Saturday
Sunday
humility is poison
And spill it out in the ragged floor
A thousand different versions of yourself
And if the old guard still offend,
They got nothing left on which you depend,
So enlist every ounce,
Of your bright blood,
And off with their heads,
Jump from a book,
You're not obliged to swallow anything you despise
See, those unrepenting buzzards want your life,
And they got no right
As sure as you have eyes,
They got no right
The Shins, Sleeping Lessons
A thousand different versions of yourself
And if the old guard still offend,
They got nothing left on which you depend,
So enlist every ounce,
Of your bright blood,
And off with their heads,
Jump from a book,
You're not obliged to swallow anything you despise
See, those unrepenting buzzards want your life,
And they got no right
As sure as you have eyes,
They got no right
The Shins, Sleeping Lessons
lion island
This is a ravishing band from Brisbane which I'd heard little of until I saw them perform this weekend at the 2High Festival in the Powerhouse. They instantly struck a chord. There is a whole flock of relatively new, folk-pop, instrument-curious, unisex bands upsurging at the moment, and I must say that most of them benefit from the concept.
Thursday
(s)creaming into pillow, part IV
BULLSHIIIIIIIIIIIT.
ROYAL FUCKING MUSCULAR MOLECULAR LIE, TENSION, SHORTCOMING LIKE A FUCK THAT LASTS 5 MINUTES.
ROYAL FUCKING MUSCULAR MOLECULAR LIE, TENSION, SHORTCOMING LIKE A FUCK THAT LASTS 5 MINUTES.
Tuesday
everything i do is ordinary
He felt like he might be losing the fuzzy wilderness, but he wasn't quite, not just yet. For all his eagerness to adapt and mold, there was an equivalent that he protected behind his tenderness; an incapability to let the routine sweep his music, his books, his foreign currency of self, his deeply seated fury for ordinary life.
tender admiration
Tender kid begins as tender. Tender kid lives in typical beach suburbia. Tender kid gets bored easily so he watches a lot of movies. Tender kid is very much himself, and very nice indeed. Tender isn't worried about fads; and if he is, he doesn't show it. Tender kid has all this equipment lying around the house. Tender kid is typically bourgeois, but not in a bad way. Tender kid makes good use of this equipment. Tender kid takes photos and makes stupid films and his sort of "vision" attracts new friends. Everybody likes tender kid, but most especially because he's unabashed about his creative efforts. Tender kid is very free in his pursuits, but also grateful for all the attention he gets. Tender kid travels a lot. It's true tender kid has parents who fund him, but tender kid makes good use of this, better than anyone else I know. Suddenly, tender kid becomes prominent. Tender kid's stuff is everywhere, from magazines to websites and he even has his own gallery. Tender kid is barely legal, and he has his own art gallery. Tender kid joins a band. Tender kid's band also becomes prominent, and tender kid's voice is truly unique. Tender kid isn't exactly handsome, but for all his focused energy tender kid is sharp, and has always been attuned to trend, or the moment. Tender kid has interests outside the circle, you see. Tender kid isn't interested in being assimilated. Tender kid is interested in having interests. Tender kid is a worldly creature. For all his praises and successes, tender kid hasn't changed much - if anything he has become a little reserved, but he has always been reserved. Tender kid is the kind of kid that can do whatever he wants with life because he is desperately comfortable with himself, and he has convinced himself from an early age that he can do whatever he pleases. Tender kid isn't concerned with being with the right crowd, tender kid IS he right crowd, you can spot him a mile away. Tender kid is a universe in himself, always has been, from the moment he decided to be tender, specific, and focused on shit that's really important.
Sunday
bang bang bang you're all dead
These are some cool works in a warehouse in __undislosed__. Took some photographs for my portfolio there. Some of these, mainly the human form ones, are Georg's. Georg is a local artist whom I greatly admire, and he gives home tattoos.
minute replica
Can you just imagine what could have possibly been like to have lived as Bob Dylan? To rise out of the unknown out of sheer talent, will and a driving, unconsolable anger?
If one just tries to experience being Dylan, in that interview room, for these few minutes...
If one just tries to experience being Dylan, in that interview room, for these few minutes...
shouldn't, couldn't, wouldn't
She breathed in everything and it was like going to the country side: the freshest air, when unaccustomed with, stinging the lungs.
His long unfurnished bedroom. His high school socks.
His broken stupid guitars scattered around the room.
His mum, the brand new coffee cups, the tea and the backyard chickens.
His fine hair, overgrown, brushing on his temples, falling over, dismounting, wanting to rule over, feigning obedience.
His skin and his stubby eyebrows.
His careless clothes, pinned tight along his legs. His stupid little eyes.
Pretty eyes, muddled, colourless.
His obsession with himself, and with being capable, and imperfect: it hurt, it hurt, and it stung her quietly.
His long unfurnished bedroom. His high school socks.
His broken stupid guitars scattered around the room.
His mum, the brand new coffee cups, the tea and the backyard chickens.
His fine hair, overgrown, brushing on his temples, falling over, dismounting, wanting to rule over, feigning obedience.
His skin and his stubby eyebrows.
His careless clothes, pinned tight along his legs. His stupid little eyes.
Pretty eyes, muddled, colourless.
His obsession with himself, and with being capable, and imperfect: it hurt, it hurt, and it stung her quietly.
the land of the brave
There are three things that can’t be done:
1) To betray
2) To hide away in some awful cave
3) To get caught in between, in between, in between.
1) To betray
2) To hide away in some awful cave
3) To get caught in between, in between, in between.
Thursday
a stone on the phone breaking a wishbone
Oh my God. I have contracted ADD. Also, a rush of inspiring ink just gushed through my brain and dyed my veins blue. I have a massive album to-download list that requires attention. Currently, in this prehistoric machinery, I can't operate more than two windows at any given time, so the completion of the task is not only impossible, but suicidal to contemplate. I have this strange sensation that these computers we use today are slightly hilarious and nearly obselete from the day we get them. I have a feeling we are on the cusp of something. But then again, I always have the feeling we are on the cusp of something. I always look at the collective with optimism, and sometimes forget it is me mostly that has all the excess goodwill, like a crystal prism making rainbows here and there and everywhere. Fucking opaque marbles.
I have a feeling that I bought the most marvellous book today. I spent my money like a guilty Catholic nun buying candy for the - oh, what a horrible metaphor that would have been. Forget about it. The book is called - ready? - the book is called, hang on, I actually forgot, oh yes, By Nightfall. By Michael Cunningham, released this year. He wrote The Hours and I absolutely detest that movie, which won fuckloads of prizes for its endearing emptiness. But I have been reading some excerpts of By Nightfall on this book blog - A BOOK BLOG - and every single line just made me pant and think I needed to get to know this writer.
I also had all kinds of insights yesterday, in bed, the kind of insights you actually physically need to write down in order not to forget them. More even - the kind of insights you need to staple somewhere to stare at it for a couple of days - because its truth is so gratifying and naked that it pulls you in like an obscene French sex scene.
I have a feeling that I bought the most marvellous book today. I spent my money like a guilty Catholic nun buying candy for the - oh, what a horrible metaphor that would have been. Forget about it. The book is called - ready? - the book is called, hang on, I actually forgot, oh yes, By Nightfall. By Michael Cunningham, released this year. He wrote The Hours and I absolutely detest that movie, which won fuckloads of prizes for its endearing emptiness. But I have been reading some excerpts of By Nightfall on this book blog - A BOOK BLOG - and every single line just made me pant and think I needed to get to know this writer.
I also had all kinds of insights yesterday, in bed, the kind of insights you actually physically need to write down in order not to forget them. More even - the kind of insights you need to staple somewhere to stare at it for a couple of days - because its truth is so gratifying and naked that it pulls you in like an obscene French sex scene.
Monday
dr. crave, your milk is here
Everything is so quiet and pulsating so gently. And then there's another bit, a strand of hair in the plate, that says get the fuck up, you are well rested. And then there's an amateur quality to charm, too, which seems to disappear at times I need most. And so I'm wondering, in this peaceful little stupid place: WHAT. THE. FUCK.
I can't explain and it doesn't make sense. I know exactly the physicalities involved in assessing the situation - the mind is in a state of forced elasticity, relaxing against its own overbearing copings - and as the "twinkle" gradually wears off, things go back to normal and the thinking cells start to work out of control again. But the mental irregularities still bang out the same note. This is when I hear a lyric piece like last night's, and say something to myself like: "thank fuck I'm not the only one that would be so bold to say this out loud" or something generally middle of the road like that. And in it being my reason for identifying. And in it being one of the causes for this nil score board, which I'm pretty sure is within our control, but we and him and some others choose to offset it - God only knows why.
I'm not so much embarrassed to say, too, that this technology is crumbling like cheap vintage cheese.Yeah, it's all there for us when we need it, but shit, do we need it that often? Do we need all the answers at armslenght? Wasn't it good when we had to battle out for it? Not to mention all these petty answers for questions I never even had to begin with. Information I don't really need, and that yet supplied will just overwhelm me anyway. Us absorbing whatever. Why look? Because people are curious, that is an innate quality that technology exploits. The senses don't know unless you actively tell them, and steer them to other uses. But what other uses?
Most of our stupid entertainment relies on technology anyway. What else could we possibly do with our time? Oh I don't know, go outside. Have a cigarette. Read a book. Meet with people. Watch something live. Cook something. Just DON'T. STAND. IN FRONT OF THE COMPUTER. This produces a slow melting rage.
And I know what I'm missing, or have too much of. Physically I like to open doors and peek through. But it's such a rambling mess of open doors at the moment. Doors which I should have just left shut. So much unfinished business, it breeds contempt. And resentment. I wish I was chilled like a bottle of juice in my icy cold fridge. I wish I had enough bricks and stones around me to just flop my body and not care. But the empire of the creating is different from the empire of the always-havers. We at least crave. I can't help what I don't understand. And what I don't understand must be mine. And nothing really suffices, ever, because I have no idea, sometimes, what I'm after. I mean I do, I do, I hope I know I do. Let that be a disclaimer to all the erroneous behaviors I've displayed (far too much), and the stupid little snotty things I say (far too often), and my general easy-to-read body language. If I had no ego, I would probably be bland like fat-free milk.
I can't explain and it doesn't make sense. I know exactly the physicalities involved in assessing the situation - the mind is in a state of forced elasticity, relaxing against its own overbearing copings - and as the "twinkle" gradually wears off, things go back to normal and the thinking cells start to work out of control again. But the mental irregularities still bang out the same note. This is when I hear a lyric piece like last night's, and say something to myself like: "thank fuck I'm not the only one that would be so bold to say this out loud" or something generally middle of the road like that. And in it being my reason for identifying. And in it being one of the causes for this nil score board, which I'm pretty sure is within our control, but we and him and some others choose to offset it - God only knows why.
I'm not so much embarrassed to say, too, that this technology is crumbling like cheap vintage cheese.Yeah, it's all there for us when we need it, but shit, do we need it that often? Do we need all the answers at armslenght? Wasn't it good when we had to battle out for it? Not to mention all these petty answers for questions I never even had to begin with. Information I don't really need, and that yet supplied will just overwhelm me anyway. Us absorbing whatever. Why look? Because people are curious, that is an innate quality that technology exploits. The senses don't know unless you actively tell them, and steer them to other uses. But what other uses?
Most of our stupid entertainment relies on technology anyway. What else could we possibly do with our time? Oh I don't know, go outside. Have a cigarette. Read a book. Meet with people. Watch something live. Cook something. Just DON'T. STAND. IN FRONT OF THE COMPUTER. This produces a slow melting rage.
And I know what I'm missing, or have too much of. Physically I like to open doors and peek through. But it's such a rambling mess of open doors at the moment. Doors which I should have just left shut. So much unfinished business, it breeds contempt. And resentment. I wish I was chilled like a bottle of juice in my icy cold fridge. I wish I had enough bricks and stones around me to just flop my body and not care. But the empire of the creating is different from the empire of the always-havers. We at least crave. I can't help what I don't understand. And what I don't understand must be mine. And nothing really suffices, ever, because I have no idea, sometimes, what I'm after. I mean I do, I do, I hope I know I do. Let that be a disclaimer to all the erroneous behaviors I've displayed (far too much), and the stupid little snotty things I say (far too often), and my general easy-to-read body language. If I had no ego, I would probably be bland like fat-free milk.
transmission
Maybe if I exert and exploit until wishing bores me, and sickens me... then I'll finally stop. But wishing is endless, and satelites too constant. Fuck.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
