Monthly Archives: March 2011

a picture is one thing, but picture a picture of a picture

“You’re having one of those days again, aren’t you?” He said to the check-out girl as she broodily scanned the three bottles of wine. She looks up to see the man in his pajamas then the clock on the register, registering the fact that the pacific time zone stated it was still ante meridiem. “Ditto. I’m trying to fight this thing off, what about you?” She said as seraphically as she could.

Sadness before noon is no way to start a day. Some brood, some drink, telltale signs of the infinite abyss being easier to fall into, than to fall upward into the eternal light of blah blah blah. The catch is that it’s contagious, and there are only a handful of people in the world with the immunological prose that can stand or even reverse it. Those few are the real treasures, even angels-on-earth, but they’re better known as friends, or bff’s. Even if most of us are underachievers, we can all afford to try a bit harder.

The man returned that afternoon with a mixed CD to give to the check-out girl. She smiled as if the sun peaked out briefly on a cloudy day, restoring hope on planet earth, even momentarily. Little did she know, the man did not make the CD, in fact it was a gift given to him by another person in hopes of achieving the same gift he just received. The point being, that gesture meant something to someone. The little things in life could end up being the biggest things in death.

There’s no better way to come off uninteresting than by stating you’re interested in everything.

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observations outside the bar

She spoke with her hands mostly, and attached to those hands were these long slender fingers that danced like a conductors wand during the saddest movement of his symphony. What I felt was like a knife in my chest in the night, and involuntarily dropped the plastic bag of beer cans onto the street corner we met. One of the beers rolled steadily, uninterrupted by the cracks and tiny pebbles on the rain battered floor, into the gutter. I’ve met men who’ve given up the drink because they found God, but I was willing to give up the drink because I found her. I met her through a friend, and didn’t talk to her because I was timid, but because my body was already in the middle of a multi-task. Controlling my erratic heartbeat, the fist feebly holding the plastic bag now hold my chest as if it were to jump out at any moment, though to others, might have looked like heartburn, sweat pouring down my face as though it were a hundred so degrees, while my teeth chattered when I opened my mouth as though it were a hundred so degrees below. I only pray she paid no attention to me, and to my pessimism, she didn’t. She smiled, and disappeared into the hungry fog of the night with a Twizzler in her hand. Such a beautiful smile with a haunting impression.

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Hobby Hunt, Vapid Vinyl

The general consensus regarding Mondays is that nobody really likes them. Statistically, if someone were to go postal at their job, it would be on a Monday, selfishly making everyone else’ Monday worse. Me? I never work Mondays, despite whether or not I’m at work. They can’t possibly pay me enough to fondle that kind of mental castigation, I can barely pay for parking, so I take it easy spinning in my revolving chair, and swinging a yo-yo while playing old vinyls.

On my off day’s, I’m out filming. I can’t explain it but filming somehow rejuvenates me, as if pretending to be someone else graces me with a better sense of my self. Then if I’m really feeling the kick of the catnip, I’ll try to fit a film before or after work. The hustle and tension of time constraint really does wonders for my skin, get’s my heart pumping, and occasionally I’ll state a solid, “WOOOO!!!” in the pitch of high C over Banshee, accompanied by a smooth succession of fistpumps. It’s not all work and play. What’s a life without 100 cc’s of belligerence and fecklessly vacant, vague, and vapid banter? Very few people fully comprehend the merriment of a having a bartender know your name. By nightfall, trade your eloctolyte water bottle for a bottle that has a surgeon general’s blessing of a jolly good frolic.

Lately, I’ve been fitting in a new hobby. Vinyl fucking records. It started off as a charming date, I picked them up, paid for everything, then took them home, and made sweet sweet music. New ones every week, call me a dirty whore. It’s true when they say vinyl sounds better. There are frequencies in analog recordings that cd’s or mp3’s can’t capture. Like a being is incomplete. The crackles and pops on a record are like a girlfriends you see without makeup every now and then, or boyfriends who get high-pitched when excited or have sweaty palms when it’s cold out. I’ve been hitting record shops in my off-time, usually alone, because I feel like I’m hunting for treasure or a Wild Mountain Buffalo. My Wild Mountain Buffalo is this album by Violet Sedan Chair called Seven Suns. There’s no record of it being made, but I had a hard on when someone found it and uploaded onto YouTube. I always go out looking for that buffalo, but end up coming back with bucks, elks, and maybe rabbits if I’ve some extra shells. I think everyone should have a hobby that they do alone, excluding (videogames, and listening to music. I mean, come on. Really? Reeeeally? Listening to music is a multi-task, and slaying demons and nazi zombies is… well okay, slaying demons and nazi zombies is kinda cool, but not if you see a t.v. screen more than you see the sun.)

call it a record player station or call it a fucking WIN


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the holy goof

A western spirit, a real con-man, a cowboy with guns of wit, and a saddled San Francisco trolley. Vigilant on cold nights, good deeds vying with theft of spirits. His beat was in LA.

Rabid, sweaty, significant, the land where the people flock together like birds derived of the lonesome, banished, and eccentric lovers, and somehow everyone looked like crushed, beautiful, decadent celebrities. Everyone has a story to tell, and esculent stories they were. Our cowboy fed on those, and if luck would have it, he’d share a bit of his plate with you. No matter what stories he’d accumulated, his price was loneliness. Not young enough to know everything, too young to have any sense of responsibility for anyone. The giggler at parties, the dancer of jazz clubs, his feet dirtied by the minute.

Most have heard his stories, though no on has seen his face. His stories will outlive him before he’s found the right one. A feathered snake swallowing his own tale.


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Training Wheels

Marlon held the handlebars and thrust forward on the bike, foot on the pedal. He tried to lift his leg over but fell. He fell a total of three times. No one taught Marlon how to ride the bike, and scraped knees and palms were what he had to show for it. He sat on the curb, head in his knees, the bike on the floor beside him, wheel still clicking with the revolution. “I’ll just keep falling, but mum says never let the fear teach you what you can and can’t do.” He picked up the bike and tried again, but ran into a lightpole. After cursing, he tried it one last time, though this time, he did it downhill, to go with the flow of gravity. Then he grew a smile on his face. An awkward smile because his face wasn’t used to it.

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i like pigs. dogs look up to us, cats look down on us. pigs treat us as equals

Holding hands, wedding bands, pieces of lands, the best of plans. There’s a reason why idealism and realism are different. A rich man can want to live like a poor man, but to a poor man, living poor is too expensive. The thing is, people listen. They have something people want, the people thinking if they blindly follow, they will have it too. Yes it can be anything, and it is dangerous. Those with fame convey the thirst of the youth, carrying things light and swollen, drowning things weighty and solid. “I’m afraid of losing my obscurity. Genuineness thrives in the dark. Like celery.”Said Aldous Huxley. We all live in the dark and what I think he meant was reaching for the singular light we can all see, diminishes our selves because it’s the same light. Bright and enticing, but blinding. Perhaps Ralph Waldo Emerson said it best; “fame is proof that people are gullible.” I see you.

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Everything Reminds Me of Her, yet Everything Means Nothing to Me

My lips stopped working long ago. My embrace is more brittle than an old man’s. If love is the answer, please rephrase the question. It’s not a question of intelligence, it’s a question of imagination. We thought you had a plethora of it. What’s a plethora? It’s not a clevergirl or boy, it’s what he or she can dream, and a meaningful kiss and embrace is a dream courageously branching into reality. If it can’t be stomached, don’t exacerbate through regurgitation.

During grade school and high school, I always thought something like love was owed to me as long as I lived. If not then and there, sometime in the near future, always the near future, from the point I devised that conclusion. As time went on, that quiet faith became a quiet dread. If I were to obtain that kind of affection (or more accurately, sympathy) I’d have nothing but doubts to scream it’s lullabies to me. Screaming lullabies and singing lullabies are entirely different.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I don’t get runner ups, but if I’m dealing with something in my personal life, in which my auto-mendacious antics would surmise my pessimism, I’d want someone who would dare to defy me. And the method in which to do so is so elementary, so easily, can even be done without words. A simple gesture or a simple embrace. That’s how easy it is to be important in a person’s life, in my life. Show us synchronicity and we’ll know we’re not alone.

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