Well, the painful liquidation has begun. Check out my eBay auctions here.
mc
28 February 2006
27 February 2006
24 February 2006
things invisible
We're all falling apart. Little pieces of us. Hair breaking off and falling away. Flakes of dead skin joining the invisible bits of dust - everywhere. That time you cut yourself on broken glass or a shattered mirror. Tiny flecks of blood invisible and now dried. Pieces of us. Transparent and right under our noses and eyes.
And then there are the ghosts. Those big ugly ghosts of moments from the past. We call them memories. And we're making them and leaving them behind. All of the time. All of them invisible. Pieces of us.
The hospitals we were born in.
Your mother contracting and sweating and crying and smiling. Tears of pain turn to tears of joy, mixing with her perspiration of salt, water and waste products. The umbilical cord is cut and a memory is made.
The houses we grew up in.
Scampering down stairs of carpet and magic to a twinkling tree with gifts wrapped underneath. Tiny feet bouncing on cold linoleum in anticipation of birthday candles, Easter eggs or July's fireworks. A flash of a camera and a memory is made.
The car we kissed in.
A cheesy movie in a cold theater was the prologue. In your car in the parking lot with the heat on, the radio quiet and insignificant, and tears of sweat in your palms with nervous laughter and the dashboard glows dim. The two of you creep closer and eyes connect and slowly the lips and then a secret explosion (pure) and then "I have to be home by 10." And a memory is made.
The body you live in.
You're working 40 hours a week at a job you despise and your parents, your guardians are far away and there's an argument, a lack of trust and she leaves for the last time. Leaving you to pick up the pieces - alone. You cry like that baby from that memory. And another memory is made.
Those ghosts begin to grow and overlap like the lawn of a house abandoned. The ghosts get uglier and harrier, getting in your eyes. Those savage ghosts, they begin to confuse you, ripping the bulbs planted in the ceiling and shattering them against your bare white walls. Things break and things get dark and you cut yourself picking up the pieces - alone. Shards stained with blood and those tiny flecks of red, they're getting all over the place. And they're invisible. Invisible and mixing with the broken hair, the dust, the skin, the memories. Little pieces of us. And we're all falling apart.
mc
And then there are the ghosts. Those big ugly ghosts of moments from the past. We call them memories. And we're making them and leaving them behind. All of the time. All of them invisible. Pieces of us.
The hospitals we were born in.
Your mother contracting and sweating and crying and smiling. Tears of pain turn to tears of joy, mixing with her perspiration of salt, water and waste products. The umbilical cord is cut and a memory is made.
The houses we grew up in.
Scampering down stairs of carpet and magic to a twinkling tree with gifts wrapped underneath. Tiny feet bouncing on cold linoleum in anticipation of birthday candles, Easter eggs or July's fireworks. A flash of a camera and a memory is made.
The car we kissed in.
A cheesy movie in a cold theater was the prologue. In your car in the parking lot with the heat on, the radio quiet and insignificant, and tears of sweat in your palms with nervous laughter and the dashboard glows dim. The two of you creep closer and eyes connect and slowly the lips and then a secret explosion (pure) and then "I have to be home by 10." And a memory is made.
The body you live in.
You're working 40 hours a week at a job you despise and your parents, your guardians are far away and there's an argument, a lack of trust and she leaves for the last time. Leaving you to pick up the pieces - alone. You cry like that baby from that memory. And another memory is made.
Those ghosts begin to grow and overlap like the lawn of a house abandoned. The ghosts get uglier and harrier, getting in your eyes. Those savage ghosts, they begin to confuse you, ripping the bulbs planted in the ceiling and shattering them against your bare white walls. Things break and things get dark and you cut yourself picking up the pieces - alone. Shards stained with blood and those tiny flecks of red, they're getting all over the place. And they're invisible. Invisible and mixing with the broken hair, the dust, the skin, the memories. Little pieces of us. And we're all falling apart.
mc
palahniuk interview
Master storyteller Chuck Palahniuk was recently interviewed by Kurt Anderson on the NPR program Studio 360. Click here to listen to "Violence with Chuck Palahniuk." Scroll down and find "Palahniuk, Slapstick, Skyspace" then click on the headphones...Good stuff.
mc
mc
22 February 2006
together
The dead and the dying
The withering and the free
The pills and the noose
The gun and the cradle
Hand in hand
One by one
And two by two
Together we wait
To sink and succumb
From the weights and the weather
And the whims of the weary
Your body is a cradle, Love
Wrap your sheets of bone, flesh and hair
Around me
Cover me like blankets of snow
Flakes and fibers
Fabric and flame
Suffocate this broken body
Pale and thin
Rock and sway
You rock and sway
And I'm dissolving
Away
And away
Sleep with me, Love
So I may climb inside
And close my eyes
Wash my heart
And erase my brain
I'm under your flesh
Crawling causing ripples like creeping blisters
Follow my movements
Floating in your bloodstream
Creeping through capillaries
Swallow me, Love
So that you may digest and absorb my nutrients
The vitamins are deficient
And my blood anemic
The platelets are rusting
And the cells are dying
Breathe life, Babe
Cleanse this dirty blood
Rejuvenate this dying flesh
Fortify these brittle bones
Then bury me
Behind your dry wall
Of membrane and memory
The brittle and the breaking
The withering and the free
One by one and two by two
Together we will wait
To sink and succumb
Come to me, Love
Into me
Out of you
Into you
Out of me
We will wilt
mc
The withering and the free
The pills and the noose
The gun and the cradle
Hand in hand
One by one
And two by two
Together we wait
To sink and succumb
From the weights and the weather
And the whims of the weary
Your body is a cradle, Love
Wrap your sheets of bone, flesh and hair
Around me
Cover me like blankets of snow
Flakes and fibers
Fabric and flame
Suffocate this broken body
Pale and thin
Rock and sway
You rock and sway
And I'm dissolving
Away
And away
Sleep with me, Love
So I may climb inside
And close my eyes
Wash my heart
And erase my brain
I'm under your flesh
Crawling causing ripples like creeping blisters
Follow my movements
Floating in your bloodstream
Creeping through capillaries
Swallow me, Love
So that you may digest and absorb my nutrients
The vitamins are deficient
And my blood anemic
The platelets are rusting
And the cells are dying
Breathe life, Babe
Cleanse this dirty blood
Rejuvenate this dying flesh
Fortify these brittle bones
Then bury me
Behind your dry wall
Of membrane and memory
The brittle and the breaking
The withering and the free
One by one and two by two
Together we will wait
To sink and succumb
Come to me, Love
Into me
Out of you
Into you
Out of me
We will wilt
mc
21 February 2006
brief
For three hours last night, everything inside was quiet as my eyes and ears were treated to stunning and beautiful performances by Sigur Ros and the opening band, Amina. I recall shaking my head in disbelief numerous times at the sights and the sounds, the sheer beauty of it all. Sigur Ros' encore performance of "Popplagið " was simply amazing. But the sound would fade and the time would come for Ry (thanks again for the ticket, bro) and I to go our separate ways. Walking away from the theater, lights and exiting crowd, the darkness crept back in, keeping me company for the 1+ hour drive back home.
AA, sorry I didn't answer your phone call...What can I say? I'm void of color right now. I don't have anything to say to anyone...Words are useless decorations anyway. I wish I could express the utter emptiness inside of me. There are additional things I could say but I'll refrain from doing so; those words would only intend to hurt and infect others with the black cancer eating away my insides.
Lem, I appreciate your concern. I wish you weren't 3000 miles away but then again, everyone feels out of reach right now. Besides, I don't deserve anyone churning with warmth or concern. I have had the flawed aspects of my personality painfully outlined and my only purpose appears to be the contamination of others, so you (along with everyone else) should feel fortunate for your distance. Well, there I go again...
mc
AA, sorry I didn't answer your phone call...What can I say? I'm void of color right now. I don't have anything to say to anyone...Words are useless decorations anyway. I wish I could express the utter emptiness inside of me. There are additional things I could say but I'll refrain from doing so; those words would only intend to hurt and infect others with the black cancer eating away my insides.
Lem, I appreciate your concern. I wish you weren't 3000 miles away but then again, everyone feels out of reach right now. Besides, I don't deserve anyone churning with warmth or concern. I have had the flawed aspects of my personality painfully outlined and my only purpose appears to be the contamination of others, so you (along with everyone else) should feel fortunate for your distance. Well, there I go again...
mc
20 February 2006
fourteen and a half hours
No amount of booze or television can silent the manic mind like sleep, so last night I retreated to bed at the early hour of 930pm.
Sleep: A precious preview of death.
I finally removed myself from bed at noon today. I spent 14 1/2 hours in bed and could have stayed there forever. A coffin of mattress, box spring and cold sheets; a throne for a dying king.
In a few hours I'll be in Indianapolis seated in the balcony of a crowded theater, watching Sigur Ros perform. I suppose this concert couldn't come at a more appropriate time. Countless mornings, afternoons and evenings I have lain in bed, alone and in the dark, listening to their sounds of shifting heartache and epic explosions, trying to find a note or drum roll to crawl inside and disappear forever.
Earlier today, a vision: There I am seated in the balcony and everyone is still, mesmerized by the tides of sound rolling from the men on stage but I'm conscious and aware. As the sound crescendos to a moment of timeless and exquisite beauty, I reach into my coat for the shiny black gun, hiding one (and only one) bullet, and the sound of guitars, drums, chaos, beauty, life, roses, death and victory rises and floats and expands and (all of this in slow motion) the small, cold cannon is exposed and kisses my hot temple and my final thought: So beautiful.
mc
Sleep: A precious preview of death.
I finally removed myself from bed at noon today. I spent 14 1/2 hours in bed and could have stayed there forever. A coffin of mattress, box spring and cold sheets; a throne for a dying king.
In a few hours I'll be in Indianapolis seated in the balcony of a crowded theater, watching Sigur Ros perform. I suppose this concert couldn't come at a more appropriate time. Countless mornings, afternoons and evenings I have lain in bed, alone and in the dark, listening to their sounds of shifting heartache and epic explosions, trying to find a note or drum roll to crawl inside and disappear forever.
Earlier today, a vision: There I am seated in the balcony and everyone is still, mesmerized by the tides of sound rolling from the men on stage but I'm conscious and aware. As the sound crescendos to a moment of timeless and exquisite beauty, I reach into my coat for the shiny black gun, hiding one (and only one) bullet, and the sound of guitars, drums, chaos, beauty, life, roses, death and victory rises and floats and expands and (all of this in slow motion) the small, cold cannon is exposed and kisses my hot temple and my final thought: So beautiful.
mc
orion
I know she has spent countless hours scrubbing and cleaning, scrubbing and cleaning, trying to erase the maps made by my lips, scrubbing and cleaning, trying to erase the trace of my scent.
Like a slug leaving a trail of shiny mucus under trees and cars, my lips left trails and marks, and points to plot like the constellations. On her neck I left The Lesser Lion, Leo Minor glimmering in the dark; on her warm belly shone Pegasus, The Winged Horse; Horologium, The Pendulum Clock twinkled so faintly on her back.
Scrubbing and cleaning, scrubbing and cleaning, and I am Orion, The Hunter. I must have been some hideous creature, scavenging for sparks and crumbs, leaving my trace as I searched for a small taste of lasting perfection, stumbling across her precious canvas and always coming back empty-handed.
Yes, I am Orion, master of the winter skies, perched over her bedroom tonight.
Does she know her scent still surrounds me?
(Scrubbing and cleaning)
Does she know Leo Minor has fallen silent?
(Scrubbing and cleaning)
Does she know Pegasus no longer soars the skies?
(Scrubbing and cleaning)
Does she know Horologiums pendulum is still?
I am Orion, The Hideous Hunter, and I'm left with dry lips and dirty hands.
The broken and the breaking.
The dead and the dying.
And they are all with me tonight. High above. In this cold sky.
mc
Like a slug leaving a trail of shiny mucus under trees and cars, my lips left trails and marks, and points to plot like the constellations. On her neck I left The Lesser Lion, Leo Minor glimmering in the dark; on her warm belly shone Pegasus, The Winged Horse; Horologium, The Pendulum Clock twinkled so faintly on her back.
Scrubbing and cleaning, scrubbing and cleaning, and I am Orion, The Hunter. I must have been some hideous creature, scavenging for sparks and crumbs, leaving my trace as I searched for a small taste of lasting perfection, stumbling across her precious canvas and always coming back empty-handed.
Yes, I am Orion, master of the winter skies, perched over her bedroom tonight.
Does she know her scent still surrounds me?
(Scrubbing and cleaning)
Does she know Leo Minor has fallen silent?
(Scrubbing and cleaning)
Does she know Pegasus no longer soars the skies?
(Scrubbing and cleaning)
Does she know Horologiums pendulum is still?
I am Orion, The Hideous Hunter, and I'm left with dry lips and dirty hands.
The broken and the breaking.
The dead and the dying.
And they are all with me tonight. High above. In this cold sky.
mc
18 February 2006
razor blades
You dumb son of bitch. You stupid motherfucker. You set 'em up and you knock 'em down. And George Santayana once said, "Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it." And you are the repeat. The rerun. You know the dialogue verbatim. All the stage directions.
You used to listen to Springsteen's Nebraska on the record player and take those razor blades (Red Devil was the brand, no joke) and slice your skin like a pen to a clean, blank page, but you got "help" and stopped the blood. Now the self-mutilation is hidden; the maiming is emotional and easy to disguise. No bandages. No long sleeve shirts to hide those salty red lines. Now the razor blades reside in your heart, your needs, your desires. Your useless and pathetic needs.
You're such a needy fuck. Why is that? Mother loved you too much, that's why. When you were a little boy her protection was golden and just what you needed but now you're a bitter old man at the age of 27 who falls apart at even a hint of rejection. You'd come home from school in tears because some kids made fun of you and there she was: mom, with some words, a hug and a kiss for your wet cheek. Right now you feel slighted and forgotten and you're shaking your head thinking, Not again...No, not again.
Remember those home movies from long ago? Before mom and dad divorced? Before mom remarried too soon and started drinking too much? Before sister fell apart? Before you saw dad cry for the first time? Yes, those home movies where you craved for attention. There you were: a little boy with a stuttering problem, wanting everyone to see you, listen to you, wanting to feel like you were needed. Ha Ha, there's that word again - need. And here you are, that little boy, trapped in a man's body looking for words of comfort and a kiss for your hot cheek. This wet whiskey is hugging you warm and inside those curls of cigarette smoke are words, floating up and away, away from you.
You are on repeat and you will make this mistake once again and again and again and...Some girl will come along, somehow, and you'll open your parachute too soon. You'll display the colors of your heart and she will push you away, away from you. You will want to crawl back into that plane and unpack your parachute but it will be too late; you've already jumped. You will slowly float down to earth with chute unfurled and tears in your heart and wonder, What happened? You will land in a desolate field void of everything and everyone and gather your chute and walk - somewhere - away - but never away from yourself. You're trapped with the razor blades of need and desire and wish and word and regret - and you're bleeding all over the place.
mc
fuck nihilism
Fuck starving children. Fuck cries of racism. Fuck bigots. Fuck social injustice. Fuck sex. Fuck virgins. Fuck CEOs. Fuck the homeless. Fuck love. Fuck hate. Fuck fascists. Fuck democrats. Fuck republicans. Fuck independents. Fuck hippies. Fuck punks. Fuck hipsters. Fuck yuppies. Fuck global warming. Fuck protesters. Fuck supporters. Fuck pacifists. Fuck lieutenants. Fuck vegans. Fuck cattle farmers. Fuck animals trapped in testing laboratories. Fuck animals trapped in jungles. Fuck guns. Fuck hugs. Fuck cavemen. Fuck technology. Fuck villains. Fuck superheroes. Fuck game show hosts. Fuck presidents. Fuck terrorists. Fuck prime ministers. Fuck fake tits. Fuck penis implants. Fuck rich, white suburban kids saying "nigga." Fuck poor, black ghetto kids saying "nigga." Fuck drugs. Fuck sobriety. Fuck delusions of grandeur. Fuck fact based dramas. Fuck social ladders. Fuck glass ceilings. Fuck obese americans. Fuck the lottery. Fuck heaven. Fuck hell. Fuck false hope. Fuck televangelists. Fuck used car salesmen. Fuck religion. Fuck nihilism. Fuck everything. Fuck nothing. Fuck you. Fuck me.
mc
mc
17 February 2006
16 February 2006
some palahniuk
I'm currently reading Chuck Palahniuk's latest novel Haunted. Reading earlier today I came across one of those great Palahniuk passages that made me stop, shake my head and realize (once again) that CP is simply one of the best writers in the game today.
Excerpts from page 109, Chapter: Erosion, A Poem About Mr. Whittier:
"The same mistakes we made as cavemen," says Mr. Whittier, "we still make."
So maybe we're supposed to fight and hate and torture each other.
...He says, "Maybe suffering and misery is the point of life."
Consider that the earth is a processing plant, a factory.
Picture a tumbler used to polish rocks:
A rolling drum filled with water and sand.
Consider that your soul is dropped in as an ugly rock, some raw material or a natural resource, crude oil, mineral ore.
And all conflict and pain is just the abrasive that rubs us, polishes our souls, refines us,
teaches and finishes us over lifetime after lifetime.
Then consider that you've chosen to jump in, again and again,
knowing this suffering is your entire reason for coming to earth.
...He says, "The only alternative is, we're all just eternally stupid."
We fight wars. We fight for peace. We fight hunger. We love to fight.
We fight and fight and fight, with our guns or mouths or money.
And the planet is never one lick better than it was before us.
...Mr. Whittier says: "Maybe we're living the exact way we're meant to live."
Maybe our factory planet is processing our souls...just fine.
Pure Palahniuk, baby.
mc
Excerpts from page 109, Chapter: Erosion, A Poem About Mr. Whittier:
"The same mistakes we made as cavemen," says Mr. Whittier, "we still make."
So maybe we're supposed to fight and hate and torture each other.
...He says, "Maybe suffering and misery is the point of life."
Consider that the earth is a processing plant, a factory.
Picture a tumbler used to polish rocks:
A rolling drum filled with water and sand.
Consider that your soul is dropped in as an ugly rock, some raw material or a natural resource, crude oil, mineral ore.
And all conflict and pain is just the abrasive that rubs us, polishes our souls, refines us,
teaches and finishes us over lifetime after lifetime.
Then consider that you've chosen to jump in, again and again,
knowing this suffering is your entire reason for coming to earth.
...He says, "The only alternative is, we're all just eternally stupid."
We fight wars. We fight for peace. We fight hunger. We love to fight.
We fight and fight and fight, with our guns or mouths or money.
And the planet is never one lick better than it was before us.
...Mr. Whittier says: "Maybe we're living the exact way we're meant to live."
Maybe our factory planet is processing our souls...just fine.
Pure Palahniuk, baby.
mc
15 February 2006
something is collapsing
This language is invisible but I'll do my best to make my affection visual.
She says, "But it's never enough. No, it's never enough. Something's always broken and I'm left holding the shards. Why can't you see the blood dripping from these fingers? This is real, Love. This is real and this is what you're doing to me."
She flashes her flowing digits then proceeds to press them into my chest and then she begins to cry. Her face is cracking and her fingers, now constructing fists, pound my chest like red, fleshy gavels of blood and bone. Blood is dripping and tears are sliding down. And away.
And this is all out of order.
There is no sequence to the whims and weights of time.
Colors in motion pass us and for one flashing moment time is still and silent. Human bodies dressed in fabrics fancy pass. Vehicles covered with lights and shiny metal (belts and air bags protect the passengers encased inside) pass.
You, with your fists of blood buried, and I, with apologies masked as bandages, are still.
My eyes are planted in her pupils, searching for the monuments of forgiveness but her tears blur the figures and I'm afraid I'm losing her even though she is here before me.
"You and I, Babe. You and I - we compose a tormented axis but we must hold and we must maintain. Ultimately, we have nothing to break for. A separation would mean a collapse and I would crumble and you would falter and this is something you must realize. Without you, I am a disembodied voice searching for a reason to speak - and what shall become of you - without me?"
She speaks silence.
Painful, jagged silence.
"Speak to me, Babe. Speak from the shadows towering in your heart - or is there light inside? Speak to me, Babe - whatever the color."
"I'm sorry, Love. I can't do this anymore. We seem to only secrete misery and I'm drowning. You're drowning. I'm tired of treading water. I'm so fucking tired."
And with those final words she slowly turns and struggles to place left foot, right foot in sequence. She joins the colors passing on the sidewalk and something is collapsing. A building. A cloud. A memory. Me.
Sound resumes and I hear the cars, the click-clack of hard heels on pavement and the people, all these people talking to ghosts on cellular phones.
Where am I?
Where did I come from?
Feeling the cold keys in my pocket...Where did I park my car?
I look around and my eyes absorb the buildings of brick reaching skyward. My eyes soak the grey sky. This is all so overwhelming. And now the blood is on my hands.
She's gone and I am here.
A cold apartment and bed of ice and stone await me somewhere.
And the collapsing has just begun.
mc
She says, "But it's never enough. No, it's never enough. Something's always broken and I'm left holding the shards. Why can't you see the blood dripping from these fingers? This is real, Love. This is real and this is what you're doing to me."
She flashes her flowing digits then proceeds to press them into my chest and then she begins to cry. Her face is cracking and her fingers, now constructing fists, pound my chest like red, fleshy gavels of blood and bone. Blood is dripping and tears are sliding down. And away.
And this is all out of order.
There is no sequence to the whims and weights of time.
Colors in motion pass us and for one flashing moment time is still and silent. Human bodies dressed in fabrics fancy pass. Vehicles covered with lights and shiny metal (belts and air bags protect the passengers encased inside) pass.
You, with your fists of blood buried, and I, with apologies masked as bandages, are still.
My eyes are planted in her pupils, searching for the monuments of forgiveness but her tears blur the figures and I'm afraid I'm losing her even though she is here before me.
"You and I, Babe. You and I - we compose a tormented axis but we must hold and we must maintain. Ultimately, we have nothing to break for. A separation would mean a collapse and I would crumble and you would falter and this is something you must realize. Without you, I am a disembodied voice searching for a reason to speak - and what shall become of you - without me?"
She speaks silence.
Painful, jagged silence.
"Speak to me, Babe. Speak from the shadows towering in your heart - or is there light inside? Speak to me, Babe - whatever the color."
"I'm sorry, Love. I can't do this anymore. We seem to only secrete misery and I'm drowning. You're drowning. I'm tired of treading water. I'm so fucking tired."
And with those final words she slowly turns and struggles to place left foot, right foot in sequence. She joins the colors passing on the sidewalk and something is collapsing. A building. A cloud. A memory. Me.
Sound resumes and I hear the cars, the click-clack of hard heels on pavement and the people, all these people talking to ghosts on cellular phones.
Where am I?
Where did I come from?
Feeling the cold keys in my pocket...Where did I park my car?
I look around and my eyes absorb the buildings of brick reaching skyward. My eyes soak the grey sky. This is all so overwhelming. And now the blood is on my hands.
She's gone and I am here.
A cold apartment and bed of ice and stone await me somewhere.
And the collapsing has just begun.
mc
14 February 2006
happy st. valentine's day, pt II
"Today is a holiday invented by greeting card companies to make people feel like crap,"
Joel Barish of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
mc *cheers*
Joel Barish of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
mc *cheers*
happy st. valentine's day
The St. Valentine's Day massacre is the name given to the shooting of seven people as part of a Prohibition Era conflict between two powerful criminal gangs in Chicago, Illinois in the winter of 1929: the South Side Italian gang led by Al Capone and the North Side Irish/German gang led by George 'Bugs' Moran.
On the morning of February 14, St. Valentine's Day, six members of Moran's gang and an optician who associated with gangsters, were lined up against the rear inside wall of the garage of the S-M-C Cartage Company in the Lincoln Park neighborhood of Chicago's North Side. They were then shot and killed by five members of Al Capone's gang (two of whom were dressed as police officers). When one of the dying men, Frank "Tight Lips" Gusenberg, was asked who shot him, he replied, "Nobody shot me." Capone was conveniently on vacation in Florida at the time.
The massacre was a result of a plan devised by Capone gang member Jack 'Machine Gun' McGurn to eliminate Moran, Capone's chief criminal enemy. The massacre was planned by McGurn partly in retaliation for an unsuccessful attempt by Frank and his brother Peter Gusenberg to murder him a month earlier. McGurn assembled a team of six men led by Fred Burke with the intent of having Moran lured into an ambush. Moran and his men would be tricked into visiting a warehouse on North Clark Street on the pretext of buying some bargain hijacked bootleg whiskey; Burke's team would then enter the building disguised as police officers and kill them. The chief suspects, McGurn and Capone, would be well away from the scene.
Five members of the Burke team drove to the warehouse in a stolen police car at around 10:30 a.m., two dressed in police uniforms and three in ordinary street clothes. They found seven members of Moran's gang but not Moran himself. Moran had been approaching the warehouse but the premature arrival of the police car scared him away. The gang members were told to line up facing the back wall, which they apparently did willingly, believing their captors were real (and comparatively harmless) police, and were then shot and killed using a tommy gun. The dead men were James Clark, Frank and Pete Gusenberg, Adam Heyer, Johnny May, Dr. Reinhardt Schwimmer (the optician), and Al Weinshank. The massacre marked the end of Moran's power on the North Side, and his gang vanished into obscurity, enabling Capone to take over the area. But the event also brought the belated and full attention of the federal government to Capone and his criminal activities, which led to his conviction and imprisonment on Volstead Act and income tax evasion charges in 1931.
from Wikipedia
mc *cheers*
13 February 2006
[subject missing]
I usually spend Monday afternoons at a local cafe with coffee and notebook but not today.
(This is the part where the reader rolls his or her eyes, shakes head and wonders what mc will whine about this time.)
My stomach hurts. I'm tired. My eyes move like marbles through molasses. I'm a dying dog hobbling over familiar territory, searching for some place warm and new and I'm not finding anything promising. I want to disappear.
Outside, a breeze of ice blows and the wind chill factor is 15 degrees.
Inside, I'm watching I Am Trying to Break Your Heart: A Film About Wilco.
Tomorrow is the holiday for lovers and I wonder how many people will kill themselves out of spite for that bastard Saint Valentine (how apropos he was beheaded).
"The tragedy of it is that nobody sees the look of desperation on my face. Thousands and thousands of us and we're passing one another without a look of recognition,"
Henry Miller
"Maybe you can tell me something. Why does it always have to go in this direction, writer to reader? Maybe you have the one thought that'll change everything for me. The one thing I haven't considered in my relentless, obsessive, circular thought process. Is there that one thing? Is it possible for one person to impart any transformative notion to another person?"
Charlie Kaufman
I don't know what I want from you. I feel like the forgotten punchline from some mindless joke and no one is laughing. Everyone is averting their eyes from my sagging and pathetic presence. Ha Ha - the joke's on me.
I know what I want from you but, like everyone else, you can't provide those fragile pieces and now I've trapped you.
Go. Stay. The past, the present and the future - and I'm breaking things all the time.
And now I'm tired...
mc
(This is the part where the reader rolls his or her eyes, shakes head and wonders what mc will whine about this time.)
My stomach hurts. I'm tired. My eyes move like marbles through molasses. I'm a dying dog hobbling over familiar territory, searching for some place warm and new and I'm not finding anything promising. I want to disappear.
Outside, a breeze of ice blows and the wind chill factor is 15 degrees.
Inside, I'm watching I Am Trying to Break Your Heart: A Film About Wilco.
Tomorrow is the holiday for lovers and I wonder how many people will kill themselves out of spite for that bastard Saint Valentine (how apropos he was beheaded).
"The tragedy of it is that nobody sees the look of desperation on my face. Thousands and thousands of us and we're passing one another without a look of recognition,"
Henry Miller
"Maybe you can tell me something. Why does it always have to go in this direction, writer to reader? Maybe you have the one thought that'll change everything for me. The one thing I haven't considered in my relentless, obsessive, circular thought process. Is there that one thing? Is it possible for one person to impart any transformative notion to another person?"
Charlie Kaufman
I don't know what I want from you. I feel like the forgotten punchline from some mindless joke and no one is laughing. Everyone is averting their eyes from my sagging and pathetic presence. Ha Ha - the joke's on me.
I know what I want from you but, like everyone else, you can't provide those fragile pieces and now I've trapped you.
Go. Stay. The past, the present and the future - and I'm breaking things all the time.
And now I'm tired...
mc
12 February 2006
shelter from the storm
After work last night, I spontaneously decided to leave my apartment and drive to Indy and visit AA. With Roommate being out of town and my head a mess, the prospect of spending a Saturday night alone and locked in my apartment seemed rather terrifying so I had to flee.
It's always good knocking back shots and shooting the shit with AA. For one drunken night I was absolved of the static in my mind, but this mess would resurface in another's head with a 2 am phone call from his girlfriend which later would result in his absence as he would leave to be by her sobbing side.
I was drunk and ready to crash, he wanted to console his lady and she wanted his presence so everything worked out amicably, relatively speaking.
AA, thanks for providing shelter from the storm for a night. You're a true comrade.
mc
It's always good knocking back shots and shooting the shit with AA. For one drunken night I was absolved of the static in my mind, but this mess would resurface in another's head with a 2 am phone call from his girlfriend which later would result in his absence as he would leave to be by her sobbing side.
I was drunk and ready to crash, he wanted to console his lady and she wanted his presence so everything worked out amicably, relatively speaking.
AA, thanks for providing shelter from the storm for a night. You're a true comrade.
mc
11 February 2006
whiskey, static and charlie kaufman
It's 1128 pm and I'm filling myself with phosphates and enzymes and whiskey and diet Coke while watching Being John Malkovich for the umpteenth time.
Yeah, this is the life.
I'm chain-smoking American Spirit cigarettes and wishing She would come through the door (unexpectedly) - or at least call. I spoke to Her earlier (via telephone) and I'm sure my monotone and indifferent stance turned Her off, but what can I say?
I am the flash of black static between channels 7 and 8 on the television dial.
CHANNEL 7: "...And tonight I'm joined by the star of More Hollywood Bullshit, Tom -
CLICK - - FLASH
CHANNEL 8: "...The four year old was found dead in a dilapidated house on the 800 block of -
Did you see me? The flash between channels 7 and 8? No? Yeah, I didn't think so...
I remember watching Being John Malkovich for the first time and being blown away by Charlie Kaufman's unique and mesmerizing screenplay. The film's concept was completely original and the main character, Craig Schwartz (played wonderfully by John Cusack), was someone I could identify with on a personal and painful level.
I recently completed Syd Field's Screenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting and to continue my screenplay studies I purchased the Being John Malkovich screenplay by Kaufman.
After reading the four page introduction written by Kaufman himself, I immediately realized what draws me to his films. Here are some excerpts from the introduction:
"They asked me to write an introduction to this screenplay. I told them I didn't know what to say. They told me it didn't matter, just something. They said people studying screenwriting often purchase these books and they'll be looking for a word from the writer. They told me I owed the readers something. I said I would try. I prefer not to owe people. So I am sitting here tonight trying. It's three in the morning. I haven't been able to sleep for several weeks now. Things are falling apart. I have personal problems. Perhaps I've been drinking too much. This was suggested to me by someone I once considered a friend. The point is, things are confused..."
"...Sometimes, when it's late enough and dark enough and quiet enough, I am even a man without questions. A lack of curiosity, a numbness creeps over me and I just sit. I stare at that weird, suspicious stain on the wall and think of nothing. I don't wonder about the universe. Then a little question will slowly bore its way to the front of my brain. The question is why am I in this situation? Who am I that is so terrible that people must respond to me with such brutality? Yes, brutality. A brutality of the spirit. I am a person. I have my weaknesses, certainly. My insecurities, my desires. But I have a right to them. I'm not going to let anyone tell me otherwise. So if the price I have to pay for living my life is to be cast out, then I guess that is the price I have to pay..."
"...I am a miserably lonely person who has no charming anecdotes. The only thing I can talk about, the only thing that's on my mind at the moment is that the human being can be a treacherous creature. And that sometimes they can tell you they love you and they care about you and maybe they don't. How terrible is that, to come to that realization? Of course it makes sense. Nobody could really like me. I mean, nobody ever has before..."
"...Look, the truth is everything is a mess as far as I can tell. It's just a messy, junky world. People are mean. People are lonely. People are lost. Nobody knows a damn thing. Some people pretend they do. Don't trust them. Some people pretend they like you. Don't believe them..."
A sidenote...
It's now 1240 am and She just called me from a party - drunk. The whole conversation was depressing because She was a million miles away at a party filled with people (I heard their drunken happiness in the background) while I wasted -
She just called again - still drunk - and I'm on the outside looking in...And on a night like tonight, it's awfully cold - and lonely - on the outside...
mc (@ 2 am: drunk and full of shit - and whiskey too)
Yeah, this is the life.
I'm chain-smoking American Spirit cigarettes and wishing She would come through the door (unexpectedly) - or at least call. I spoke to Her earlier (via telephone) and I'm sure my monotone and indifferent stance turned Her off, but what can I say?
I am the flash of black static between channels 7 and 8 on the television dial.
CHANNEL 7: "...And tonight I'm joined by the star of More Hollywood Bullshit, Tom -
CLICK - - FLASH
CHANNEL 8: "...The four year old was found dead in a dilapidated house on the 800 block of -
Did you see me? The flash between channels 7 and 8? No? Yeah, I didn't think so...
I remember watching Being John Malkovich for the first time and being blown away by Charlie Kaufman's unique and mesmerizing screenplay. The film's concept was completely original and the main character, Craig Schwartz (played wonderfully by John Cusack), was someone I could identify with on a personal and painful level.
I recently completed Syd Field's Screenplay: The Foundations of Screenwriting and to continue my screenplay studies I purchased the Being John Malkovich screenplay by Kaufman.
After reading the four page introduction written by Kaufman himself, I immediately realized what draws me to his films. Here are some excerpts from the introduction:
"They asked me to write an introduction to this screenplay. I told them I didn't know what to say. They told me it didn't matter, just something. They said people studying screenwriting often purchase these books and they'll be looking for a word from the writer. They told me I owed the readers something. I said I would try. I prefer not to owe people. So I am sitting here tonight trying. It's three in the morning. I haven't been able to sleep for several weeks now. Things are falling apart. I have personal problems. Perhaps I've been drinking too much. This was suggested to me by someone I once considered a friend. The point is, things are confused..."
"...Sometimes, when it's late enough and dark enough and quiet enough, I am even a man without questions. A lack of curiosity, a numbness creeps over me and I just sit. I stare at that weird, suspicious stain on the wall and think of nothing. I don't wonder about the universe. Then a little question will slowly bore its way to the front of my brain. The question is why am I in this situation? Who am I that is so terrible that people must respond to me with such brutality? Yes, brutality. A brutality of the spirit. I am a person. I have my weaknesses, certainly. My insecurities, my desires. But I have a right to them. I'm not going to let anyone tell me otherwise. So if the price I have to pay for living my life is to be cast out, then I guess that is the price I have to pay..."
"...I am a miserably lonely person who has no charming anecdotes. The only thing I can talk about, the only thing that's on my mind at the moment is that the human being can be a treacherous creature. And that sometimes they can tell you they love you and they care about you and maybe they don't. How terrible is that, to come to that realization? Of course it makes sense. Nobody could really like me. I mean, nobody ever has before..."
"...Look, the truth is everything is a mess as far as I can tell. It's just a messy, junky world. People are mean. People are lonely. People are lost. Nobody knows a damn thing. Some people pretend they do. Don't trust them. Some people pretend they like you. Don't believe them..."
A sidenote...
It's now 1240 am and She just called me from a party - drunk. The whole conversation was depressing because She was a million miles away at a party filled with people (I heard their drunken happiness in the background) while I wasted -
She just called again - still drunk - and I'm on the outside looking in...And on a night like tonight, it's awfully cold - and lonely - on the outside...
mc (@ 2 am: drunk and full of shit - and whiskey too)
10 February 2006
the withering
...Haven't been sleeping well. I find myself waking up every 90-120 minutes hunched over with my head in my hands. A sore lower back tells me that I sleep sitting up most of the night, which is odd because I never catch myself rising from bed.
The dirty mirror tells the story: I look like shit. Blue bags of blood droop below my eye sockets. Bloodshot cobwebs span the whites of my eyes.
I feel like shit.
This nightly ritual is a sign of something. Stress. Loss. Something. I'm uneasy right now. An ill premonition has been floating over my head recently so I've been preparing myself (whatever that entails) for bad news. Something is brewing in the spaces between life and light, and my attempts to sway the unknown are (as always) futile. The tide rolls in only to recede. I'm fading in. I'm fading out. I wish not to be bothered in times like these. No phone calls. No questions. No surprises. Nothing. The is The Withering and I will let its wicked vibration run its course and pick up the pieces later.
I feel like a beleaguered circus performer on a tightrope miles above and I'm looking for something reassuring below - a net - a person - some kind of safety device. I need a pair of warm hands alive with pure and pulsating white blood cells to heat these hands of ice. The right hand furiously scribbling words on this clean page. The left hand trembling and empty.
My cold belly is churning with fluids of flame stabbing and scurrying. Stabbing small intestine then scurrying...Stabbing spleen then scurrying...Stabbing liver then scurrying...Kidney to liver...Stomach to large intestine. Imagine an astronaut in his hovering pod viewing an electrical storm firing in clouds over a covered continent below. Balls of lightning like flashing neurons strike a desolate prairie, then a city, then a valley. Flash then scurry.
I feel things inside. A bag. A sac. A placenta filled with a still and defeated fetus that failed years ago. It's quiet and motionless floating in fluids void of nutrients, minerals and preservatives. The things not nurtured are the first to die and something has indeed died inside. Was it aborted? An accident? Would it have been stillborn? Was this form of undeveloped pink flesh innocence? Honesty? Childhood? Manhood? Love? It has died and can no longer move but if I press hard enough, a memory of movement, a once living ghost creeps into my mind. This memory is blurred and distorted; a vague image of a mysterious presence plunging murky depths. My only hope of identification lies in its ability to resurface and flash a ghastly face but it is gone forever, eternally buried and drowning in fetal fluids.
I wish not to have this tiny, lifeless body of rubbery bone and slick skin removed from the shallow pit of my living carcass. It should linger and nest; it needs to remain to remind me of something sweet that was once alive and left unmarked and untouched by this world; a mass of malnourished jelly that once thrived for reasons beyond its comprehension.
mc
The dirty mirror tells the story: I look like shit. Blue bags of blood droop below my eye sockets. Bloodshot cobwebs span the whites of my eyes.
I feel like shit.
This nightly ritual is a sign of something. Stress. Loss. Something. I'm uneasy right now. An ill premonition has been floating over my head recently so I've been preparing myself (whatever that entails) for bad news. Something is brewing in the spaces between life and light, and my attempts to sway the unknown are (as always) futile. The tide rolls in only to recede. I'm fading in. I'm fading out. I wish not to be bothered in times like these. No phone calls. No questions. No surprises. Nothing. The is The Withering and I will let its wicked vibration run its course and pick up the pieces later.
I feel like a beleaguered circus performer on a tightrope miles above and I'm looking for something reassuring below - a net - a person - some kind of safety device. I need a pair of warm hands alive with pure and pulsating white blood cells to heat these hands of ice. The right hand furiously scribbling words on this clean page. The left hand trembling and empty.
My cold belly is churning with fluids of flame stabbing and scurrying. Stabbing small intestine then scurrying...Stabbing spleen then scurrying...Stabbing liver then scurrying...Kidney to liver...Stomach to large intestine. Imagine an astronaut in his hovering pod viewing an electrical storm firing in clouds over a covered continent below. Balls of lightning like flashing neurons strike a desolate prairie, then a city, then a valley. Flash then scurry.
I feel things inside. A bag. A sac. A placenta filled with a still and defeated fetus that failed years ago. It's quiet and motionless floating in fluids void of nutrients, minerals and preservatives. The things not nurtured are the first to die and something has indeed died inside. Was it aborted? An accident? Would it have been stillborn? Was this form of undeveloped pink flesh innocence? Honesty? Childhood? Manhood? Love? It has died and can no longer move but if I press hard enough, a memory of movement, a once living ghost creeps into my mind. This memory is blurred and distorted; a vague image of a mysterious presence plunging murky depths. My only hope of identification lies in its ability to resurface and flash a ghastly face but it is gone forever, eternally buried and drowning in fetal fluids.
I wish not to have this tiny, lifeless body of rubbery bone and slick skin removed from the shallow pit of my living carcass. It should linger and nest; it needs to remain to remind me of something sweet that was once alive and left unmarked and untouched by this world; a mass of malnourished jelly that once thrived for reasons beyond its comprehension.
mc
09 February 2006
right where it belongs
"Right Where It Belongs" by Nine Inch Nails
"See the animal in his cage that you built
Are you sure what side you're on?
Better not look him too closely in the eye
Are you sure what side of the glass you are on?
See the safety of the life you have built
Everything where it belongs
Feel the hollowness inside of your heart
And it's all
Right where it belongs
What if everything around you
Isn't quite as it seems?
What if all the world you think you know
Is an elaborate dream?
And if you look at your reflection
Is it all you want it to be?
What if you could look right through the cracks?
Would you find yourself
Find yourself afraid to see?
What if all the world's inside of your head
Just creations of your own?
Your devils and your gods
All the living and the dead
And you're really all alone?
You can live in this illusion
You can choose to believe
You keep looking but you can't find the woods
While you're hiding in the trees
What if everything around you
Isn't quite as it seems?
What if all the world you used to know
Is an elaborate dream?
And if you look at your reflection
Is it all you want it to be?
What if you could look right through the cracks
Would you find yourself
Find yourself afraid to see?"
"See the animal in his cage that you built
Are you sure what side you're on?
Better not look him too closely in the eye
Are you sure what side of the glass you are on?
See the safety of the life you have built
Everything where it belongs
Feel the hollowness inside of your heart
And it's all
Right where it belongs
What if everything around you
Isn't quite as it seems?
What if all the world you think you know
Is an elaborate dream?
And if you look at your reflection
Is it all you want it to be?
What if you could look right through the cracks?
Would you find yourself
Find yourself afraid to see?
What if all the world's inside of your head
Just creations of your own?
Your devils and your gods
All the living and the dead
And you're really all alone?
You can live in this illusion
You can choose to believe
You keep looking but you can't find the woods
While you're hiding in the trees
What if everything around you
Isn't quite as it seems?
What if all the world you used to know
Is an elaborate dream?
And if you look at your reflection
Is it all you want it to be?
What if you could look right through the cracks
Would you find yourself
Find yourself afraid to see?"
08 February 2006
beautiful people and the laws of nature
from my notebook...earlier today
I'm not sure what has happened. I started the day in relatively high spirits but over the past hour or so that mood has completely deteriorated and now the fear of eternal loneliness pervades. I don't want to be that 37 year old single man spending evenings alone at home with TV dinners and sitcoms.
I see beautiful people everywhere.
Here...On the bus with their cellular phones and iPods.
There...Leaving the mall with Abercrombie & Fitch bags and designer perfumes.
There...Gliding down a sidewalk surrounded by similar looking bodies.
The hair. The teeth. The skin. The clothes. The technology.
And I feel like a deflating balloon of flesh and veins.
A little kid, probably 4 or 5 years old, just got on the bus. I don't like being around little kids when I'm in this state. I feel like the "after" of a "before and after" montage of a patient suffering from some kind of wretched disease - and death is at the doorstep.
I want to pull their small bodies aside and whisper in their ears, "Get out before it's too late, kid. Enjoy your ignorance while you can. This is all just a charade."
But they wouldn't understand me. I've never been able to properly speak to children. I use words that they don't understand. I feel like I'm talking to a tiny alien...Maybe I'm the creature from outer space.
Their short time on this planet has taught them some valuable lessons; lessons the caveman had to learn. But the painful and most important lessons will be learned later as their ignorance and innocence fades. They will discover these lessons through the interactions with their fellow human beings. They'll taste lessons of cruelty, heartache, betrayal and compassion (but only occasionally); they will learn the true laws of nature.
mc
I'm not sure what has happened. I started the day in relatively high spirits but over the past hour or so that mood has completely deteriorated and now the fear of eternal loneliness pervades. I don't want to be that 37 year old single man spending evenings alone at home with TV dinners and sitcoms.
I see beautiful people everywhere.
Here...On the bus with their cellular phones and iPods.
There...Leaving the mall with Abercrombie & Fitch bags and designer perfumes.
There...Gliding down a sidewalk surrounded by similar looking bodies.
The hair. The teeth. The skin. The clothes. The technology.
And I feel like a deflating balloon of flesh and veins.
A little kid, probably 4 or 5 years old, just got on the bus. I don't like being around little kids when I'm in this state. I feel like the "after" of a "before and after" montage of a patient suffering from some kind of wretched disease - and death is at the doorstep.
I want to pull their small bodies aside and whisper in their ears, "Get out before it's too late, kid. Enjoy your ignorance while you can. This is all just a charade."
But they wouldn't understand me. I've never been able to properly speak to children. I use words that they don't understand. I feel like I'm talking to a tiny alien...Maybe I'm the creature from outer space.
Their short time on this planet has taught them some valuable lessons; lessons the caveman had to learn. But the painful and most important lessons will be learned later as their ignorance and innocence fades. They will discover these lessons through the interactions with their fellow human beings. They'll taste lessons of cruelty, heartache, betrayal and compassion (but only occasionally); they will learn the true laws of nature.
mc
07 February 2006
loose inside
Eager to escape the house this afternoon. Things feel unsettled and loose inside. Even though these feelings are all too familiar, they always seem to trouble me.
I've decided to hunker down in a booth with hot coffee and notebook at Encore Cafe. I felt very anxious as I parked my car but forced myself to enter the bustling establishment.
I'm not sure why I'm feeling so uneasy. She spent the night again and there was a moment in bed when She turned silent and away. I know She's dealing with stress; She's confused, lost and sleep deprived and the last thing I want is to contribute to the mess. She said something peculiar that made me stop for a moment. She said there was a voice, a feeling She got when She was with Her boyfriend years ago; She failed to heed this "feeling" (a warning?) and apparently this "feeling" is resurfacing with me. I don't wish to speculate what this "feeling" is or what it means but I hope She will tell me in time.
She has a poor self-image and this causes Her to reject anything positive. I've been candid about my feelings for Her and my opinion of Her as a friend and as a person. Does She think I'm simply trying to inflate Her damaged ego with empty platitudes?
My words aren't ghosts, Dear. They are real and true and I wish you to take them.
I want Her to trust the person speaking those words and perhaps She will open and share.
Her apparent lack of trust has made me ask myself an important question: Should I trust Her? Has it been wise to share those intimate facts of porcelain with Her? Yes. My trust in Her is absolute. She could damage me. She could break me. But I know She would never intentionally do such a thing. Her guarded demeanor reflects a broken heart still in disrepair. Knowing this, oddly enough, validates my trust in Her. I know She would never maliciously wield the things I have confided in Her because She has felt that cold blade of betrayal Herself.
I know the scales of trust are extremely unbalanced, and this makes me feel like a vulnerable pinata, but I need Her presence (in whatever form or title).
I hate the feeling that I need others more than they need me.
I hate the feeling that this might be the case more often than not.
I hate the fact that my self-image is so poor.
But what is one to do (remember Palahniuk: "Self-improvement is masturbation)? Change, permanent change is not easy, if even possible. Denial doesn't work.
Acceptance. Yes. Accept the broken pieces; for even a shattered mirror offers a reflection.
mc
I've decided to hunker down in a booth with hot coffee and notebook at Encore Cafe. I felt very anxious as I parked my car but forced myself to enter the bustling establishment.
I'm not sure why I'm feeling so uneasy. She spent the night again and there was a moment in bed when She turned silent and away. I know She's dealing with stress; She's confused, lost and sleep deprived and the last thing I want is to contribute to the mess. She said something peculiar that made me stop for a moment. She said there was a voice, a feeling She got when She was with Her boyfriend years ago; She failed to heed this "feeling" (a warning?) and apparently this "feeling" is resurfacing with me. I don't wish to speculate what this "feeling" is or what it means but I hope She will tell me in time.
She has a poor self-image and this causes Her to reject anything positive. I've been candid about my feelings for Her and my opinion of Her as a friend and as a person. Does She think I'm simply trying to inflate Her damaged ego with empty platitudes?
My words aren't ghosts, Dear. They are real and true and I wish you to take them.
I want Her to trust the person speaking those words and perhaps She will open and share.
Her apparent lack of trust has made me ask myself an important question: Should I trust Her? Has it been wise to share those intimate facts of porcelain with Her? Yes. My trust in Her is absolute. She could damage me. She could break me. But I know She would never intentionally do such a thing. Her guarded demeanor reflects a broken heart still in disrepair. Knowing this, oddly enough, validates my trust in Her. I know She would never maliciously wield the things I have confided in Her because She has felt that cold blade of betrayal Herself.
I know the scales of trust are extremely unbalanced, and this makes me feel like a vulnerable pinata, but I need Her presence (in whatever form or title).
I hate the feeling that I need others more than they need me.
I hate the feeling that this might be the case more often than not.
I hate the fact that my self-image is so poor.
But what is one to do (remember Palahniuk: "Self-improvement is masturbation)? Change, permanent change is not easy, if even possible. Denial doesn't work.
Acceptance. Yes. Accept the broken pieces; for even a shattered mirror offers a reflection.
mc
where you'll find me now
While I was driving home earlier today I was listening to Neutral Milk Hotel's beautiful album On Avery Island. "Where You'll Find Me Now" begins playing and the lyrics struck me as if I had never heard them before. Jeff Mangum (singer of Neutral Milk Hotel) seemed to be singing the thoughts swimming in my heart on this cold, grey day.
"Where You'll Find Me Now" by Neutral Milk Hotel
"All I perceive is wasted and broken
Silvery streams, sacred when spoken
Slam into me and into the ditch of debris
And you smoke in the park and sleep in the greenery
Everyone barks and they are all still believing
To tear out your heart would send all your secrets to me
But I let you down
And swollen and small is where you'll find me now
With that silver stripping off
From my tongue you're tearing out
And you'll never hear me talk
Your teeth believe that teeth are for tearing
Tear into me and the scent of you sweating smells good to me
As long as we keep in our clothes
And out in the dark the world is still rolling
Kids in their cars, cigarette smoking
And all that they are just reeks with the sweetest belief
But I let you down
And swollen and small is where you'll find me now
With that silver stripping off
From my tongue you're tearing out
And you'll never hear me talk
All I could want is silver and spinning
Out from your arms and into the pretty pit of your heart
So simply and softly we'd flow
But I let you down
And swollen and small is where you'll find me now
With that silver stripping off
From my tongue you're tearing out
And you'll never hear me talk
Into you I will glow"
...And I sat in my car speechless, shaking my head.
mc
"Where You'll Find Me Now" by Neutral Milk Hotel
"All I perceive is wasted and broken
Silvery streams, sacred when spoken
Slam into me and into the ditch of debris
And you smoke in the park and sleep in the greenery
Everyone barks and they are all still believing
To tear out your heart would send all your secrets to me
But I let you down
And swollen and small is where you'll find me now
With that silver stripping off
From my tongue you're tearing out
And you'll never hear me talk
Your teeth believe that teeth are for tearing
Tear into me and the scent of you sweating smells good to me
As long as we keep in our clothes
And out in the dark the world is still rolling
Kids in their cars, cigarette smoking
And all that they are just reeks with the sweetest belief
But I let you down
And swollen and small is where you'll find me now
With that silver stripping off
From my tongue you're tearing out
And you'll never hear me talk
All I could want is silver and spinning
Out from your arms and into the pretty pit of your heart
So simply and softly we'd flow
But I let you down
And swollen and small is where you'll find me now
With that silver stripping off
From my tongue you're tearing out
And you'll never hear me talk
Into you I will glow"
...And I sat in my car speechless, shaking my head.
mc
borders of thoughts
*from my notebook...written 06 February 2006
Today being Monday and a day off, I make my regular afternoon stop at a cafe. Normally it's Encore but today I've decided to spend a few hours at Border's Cafe. Frankly, Encore's clientele can be a little too earthy/organic/hippie for me so I've decided to go mainstream corporate and a little less liberal (if that's possible in this town) today. Plus, I like the view from this window; people are passing on the sidewalk as cars and buses glide by.
I'm nearing the end of my screenplay workbook and I'm a little anxious about this. The completion of this book will mark the beginning of construction on my first screenplay attempt. I have a few ideas about possible stories but I'm missing the conflicts needed to propel the stories forward. I'm unable to form conflicts - now that's ironic.
She spent the night again last night. Three consecutive nights and I don't seem to grow tired of Her presence. While I wish that something more would grow from our friendship, I must realize that wishing for an unrealized reality and accepting the facts of actual reality are two different concepts. If I'm honest with myself, I don't even know if, at this time in my life, I'm capable of fostering a healthy romantic relationship. Addressing the cold, meaty truths of my own problems is difficult enough, nevermind sharing them and accepting the burden of another's problems...
"The true delight is in the finding out rather than in the knowing," Isaac Asimov
...But the idea, the glowing image of walking hand in hand down a sidewalk with fires burning in our eyes and bellies is a beautiful, albeit false (is it false? the embers of hope still glow) one. Damn Hollywood.
Perhaps one of the motors driving my desire to write a screenplay is rooted in constructing and controlling a reality, an existence of my own design. I know how the story will end. The characters won't surprise me. The strangers won't be foreign or unknown; I'll even know them to a certain degree.
This is a birth.
Extract the bodies. The ideas. Cradle them. Nurse them. Watch them grow. Hand in hand.
Flaws of perfect construction...
...And I'll know how this story will end.
"No alarms and no surprises please," Radiohead's "No Surprises"
mc
Today being Monday and a day off, I make my regular afternoon stop at a cafe. Normally it's Encore but today I've decided to spend a few hours at Border's Cafe. Frankly, Encore's clientele can be a little too earthy/organic/hippie for me so I've decided to go mainstream corporate and a little less liberal (if that's possible in this town) today. Plus, I like the view from this window; people are passing on the sidewalk as cars and buses glide by.
I'm nearing the end of my screenplay workbook and I'm a little anxious about this. The completion of this book will mark the beginning of construction on my first screenplay attempt. I have a few ideas about possible stories but I'm missing the conflicts needed to propel the stories forward. I'm unable to form conflicts - now that's ironic.
She spent the night again last night. Three consecutive nights and I don't seem to grow tired of Her presence. While I wish that something more would grow from our friendship, I must realize that wishing for an unrealized reality and accepting the facts of actual reality are two different concepts. If I'm honest with myself, I don't even know if, at this time in my life, I'm capable of fostering a healthy romantic relationship. Addressing the cold, meaty truths of my own problems is difficult enough, nevermind sharing them and accepting the burden of another's problems...
"The true delight is in the finding out rather than in the knowing," Isaac Asimov
...But the idea, the glowing image of walking hand in hand down a sidewalk with fires burning in our eyes and bellies is a beautiful, albeit false (is it false? the embers of hope still glow) one. Damn Hollywood.
Perhaps one of the motors driving my desire to write a screenplay is rooted in constructing and controlling a reality, an existence of my own design. I know how the story will end. The characters won't surprise me. The strangers won't be foreign or unknown; I'll even know them to a certain degree.
This is a birth.
Extract the bodies. The ideas. Cradle them. Nurse them. Watch them grow. Hand in hand.
Flaws of perfect construction...
...And I'll know how this story will end.
"No alarms and no surprises please," Radiohead's "No Surprises"
mc
06 February 2006
the super bowl lie
Last Friday I was invited by a co-worker to a Super Bowl party. As CoWorker asked me if I wanted to come I knew I didn't, but for some unexplained reason I said yes. I always do that kind of shit.
So yesterday was gameday and I woke up feeling anxious, uneasy, not good...Just one of those days. I spent several hours tormenting myself over the phone call and accompanying lie. I make the call and after the first three rings I'm hoping for an answering machine; lying to a machine is easier than lying to flesh and blood. Then I hear the glorious sound of a prerecorded message.
"Hello, we are unavailable to take your [CLICK] Hello?"
Fuck.
"Hey, CoWorker, it's mc. What's up?"
"Not much. How are you?"
"Good. Hey, I don't know if I'm going to be able to make it over for the game. My girlfriend wants to go to this party and she wants me to come along so if I can make it over I will, but I'm not sure."
I can't even give a concrete 'no' while lying. So pathetic.
I then proceed to ask for driving directions even though I know I won't be going. I even write down the directions, for Christ's sake!
In case CoWorker asks me about my fictional girlfriend, I'll need to compose a character sketch.
A name...Length of our relationship...Steelers fan? Seahawks fan?
Better living through lying...So fucking pathetic.
mc (call me Costanza)
So yesterday was gameday and I woke up feeling anxious, uneasy, not good...Just one of those days. I spent several hours tormenting myself over the phone call and accompanying lie. I make the call and after the first three rings I'm hoping for an answering machine; lying to a machine is easier than lying to flesh and blood. Then I hear the glorious sound of a prerecorded message.
"Hello, we are unavailable to take your [CLICK] Hello?"
Fuck.
"Hey, CoWorker, it's mc. What's up?"
"Not much. How are you?"
"Good. Hey, I don't know if I'm going to be able to make it over for the game. My girlfriend wants to go to this party and she wants me to come along so if I can make it over I will, but I'm not sure."
I can't even give a concrete 'no' while lying. So pathetic.
I then proceed to ask for driving directions even though I know I won't be going. I even write down the directions, for Christ's sake!
In case CoWorker asks me about my fictional girlfriend, I'll need to compose a character sketch.
A name...Length of our relationship...Steelers fan? Seahawks fan?
Better living through lying...So fucking pathetic.
mc (call me Costanza)
05 February 2006
the absent muse
A phone call in the black of night.
The ringing shatters the empty spaces coated with glass.
An estranged voice on the opposite end.
The receiver in my shaking hand.
Dusty cobwebs diffusing in my weary head.
"But she is next to me. How can this be?" I respond.
Under blankets her shadow rises - then falls. The motion of breathing.
The oxygen.
The carbon dioxide.
Colorless.
Tasteless.
I'm still for a moment then slowly and carefully place the phone's receiver on its cradle and gaze upon the blankets and shadow and wonder what this means.
Who are we?
What are we doing, Love?
Does any of this mean anything?
I light a cigarette and ponder the sleeping muse.
Under thin sheets of skin her eyes rest. What have they seen? Can those visions be matched by what her heart has felt? No. Long after the faces have been erased and replaced the remnants of their actions remain restless in her heart - forever.
O, Love, please do not forget my face and I will float harmlessly in your heart like plastic fluff swimming in a snow globe. You are a painted figurine trapped in a world of rusted monuments and failed men; I wish not to be among those dying structures. I wish to be alive and be with you, trapped in this globe of incalculable equations and artificial precipitation. The plastic pieces of heaven are floating and falling all around us.
O, Muse, the silence of your breathing shadow softly glows like the city lights in a midnight drizzle and I'm left helpless at the sight. The lamps reach into the halos of the heavens; out of my reach and beyond my grasp and your scent is so sweet and I sit here spoiling in your presence. Helpless, so helpless...Won't you open and unfold your pristine petals so that I may catch a glimpse of your flawed beauty? An effortless attempt that shakes the sky open and sends drops of nectar to the earth. A surface aching for something pure and sweet and harmonious and you could break something; crack a face coated with dust and time; seal the wound with lips of silk, wet.
You are a source of unknown illumination and I am a fluttering moth pursuing in vain. In vain? Is this all in vain, Love?
Who are we?
What are we doing?
Do these crashes in the night mean anything?
A phone call in the black of night.
The ringing shatters the empty spaces coated with glass and smoke.
An estranged silence on the opposite end.
"But she isn't here. Where is she?" I respond.
Under blankets a shadow rises - then falls. The motion of a ghost, breathing.
Colorless.
Tasteless.
Her silent ghost - she's everywhere.
mc
The ringing shatters the empty spaces coated with glass.
An estranged voice on the opposite end.
The receiver in my shaking hand.
Dusty cobwebs diffusing in my weary head.
"But she is next to me. How can this be?" I respond.
Under blankets her shadow rises - then falls. The motion of breathing.
The oxygen.
The carbon dioxide.
Colorless.
Tasteless.
I'm still for a moment then slowly and carefully place the phone's receiver on its cradle and gaze upon the blankets and shadow and wonder what this means.
Who are we?
What are we doing, Love?
Does any of this mean anything?
I light a cigarette and ponder the sleeping muse.
Under thin sheets of skin her eyes rest. What have they seen? Can those visions be matched by what her heart has felt? No. Long after the faces have been erased and replaced the remnants of their actions remain restless in her heart - forever.
O, Love, please do not forget my face and I will float harmlessly in your heart like plastic fluff swimming in a snow globe. You are a painted figurine trapped in a world of rusted monuments and failed men; I wish not to be among those dying structures. I wish to be alive and be with you, trapped in this globe of incalculable equations and artificial precipitation. The plastic pieces of heaven are floating and falling all around us.
O, Muse, the silence of your breathing shadow softly glows like the city lights in a midnight drizzle and I'm left helpless at the sight. The lamps reach into the halos of the heavens; out of my reach and beyond my grasp and your scent is so sweet and I sit here spoiling in your presence. Helpless, so helpless...Won't you open and unfold your pristine petals so that I may catch a glimpse of your flawed beauty? An effortless attempt that shakes the sky open and sends drops of nectar to the earth. A surface aching for something pure and sweet and harmonious and you could break something; crack a face coated with dust and time; seal the wound with lips of silk, wet.
You are a source of unknown illumination and I am a fluttering moth pursuing in vain. In vain? Is this all in vain, Love?
Who are we?
What are we doing?
Do these crashes in the night mean anything?
A phone call in the black of night.
The ringing shatters the empty spaces coated with glass and smoke.
An estranged silence on the opposite end.
"But she isn't here. Where is she?" I respond.
Under blankets a shadow rises - then falls. The motion of a ghost, breathing.
Colorless.
Tasteless.
Her silent ghost - she's everywhere.
mc
02 February 2006
doll steak, test meat
I've been rediscovering Nirvana's final opus In Utero and though I've listened to this album countless times, I'm still floored by the bizarre and beautiful imagery of Kurt Cobain's lyrics, especially the lyrics of "Milk It."
"I am my own parasite
I don't need a host to live
We feed off of each other
We can share our endorphins
Doll steak, test meat
I own my own pet virus
I get to pet and name her
Her milk is my shit
My shit is her milk
Doll steak, test meat
Look on the bright side is suicide
Lost eyesight I'm on your side
Angel left wing, right wing, broken wing
Lack of iron and/or sleeping
Protector of the kennel
Ecto-plasma
Ecto-skeletal
Obituary birthday
Your scent is still here in my place of recovery"
-Nirvana's "Milk It"
lyrics by Kurt Cobain
01 February 2006
navigating
2.02 pm, 1 February 2006 - navigating this 40 foot ship over oceans of asphalt
It hasn't been a good day thus far.
There was something about the way She left this morning...I felt small and crumpled in my bed as I heard Her go. The front door closes. Her car door closes. Engine starts. Engine fades as She pulls away. I'm left alone in the dark feeling down, rejected, dejected, uneasy.
I remember something She said to me last night: "Don't read into it too much."
I feel like the contrary of Kind Midas; everything I touch turns to shit. Okay, maybe that's a bit melodramatic, but the things I deeply care about, the things I really don't want to fuck up, I somehow find a way to break. Sometimes it seems like I subconsciously plant booby traps just to have them spring into action and sabotage me at a later date, when I'm most vulernable. I'm left with hands tied, a puzzled expression and the words "I'm sorry" stumbling from my mouth once again. My intentions are always pure and true but something happens, something corrupts them.
"Don't read into it too much."
I feel another headache brewing and I want to disappear. I don't deserve Her as a friend, much less something more. I don't feel like I deserve anyone who will make me feel special, appreciated, or equal for that matter.
On one hand, I've been on the receiving end of a lot of bullshit and heartache throughout my life; unjustified bullshit that can be chalked up as wrong place, wrong time, wrong life. Am I not deserving of a loving presence? And if not a loving one, then why not a warm and caring soul?
Then I think of my inadvertent "bull in a china shop" mentality when it comes to dealing with friends and strangers, especially females that I have an affinity for. I have the uncanny ability to butcher a masterpiece and stab a room of silence with obscene static. Why this inability to simply appreciate "the moment?" Do I truly deserve that caring presence? Who wants to be the unwilling passenger in a relationship that's seemingly based on upheaval and restlessness?
"Don't read into it too much," She said.
It sounds so simple, Dear.
I'm trying...r e l e a s e...I'm trying (to release).
mc
It hasn't been a good day thus far.
There was something about the way She left this morning...I felt small and crumpled in my bed as I heard Her go. The front door closes. Her car door closes. Engine starts. Engine fades as She pulls away. I'm left alone in the dark feeling down, rejected, dejected, uneasy.
I remember something She said to me last night: "Don't read into it too much."
I feel like the contrary of Kind Midas; everything I touch turns to shit. Okay, maybe that's a bit melodramatic, but the things I deeply care about, the things I really don't want to fuck up, I somehow find a way to break. Sometimes it seems like I subconsciously plant booby traps just to have them spring into action and sabotage me at a later date, when I'm most vulernable. I'm left with hands tied, a puzzled expression and the words "I'm sorry" stumbling from my mouth once again. My intentions are always pure and true but something happens, something corrupts them.
"Don't read into it too much."
I feel another headache brewing and I want to disappear. I don't deserve Her as a friend, much less something more. I don't feel like I deserve anyone who will make me feel special, appreciated, or equal for that matter.
On one hand, I've been on the receiving end of a lot of bullshit and heartache throughout my life; unjustified bullshit that can be chalked up as wrong place, wrong time, wrong life. Am I not deserving of a loving presence? And if not a loving one, then why not a warm and caring soul?
Then I think of my inadvertent "bull in a china shop" mentality when it comes to dealing with friends and strangers, especially females that I have an affinity for. I have the uncanny ability to butcher a masterpiece and stab a room of silence with obscene static. Why this inability to simply appreciate "the moment?" Do I truly deserve that caring presence? Who wants to be the unwilling passenger in a relationship that's seemingly based on upheaval and restlessness?
"Don't read into it too much," She said.
It sounds so simple, Dear.
I'm trying...r e l e a s e...I'm trying (to release).
mc
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
