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Today I creid bitter bitter tears and wondered why, why oh my, why could sometihng so strange and good become something so foolish, corrupt and ramrod. Oh what a lonely day! To spend it all with you-hooo-hooo-hooo-hooo. I wish I could just keep on hanging on, whoobooo-whoobbooo-whooob-ooooo. Oh, its just so stupid, such a miserly way to begin, counting words like an accountant, hunched over like a bookkeeper, mind ill at ease, waiting for that whoooo-hoooo-hooo guillitone snap! And then it hits and you feel releived in a naughty way, such a naughty way, is that a way to spend?
a lonely day whooo-hooo-hooo-hooo? Ass fuck. Uckfay ewe, JK, king of the Jews. 29 a in if but for can't dime juice under over around through down up and down, over and around, sixteen, throw, up, again always forever until the end of time, intractable permanent, unbreakable, eternal, localized anesthetic, cowards, rule-enforcers, bent on keeping it pure when purity wasn't an issue, schoolmarm, self-hater, society bugaboo, communist, socialist sweetheart sympathetic to only what you see, which isn't unfortunately, what I can offer you. But know I have been true, and it is now that I am lying, playing within rules.
Wistful memories of girls, girls, girls, they come and they go, was once steady, was once in love, with the girl of girls, a woman of equal parts flip and fly, tight and direct, sublime in that sort of way that makes you think you are sublime, but no more one, maybe go for two, and three just around the corner in love's hall of mirrors. But for such a sunken July, things would be different, perhaps it is called for in the year two-thousand and one, year of the snake. and to what direction it bends, rivulets of want.
Hot flashes, a cat biting my hand, its teeth lodged almost but not entirely in one of my fingers, at a swimming match, a powerpoint presentation: the cat was sent by microsoft. The people around are ready for me, I am an escapee, I am brought down underwater, I live, I can breathe again when I come up piggyback on a cop, there's women around here, there's women but that cat, and then these sheets and I feel sick, distorted, this isn't right. The women have not called, July fourth, free at last, but what are you hiding from me?
100 98 I can't count. 37, Ninety-four/three and one-fifth plus one South Carolina Reagan Reagan Sonic Orwell Miami, Philadelphia, Stars, Flyers and Heavenly Bodies, Motherly Persons Equals P&P, C'est la Vie. MPH, Get the Grape Fire up some Real Estate Long John Percent Wheels per fluent Half n Halh n Half. Empty/Full you fucking fool, Down it Goes a Full measure near gone, You know you like that sound when you suck. 25 or 6 to 4 your hours to score, hours in a day son't mean a thing cause ain't no one here to make you Sing. 49. 50.
Dear You, How can I best describe this? Solipsism, selfishness, rude behavior, evocative of a psychoanalysis: cannot effect closure. Afraid of not being part of the crowd, so you make your own. A princess? A queen? But not bitchy, no, just always on your own terms. Do you have friends? Are they shallow? Then why play games? Can you make decisions, say what's on your mind, are you constantly a puppet on the strings of external forces? Is that how you feel? You are a cell phone perverter, an abuser of courtesy and respect. You are rude, you are undesirable.
It is, of the seventh, no eighth of July, here in Brooklyn. There are quandaries to be made and felines to be stroked, and things, yes things to do! No more not of this doing. So lets start by fixing up paces between spaces. It would be a timing issue to capture a blackout, a bluescreen, but there is no insert editing, so to speak, with digital. So the striping to prevent the timecode errors, the breaks baby, is unnecessary, in short, so roll. Don't forget to pre-roll. 20 seconds. And use end search to shoot from clip to clip.
They say that life only comes around once, and you better make sure you're there when it does. Otherwise the possiblities of expereicning temporary happiness and small joys are limited. You could find your spirit wandering around for quite some time looking for that museless person-to-be (as I have felt myself, even as my spirit infusion has already taken place). Waiting, waiting, a vectorless spirit in netherspace, waiting. Then a little red light comes on, probably a star from Alpha Centauri, and you answer the mystery tocsin and hypertext (sorry) into an individual; the you. And some(most)days, that spirit wanders.
Today on "Inner Child" Court man sues woman for the valantine necklace he gave her, because her parents were "overbearing." Psychic Court. Binky…I see the spirit of Binky….he says you must pay the plaintiff 70 dollars and your soul will be cleansed. Bureacrat Court: Fill out this from, carbon copy to the bailiff, the attorneys, and Andrew. J. Jones, residing District Manager. On another subject: "I wasted all my life for this moment," says the bad movie actor, and earlier, "This movie is time consuming!" God Squad? Jah Squad! Roll the weed, mon, see how Rasta high, high, Jah live!
I can edit to my whim's desires now with these new guidelines! To wit: my June 10th entry: With a catch, if one can qualify Pride. But one so melancholic as myself, and endemic to humor, sustained by simplicity and sarcasm, a joke then that one can put one's faith in. Thus a true pride: this conviction of faith in the joke itself, the simplicity and nonsense of the whole of life. But I can't seem to enjoy myself, my conversational qualities, because to me it is all a wisp, a phantom, transient actions across a sea of meaningless time.
David Cassidy looks like a troll, a babystuffer boy lover, or maybe a member of Bauhaus, his face pulled taught, his head already burned-out, hair thinned from the oxidization, like a matchhead ignited some many years ago and "I love to play and all those people out there want to hear me play!" and "I pack it in ice every night." His face – this fucking apparition, "created because David couldn’t get away with it". Johnny Vampire. Playa. Stumbling, fumbling through a sole media existence. "Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz." Fucking buzzzzed, he buzzed. I’m not making this up. One hand up the cracka fade.
KP: "So I had 45 minutes, they told me I had 45 minutes. I would have stolen a lot more stuff if I could have. But those bastards only gave me 45 minutes. Its like so dirty. One lady, she was there 16 years and had an eight-year old son. The accountants said 15 had to go, and there were nineteen of us. I did get a calculator. I rode my fucking bike. I couldn’t even take stuff home. I mean, like couldn’t they have given me a month? 2 weeks? 2 days? 45 minutes – what the hell is that?"
Wow, I thought Friday the 13th was tomorrow. I've completely blown by, all the while watching these horror flicks on IFC.
Night of the Living Dead
, really, and
, these George Romero movies, cool in that which they leave out, the spaces between words and scenes. But now its Saturday morning, the 14th. Not as haunting, not as enveloping as this music I've been listening to, this forté from How's The Cod? Well, we'll have to change that. Franklin Johnny Romeo? Lancaster Scourge? 83 and the Jets? Well, we'll get around to it. Well, we'll get around to it. Well.
: At a birthday party for the killer, he gets a holster as a present. He practices pulling his gun out of it, and then plugs the guy who's throwing the bash for him. Everyone at the table remains silent, disappointed by his boorish behavior. He pays no attention, and asks for more champagne. Finally the stunned dinner guests, conveniently forgetting the murder (one of them has blood splattered on her face) bring the rest of his presents, finish eating the birthday cake, wrap up the victim and take the body to the quarry where they've been dumping the bodies.
1 Just rode a bike back rom somewhere next to Cortelyou street, on 9th street and Avenue C, in Brooklyn. Which for youse New Yorkers is in Midwood, or possibly Ditmas, or rather 10 blocks south of Prospect Park. Not southeast or southwest, but South, as far as I can tell. On the way back home Steve got a flat tire. Then halfway back he caught a cab. At the cookout we met nice people. I met a nice girl named Roslyn who was damned pretty, smart and funny to boot. But she had a boyfriend. She was very fine.
Techincally, I am very bad, badly designed, flawed all over the place, like a, um, a uh, anal entropy. AE. No, no, more like Chinese-American-German fusion Foo Young Spaetzle. But in the grand scheme of things, from a natural, shall we say, earthy perspective, I am complete and whole and beautiful and a smooth dish, complimentary to its parts, cohesive and giving. Not stomach aches. This vision is making me ill. I am try to say that technically, no good; naturally a-ok. Now to next step: make world natural and you will fit in, like round peg in round hole.
I guess it’s a love thing, a sharp painful hurt. I’ve done my cause, it is the effect now. Something so full slaps you acorss the face, or it just feels like that. Its worse: an open invitation to disaster, choose your own adevnture, a…Its not hitting me well. I am feeling quickly ill. Why cannot this guilt be gone? Can we all run on such? It is a heart breaking without a sound, and then the reversal; me to let go of such things, her "not going to get hurt;" a guilt trip. A trap but not a trapper.
1) the character was unrepentant and unchanged.
2) the film crew, as is perhaps considered a modicum of intelligence and reason, is starkly revealed to be but made of the most base instincts; to rape and murder and cry false tears.
3) the acting of the main character was impeccable. His character's range went from serial killer to drunken joke-telling barfly, to petulant, naughty child.
4) i swear i know people like the main character.
5) it is a Film de Belgique and not French.
6) he speaks bad poetry, and kills people.
7) in the end, people get shot.
I think that when the fruit is opened, pungent and seedy, then that new aroma will awaken the senses and carry the opener towards a new glory, a strong and vibrant path. Along on winds of change, seas of blue to a new country, but the change is in one's heart and head and not the countryside; we are in about head games, we speak in metaphors that viusalize in one's head, the mind, and this new fruit will be but simple and unadulterated, clean, pure but not purified, it will be as to the world a newly picked idea.
Wildwood. There was an Irish girl from Scotland, and Amy from Baltimore, and then some girl, some woman who seemed pretty mean, clobbered us at pool and then there were some Irish guys, some fake Irish guys, and Irish Eyes, with Drew’s flask of Jameson. We threw frisbees at walls back at the Motel. The Motel where, "if you don’t mind your girls a little beefy – try room 2" The proprietor had informed us, dutifully, of the selections of the town. We got drunk instead. "For topless girls, you should go to the foam party." "Phone party? With naked girls?" "FOAM."
Look, let me just say to myself and all that who care what to have read this so far: I could not have, would not have, should not have been writing this then, so I am telling you now. Which means I am but weak, I am but a floozy, and have no backbone for I am not as yet right with the world. This Is How I Feel. Instead, I was cuddling with a woman I had met who was cute, and free, and grounded, and girlish, and having fun and somehow I was there, and I was just....
Sunday night. I saw people going to chuch today. Actually, it was a grandmother and her daughter and not uncommon, still, to me it was a different thing to see, after living so many years in New York. I was with a girl I had just met and slept with the previous night. We were wearing sandals, we were grungy and filthy and exhausted from two days of playing Ultimate on the sand. We were laughing, heading to the car to smoke some weed. I felt a little dirty, and shallow, and a little bit alone. I was a ghost.
Waiting…waiting…waiting for the cause to come, to take away the ain't got no fun, for uncertaintity is killing me, there has to be a way, to go, for free – why for free? I should pay, where doth these Catholic thoughts lay? Deep within, a natural course, a pedophile's alter ego, with properly placed guilt, of course, no but sane and strong and healthy at least, without the days and nights of swallowing, tunneling, abject emptiness, terrorized guilt, but I digress. What I should say: let's drive a course of action, implement a tool, make a vector out of life's lines.
She's got ooomph, and she's not afraid to ussssseeeeee it! Yeah! She's got style and she's not afraid to abuse it! Oh yeah! Sing it with me baby! We've got fire and cream, so let's not misuse it…..Now my little darling, was it good for you, did we do the things we wanted to do, but if its love, child, then we've got to do whats right, but what it feels, yeah, is not quite right. Its not my call, I'm so chill I want fate to decide, so that baby's going some way tonight. Oh I got a bad desire.
Fuck 100 words, yeah man, blow it all off. No, truthfully, it hurts oh so good. Yeah. Got to stop the yeahs. No. Ha. Yee-ha. What we need is cinematic action, and fuckables. Prime suspects, what hedonistic pleasure principle am I running on? Why can't we all just fuck and be happy? Even if the dam bursts and all the goody-gooeys spill out? So what? Let them lie where they came into. No, no, no. But aghain – onto the movies. Hookerifiic and I'm out….another 16 fucking words? Fuck where I started. Can't we all just come along? Can we come?
These twisted dreams of mine, reveries when I sleep, nap, short half-hour bursts of violence erupt in my head. Grey-cloaked savageries of mundane things, killer dogs and driving cars, guns, people, friends, an empty street, and back to this house I know, it too is dark and covered in grey, all my vision is, but it is so real, my body feels, shivers, reacts. I am physically expressing myself, and then I need two more aspirin, a dose of water, I kick the cat. Slowly I return to my senses, and live another period of nothingness time when nothing happens and….
Skinny mocha slimp-skating man-child, bouncing low down the street, a rusty Ford Probe bugging reggae beats, Modster ska-kids brim topping, jive hopping, sherpa goat girls on mountain bikes, Tony Knuckles fathers, little miss chick, a no nonsense "Moe" Bronco, brown mag wheels, then Brad and Ken dollboys sitting straight in a top down Mercedes. An Indian girl, big eyes, dark hair, with geeky pale-boy t-sirt wearer. Tall nubian weave wearers, two by two together in the park with vegetable matter, then toppy tip toe bouncy looping geeksters. Pit bull dummies, jogging slowly as bike dudes whiz and whir past fast.
There was something, sortof thing, to fit this slot. Some kind of rumination on things seen or heard, and/or understood, that being much more unnecessary, it seems to me , for in my quest for understanding, for feeling a sharp knowledge, I have betrayed my rather inexact nature, and it is this looseness that colors my personality, cutting it off makes for a sharper butter knife, when but I could have a whole cake of butter. That's the way these things are going these days: I have been seeing life as one sweet and tangy, creamy and lascivious butter-cream cake.
I am very droopy of eyed. I think it is because of a sort of exhaustion. I think maybe I have actually done enough things today, which is unusual, for me to become tired like this, for I am used to not having so many activities, used to not leading such a full life. The swelling, pulsating in my head is getting thicker, firmer. The bones they do ache, and this is a result of physical exertion. Not that I would ever be fit enough to chop sugarcane every day. My sad thoughts and pitiful tiredness are the result of…
Um, to resist temptation, one must remain comfortable. To kill sloth, you should accept lassitude. To deter an opponent's strength, harbor an exactitude and bely cold casualness. To pose as someone sneaking in, act hurt and surprised, then forgiving and angry. To not make sense and confuse your friends and enemies, type nonsense, and back it up rhythmically, but only off-metronome. To reveal truth, don't show, be. To disguise truth, be unto everything as best you possibly can, and flow. To feed a slow hunger, I don't know what to tell you. Burn a fast wick and pray for thunderstorms.
And I quote,
ER: "my whole process has been personally approved by ."
To which I say...
TL: "he is an IMPOSTOR!’ [ed. Note: impostor is correct] "I am the real ."
TL:"look, it has to be regulated, I’m sorry…otherwise it loses the whole point behind it..."
ER: "I follow the rules"
TL: "look, ask this joke question "what kind of fuckwad writes 100 words a day?" and the answer will be, verbatim "me". That is all he will respond. That's because I am ...."
[Editor’s note: make more convincing, and leave out following quote:]
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