31 January 2006

a rock and a hard place

As I struggled to extricate myself from bed this afternoon, I reached a final decision (I believe it's final, anyway) regarding my music equipment - I'm going to sell it. "It" being the precious Korg Triton, three Korg Sound Library Expansion Packs, a Tascam 8-track digital recorder and an accompanying Tascam CD-ROM drive.
Buried under blankets and gazing at the ceiling, I became more and more agitated as I thought about the fucking credit cards and my irresponsibility, the dust collecting on the music gear, my rare and sporadic moments of musical expression and three plus years void of any solid dedication to another EP or album.
If any of my comrades have an interest in any of this equipment, drop me a line. I plan on listing the items on eBay in about a week so consider that the deadline for any inquiries.

mc

"...Then you're trapped in your lovely nest, and the things you used to own, now they own you."
from Chuck Palahniuk's Fight Club

30 January 2006

a broadcast and the sea

Tonight the black and billowing clouds of loneliness are silently shifting in the night's sky and I am a 1978 jalopy galloping down a cold and desolate stretch of interstate on balding tires and a dying engine. The chassis is rusting and rattling and looking for a warm ditch to call a home of permanence. The headlights are fading and the bulbs illuminating the gauges are dying in the dashboard and the fuzzy radio struggles to pull in the sound from a distant tower.
"O, Babe! I need your broadcast. I need to receive the waves of your sound.
"To receive is to revive.
"To revive is to bare witness to another day and another broadcast of static and hope."
I am the slovenly and slouching driver behind the wheel of this wreck born in 1978. My pulse is slowing and my eyes are drooping as I struggle to steer this body into the night.
Into this night and under those stars is a soul whose aim is true but hands are shaky. Fingernails like thin sheets of ice with cracking flesh wrapped tight around cold digits. Dry hands and wet heart and my head is an expired parking meter filled with dead and useless currency; the soiled coins of memory have long since lost their luster.
Yes, we live in different times now. Our skepticism - colder, our hearts - none the wiser, our souls - repentant ghosts eager to spoil every clean and new chapter.
"O, Babe! I need your broadcast, for the rumble of this engine and the rhythm of this heart are weathering and withering the rusting chains wrapped around the porcelain of my sanity."
Only the static responds.
Static.
Static.
Static.
Nothing.
Has Her tower toppled? Has Her voice dissolved?
Like a caged falcon finally free I roar past the final exit. A cliff and the black sea are dead ahead and my heart submits to its darkest desire. My aim is true and these hands are still.
Tires turning and touching earth.
Tires turning and touching earth.
Tires turning and touching nothing.
Spinning wild and free, wild and free, gracing the empty spaces of the night. Wild and free and I'm floating and I'm falling and my eyes devour a glorious moon, a sea, a sky, a line where the sea and the sky kiss and a flock of flying ghosts, the ghosts of waves - YES! - the ghosts of radio waves - Her radio waves! - and that familiar sound of Her voice, free of static and simply free, flies into my ears and bathes my heart and then...
IMPACT
The water.
Rushing.
Invading.
The interior of this vehicle, awash with foam and sea.
And death. Death will befriend me in a matter of moments but peace has already discovered my name.
Her broadcast pulls me close to Her breast and to receive is to revive.
Revive.
Revive.
Revive.
And then I succumb - with Her in my heart and sea in my lungs.

mc

29 January 2006

drunken stanzas in a dripping night

from my portable notebook...written earlier tonight...i suppose the prologue to this entry can be found here


(I've disappeared again)
I'm wandering Kirkwood Avenue in a drunken state when I find my vehicle. I'm wondering if She will miss my inebriated presence. Probably not.

Before I stumble across my car, the drunken bodies of strangers pass me. My steps are cautious and calculated. My eyes downward. An intoxicated girl asks me ("Hey, red shirt guy!" I'm wearing a red cardigan sweater) if this, the street we are standing on, is Kirkwood.
"Yes. Of course it is," I reply, confused.
We're all looking for a ride home but home is far, far away and beyond our reach.
"I wish I could help you," I say but my drunken words are greeted by deaf ears. Her cellular conversation has eliminated my presence.
A strange couple exchange a drunken kiss in an obscene ally and I pretend not to notice. They are strangers and I'm lost on this sidewalk as the falling rain glistens off the pavement.
I'm lost and don't know what to do. I smoke a cigarette in the rain and absorb the drops. When does one truly know what to do in moments like these?
I find my car and climb inside. Strangers pass in the wet night.
So lost.
So confused.
No one will ever find me. A lost alien in a lost world.
Some believe that god knows all the answers but he's just as lost as we are...In this drunken town. No one has the answers because the solutions do not exist - not in the here and now. No. Answers are a false solution to unperceived problems.
Fuck it.
The shadows of rain drops fall upon this page as I ponder...I'm a drunken Idiot and the rain tap-tap-taps on the cold metallic roof and the see-through crystal windows of my car. More strangers scurry past my ghost. We're all waiting for an answer that will never come.
"Why can't you love me as I love you, Dear?"
No. She is a mannequin absent of lips...Salty lips that taste like home as I wish to crawl through these puddles and away. I don't wish to walk. I want to crawl into the arms of a warm presence...Waiting for my frail body, dripping with dirty rain.
I'm always waiting for the cloaked inevitable.
Take me and take me away. Please. Cradle me and tell me everything will be okay. Please. I need your strawberry hair and warm, tender flesh. Are you there?
No. The mannequin is silent. Your silence kills me, Dear.
Kill me and take me away. Please.
I'll sharpen your shiney blades and place them carefully inside my beating heart. Through and through until nothing is left but the memory of a trembling heart.
Kill me and take me away. Carry me into that dark palace in the sky. The King is waiting for my ragged and tattered body.
"O, King! Lick my wounds and seal the bleeding openings. The red rain refuses to stop flowing and I'm trapped in this vehicle of metal and rubber.
"Steer me into the heavens, wet and dripping and waiting.
"I'm ready. So ready for your throne - a bed of hospitality made of cotton and cloud."
Her words were medicine but now the syrup tastes like rusty daggers waiting to slice the empty space in my chest. Pulsating and waiting.
"Take me, Love. Take it all and don't look back. Dispose of the unwanted parts that you or I have no use for. Feed those pieces to the dogs and take it all away. Away and into the sky as the midnight rain falls upon this dying flesh of metal and skin.
"I'm sorry and my words are never enough.
"Never enough. Take me. Away.
"Your brilliance exceeds my cold and dying capacity."
The rain continues its descent and I'm trapped in my vehicle.
Waiting.
Waiting for something.

mc

28 January 2006

among billions

There's this Godspeed You Black Emperor! song called "Motherfucker=Redeemer (Section 1)" that's simply magic. Two minutes and twenty seconds into the song you hear the repeated plucking of a guitar string and I don't know what it is but there's something in the sound of that string that springs flashes in my mind - flashes of life, flashes of the faces of strangers, so many things exploding (everywhere and all points in between) with each tick of the clock...Strange and beautiful flashes, brilliant.
Somehow this song encapsulates the fragile and fleeting feeling I get when I think about how small I am; one tiny body among a sea of billions.
I'm thinking about the chaos of this moment; somewhere there is tragedy, joy, terror, confusion, loss, emptiness, laughter, tears, anger, fucking, regret, death (new), life (newer), magic, surprise, heartache, car crashes, flowers, suicides, celebration - it's enough to turn a silent heart of stone into a meteor shooting across the sky, naked and alive, brilliant.
When things get crazy and my head becomes a raging bonfire of melancholic confusion I will go to a dark room, strap on my ear goggles and let this song cradle me into a warm, dark corner of the cosmos. I'll be alone with millions in a cocoon of safety and loneliness.

In about an hour I'll be on my way to a bar to meet up with roommate, a friend, a couple acquaintances and perhaps a few strangers. As I prepare to head into this night of whiskey and mystery, I know that at any moment an internal switch could flip causing me to seek the nearest exit and leave without a word to anyone - there is a certain beauty in disappearing (one night last year I disappeared and walked home [home being 4 or 5 miles away]). I'll try to carry the medicating strains of "Motherfucker=Redeemer (Section 1)" with me. I just wish "the moment" wasn't so fucking fragile.

mc

27 January 2006

umbilical chronicles - part two

read Umbilical Chronicles - Part One here

I'm operating on some kind of involuntary and primal level as I quickly follow the man I believe to be "Jimmy" down a dark city street crowded with vehicles, debris, snow and ice. A helicopter slicing through the snowy sky can be heard overhead - somewhere.
"Where are we going?" I frantically ask.
"My Caddy, it's down here. I didn't want to park too close to the apartment," he yells in response.
I don't know where I'm running to.
I don't know what I'm running from.
I can't get obese woman's words out of my head.
Another helicopter chops overhead.
Snow continues to fall.
The panic smothering this frozen night is real and I don't ask questions. I simply follow "Jimmy's" lead. I spot a beat up 1969 red Cadillac glowing under a dim street lamp when "Jimmy" says, "Right here. Your door's unlocked."
The cold chrome door handle stings my hand as I open the heavy door. The Caddy rolls and rattles as I slam the door closed. All of this dead weight. It's everywhere.
I try to collect myself on the cold leather seat and I'm not sure if the fog escaping my trembling blue lips is my breath or a silent ghost chanting muted warnings about some kind of impending doom.
"All right, man, here's the deal," "Jimmy" begins as he navigates this red beast over shiney sheets of ice. "Franco's on the phone trying to score us a one-way ticket out of all this when three guys in ski masks come busting through his front door with big fucking black guns. I do a Flash Gordon and bolt for the back door when I hear POP! POP! POP! and never look back. I hear someone yell, 'You can run but you can't hide, Tyler! We're everywhere!'" - Tyler? Did he say Tyler? If this isn't "Jimmy" then who the hell is this Tyler character and why am I in this strange car with this stranger, this Tyler? - "I'm pretty sure Franco is a goner. FUCK! I mean, I heard too many shots and he was right there like a deer in headlights. FUCK!
"This is insanity, Jake. Pure insanity. We are the few, the unmedicated, the sane" - if sanity means being a stranger in no man's land then please give me a straitjacket...Is this actually happening?...Where am I?...Who is this man?...Who the hell is Franco? - "Crack, Viagra, heroin, Oxycontin, meth, Xanax, pot, Vicodin, legal, illegal - what the fuck is the difference? They killed Franco because he was trying to get us out of this fucking zoo, this insanity, this country - Amerikira. THEY FUCKING KILLED HIM! But if he stays home doped up and comatose, that's fine. Don't think, take the pills from Uncle Sam and watch the moving pictures on television - The Amerikiran Dream. Jesus, man. Where did we as a people go wrong? Pfizer, they say they're dedicated to 'humanity's quest for longer, healthier, happier lives.' GlaxoSmithKline, 'do more, feel better, live longer.' Merck, Eli Lilly - they all pulled the chemically laced wool over our eyes and we never looked back. Oblivious to the Suits and Black Robes in DC as they removed 'freedom' from our collective vocabulary. I bet you didn't know that, did you? Look up 'freedom' in the dictionary, Jake. You won't fucking find it, man. But I'll tell you what you will find: Millions and millions of Amerikirans waiting in line for 21st century's definition of Utopia - numbness. Every morning - pill. Every evening - pill. And now we're trapped. Trapped in this country. Trapped in ourselves. Oh, to be that fetus floating in the ether."
Tyler's voice fades from my cold ears and as we pass a clean and glowing billboard (Happiness is Blissphoria®! Have you taken your yellow pill today? with a smiling and tanned yuppie) I ponder my past. From fetus to infant to child to - my childhood? Why can't I remember something, anything from my childhood? Father? What was he like? Father, where did you go? Mother? "Warmth" comes to mind. A seed in her warm belly - and then what?

TO BE CONTINUED...

mc

frowns abound; grandaddy call it quits

Amy Phillips of PitchorkMedia.com reports:

After almost a decade and a half of scruffy indie rock and sprawling space-pop, the California band Grandaddy are headed for the great big rock and roll nursing home in the sky. In an interview with Pitchfork yesterday, frontman Jason Lytle revealed that Just Like the Fambly Cat, due out May 9 on V2, will be the last Grandaddy album, and that the band has no plans to tour.

"We've seen an erosion happening," Lytle said. "I use the word 'erosion' in the most natural way I possibly can. It's not entirely such a bad thing. We have just, throughout the years, always looked at every album coming out as 'Wow we've got another album, now what?' So that's still going on right now, it's just that it's a lot different. We're not jumping on that big rock n roll conveyor belt that happens when the album's done.

"Everybody has been set free to pursue whatever it is they want to pursue, whether it be amateur poker playing, or [becoming] veterinarians, or working in a hot dog stand."

While Lytle will continue making music, he has no plans to use the Grandaddy name for something it's not (see: INXS, Queen, the Doors, etc.) "I think myself and the rest of the band hold that [name] pretty sacred," he said. "It definitely won't be this random assembly of crap shot players. There are plenty of people who are capable of standing up there and executing the songs. But it wouldn't be comfortable for anyone."

He added, "For whoever gives a shit, they can rest assured that it's not necessarily a bad thing. It's no sadder than...I'm likening it to the natural crumbling of canyon walls. It can be sped up or done in by artificial forces. I just think we saw the opportunity to bring it to an end, to do it and still remain friends."

As for Lytle's next step, well, he's not so sure what that will be. "All I'm working on now is regaining a pure appreciation for just playing music, just sitting and playing music. It seems to have been attached to and saddled by a lot of stuff. It's getting fun again.

"I don't intend on ever stopping. I've actually tried to stop a bunch of times, but it's not really possible. Sometimes I hate it so much, because it's something that fatigues me. I'm going to do something, but I have no idea what."

quick update

The past couple of days were clouded by more headaches and my writing suffered as a result. I hope to post Umbilical Chronicles - Part Two later tonight. Stay tuned...

mc

a sign of the times

I think this article speaks volumes about the everyday American's view of "newsworthy" news; a sad sign of the times.


BROADCASTER SAYS SERIOUS NEWS AT RISK
by Jan Sjostrom, Palm Beach Daily News Art Editor
Thursday, January 26, 2006

The anchorman whose boss once characterized him as ice compared with his successor's fire was anything but chilly in the impassioned speech he delivered Tuesday at The Society of the Four Arts.

"Truth no longer matters in the context of politics and, sadly, in the context of cable news," said Aaron Brown, whose four-year period as anchor of CNN's NewsNight ended in November, when network executives gave his job to Anderson Cooper in a bid to push the show's ratings closer to front-runner Fox News.

Brown said he tried to give viewers a balanced diet of light and serious news with NewsNight. "But I always knew when I got to the Brussels sprouts, I was on thin ice," he said.

When NewsNight spent four hours covering the arrest of actor Robert Blake for the murder of his wife, Brown received thousands of e-mails criticizing the amount of time the show spent on the story. Nevertheless, that show, which aired in April 2002, received the highest ratings of any program since NewsNight's coverage of the November 2001 crash of American Airlines flight 587.

"Television is the most perfect democracy," Brown said. "You sit there with your remote control and vote." The remotes click to another channel when serious news airs, but when the media covers the scandals surrounding Laci Peterson, the Runaway Bride or Michael Jackson, "there are no clicks then," the journalist said.

With the departure from the screen of the "titans" — Tom Brokaw, Peter Jennings and Dan Rather — who "resisted the temptations of their bosses to go for the ratings grab, it will be years before an anchorman or anchorwoman will have the clout to fight these battles," he said.

Brown has spent most of his 30-year career in television news. He's covered everything from the Columbine High School murders to the aftermath of the space shuttle Columbia disaster. But viewers may remember best his on-the-spot coverage of the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center.

He's shocked "by how unkind our world has become," he said. E-mail and talk radio appear to have given people the license to say anything, regardless of how cruel or false it may be, he said.

He cited the example of an e-mail faulting what the sender considered to be NewsNight's inadequate coverage of an anti-war protest in Washington, D.C. The note ended with, "I hope the violence visited on the people of Iraq will someday be visited on your children."

Those on the opposite side of the political spectrum are no more tolerant, Brown said. "Any criticism of the administration is regarded as hatred of the president and hatred of the country itself," he said.

Important issues, such as the prosecution of the war in Iraq at home and abroad, are being clouded over by "mud-wrestling" that skirts substance, he said. Consider what he called "the swift-boating of John Murtha," the Democratic congressman whose war record was smeared when he called for an exit strategy in Iraq. "Cable didn't search for the truth, but engaged in mock debates pitting those making the charges against Murtha's defenders," he said.

Many Americans on the left and the right aren't interested in the truth, but simply want news that confirms their viewpoints, he said. "You'd think that it's no more complex than good vs. evil," he said.

Journalists have fallen short in presenting important news in ways that allow viewers to see how it matters in their lives. But viewers must take up the battle as well, he said. "It's not enough to say you want serious news. You have to watch it. It isn't enough to say you want serious debate. You have to engage in it."

(This story originally appeared at www.palmbeachdailynews.com/news/content/news/brown0126.html)

25 January 2006

creativity sustains and pushes the soul forward

"I am a little man and this is a little town but there must be a spark in a little man that can burst into flame,"
The Moon is Down by John Steinbeck

23 January 2006

umbilical chronicles - part one

The poor lighting in this room makes me feel dirty. The yellowed wallpaper struggles to cling to the thin wooden walls and some sitcom from the 1970s flickers on the small black and white television in the corner of the room. I can faintly hear a low electric hum from an unknown source; the pitch adds to the invisible tension pulsating in this room, slowly suffocating me. An obese woman covered in a yellow flower print dress is seated in a worn and busted baby-puke green easy chair, slowly smoking a cigarette. I'm unable to discern if she's watching the sitcom or if she's even conscious but her large, warm presence does nothing to ease my anxiety.
Stop.
Relax your shoulders.
Adjust your posture (think straight and high).
Breathe in. Hold. Now breathe out.
Reassess.
What the fuck am I doing here?
Four years ago I was the sole survivor of a car crash that took the lives of my two best (and only) friends. Ever since that horrific night I've had problems with my memory; like rolling blackouts frequent outages occur in my short-term and long-term memory banks. I slowly reach into my pocket and pull out my crumpled "reminder sheet."

Pick up 20 Oxys for Suzy (your girlfriend [a smiley face poorly drawn])...Jimmy owes us so he won't charge us anything - Love, Suzy

Okay. That helps fill in the blanks, but who the fuck is "Jimmy?" Hopefully his face will ignite my memory because I hate dealing with strangers, especially when drugs are involved.
How long have I been in this dim, dirty and decaying room?
"...Well you can tell Frankie he's sleeping on the couch!" the television speaks as laughter erupts from an audience from another decade, another time.
The clock on the wall reads 9:39 but the seconds hand is dead so apparently the clock is useless - a prop from a dead Hollywood film set.
I carefully clear my throat in an attempt to ask obese woman about "Jimmy."
"Uh, excuse me. Is, uh, Jimmy here or is he, uh, on his way or something?" I feebly ask.
Obese woman clears her throat and the sound of gravel and mucus shifting tears a hole through the tension and smoke, shaking me to the core.
"He should be here any minute, honey. Any minute now," she responds with a tone that tells me she didn't even hear my question.
I then hear the violent pitter-patter of shoes tearing up steps, pushing my pulse and anxiety to a level beyond mortal fear. My eyes rapidly (!) dart across the room...A spider web, an over flowing ash tray, a lamp shade hiding a dying bulb, a crusted TV dinner tray on dirty carpet, chaos. A door tears open.
"Jake! Let's go, man. We gotta go, like now!" a man I assume to be "Jimmy" yells. "Everything's all right, ma. I'll be back."
As I remove myself from this stained couch everything shifts into slow motion and I can't seem to eject my eyes from the image of obese woman. Jesus, her eyeballs are as black as the night's sky and horrible blue bags of flesh hang below her sockets. I'm moving towards the direction of "Jimmy's" voice but my eyes are like magnets on her black eyeballs when suddenly two white pupils slither into place and stare dead into my blue face, my petrified soul. All of this in slow motion.
She whispers, "The umbilical cord is a noose and you thought you escaped but it's too late to turn and run away. It's always too late."
Her words strike me like furious white lightning and this hellish sequence of slow motion stops and regular motion ensues and the sound of my rapid heart beats like African thunder, filling my bleeding ears and I think I hear the stranger I believe to be "Jimmy" say, "It's all fucked, man. We've gotta get the hell outta Dodge - pronto."

TO BE CONTINUED...

mc

22 January 2006

everything must go!

Lately I've been seriously contemplating selling my music gear to help alleviate some of the credit card debt that I've been carrying for far too long. Parting ways with that precious equipment would also force me to focus my free-time and energy on developing my first screenplay.
The desire to write a screenplay is far from a new fancy; I've always had a knack for writing and a love for film. At one point I thought I wanted to pursue film directing but after viewing The Making of Requiem for a Dream I learned that I lacked the patience to be the man in the chair calling all the shots. But I digress.
Am I really capable of selling the equipment that I've perversely enjoyed slaving over for the past few years? It was with this equipment that I produced and recorded my Chemistries for Conspiracy EP in 2002 (Jesus, has it been that long ago?). To spend countless hours compiling and distributing a CD that ultimately went nowhere was an eye-opening, and also disheartening, experience. I suppose when one completes a task of such monumental difficulty he or she doesn't expect to fail. If the idea of "failure" enters your delicate orbit you will go nowhere. Like Richard Lewis said regarding his early days in the comedy business: "Failing as a comedian never entered my mind. I was in a cocoon, living day to day without much thought about doing anything else, ever again." After all, a labor of love is an act of agonizing beauty that is ultimately done for no one but the artist himself.
Aside from completing several disjointed songs, I haven't been able to find the passion, desire or musical direction to dedicate myself to another collection of music since the completion of the EP. I guess I'm basically shrugging my shoulders and saying, "Okay, it's time to move on to something else."

Reading what I have written, the right, albeit painful, thing to do is sell my precious music gear. I won't be selling my trumpet or baritone so I'll still have two methods of expressing my madness musically.
I'm eager to read the reader's comments, especially the comments of the comrades who know me personally (and musically).

mc

20 January 2006

a temporary vessel

As these words escape from my warm hand and onto this clean, white page of my notebook, the clock ticks to 7:13 am and I'm alive with one hour of sleep and caffeine dancing in my bloodstream.
Very much alive indeed.
Last night she graced me with her presence for which I am thankful. She told me she is lost, overwhelmed and confused by the patterns her life is constructing; obstructing any sense of purpose, reason - and I'm left feeling helpless as I stroke the strands of hair from her neck, her face and I find the sweetest space to place a feather of a kiss and I absorb this moment and realize that the pieces which construct the very fiber of our existence can do nothing but confuse and overwhelm and
I lose myself
And
I lose my place
In this moment
And I find a temporary vessel of peace somewhere inside, outside, everywhere.
everything is temporary, everything is temporary
I want to cling to this moment - everywhere - but the limits of the human condition will soon make this piece of time transparent and it will fade and I will forget this beautiful glimpse of her face, her neck, her body and the strands of hair tangled across her face - this beautiful glimpse of peace and indifference and somewhere a circle spins just to begin again and start anew with no memory or trace of the colors and schemes of a day now spoiling and rotting in the foreign confines of some stranger's mind
And this stranger will be confused
And this stranger will be overwhelmed
By this memory from some unknown mind from another time; a misplaced ghost spinning circles
Wild and free
Wild and free - a glimpse of tranquility, a taste of indifference.
And once again I realize that the pieces which construct the very fiber of our existence can do nothing but confuse, overwhelm, amaze and astound.

As these words escape from my hand the sun begins to rise and somewhere a spider spins a web magnificent.

mc

this piece is from my notebook and was written on the morning of 20 january 2006 @ 7:13am

19 January 2006

achehead


For the second consecutive evening I've been practically disabled by an excruciating headache. I've had a flurry of headaches in recent weeks and I'm not sure why. An image of a slowly bulging tumor, invading and consuming the fleshy, healthy parts of my brain has flashed in my mind on many occasions. Perhaps I should consult a neurologist. Perhaps I should consult a power drill like Max Cohen did in Darren Aronofsky's Pi. Enough for now...

mc

18 January 2006

a bed covered with snow

Tossing from side to stomach to side to back. Legs swimming in place under sheets of cotton. A head filled with an unfulfilled desire.
I promised myself I would remain unaffected, unattached. I'm a liar.
This bed is too cold for me alone and we're simply friends. She's sleeping (or at least attempting to) in a bed that could easily be a million miles away and her absence speaks volumes about my apparent co-dependency.
Sharing one's bed with another does not have to be an overtly sexual thing. Pulling into the warmth of another body (tingling with hot blood) fills my entire being with a steady flame that rarely shakes or trembles. To have her arm wrapped around my chest is to be cradled in the warm belly of the milky cosmos - what else can there be?
She is pulling back. She wants to re-establish our friendship which means negating any kind of intimate contact. I wish she could be just a little bit selfish. She's so overly-concerned with others that she neglects her needs, desires.
She has left her scent in this bed, on these blankets of cotton and on this pillow; like the reluctant ghost her presence remains even if she is not here in flesh and in blood.
My head is filled with a flickering chandelier that's on the verge of losing it's grip on a cracked and crumbling ceiling (I thought you said you would remain unaffected, unattached - what happened?). The crash is imminent - but when? When?
She is a store front mannequin left alone in a dim window long after closing time. Her eyes gaze out of the window to an empty street at 2 in the morning. She's unable to hear my wishes, my desires, my hopes, my voice.
And I am left envious.

mc

17 January 2006

more from the 'prince of pain'

"I'm not sure to this day whether I felt that [my family] meant any harm. They just didn't mean anything. I was left to fend for myself without any idea who that was. To this day I'm most proud of the fact that I'm self-made,"
Richard Lewis, comedian

16 January 2006

alone with thoughts in a cafe

Tonight I find myself sitting in a bustling cafe with thoughts dancing wildly in my head. I rarely go to cafes alone so it's taking some time to settle down and hone my thoughts.
A small explosion of laughter erupts from the static sound of idle chatter. What are they laughing about? What are all these people talking about? Why did I come here? I suppose I wanted to get some reading done and work on some writing but I can't seem to reboot and focus.
Thoughts of moving to the Seattle area have been prevalent lately. Since I can remember I've always had an inane desire to move to that area. As a young boy I recall telling mom of this wish. What triggered this itch I do not know.
Would I really be able to make such a dramatic move?

bloomington, indiana > seattle, washington = 2,385 miles over 1 day and 15 hours
the path >> indiana > illinois > wisconsin > minnesota > south dakota > wyoming > montana > idaho > washington



I suppose this idea sparks a small flame of hope in my heart. Perhaps I'll find all the missing keys to all those locked doors...Perhaps I'll finally find the yellowed map to that distant buried treasure - and I'll uncover it and it will be mine and it will be beautiful. But why do I feel like this desire is driven by the need to flee, escape, run away? What am I running away from? Why does all this running seem like a disguised means to continue pushing away those that care about me?
I wanted to join the Army but due to a permanent kidney condition I was unable. I wanted an experience that would "make me a man." I'm still looking for that experience. A trial that will kill a part of my being so that another nucleus may sprout, grow, expand, live. I want to jump out of a flying saucer, spring golden wings of cotton, float down to this planet and feel more alive because of it. Feel more alive because I survived. Feel more alive because I accomplished something I once thought to be impossible. Feel more alive because I'm weary of this red=stop - green=go - safety net - child proof lid - airbag infused - existence.
But safe is good. Safety is clean. Safety is a white, sterilized operating room (the smell of hospitals) where no one ever dies. Perhaps safety is an illusion.

safe-ty, n. Freedom from danger, risk, or injury.

Freedom? True freedom cannot be appreciated by he who has no concept of confinement. After reading safety's definition repeatedly, the concept seems to be a false bill of goods, yet I define my life by this crooked premise.
I don't know what I'll do, if anything.
Safety is a motherly figure with long arms extended like power lines. Her warm, soft flesh reaches as far as the eye can see, tender and waiting, wanting to cradle this scared little boy into a peaceful oblivion.
That's hard to resist, my friends.

Guess I should refill this cup with some hot coffee...

mc

15 January 2006

passenger


Today I was paid to basically be a passenger. It was a new driver's first day on the job and I was riding along to answer his questions, concerns.
As the sun disappeared so did the passengers. I found myself alone in the dimly lit cabin for most of the evening. The occasional comment from new guy would crack the long moments of silence, breaking my peaceful thoughts and observations, but the images could not be broken.
Gazing out of the window my vision rolled across cold, empty sidewalks illuminated by lonesome street lamps (halos atop steel posts), couples hand in hand (beaming faces, smiles giving way to shining white teeth) scurrying across a crosswalk, a full moon perched in an empty sky (O, to have Her surface kissing my fingertips), rusting chain link fences hiding from the darkness, automobiles moving in every direction (people driving with places to go - a purpose).
All this movement. All this tranquility.
It was all poetry and I achieved that rare and precious feeling of absolute certainty in the moment. Yes, I am supposed to be the observer of this moment. Yes, let these images flow and flutter through my eyes and heart. Yes, these flashes of light were meant for me.
Yes, this is assurance.
I love those moments.

mc

13 January 2006

everyone is broken; a nation in denial

HALF OF AMERICANS USE PRESCRIPTION DRUGS: SURVEY

WASHINGTON (Reuters) - About half of all U.S. women and 40 percent of U.S. men are currently using or have recently used a prescription drug, according to government statistics published on Thursday.

This "snapshot" of information was based on a survey that found that 54 percent of white non-Hispanic women and 43 percent of white non-Hispanic men had used a prescription drug in the past month, the National Center for Health Statistics said in a statement.

Fewer blacks and Hispanics used prescription drugs, according to the survey, done between 1999 and 2002.

Nearly 44 percent of black women and 35 percent of black men reported using prescription drugs and nearly 38 percent of Mexican-American women and nearly 26 percent of Mexican-American men, the survey found.

©Reuters - Thu Jan 12, 2006 12:13 PM ET

11 January 2006

richard lewis - 'the prince of pain'


"van Gogh never sold a painting while he was alive. Kafka wasn't even alive when his books came out. He didn't even want them to be published.
"If you're an artist, you're a fucking artist. If you make money on top of it, it's a plus and that's it,"
Richard Lewis, comedian and neurotic

09 January 2006

same as it ever was


I open my eyes and squint at the red digits.
8:37 am
I close my eyes and fall asleep.

I open my eyes and squint at the red digits.
10:01 am
I close my eyes and fall asleep.

I open my eyes and dread this Monday of nothing. The human smell of my oily flesh lingers in the darkness.
"Fuck. Why get up? Why throw off these sheets just to brush my teeth, take a hot shower and put on some clothes? I have nothing to do today or tomorrow. I don't go back to work until Wednesday. Fuck. All of this so fucking pointless."
I crawl out of bed and the red digits tell me it's 1:13 pm. Fuck. I don't brush my teeth and I don't shower and that oily scent persists as I throw on some american blue jeans (made in Mexico) and a black long sleeve shirt.
This cold apartment. The walls pop and the floor cracks. With a few mouse clicks I find four unread email messages. The subject titles tell me the messages will remain unread and left for deletion.
I fire up the television and mindlessly click through the channels of empty (moving) images.
-
piece of shit talk show host
-
soap opera whore plastered with makeup (tears falling)
-
game show host giving 30 minutes of hope to the hopeless ("That's right, Sandy! If you answer this question correctly you'll be the winner of...")
-
cable news reporter feeding pellets of misinformation to a nation of (willful) zombies
-
bullshit sitcom from the 1970s (colors fading, laugh track screaming)
-
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing but the scent of my oily flesh.
Through blinds colored white and closed tight I gaze outside. Everything is still but for the fast food wrapper skipping across the pavement, grass, pavement. The sky is grey grey grey and the sun is neglecting us.
Generations overlap generations overlap generations overlap...All of this nothingness. Nothing is built upon nothing which is bulldozed to make room for more nothing (but this time it will be built better, stronger).
Generations overlap generations overlap generations overlap...Everyone is lost. Looking at this photograph from the 1920s and I'm struck by the faces. Staring, gazing into their faces, their eyes, looking for something familiar, recognizable.
"Don't look so hard," something whispers.
The faces and the flesh are the same. The packages have changed. The technologies have changed. There are more wires reaching across the sky. The lights blink faster and brighter. The buildings have changed (taller, shinier). The produ©ts are more colorful. The pace of life has changed.
But the substance hasn't.
In the eyes of those strangers from the 1920s I see hope. I see doubt. I see joy. I see fear. Can you see it?
The spectrum that is the human mind hasn't (nor will it ever) changed. We were just as lost then as we are right now. Nothing has changed. People are being born (right now!) and people are dying (right now!) on this huge rock, astray in space.
Tonight there is a question mark in the skies. It has always been and will forever be.
Tonight there is a map with no direction buried deep - somewhere.
It is in my heart.
It is in your heart.
It is in the living hearts of the breathing.
The dying hearts of the fading.
The crumbling hearts of the dead.
And the fantastic invisible hearts of the future living.
Lost - Always and forever.

mc



"Once in a Lifetime" by Talking Heads

And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful
wife
And you may ask yourself-Well...How did I get here?

Letting the days go by/Let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/Water flowing underground
Into the blue again/After the money's gone
Once in a lifetime/Water flowing underground.

And you may ask yourself
How do I work this?
And you may ask yourself
Where is that large automobile?
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful house!
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful wife!
Letting the days go by/Let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/Water flowing underground
Into the blue again/After the money's gone
Once in a lifetime/Water flowing underground.

Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...

Water dissolving...and water removing
There is water at the bottom of the ocean
Carry the water at the bottom of the ocean
Remove the water at the bottom of the ocean!

Letting the days go by/Let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/Water flowing underground
Into the blue again/In the silent water
Under the rocks and stones/There is water underground.

Letting the days go by/Let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/Water flowing underground
Into the blue again/After the money's gone
Once in a lifetime/Water flowing underground.

And you may ask yourself
What is that beautiful house?
And you may ask yourself
Where does that highway go?
And you may ask yourself
Am I right?...Am I wrong?
And you may tell yourself
MY GOD!...WHAT HAVE I DONE?

Letting the days go by/Let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/Water flowing underground
Into the blue again/In the silent water
Under the rocks and stones/There is water underground.

Letting the days go by/Let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/Water flowing underground
Into the blue again/After the money's gone
Once in a lifetime/Water flowing underground.

Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...

flowers for bandages

I sent her flowers for bandages and the rain was falling from the sky.
Use those petals to soak your dripping wounds and when they can absorb no more, a flying creature of grace will come baring a fresh blooming batch.
Flowers blossom from my heart. I will carefully pluck them from this fertile soil and plant them on your doorstep and if you let me, bury them soundlessly in your heart. I will tend to your fragile garden with hands so tender.
I will cradle and sway.
Cradle and sway -
Until peace finds its way inside that sacred garden.
Close your eyes and I will brush away the tangled strands that cling to your face of wet porcelain.
I will be the casual observer (so quiet) watching dreams fall from the ceiling and gently float into your silent ears -
A house of cards that I don't dare touch.
A masterpiece of canvas and paint that I don't dare brush.
Be still and settle your restless heart - a warm blanket of snow and cotton awaits.
I sent her fresh flowers from the flowing garden that sways (a gentle breeze like the quiet kiss of sunshine in April) inside my heart.
These flowers are bandages.
This blood is the life force.

mc

07 January 2006


"untitled" by the_sky_is_a_television_signal Posted by Picasa

06 January 2006

bubblegum letters

So I'm searching my storage closet for some old photographs of skylines, landscapes and abandoned buildings when I come across the old Reebok shoebox. The old Reebok shoebox filled with "love" letters from high school.
A few letters from my first girlfriend, Melanie. A few letters from Rachelle and several letters from Holly. These girls are now married, probably have children. But I'm still the awkward teenage boy in a man's 27 year old body.
As I read the letter I wasn't even sure to whom they were addressed. Did another girl really feel that way about me? Did they really enjoy my presence or was it the attention? I guess that's what love is - being the apple of another's eye.
As I read Holly's letters I was surprised to see the assuring phrase "You're not a loser!" repeated over and over from letter to letter. I guess this self-loathing thing isn't a new phenomenon.
I couldn't stop reading their words (written in the atypical high school girl bubblegum handwriting) even though it was depressing the hell out of me. Depressing because I felt like I was in some kind of fucked up time machine/out of body reality. I could smell their bubblegum and shampoo. I could see their maturing flesh. I could hear the sound of lockers closing and idle chatter but I was experiencing these things in the very body that sits here typing these words. Everything was different but I was the same.
God, Rachelle where are you? I could still faintly smell her perfume on those letters.
"It wasn't your fault, mc. These things just happen. You were my first love and I'll never forget you!" she wrote.
I wonder if my ghost ever floats into her mind. I wonder how she feels about me today. Surely there's some memory, some incident she remembers when we both occupied space and time simultaneously.
"I'm still out here, Rachelle. I still think of you from time to time. Sipping on this whiskey and smoking these cigarettes I can sometimes see your face and hear your voice so clear in my mind. Did you end up marrying, oh, what's his name, Allen? How are the kids? What are their names? Track me down sometime. I don't know what the hell we would talk about but I bet it would be nice. I know I'd still be able to find that fire in your eyes that sent my heart screaming out of my chest. Oh, what's that? You've gotta go? Oh, okay. Well, maybe sometime we can - hello? Hello?"
She's gone.
They're all gone.
I'm still here.

mc

05 January 2006

scene

SCENE: MOTHER ON HER DEATH BED. HER 27 YEAR OLD SON IS BEDSIDE WITH HIS HAND IN HER WEAK HAND.

son: Is that sound true? Are her words genuine? Is that snowflake real?

mother: I don't know, son. No one ever really knows. Even a broken heart is a working barometer. It's always warm. Alive with something buried deep in the cosmos. Reach into that sky. Reach into those stars and grab something. Hold onto it tight and erase the questions from your troubled mind and appreciate the presence of the intangible. That is real. That's the only thing that's real, son.

MOTHER PASSES AWAY AS THE CAMERA SLOWLY RISES FROM HER BED TO THE TOP OF THE HOSPITAL ROOM. SON'S HEAD SLOWLY FALLS. HE WHIMPERS QUIETLY. HE THEN SLOWLY RAISES HIS HEAD TO GAZE OUT OF THE HOSPITAL WINDOW. SNOW IS FALLING.

mc

dust and sand

There's nothing left to say. I've tried to say "I'm sorry" so many ways, so many times. I'm getting what I deserve. I treat all my friends like shit - at least M is willing to throw the shit back in my face.
J Ro, AA, D, J Kiss - I'm lucky to have you guys but if you want to get something off of your chest now is the time. I used to be friends with Eric but I fucked that up. I tried to fuck up my relationship with J Ro and Matt but somehow they were able to forgive and forget. But no one truly forgets do they?
I don't think it's a coincidence that I live nearly 2 hours from the people I call friends.
I don't think it's a coincidence that the people I call friends rarely, if ever, visit. The periodic phone calls are nice though.
I don't think it's a coincidence that I've been unable to establish and maintain a new friendship in several years.
I don't think it's a coincidence that the family situation seems to be in a constant state of degeneration.
I don't think it's a coincidence that the phrase "I can't wait to die" popped into my head a few days ago. Sporadically I'll hear the echo.

Yes, I know this self-loathing is fucking pathetic. I'm sure some might even be saying, "Get a gun and a bullet and get it over with, for Christ's sake." Whatever. Somewhere in my pocket I have a grain of sand. That grain of sand is my hope. Occasionally I'll find another grain of sand in the sound of a note, or in the vowel of a word, or in the eye of a girl. The trick is distinguishing the bits of dust from the grains of sand.

mc

the mistaken plead for the echo of forgiveness

“Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heal that has crushed it,” Mark Twain


p l e a s e

04 January 2006

blanks

I suppose I should fill in some blanks regarding M.
On Monday night, M came over to watch Garden State with me...Actually, I don't care to rehash this so I will summarize as best I can.
Most, if not all, of my torment can be expressed using a quote from Joel Berish of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind:
"Why do I fall in love with every woman I see who shows me the least bit of attention?"

During a party on Saturday, December 17, M and I had a very long conversation. As the party-goers left, passed out, M and I were left in a drunken haze. She wanted someone to talk to. I obliged.
I had seen M on previous occasions but had never really talked to her. We spent all night, morning and afternoon (we stayed up all nite) talking about anything and everything. It was a memorable nite to say the least.
We stayed in touch via email and IM (during which I confessed too much, apparently) until I saw her again on New Year's Eve. We drank. We talked. There was some physical contact. It was nice. Very nice. Very safe.
So on Monday M comes over to watch Garden State with me. Again there was some light physical contact and it all felt very safe, very warm, very nice. Then came the
"scripted...selfish...mean...superficial" comments and the decision that we shouldn't do "this" anymore because "we're just friends." One thing you should understand: Up until that point we seemed to share the idea that we felt "something" between us. Her decision to be "just friends" didn't sit well with me for obvious reasons but I reluctantly accepted it (as if I had a choice).
Then comes the "she said" post (she left the anonymous comment btw). She was upset with the post because she felt it was all taken out of context.
So we're discussing (via IM) the post when I bring up the "just friends" issue. My view was that if we both felt "something" then why not explore it? She basically responds with "it was all a drunken misunderstanding." Even though we had discussed this "something" during states of sobriety, it was all a big "misunderstanding." Through emails, IMs, conversations and a few posts on this blog I made my feelings for her perfectly clear. I spilled my fucking guts to that girl and all the while she took it all in - all the while knowing all she wanted was some "drunken attention."
I think about all the things I said, the things I confessed to her and I feel like a fool. So vulnerable. So fucking vulnerable.

I'm trying really hard to accept what she said last night. It cut me to the brittle bone. My trust in others was anemic before her but now it has been totally decimated. I have no desire to see her again...No desire to talk to her again...That's about all I can say...

mc
("...And I will stand by all this drinking if it helps me through these days/It takes a long time just to get this all straight..." Interpol's "Obstacle 2")

the sound i recognize

"Passover" by Joy Division

This is the crisis I knew had to come
Destroying the balance I'd kept

Doubting, unsettling and turning around
Wondering what will come next

Is this the role that you wanted to live?
I was foolish to ask for so much
Without the protection and infancy's guard
It all falls apart at first touch

Watching the reel as it comes to a close
Brutally taking its time
People who change for no reason at all
It's happening all of the time
Can I go on with this train of events?
Disturbing and purging my mind
Back out of my duties, when all's said and done
I know that I'll lose every time

Moving along in our god given ways
Safety is set by the fire
Sanctuary from these feverish smiles
Left with a mark on the door
Is this the gift that I wanted to give?
Forgive and forget's what they teach
Or pass through the deserts and wastelands once more
And watch as they drop by the beach

This is the crisis I knew had to come
Destroying the balance I'd kept

Turning around to the next set of lives

Wondering what will come next



"Isolation" by Joy Division

In fear every day, every evening
He calls her aloud from above
Carefully watched for a reason
Painstaking devotion and love
Surrendered to self preservation
From others who care for themselves
A blindness that touches perfection
But hurts just like anything else

Isolation

Mother I tried please believe me
I'm doing the best that I can
I'm ashamed of the things I've been put through

I'm ashamed of the person I am


Isolation

But if you could just see the beauty
These things I could never describe

The pleasures a wayward distraction

This is my one lucky prize - Isolation

open casket

Waking up this morning and I'm staring at the useless shit in my room. I'm wondering what will happen to it all when I die. Will my personal belongings be rifled through and hastily boxed up and collected for the landfill?
M called me "selfish." I remember telling mom about Kurt Cobain's death. Suicide.
"People who kill themselves are the most selfish of people," she said.
I would love to put 2 and 2 together but I don't have the balls. The story of my fucking life: I never have the courage to do what needs to be done.
I'm surprised my nextdoor neighbor hasn't killed himself. It seems to pain him to simply walk from his car to his doorstep. Hunched over and grimacing...making strange quiet noises.
I see some of these poor souls walking down the street alone (Am I one of those people? I'm afraid so, afraid so).
I see them getting on the bus.
I see them in my reflection as I brush my teeth.
I'm afraid if I shot myself I would deprive mom of an open casket funeral. I'm sure she would want that. You know, for one final "goodbye."
Hanging seems needlessly tortuous.
But carbon monoxide poisoning has a ring of heaven to it. Find the abandoned parking lot of an empty and desolate factory building, attach a hose from the exhaust pipe to the front window, seal off, listen to some Joy Division and sign off.
But no no no. I don't have the goddamned courage. I don't have the heart to deliver such a crushing blow to family and friends. I only wish I could live for myself.
I feel like a pinata. Such a vulnerable container. I'm not hanging here for myself. No, my presence is for the blindfolded beings carrying sticks for weapons. Take your best shot. The only reason I hang before thee is to be broken. Broken open. Sliced open. The guts will come raining as the beings jump in celebration.
"Yay! We've destroyed it!"
Please destroy me.

mc

the shattering

shaking and trembling

Help me, I'm in Hell. I don't even know what to say right now. I've been shattered. I've been broken. I've been spit upon.
No one is here. No one is ever fucking here. Alone in Hell. Trust does not exist. A smile is a broken mirror. The touch of another human being is repulsive (flesh of slime).
I'm trying to formulate these feelings but I'm so fucking...I don't know.
I've constructed a palace in Hell.
These swords are so shiny. They glisten like dew on blades of grass in an April morning. Please plunge that cold steel into me. Slice my heart open and let it bleed. Just let it all fucking go...Let...It...All...Fucking...Go

THE MEN IN WHITE COATS ARE COMING FOR ME AND THEY WILL CONDUCT SOME WICKED EXPERIMENT..."We will remove, scrape out all of the individual's insides leaving nothing but a shell of a human being." And then they will laugh. This whole fucking planet will laugh as I stumble to make my way down this cold and crumbling sidewalk alone. O Mother, where are you? O Sister, why did you have to swallow those pills of poison? O Father, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'm always sorry. The empty-handed apologist stumbling down a sidewalk. No one attempts to help. "Somebody put that poor fucking beast out of his misery," someone mumbles. Someone. That's all I ever needed was someone. Remove your mask of beauty and show me your scarred skull of deceit. Someone tell me I'm wrong. Please...Alone in Hell...Please tell me this isn't happening.......

shaking and trembling
mc

03 January 2006

she said

A Monday night with M and this is what she said:

"Everything that comes out of your mouth sounds scripted."
"You're selfish."
"You don't listen to anyone but yourself."
"You're superficial."
"You're mean."
"I want you to pay attention to me."
"We can't do this anymore."


She has disposed of me like the cellophane wrapping from some cheap plastic toy (useless).

Heed these words, my Friends: The confessor's confessions are music to no one's ears but his own. Guard your confessions like the bloody Heart hanging in the cage inside your trembling chest.

mc