31 May 2007

fourth exit


"Fourth Exit" photo by mc
(Click picture to enlarge)

29 May 2007

don't walk away



Atmosphere

Walk in silence
Don't walk away in silence
See the danger
Always danger
Endless talking
Life rebuilding
Don't walk away

Walk in silence
Don't turn away in silence
Your confusion
My illusion
Worn like a mask of self-hate
Confronts and then dies
Don't walk away

People like you find it easy
Naked to see
Walking on air
Hunting by the rivers
Through the streets
Every corner abandoned too soon
Set down with due care
Don't walk away in silence
Don't walk away


27 May 2007

bluebird

Last night, Ry drove down for the Yeasayer, The Impossible Shapes, and Frog Eyes show at The Bluebird. The entire evening was surreal considering my mental state the previous night. I wore a vintage zip up hoodie to hide the seven slices on my right arm.
Indie rock chicks that I'll never touch, much less speak to, wandered about with beers in their small hands -- not that I was looking; I make eye contact only when necessary.
Once Yeasayer took the stage I shut my eyes and attempted to let their sound remove myself from myself. Throughout the night I felt so displaced.
The Impossible Shapes were next and played a loud, tight, and relatively short set.
Before Ryan and I left for the 'Bird I had three whiskey and cokes, and at the show I had three New Castles, but I couldn't shake the melancholic glow of sobriety that seemed to hang over my head throughout night.
Frog Eyes closed the show, and the emotional vocal stylings of Carey Mercer capped my night perfectly.
Ry spoke briefly with one of the band members, I drove us back to my place, and Ry headed home. Roommate wasn't home and the apartment was eerily silent -- a silence that screamed loneliness.
I prepared a bowl of apple and cinnamon oatmeal and called it a night, the slices on my arm reminded me of so much yet so little.

mc



Go here to listen to Yeasayer on MySpace.


26 May 2007

soldier boy

I have enough pills and booze to kill an army, but I'm merely aiming for the lonely soldier trembling in the rear of the battalion. Red spiderwebs span the whites of his glazed eyes. His weapon is unsteady in his quivering hand. His heart races and he tightly closes his eyes. The battalion recedes into the silence swallowing the night. As he reluctantly opens his eyes he discovers his unit gone and two speakers are emitting lamentable sounds; an LP spins on a record player. A yellow flame from a candle flickers, broadcasting shadows that dance on a floor, four walls, and a ceiling.
Soldier boy carefully puts down his weapon and lays on the floor. Staring at the ceiling, he recollects on the number of battles he's lost -- how many times he shot bullets into the hearts of friends, lovers, and strangers. Every time, as his or her mound of flesh lay dying, the only words he could utter were "I'm sorry, I'm sorry...I didn't mean to." His tears would mix with their blood and he knew he would never see that friend, that lover, or that stranger again, because some things are impossible to retreat from and some deeds leave an impression that only die with the body.
Soldier boy continues to gaze at the ceiling and the shadows shift and transform into flashbacks. He sees ---- at her doorstep -- a cardigan and a kiss. There's soldier boy and ---- at a park tossing a Frisbee. Watching the ceiling a tear falls from his eye and he says, "She could never throw that damn Frisbee." The flashback skips and he sees himself driving on an interstate, stars glimmer above, and in the passenger seat is ----, fast asleep. He stares at her with adoring eyes and carefully places his hand on her lap.
Various flashbacks continue to flicker on the ceiling: a warm embrace, a kiss, two bodies asleep under sheets at 4AM, and an awkward first meeting at an all night eatery.
The record abruptly stops and faceless shadows return to the ceiling.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry...I didn't mean to...I don't know," soldier boy softly says.
The room is silent.
An unsettling yet familiar emptiness fills soldier boy's heart.

From the floor he reaches for his weapon
And places it in his hand,
He turns his right arm over
And under the dancing shadows
His pale skin faintly glows.

He thinks of his friends
Now faded portraits in houses abandoned,
He thinks of lost love
Now birds skimming treetops beautiful and free,
He thinks of the strangers
Now stillborn shadows following his footsteps.

He stares at the under side of his right arm:
Hairless
Pale
Perfect
"The sweetest canvas," he says to himself
And soldier boy surrenders...



He rises to his feet
On his arm are beads of blood
Leaving trails like seven creeping snails,
They descend down his thin arm
To his wrist
Over palm
Reaching fingertips.
A release.
Absolved.
Emancipation.
The sweetest canvas,
The sweetest surrender.



Soldier boy has enough pills and booze to kill an army, but I'm merely aiming for the holes inside. As I stare at my uncomely reflection, I'm haunted by the demons lurking behind that reflection. In light of recent events, I'm a confirmed walking contradiction of epic proportions -- a fuck-up.
I'm tired of taking meds.
I'm tired of unintentionally "destroying" people.
I'll be 29 years old in a couple of weeks and my younger sister is getting married in September.
I'm tired of battling myself.

mc

22 May 2007

shining

Five cigarette butts lay in the ashtray
A glass of whiskey and coke sits within reach
Candlelight dances near an open window
And I'm staring at an empty bed --
Unmade and uninviting.
I light a cigarette
And finish the whiskey and coke
While outside my window
The indecipherable voices of two lovers penetrate the midnight air.
Under eyes that glimmer like aged marble
My senses are dulled and dumb
And I'm staring at this unmade bed
Saying to myself,
"Her body was there and I was next to her --
Asleep and peaceful.
Her warm body was pressed against mine
No words were spoken
And I was never a selfish asshole
While we slept.
Sleep is a cease-fire and you drop the weapons of your personality and submit to the inconceivable
The sky is naked and unashamed
And the moon beams its silent glow on lovers and soldiers alike.
Yes, she was there and so was I.
Every moment is a memory waiting for conception --
Some you cherish and hide forever in the sacred chambers of your heart
Others you regret and spend your remaining days attempting to erase
But regret stains bone and soul.
Regret is the constellation that burns through your bedroom curtains and penetrates your eyelids as you sleep.
Regret is forever.
And her body was there --
Next to mine."
I extinguish the candle
Crawl out of my chair
And lay on the floor.
Closing my eyes, sleep is near
And regret begins to creep through the window.

mc

21 May 2007

an end

One day shy of our five month anniversary, L has broken up with me -- and I can't blame her.
Last weekend was a mess. I'll spare this post from any specific details; however, I will say I was ungrateful, uncooperative, and, at times, very cold and unresponsive. L didn't deserve that treatment.
The last two months of our relationship tormented me and thereby affected the relationship. I missed the freedom and solitude of being single; conversely, I was overjoyed that someone actually loved me -- unconditionally. I never doubted her love, and I had never experienced that feeling, yet I remained emotionally torn over the sacrifices required of me to sustain a working and healthy relationship.
Last Saturday night, I was writing at my table while she slept on my bed. I put down my pen and stared at her peaceful body. I pitied her because I knew my indecisiveness about our relationship was hurting her as much, if not more, as it was me. I was emotionally trapped: I loved her so much and didn't want to lose her, yet I frequently doubted if I could give her (and the relationship) what she needed -- all of myself.
I never consciously intended to hurt her; I hope she understands this.

Today, I've been aimlessly wandering throughout my apartment. She's vowed to remain friends and I have no reason to doubt her. Maybe someday -- someday soon -- I'll collect the remnants of the shipwreck inside my head, we will reconcile, and begin anew. I believe fate, destiny, whatever brought us together for a reason -- not to be friends but something more. Regardless...
I love you, Panda Bear -- and Pookie always will.

mc

18 May 2007

guardian unlimited's review of control

From the UK's Guardian Unlimited

Control
Directed by Anton Corbijn


Review by Peter Bradshaw from the 2007 Cannes Film Festival
Four stars out of five

The Brits may not be in the official competition at Cannes, but a British film has certainly scored a sensational success here, opening the director's fortnight sidebar. Anton Corbijn's Control is about the troubled life and times of post-punk legend Ian Curtis, the lead singer of Joy Division, who killed himself in 1980 at the age of 23, depressed by his epilepsy, his failing marriage and by the uncontrollable intensity of the nihilistic emotions displaced by his life into his art - emotions that consumed him.

Corbijn's movie is shot in a stunning high-contrast monochrome, perversely turning Macclesfield's grimness into grandeur. It effortlessly revives a British cinematic style that you might call beautiful realism, reaching back to Christopher Petit's Radio On, and further back to Tony Richardson's The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner and A Taste of Honey. And in fact Ian Curtis's working-class married life, with its pram on the step and the stark laundry hanger in the kitchen, looks straight out of the 1960s.

Sam Riley gives a superb performance as Ian Curtis, intuitively recreating his on-stage mannerisms, from the stock-still hunch over the mic, with eyelids lowered, to the crazy, elbows akimbo running on the spot routine, which like nothing else made him look like some sort of visionary outpatient.

Samantha Morton gives an intelligent, sympathetic performance as Curtis's wife, Debbie, whom he married when they were both in their teens, as virtually child-bride and groom, and Toby Kebbell is outstanding as Rob Gretton, the wisecracking manager.

Riley sees Curtis not as a self-destructive gloom-monger but a thwarted Wordsworthian romantic who loved two women equally, and simultaneously feared and longed for a loss of control: an escape into music and an escape from his body. Corbijn does not indulge in the cliche of seeing epilepsy as an ecstatic state, but certainly suggests how the convulsiveness and jittery subversion of Curtis's music might imitate a pre-epileptic state: culminating in a full-blown episode live on stage.

To men of a certain age (and I admit I am one) the period music detail of this movie makes it a very powerful madeleine, and when John Cooper Clarke came on, I pretty well levitated out of my seat with happiness.

The gentleness and wit with which Corbijn recreates Curtis's uncool day job in the unemployment benefit office are also a treat. It is in a way comparable to Michael Winterbottom's 24-Hour Party People, in which Riley incidentally played Mark E Smith, but far fiercer, and bleaker, and darker. Control gripped the audience at Cannes; it had atmosphere.


Direct link to story


16 May 2007

who says driving a bus is a bad gig?

Last night, Feist performed "I Feel It All" and "The Park" on The Jimmy Kimmel Show -- while riding a Santa Monica public bus. Pay your fare, take a seat and prepare for a mellow, beautiful ride.



mc

15 May 2007

seahorses and and a sword

Here are two hilarious YouTube videos. Enjoy!


Baltimore Shopping Network



Dan Deacon & Liam Lynch "Drinking Out of Cups"



mc

PS...I really do love seahorses.

10 May 2007

sculpture depicts drunk paris hilton autopsy

Controversial sculptor Daniel Edwards latest creation "The Paris Hilton Autopsy" features the heiress naked with intestines exposed, one hand holding a cell phone and the other a martini glass; a tiara rests upon her head. Perched on Hilton's dead breast is her beloved dog Tinkerbell.
In January, Hilton pleaded no contest to alcohol-related reckless driving; on Friday, she was sentenced to 45 days in jail for violating her probation.
As high school students prepare for prom season, Edwards said the piece is a warning against drunk driving.
The artist's previous works include "Monument to Pro-Life: The Birth of Sean Preston," which depicts Britney Spears giving birth; a life-size bust of Hillary Clinton entitled "Presidential Bust of Hillary Rodham Clinton"; and the colossal "Fidel Castro's Deathbed Portrait."

Go H E R E for the story and a brief video of the piece featuring the creator himself.

mc

09 May 2007

reconciliation

L and I reconciled, or, more specifically, I collected the pieces of myself and realized that cutting L out of my life would be one of the most regrettable things I could do and a choice that would surely haunt me many years later. I did, however, tell her that if I have another break we're finished; I can't put myself through that hell again and, more importantly, I'm not going to leave her heart in limbo.
Despite what has recently transpired she still wishes to be with me.
I asked her, "After all this, why do you still want to be with me?"
"Because I love you," she replied.
Her response reinforced my belief that I'll never meet another girl like her. And now I know what it feels to be truly loved.
Thanks for sticking by my side, Panda Bear.

mc

06 May 2007

crossroads

I'm outside on a beautiful Sunday. The sun is shining. A slight breeze blows as I write. A cigarette and coffee are at hand.
The weather is a stark contrast to the turmoil churning inside.
L and I are at a crossroads -- no, I'm at a crossroads. L knows she wants a relationship with me. I, however, don't know what I want.
I love L very much, so why this indecisiveness?
I've been a single man my entire life, and I've grown accustomed to floating on a sea without an anchor. I've been free to sail without a partner and make decisions based on my desires; however, this freedom must be sacrificed somewhat when you become romantically involved with another person. This relationship is new territory for me and making this transition hasn't been easy.
Our relationship is strained by my multiple mental issues. I'm very introverted and therefore somewhat of a recluse -- I'm comfortable with my surroundings and the people in my life; I'm wary trusting people outside of my very small circle of friends; I mildly suffer from obsessive compulsive disorder, which, I believe, is at least partially responsible for my discomfort whenever it's my weekend to visit L's place (as I've written in previous entries, L and I are separated by approximately 90 minutes; we visit each other's place on alternate weekends); I suffer from generalized anxiety disorder and cyclothymia (medications are successfully treating both disorders).
I honestly believe the distance issue is largely responsible for the strain on our relationship, but in the meantime, there is no solution to this problem. It's difficult for me to live out of a suitcase and "feel at home" when home, where I feel most comfortable, feels a million miles away. Despite L's hospitality, I feel trapped at her place. I miss the comforts of my apartment and the familiarity of the city I call home.
I feel so bad for L. My indecisiveness has put her through hell but the recent weeks have scarred my heart as well. She has made so few demands of me, yet I seem to lack the strength to satisfy those needs. I'm a fuck-up riddled with problems and I'm sucking L in, unintentionally hurting her in the process.
She has cared for me like no other girl in my life. We both realize our relationship (if I can piece myself together) has long-term potential, but I'm fucking it up because this is my modus operandi. I hurt everyone who cares about me. Why? Her arms are open and inviting, it's safe here she says, but I'm frozen, clinging to the dark and sacred pieces of my personality, fearful of opening up and sacrificing myself to her sweet porcelain soul.
Am I scared of the commitment this relationship requires?
Won't she accept the broken pieces of my personality?
Do I possess the strength to drop anchor and welcome L aboard?
One minute I'm absolutely sure I can make this relationship work. The next minute my heart and soul are blinded by cruel uncertainty. Every minute, however, L weighs heavy on my tormented heart.

mc