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.

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.

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.

this bitch is mine

The cymbals look a bit gay now that I come to think of it, but other than that, I have a lot of work cut out for myself.

fuck info

"When you have all these micro music genres popping up out of nowhere, it seems like the only way to expand or retain any sort of relevance is to exhaust every possible variation until it implodes like this supernova leaving a residue of hundreds of shit MP3s." - Alan Palomo (aka Neon Indian).

This guy is actually really well-spoken, which is weird.

inferno astral

I want to live inside a shell. I want to look at the silence and listen to the quiet nothing. I want to live inside my own ear. I want to really feel nothing at all again, because emotions of any kind tend to backfire into the eyeball, untrustworthy whores that they are. And this gray limbo land is kind of nice anyway, because here I'm always prepared to take shit and expect nothing from all the endless cowards.

puppies get carsick: episode 1

So I'm a genius, that's to fool proof the agenda of the unnerving neverstopping mind.

Next topic: sincerity

Next topic: decency

Next topic: how to find the multiple levels of depth in one shallow glass-like thing, or person

Next topic: finding oneself bored in a maze of long fringes

Next topic: why I find the old-school comforts so valueable and terrific. Fucking dictionaries are a well of free wisening wisdom. They define everything and everyone. They assigne words and meanings to things, and over time we forget to revisit this true meaning. When I was in high school I had this philosophy teacher, and we all used to think she was a little bit insane. Well, she was. But in any case, yes, she used to make us circle words in our Socrates biography photocopied texts, words we didn't know, and we would spend most of the class breaking down words and finding out whether they came from Latin or Greek or what. And why certain words have the same roots and why we assign these labels to things and what we're really trying to get at when we say them. And I, being the nerdy kid that I was, used to find all this mildly amusing, while the rest of the class snored. To be honest, I didn't fully get her until this year, when I started (very weird) reading the dictionary and looking up random words. Getting to the bottom of definition.

She used to also rave about The Outsider, a book by Albert Camus which she thought defined "the nausea of being a human being." Back then I was lazy and had too much chemistry homework to do so I never got  around to it. I was curious though and wondered what the hell she meant by the nausea of being a human being. She always talked about the nausea of being a human being and I used to imagine this central character just roaming around the beach feeling really really sick like he was about to vomit - the extent of his non-fitting in society. I think I now know what she meant by it though. She used to describe the book as though it was almost like a frightening truth to read it. Like it would shock you and you could never be the same again. I have begged and begged my friend Josh and I now currently stand reading this much coveted... thing. I haven't finished it yet, but I can see how fitting it is to regard this book as a turning point in thought.

i know something you know

And if you could just for a second look at me and just make your lip more calm, it would really make a difference in that instance because I would try to make my face uncrease in tension. And I would smile with more balm and respirate all of this lush I feel for you, and instead of touching I would be communicating with my slow breathing. And if you would just let go for a second you could probably allow yourself to take in a breath-full of my tried and very verified intoxication, and I would venture to say something out of the ordinary as I do usually, and we wouldn't even have to touch at the least if I could at least inhale back the same face, which you would try awkwardly, but you would try it for me.

1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1

Outcome #1: it works.

Outcome #2: it doesn't.

Things are simple like maths except instead of plus signs we try to do advanced algebra.

of the good kind

Hello hi. Today is the day to settle the unfinished. The unfinished will remain undone, like the rest of our stringing thinking things, dangling like tennis balls in the minds that never sleep, making the sleeping sleep dreams so real they feel like hallucinations.

welcome to the jungle

I'll say it like it is, and it might be cruel, but niceness is rendering itself useless. I have not one cabin to explore.
My conscience has become kind of mainstream. I've tried to adapt to the everyday and so the now highly spirited persona parties are just boring and useless. Not useless but in my point of view they feel like a huge obstacle to the next working day. And I knew from the very beginning of conforming that this would happen; that sticking up for the "good" and "productive" of society, or whatever it is called, would have me lose something fundamental along the way. The recklessness isn't some kind of wasteful feeling; it's youth. And if one sobers up and becomes tingly to the every effect of liberty then one becomes weak. Weak in an aspect of idiocy. And one loses the very touch of young-ness and certainty - and some kind of self-confidence that comes imbedded with not giving a fuck. Not a flying fuck to sobriety. Sobriety is evil? I don't know. I don't know. Pureness of what? Of substance? Of mind? What are we all abstaining from? What are we all so afraid of? To live as the poor? We work for money to live well. But if we didn't and we had the option of being complete fuckheads for the rest of our duration, than what would it be? If we could choose to concentrate on things other than being responsible money-breeders, then what would it be of us? Most of us would be complete turkeys, lolling about town and creating nuisance. Imagine the world filled with jobless humans. The human race would be a complete disgrace. And so I am caught in a point in which I see nothing but this, and every party that I go to, every venue and every hour, and every fun seemingly seems like a lot less fun, save if my ego is being stroked. And I guess it's because I'm conforming bit by bit, and it scares me, more than it scared me feeling like a complete outsider to the mundane game I'm now a part of.

bang on

I would really like to know what a night of astral pop, noir & future fuzz sounds like.

In other news, after immersing myself in an afternoon of MySpace music, I have realised that there is so much more local talent than there is platform and stage space. Also, I have come to the grim realisation that the best Brisbane bands I have come across are also the most ego-less and less inclined to advertise their amazing work. Or maybe I've just been hanging at the wrong places, I don't know. Maybe I've just been admiring the wrong bands for the wrong reasons. More and more I feel like I can think for myself. Influence can shit itself for all I care. I have my own taste. For example: I liked Running Guns from the minute I picked up their DIY-looking debut single release with a sticky label on it. I went home and listened to it and loved it on the spot and then was told straight away by my former housemate how shit and amateur it sounded. Just today I revisited the bloody two-tracker, and was gobsmacked at how good it actually is. Why did I even give a fuck about what anyone else thought? Music taste is a very, very, very personal arena.

nancy

I don't know where this is from, my editor sends me funny stuff like this on a weekly basis. It's called "Nancy".

another installment of fred negro

This strip appears weekly in Time Off, a free street press Brisbane circulation. I am getting really inspired by Fred's wry, oftentimes disgusting sense of humour. "Nice cock you've got in your mouth!"

São Paulo is full of cool shit like this

beach fossils

i draw letters

muse #4

I like to watch his face of repression. He sits tense and the look is of fury, pure blind silence. I don't believe it, but the customers that stroll past his booth do. That is the point, I guess. They see in him a image of themselves, which he has carved out of dilligent respect. He is brave in a way, in being so serious. His heart is soft and yet when we're here his eyes are hard and his actor-like jawline fixed on the money. I know why he does this. I do it on the bus every morning, and am practising the tactic in other places, leading the business heart. His own precious heart is soft, and when he sings, he sings justly of this brutal quietness, and he looks different - like he actually has a pulse. I see his despair creeping and sometimes I shout, in my own revulsing brain: I understand! Holy shit! I understand! But I say nothing, content in helping to quieten the volatile forces. Business as usual. Monday mornings are prime examples. The weekend emotions dissipate in a couple of days, and we're all silently glad, I think - which is healthy, and tolerable. But I particularly like it when he forgets all the rules and laughs at jokes I invent, the blood staining his thin skin.

i just wanna have fun

I made this for a promo band night thing, it didn't get used but I still think it's good because it looks like the work of an 8 year-old.

Bleeding Knees Club are such a creative duo, so worth checking them. Jordan has the smoothest blonde hair I have ever laid my eyes on, and Alex has the dirty voice of a 70's convict.