Sunday, September 30, 2007

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Global Demolition

Demolition is so much fun.

Friday, September 21, 2007

Update, Bitches.

Where am I at right now?

For all of my masked indifference, I feel like all of my successful relationships with creatures and noncreatures on Earth are 100% the effect of being obsessively accommodating.

Recently, I awarded myself with a basic need. Interaction with people that I need.

On the off time from the physical demands of a Hell Shack renovation on the Bering Sea.... in the smallest village rounded out heavily with full blown "villagers" on the edge of the planet, I try to find music and art and philosophy that cranks my rusty chain. I feel it yanked alot, but it's nothing I can't handle. I still swim with the fish.

My family... my loved ones.. are all battling deep personal tragedy, and I am the finger tips of their current. I fuck the sky blindly when no one is watching, when no one that matters can bust me.

Lately, I think... I like the Commodores.

And my recent freak out with my ability to process Mark Rothko's work... Resolved. When I leave this seat, I will "express" my feelings for Disco as if I was endlessly terrified of my own politics.

There's more to me right now I suppose.

But I am dissolving the worst of it, and will return when I have something solid enough, yet soft enough to process, and I will seek one of your wise wise wise medicinal quips, that will no doubt set me straight, right, and thrust me back into the same fucking place in line that I curse out all of my verses from... at you... constantly oblivious... and I will sustain my hunger by eating my heart to spare my soul.

Shiver me timbers.

Fire is come. Fire is gone.

Number one.
Number fucking one.

Tonight's Photos

Friday, September 14, 2007

My Disclaimer. My First Aid Skills. Mona Lisa

I am going to use you. I am going to use you more than you may have ever been used. I am going to take and take and take.

And what I give in return may live in the shadows of your sacrifice to me until the end of days, but you should know that I can't breathe without you. I'll make it up one day. But for now, I hope you can swim with me in a panic.

A psycho personal tornado shreds the thousand thoughts that blink my eyes.

What keeps me calm is knowing that your turn to batter me within inches of my life... to keep your head above water... may be coming. And I wouldn't miss that for anything. That's real gold, and everything else called gold is ash.


Let me preface this entry by saying that sometimes I come across harshly. As if I didn't care about the people I talk about. Recently, I told a friend that I was too self involved to really care.. IN retrospect that was venting to someone I think understood me. And understanding me, you would also understand that I probably don't mean it. But the truth is, I don't know what I mean. WHen trying to personally process pain or grief (which this village has been drowned by) I have removed myself from telling anyone who asks what I think about our dreary summer. Our summer of death. What I have ultimately realized is that it doesnt matter at all what I think about all this death. The person asking (usually an outsider) is just waiting to tell me what they think. Some gram of wisdom meant to sooth me. Meant to prop me up. Meant to turn my frown upside down. I am not saying I don't like interaction with the human race. In this case, I am saying... Just shut the fuck up. Just listen. Just watch. Don't replay your own personal tragedy from ten years ago to make mine look less dismal. And don't wrap it up in a fucking pat on the hand and a sympathetic practiced flash in your eye.

Today we had another funeral. It was Russian Orthodox in nature like all the rest. You don't get buried in the cemetery here if you aren't Russian Orthodox. That's right. You get buried outside of the gate. Even if you choked to death. Even if you were one of the 30 graves of unmarked victims from the Flu Epidemic in the 20's. Even if you hadn't even learned to walk yet. Anyways.

I didn't go to the funeral. I did prepare the space today though, like I always do.. alone.. for some reason... I cover all the children's art with cheap white sheets and a stapler. I take down signs that say "no running". I pull out the podium and the skinny white candles. I line up enough chairs for the immediate family, because everyone else has to stand for the service.

The service is done by a priest or lesser who is flown out to the village. He typically wears a long black dress, is unshaven... looks like Nick Nolte and seems giddy when you hand him cash for his efforts... A donation. The same guy has been coming for the past few services.

After some words about life and all that, everyone is invited to kiss the corpse. So, I stay home. Some people go just for that... I truly believe that. Not many... But even three drama queens in an island population of 25 is enough to make you sick. So.. I stayed home and children came to be with me instead of the services. We made three pizzas that I had prepped the dough for the night before, just like Alton Brown.

There is always a feast after the body has been lowered into the ground. You can see the grave from the window as we line up to take food from all the families who prepared it. A 15 foot long countertop usually holds it all. 5 fold out tables, 30 chairs...

I give my hugs. Show my respect. Put spoons in everyone's dish. Make coffee. Make jokes. Make myself up in presentation. Terrified that I will have to say something I couldn't plan and just fuck it up lousy, in the face of someone who lost their mother. Lost their grandmother. Someone I knew too, but not enough to want to invade their goodbye.

I look over during the meal, and see the priest chug a coca cola and the whole prop of religion just fell through the floor and I laughed out loud. It was probably listening to "We Care Alot" as I mopped the floor before the memorial that got me through the day. Now... I am looking for songs I haven't heard to get me through tomorrow.

I think I tried to say initially, that I am not cold even though I present events like a newscaster sometimes. That's my way. If you really did know me, you would read my candid and flip comments as they were truly inspired.

I AM devastated but the recovery is instant when I have to take care of you.

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

How old do you have to be

I feel like I understand something now.

I have the same pain in my heart. I have the same obstacle in my speech. I have the same monster in my dreams.
I have the same cramp in my style.
The same flinch in my response.
The same anger in my compassion.

I have the same hunger in my rage.
The same sadness in my resignation.
The same confusion in my seeking.
The same aggression in my judgement.
The same weakness in my flexibility.
The same fucking alphabet to give license to my terror on worlds.

You tell me. I've already told you. But I'll rephrase it until my every inch is destroyed by the antagonists we run from.

Sunday, September 9, 2007

dave matthews slits his pasty throat.

..I feel like sometimes, I am
this machine that bashes and fillets wildlife. Every screw and cable
and beltway of me is embedded with sinew and the guts of each minute
launches into this judgmental and shallow header, that hangs
like a hole at my gate, my unholy entrance, and it doesn't stand a chance in my whiz of a meat grinder... I try to shove aside and save every piece of soul before it enters me. I am a mess of my own job at being me.

I drank whiskey tonight. If I had drank Vodka, I wouldn't be sitting at a computer. I would be off punching elders and stabbing delinquents. True stories. Doctor me.

There's something wrong with me. It's not obvious. I mean, yeah... there's obvious shit wrong with me, but here's what isn't wrong with me...

I hate Hootie and the Blowfish.
I hate The Dave Matthews band.
I hate Blind Melon.
I hate Creed.
There's a shitload of other music I hate, but there isn't enough invisible paper to house the listing. That's what I get for being too lazy to change satellite stations while vomiting up 9 midnight paintings.

Back to what's wrong with me.

Where do I begin?

I must be obsessive.
I must be compulsive.

True. You got me. I've faced it. Nurse me.

But I wasn't those things before I melted down. Before I melted down, I was stable, and I could want things whenever it fell into my every day function. I am no longer functioning. I am careening. I am back to bouncing off of the walls of my own stable. I feel fine. I can mother my child. I can answer phones. I can make a 5 star dinner with cabbage and will. I am stressed. I am working my hands like mad to fill in for my mind. It can only last so long, and I fear my heart.

Maybe it isn't fair to say I was stable. I was resting. And I don't fear my heart. I re-introduce myself.