Monday, November 12, 2007
and he hung his wild years on a
nail that he drove through his
He sold used office furniture out
there on San Fernando Road and
assumed a $30,000 loan at
15 1/4 % and put a down payment
on a little two bedroom place.
His wife was a spent piece of used jet trash
Made good bloody-marys, kept her mouth
shut most of the time, had a little Chihuahua
named Carlos that had some kind of skin
disease and was totally blind.
They had a thoroughly modern kitchen;
self-cleaning oven (the whole bit)
Frank drove a little sedan.
They were so happy.
One night Frank was on his way home
from work, stopped at the liquor store,
picked up a couple of Mickey's Big Mouth’s.
Drank 'em in the car on his way to the
Shell station; he got a gallon of gas in a can.
Drove home, doused everything in
the house, torched it.
Parked across the street laughing,
watching it burn, all Halloween
orange and chimney red.
Frank put on a top forty station,
got on the Hollywood Freeway
Never could stand that dog."
Couldn't have put it better myself. No, really, I couldn't.
Picture by ~mtrutledge on DeviantArt.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
I find myself being dragged away from this persona to a more chivalrous one, day by day. It is not the first time it has happened, and by all means, it doesn't take much to make me shift and abandon different characters and views. However I feel I like this particular incarnation enough to allow it some sort of self-defense.
I came up with myself when I needed to cope with things in a spectacular way. There looms the possibility of me not having to do this anymore, the lure of a more tender emotion seems to be sneaking up on me. And it got me thinking - why should I activate different modules of myself with every other feeling that seems important enough to require emotional spring cleaning? If every time a bell chirped in my hat I'd suddenly turn to see it I'd probably just be stretched on some floor somewhere with my eyes long lost in permanent vertigo. And still, I seem to be doing exactly this on some level. I'm my own book of tricks.
Why would I suddenly write such a mushy post? Get over yourselves. I don't live in a conflict area and most ideas I have are stretched so thin they barely manage to link things together. Blogs inevitably fall in pits of personal confession, pathetic in nature and cozy for all those who wish to put off writing their own posts. I wish this was an exorcism.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
To have a tank - the dream of the founder of Virgin (the record-label, the legend, the myth) and by having it, knowing that it is yours to drive around in at any given moment is synonymous with security, control and "zazz".
To have a tank, in the most biblical of ways - the dream of a fellow harlequin, mostly charming, always full of presence - and to be able to run anyone down in it, at any given moment, becoming one with the motorized armored vehicle and feeling the bones crunch under your treaded soles, a certain gentleness involved - synonymous with the M.O. of any self-respecting sociopath bent on making the world a better place, even by self-sacrifice.
What else is there to hope for? Get a tank - paint it pink, make an impression, run everyone down in it, beginning with your best friend (he/she would go out with an orgasmic yelp, no doubt) and always avoiding those you despise most - the subtlety of knowing they know you could make guacamole out of them with the expense of nothing else than gasoline is punishment enough and it turns you in a sort of makeshift Batman.
This was me trying to empathize with my friend's dream. I would much prefer (much like Jesus) to have others blame themselves to the extent they'd jump in front of her tank, when she gets it. Such a creative partnership would indeed be our big show together...
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Cheese, Whiskey, Watch the Birdie (rough translation), etc - words that cut slits in peoples' faces like charm, magic words which bring the apocalypse of straight faces everywhere.
Monday, May 28, 2007
or, in the Bard's language,
Being called upon by Hamlet, a surprise inspection revealed that there was indeed something rotten in Denmark.
Words of wit from a high school graduate. I take a leaping bow.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Right, so it's about time I live up to my promise, is it not? Especially since I got that which I choose to consider a nocturnal ultimatum. I'll tell you the story of this dream, as warm-up, I have to put on a black tear for that, just a second.
Right - have you ever been heartbroken in a dream? I have these epic dreams at times - I dream long, intertwining stories, scenarios which could fill many pages of pulp or psycho cyberpunk publication. The one last night was no exception - I woke to find myself near a female character of considerable beauty and magnetism, a girl as it were, a beauteous girl, an ancient druid girl, an officiator of forgotten rituals in strange, strange forests girl, a girl who exists in the real world also and whom I happen to know. We were together, we were happy together, we had been very happy together but a few minutes ago, but I (sincerely) didn't dream that part of your happy relationship. We were experiencing this familiar joy in a luxurious hotel room somewhere, which we felt was home. And like some sort of fine measuring device, some sort of industrial-revolution fantasy, Jules Verne-esque self-o-meter, I felt myself slowly beginning to disappear, to occupy less and less space in this female character's memory and consciousness, to the point that, while still considering the hotel room her home, she did not consider me part of it and could see me no more. And so she went in search for something. This is perfectly natural according to the rules of the dream, no? She went in search of two Italian male characters that she could use to search several depths, including that of her memory perhaps. It was not very difficult to find such characters - it was as if the twisted director of the dream had made them available at arm's length. In any case, she thus returned with the two Italian fellows of extremely stereotypical appearance. And, from my fly on the wall position I could easily observe the zeal with which they proceeded to plummet, as it were. Mind you, this whole scene had negligible erotic attributes for me, as I was merely a fly on the wall in their perspective - I had never ceased to have a certain feeling of devotion towards this girl. And so, taking into account the fact that the dream had the usual qualities of a dream, that is to say it greatly resembled reality, my reaction was that of the real me - I also plummeted, but not into an abyss of tunnels, but rather into heartbroken depression... Scroll back up and look at my black tear now. It's the end of the story. I woke up. And the dream had left me this beautiful reminder that I too have a subconscious life and the fact that it stays subconscious and chooses not to pierce through to my carefully constructed persona of patchwork must be compensated somehow. Hello everyone, my hair is fuchsia and I'm a person-that-lives-more-intense-lives-during-sleep-than-while-being
-awake-and-sometimes-these-lives-bleed-through. Umm, no, I mean, I might become an alcoholic.
Right, it seems my introduction has indeed managed to take up enough space. I can now begin to tell other tales of depravity. I need a break. Coffee. Muffin. M&M.
Monday, May 7, 2007
P.S. - If it ever crossed your hairs that I'd give the URL to my other blog... I'll quote "what were you expecting from me? A round number?"
Monday, April 30, 2007
Not many laughs to be had lately, I must say, with pronounced disdain and distress. And not enough tear-worthy events either. I was just pondering the mechanisms by which extreme sadness can be turned into trouser-wetting humor by a mere effort of will. However, as John the Revelator would put it, that which is merely warm shall be spit out of the mouth of God.
Not to be asking for a lightning-bolt jolt back to reality or purgatory, depending on the mood, but wouldn't a tobacco-spittin', six-shooter blastin', saloon-door kickin' deity have made any sane man quiver with hysteria in a rational world?
And further more, based on the assumption that paradontosis is an affliction common especially to older people, and the biblical fact that we have been created in the image of God, I say, shouldn't it be understandable that this respective deity should very much enjoy the presence of some warm and neutral-tasting food in his mouth rather than a hot or icy fluid that could easily cause jolts of universal pain?
Well, ranting has it's own pace. May it be be gentle and graceful. And if you have nothing nice to say, at least try to make it interesting.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Monday, April 16, 2007
Fine day today in Germany. Hot weather and blooming trees, delicious wurst and liters upon liters of ale.
A game of tension lays waste to patience, tiresome tale in a hale of words, no results. It's like doing cartwheels in space - just not spectacular, just cold and pointless. This feeling, frozen from liquid state into a perfect mirror of absurdity, placed in front of me. I write these words at night, knowing that in the morning, the rejuvenated masks that I try so very hard to make my own, will probably be able to cover my face again, will silence my bells. Prepubescent dillemas still haunt. We have these thoughts that won't converge, we try so hard to make words merge and there's no end to our attempts, as jesters mock our weathered hands. Nothing said, nothing gained, no peace lost or muscle strained, I lay relaxed and upside down, bells shimmering around my crown.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Shuffle the deck, move'em around, there's plenty for eveyone, as long as there's still a free bed to play in. If you're really, really lucky, you get to draw three cards of the same kind and bet them over and over again. Unfortunately friends, we're playing black-jack, so the queen is not a good card to pull a hattrick with... Tough luck kid, we did everything we could.
It's times like these that I'd switch over the fence to my tuxedo-wearing amigos in mostly dellusional illusion land. Have them teach me a thing or two about that dissapearing act - I can pull it off with a couple of aces, but I can't make the dealer go up in smoke. And that's exactly what needs to be done. No fun here, just bitter attempts at cartwheels. Even harlequins feel angry at times. A system where clowns can become doctors and perform their daily routines on helpless, pale and wide-eyed mimes is a circus not even fools can bear.
I love you dear friend, you're an ace up my sleeve at all times. Get well soon.
Image courtesy of ~angel-blue on dA.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
We've gone from laughter to despair at their approach. Children see puppets as funny sketches of a person. People see puppets as reflections, for why else would they exploit this ridiculous gothic theme so much? And indeed, if you see a puppet and your subconscious goes "What have I become?!" you should probably watch "Child's play" again and again, for some inspiration.
Puppets usually come in two varieties: on one hand we have the hanging kin - you know, those dominated from way above by a posse of creepy individuals with serious passive-agressive disorders. On the other hand, as it were, we have those who need a hand up their (rather generous) behinds, as motor skill substitution. I'm not even going to try to make a joke about the weilders' profile this time. I do however wonder which of these two little friends scare adults more...
Where, I ask, lies freedom for a puppet? In the master's nimble fingers or by means of mocking one's own strings? Electric cables, bills, dues, relations, relatives, affairs, puppet strings for the perceptive, brutal fisting hands for the not-so-perceptive. It's no laughing matter, lest you break a string.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
As it is with most things, music inspires me to write this. People sometimes have feelings that they can't explain. Some of these people can easily find things in this reality to tie those feelings to, creating an artificial connection that reassures them of their sanity. Such is the case of a character highly distressed by the barbaric practice of clitorectomy that still goes on in certain parts of Africa, or of yet another character, Colombine for example - her spleen is triggered by the knowledge of women disappearing like slain dogs, by the tens and by the hundreds, somewhere at the border between Mexico and the United States. Further more, a neighbor here in the blogosphere keeps a very vivid and electrically charged account of the goings on in Iraq, ever since the war began. Very relevant, very strong - I suppose it can make great material for us wounded souls to find something to blame for our emo-ness, despite the very alive and first-person meat it has on it's virtual bones.
Where can one find the "funny" in all this. It's not the funny you'd laugh at out loud. It's the type of funny a fool has to point out first for the king to be able to chuckle. Picture, if you will, all the people with a rather large and colorful bell hat on their respective heads. These hats, with many a bell, can hardly wait to stretch a little tentacle and start ringing, one way or the other, to wherever insanity wreaks havoc in a most stimulating way. And so the tentacles fly all over the Earth - from individuals in Romania to Bangladesh, from people in America to the darkest deepest jungle in Africa (where the bell only dares venture, leaving the driving mind behind), from this clown in Romania to Iraq. And now, had you kept your mind focused, you see a web of these little arms, dangling away and ringing all over the planet, like microwave alarms. And out of nowhere comes this idea that we should do something as individuals. Pandemonium - each anchored fool with his/her colored hat starts yanking away, until we all, in pairs, crack our heads against each other. And the bells roar at first, then they lay silent until the bluebirds stop swirling around in a cartoon like fashion. Down here, we call this public uproar, collective action, Live8.
I refuse to formulate a moral to this exercise.
Monday, April 9, 2007
A song made me feel this way about three or four days ago. It's not really dry yet, but it will be in a week or so, a gentle reminder of ridiculous enthusiasm. It doesn't take people to make one feel like a fool. It just takes a brain (albeit a slightly disfunctional one). Hence the name of this fresh blog.
Image courtesy of Cristiano Siqueira - www.crisvector.com