pieces added up to a flower when it wasn't at all and then once I woke up I realize: how do I trust other pieces? How do I take new pieces and put them together with this much you know, vigor as I once did? Because what if, what if they're not a flower either, they're just like -

W: They've got to be animal pieces, they might be animal pieces. Pieces of goats?

J: Well, that's what I was trying for! There was like, a rat and a goat in the whole thing and the goat just like didn't have any hands

W: And you bought this at Wal-Mart?

J: And that's all I wanted. That's all I wanted, I mean since I was a kid. Since I was a kid! And you know, and it was just -

W: So you never have gotten the puzzle together?

J: No . . .

W: Ever?

J: No . . . they're all these disjointed pieces that I convinced myself to be flowers

W: You have a serious problem, young man

J: I know I do. But I don't think I'm much different than anybody else. I bet everybody else has got a bunch of like, pseudo-flowers in their pockets that are really just pieces of this weird puzzle that aren't supposed to fit together

don't stop dragging the lake

2:59am

i swear to god i have insomnia.

independence day

http://www.songmeanings.net/songs/view/3530822107858671120/

okkervil river is pure poetry, the most perfect words i've ever read.

so, it's been a while since i wrote anything on this thing... uh...

my washing machine isn't working right and the water isn't draining... i had to put it on the rinse cycle probably three times to get the soap out. or maybe i just used too much soap. whatever. (why am i writing this what's the point?)

(maybe it's just something to do when i'm forced to stay up all night to do my laundry?)

i just picked up my acoustic guitar and just started strumming and singing something quietly and this random, improvised, nonsense "song" sounded so lovely to my sleep deprived mind. maybe i should write more songs at 2:54 am.

another sip of tea, what else is going on.

last two weeks have been probably the most interesting in years. i wonder what the next two will bring.

...god damn this washing machine!!!!!!

that is all

lately

phenomenology, synesthesia, effects pedals, allen ginsberg, sylvia plath, dustin and the furniture, thrifting, art farmer - modern art lp, park shows, incense, mild weather, bicycles, having a job for once, polaroids, the butoh dance form, de stijl, pigeon-guided missle systems

7/1/09

to be honest, i'm a bit tired of doing endless local performances. i think it's time to trim that back and move on to something else, at least for a little while.

let it enfold you

http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/charles_bukowski/poems/12980

wow.

untitled two

we wandered toward the starry banks
words captured and folded away
there are songs in the ground and everywhere
autumn's bones all bending in place

there is nothing for me to believe
but the marrow left under your skin

safer

jordan referred me to this animal collective video.
while i am puzzled by its meaning, i nonetheless find it quite mesmerizing.

happy 3:29 AM.

fantasie-impromptu

june 23

i've been stuck in a complete limbo lately, a vacuum of sorts. i haven't seen my friends much or gone anywhere meaningful. i've been stuck in my house for the most part without a thing to do or accomplish or fulfill, which really leaves me numb and lifeless after a while. i need to promptly stop this behavior

birdland

"it was as if someone had spread butter
on all the fine points of the stars,
cause when he looked up they started to slip"

back to reality

learning not to overcomplicate things
this is incredibly important

a promise

june 20, 2009

your cold hands will become a home
to my dead murdering bones
these apparitions i would hold so close

your patchwork lungs unfurl away
from distant corners and tapestries
form an ocean that will swallow us

and there's no need or place for this.
heart chambers and hands hold it close
and i won't let it fall from me
your skin made of glass and winter seas
scattered fast from autumn hands.

and i washed forth from the pillowy shores
the darkened mirrors and opened doors
our stories all unfold like paper maps

butoh / kazuo

11:00am, june 19

i don't know what to do.

recording tonight

wasn't extremely successful;

i probably messed around with the recorded arrangement to "a promise" for close to an hour, recording and deleting instruments before i just scrapped the whole mix out of frustration

starting again tomorrow i suppose.

---

eleven forty nine pm

vision of a skeletal shoreline, pendulums and fulcrums of time, o gossamer apparitions
appeared to me in midnights and black deceased winds, the shuddering lost deeds of mine, vacant howling of chest cavities
we don't struggle, no, or strain our golden marrow in celestial outstretchings
a holy war for future texts, unfolding maps, the unfurling of royal banners
leaving the greyest travels behind, raw land sewn together
paper-thin angels and the great yellow stars,
a vicarious lithography of simulacrum eyes,
secondhand ghost revisions with an underbelly of false commissions
and it hums like ancient grey dawns, vexed shorelines and synapses
and it swells and contracts like untapped veins and atlantics
there is no calculation, no clockwork
swallowed whole in smouldering chemical twilights
tangled stars and the world fades to clavicle white
in grace and showering signals, sparks
in permanence, heat death
handed over to no use
there is none of this nothing
alone and asleep

end of

an era.

"a promise" third draft

from journal entry for june 12, 2009

your cold hands will become a home
to my dead murderous bones,
these apparitions i would hold so close.

your patchwork lungs unfurl
in distant corners, tangled stars
form an ocean that will swallow us.

and there's no need or place for this
heart chambers and hands hold it close
and i won't let it fall from me
your veins made of stone
climbing far from me

Izaak Walton claimed that John Donne, the English metaphysical poet, saw his wife's doppelgänger in 1612 in Paris, on the same night as the stillbirth of their daughter.

Two days after their arrival there, Mr. Donne was left alone, in that room in which Sir Robert, and he, and some other friends had dined together. To this place Sir Robert returned within half an hour; and, as he left, so he found Mr. Donne alone; but, in such ecstacy, and so altered as to his looks, as amazed Sir Robert to behold him in so much that he earnestly desired Mr. Donne to declare befallen him in the short time of his absence? to which, Mr. Donne was not able to make a present answer: but, after a long and perplext pause, did at last say, I have seen a dreadful Vision since I saw you: I have seen my dear wife pass twice by me through this room, with her hair hanging about her shoulders, and a dead child in her arms: this, I have seen since I saw you. To which, Sir Robert replied; Sure Sir, you have slept since I saw you; and, this is the result of some melancholy dream, which I desire you to forget, for you are now awake. To which Mr. Donnes reply was: I cannot be surer that I now live, then that I have not slept since I saw you: and am, as sure, that at her second appearing, she stopped, looked me in the face, and vanished.

This account first appears in the edition of Life of Dr John Donne published in 1675, and is attributed to "a Person of Honour... told with such circumstances, and such asseveration, that... I verily believe he that told it me, did himself believe it to be true." At the time Donne was indeed extremely worried about his pregnant wife, and was going through severe illness himself. However, R. C. Bald points out that Walton's account "is riddled with inaccuracies. He says that Donne crossed from London to Paris with the Drurys in twelve days, and that the vision occurred two days later; the servant sent to London to make inquiries found Mrs Donne still confined to her bed in Drury House. Actually, of course, Donne did not arrive in Paris until more than three months after he left England, and his wife was not in London but in the Isle of Wight. The still-born child was buried on 24 January.... Yet as late as 14 April Donne in Paris was still ignorant of his wife's ordeal." In January, Donne was still at Amiens. His letters do not support the story as given.

now that school is out

i can regain focus on life,

hopefully

bulgarian choir pieces

i'm kinda in love





cut me in quadrants
leave me in the corner
oh, now it's passing
oh, now i'm dancing

"a promise" - fragment number two

from journal entry for june sixth

your two cold hands will become a home
stay close, my murdering bones
these apparitions i would hold so close
blow me a promise from patchwork lungs

to william shelley

http://www.infoplease.com/t/lit/shelley/2/5/15.html

lately i've found out

i've grown to have a contempt for loud noise and loud speech. generally, i prefer silence and solitude to most other environments, and i have a newfound scant tolerance to any level of unnecessary noise pollution around me.

new songs

are turning out nicely.

relaxation technique tonight-
1) turn on aphex twin: selected ambient works, on repeat
2) read neruda poems online
3) continue putting off history assignments
4) enjoy

bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
i hunt for the liquid measure of your steps

8 1/2

indentations in the sheets

where their bodies moved but don't move anymore.

it's been a lot of interesting emotions lately.

thinking

lately i've been contemplating my idea of the attainment of true enlightenment. i'm not sure how to put this concept into words exactly, beyond the fact that all indoctrinations and assumptions from various obligatory societal structures need to be stripped away first. one dimensional assumptions on the nature of what is right and wrong and what we are expected to do with our lives. i aspire to someday be able to maintain an unfettered, pure perspective, in order to understand the true nature of reality.

i've been kind of coming to terms with the insignificance of all of us, how we are fine dust in some dark edge of the universe, yet self-righteous enough to believe we are part of the great cosmic order, we are more than these mortal shells, there are great plans for us after death, we are more than what we are. we all fool ourselves due to humans' capacity for abstract thought, like there are unseen forces at work that make this scattered, unpredictable world a little more tolerable in the end. i think the realization that none of this is the case, is the first step toward said pure perspective...

i had to struggle to see dean's figure

and he looked like god

i've felt the strange feeling of actually growing up as of late. everything seems to be leading to some great culmination, when i will be able to shed this tired existence and explore the land, know what there is to know, hear the stories and experiences of new people, know the real meaning of rewards, suffering, joy, elation, enlightenment... i've never been the type to settle down anywhere, to accept some sort of permanent indifference or passivity.

a change is needed. a profound one.

persephone / old rough draft

12/9/09

i stood in the center of a cold eggshell dream
wearing weathered lungs to speak
i guess i just don't know how to hold a smile
i will leave all the ships to sink

and you were all alone under a sea-swelled tide
blankets of hands waving goodbye
i felt so ancient and untied,
pressed in pages thrown aside

i was not ashamed

when you're left on hooks
like your cold weather clothes
the years just pass you by

i'll flicker like a falling
star smeared in the sky
and nothing will mean anything this time

i am not ashamed

untitled

worn hands will become a home
tear and decay, my murderous bones
cast me away with every wind
of patchwork lungs and a new inheritance

every dream, of blood and marrow
shouting and straining across
these lands like open pages, wordless
vacant hands, as one,
collapsing, folding away

one of my favorites

http://www.poetry-online.org/eliot_sweeney_ash_wednesday.htm

no homes for ghosts

i know what it's like to fade away
in thin air or in your brightest night
a heart can feel like murder locked in your chest
or pressed against your throat just right

our blood will burn through our bodies
till we're tuckered out and stretched thin
we'll tug all the leaves from the branches, the trees
the air is freezing on my seaside skin

your voice slightly shakes like it's caught in the rain
and the coast rolls on and never ends
i feel like a ghost with no air in my lungs
so i'll paint my eyes white instead

all your winter-clothes left the deepest marks
you're white and still like a stone by the shore
we could live alone, all grey like the snow
but our broken bones left trails far from home

lay awake like a child
with a diamond in your chest
with winter on your wrists
let your golden eyes slowly close with mine
i can't believe i'm alive again