#1

i wake
to the sound
of bones clacking
and when I open my eyes
all i see is your face floating
taunting me
waiting for me to tell you
that you were the only one
who ever looked this creature in the eyes
and saw me.

it would be easier
if you had no legs
to stand on in this matter
but at least with this silent way
we are both unsatisfied

maybe in another three years time
you will throw yourself bodily
into my path
again
and we will spend the length of your cigarette
knowing each other
just to rip it all apart again

the bleeding of the feet is difficult
but the dance is too beautiful to cease
a skeleton embrace
stripped it down to the base of everything
white and red and black

Exit 65

It’s in my blood.
“jerz.”
You know what I’m saying?
My non-native friends call it “the jerz”
but it’s a flexible word.
When I am being frank & vehement
I am “getting jerz” on the recipient of my attentions.
Sometimes it even sneaks up and becomes my name.

I had a Vermonter boyfriend who would ask me to say hot dog over and over
“hot dawg”
“hot dawg”
They just don’t know it like me honey.
They don’t have a skull crammed with goomba-english,
with that special “coming home to cousin Nick in the cucina”
something
that makes it home.
Walnuts, oranges, and figs
a course on their own.
Entire conversations held in yells from different parts of the house.
Trains pulling out of the yard
two blocks dopplered.
Their whistles cry destinations
“Hoboken”
“Hoboken”

The abandoned swimming hole in the woods,
it’s concrete docks, jutting out of reeds like aching molars
and haunted by echoes.
The twisted pine barrens, with their wet sap smell, and the 13th child of Mrs. Leeds.
The bitter and gentle shore, and the Cape May diamonds.
They could not know
So I lie,
content between my devil and my atlantic sea.

For some reason this strikes me as hilarious.

Gorehound

I’m a gonna bust you up
break you down
make you cry
I’m a gonna thrust
this axe in your head
but you ain’t gonna die yet.
Hot cherry!
You look good in red

Lemme go an’ trap you
stalk you, with a chainsaw.
Lemme tie your wrists raw.
Get the device revved up.
I know you ain’t fed up
you’re a gonna beg me
you’re a gonna beseech me,
entreat me and implore
and I’ll always always
have just a little more for you.

You like a good screw?
How ‘bout one through your eyeball?
Gotta get those bodily fluids going
all that vitreous humor really flowing.
And I’m a gonna get that fire going
get that pyre really growing up.

I got this need
you’re gonna oblige me.
I’ll fill your mouth,
but please
don’t stop crying.

And who’s a gonna tell me
it’s not exactly all the same?
There’s hysterical shrieking,
someone nearly naked.
But this way everybody’s
gonna be a screamn’ your name.




...

everyone please remember that writers are liars

The Collegiate Sexual Apocalypse

A friend of mine recently admitted to doing what almost every college student considers at one point or another, screwing in the library. I wasn't particularly shocked by the confession, I've actually HEARD people getting freaky on the third floor and the person in question was also just the kind of person who could actually pull off having sex in the library, but it left my wheels turning. I have to admit that I've never really understood the appeal of sex in public places, and to a sick sick biblophile like me, the act of nooky in those hallowed halls almost seems sacrilegeous. There's this little newspaper that comes out at my school, the "alternative" to the big school paper, that described the library around midterms as a "place where learning, drug-use, misery, and sexual tension... all intermingle." I'm of the mind that this could accurately describe almost all of UVM, but considering that that brick-shaped, brick-made building is essentially a microcosm of the school itself it's not surprising. But back to the interesting part.

Why DO people want to boink in bookville? Is is just the taboo? Some collegiate rite of passage that somehow combines academics and sexual recreation? Is it true, as my friend Sophia so often asserts, that "Finals make you horny"? (Please note that ALMOST EVERYTHING produces that effect in Soph.) For most it's probably one third taboo and one third tension relief and one third "sticking it to the man." (pun intentional) 

It also helps that college students are also in an interesting point of their life in general and that this time lends itself to all sorts of odd behaviour. It's a time of discovery, a time that you kind of figure yourself out a little, and apparently it's also time when you knoodle with people just because you're both reading Karl Marx. (Also not me, maybe Jung might do it though.) One of my professors, David Huddle (google him, dude's a bomb writer) referred to our generations way of hooking up as Instamace, and it's fairly accurate. We're an almost completely media driven generation, we want our email in our hand, our entire music library in our back pocket and we want a double mocha skim no whipped cream TO GO NOW DAMMNIT. It makes sense that we would expect the same of our relationships, even the purely sexual ones. I feel like the word isn't even exactly pertaining to the speed at which these relationships develop, though that is often part of it. It's the fact that that there is this TERROR of traversing the fantasy. Of getting to know the real person behind the  "I'm the free spirited political science major" or "I'm the stoner math dude" or  "I'm the cynical english major with a blog."(GUESS WHO THE LAST ONE IS)  I don't feel like this is a new revelation by any means but I feel as though since we're essentially the "igeneration" its effects are a little more dramatic. 

Like Hipsters, there's a primo example. An entire group of people who essentially culture vulture the rest of the art community and then turn those elements into completely vacuous, vapid crap. 

So I suppose that the Symbolic Collegiate Sexual Apocalypse would be two hipsters screwing in the library as some jaded form of protest.

Which is fine as long as I don't have to watch.

And then I get to kill them.

And eat them.

image by Alexander Milligan

Collected Notes from a Month of Sundays

i.
Mornings are feral.
One sock half on, every hair growing in a different direction
I drag myself out of the den. You is up up up.
I’m making eggs and quinoa
and
do you want any?
and I tell her
baby
please
I don’t want no hippie food,
I just want rye toast, black coffee.
(then I cringe cause it sounds rough outside of my own head.
homegirl is just trying to make me eat breakfast
and don’t I have half a kind word for her this early?)
so I try to make you laugh
bring up about last night
when Jefferino told us rapid fire
that quinoa was only $1.50 a pound
recommended we make a big bowl every week
and that it was, in fact,
the mothergrain…yo.
you tell me
Hubert likes quinoa more than rice.
I grind the coffee.
Hubert also made a tattoo gun
out of a pencil sharpener
and got Rex to carve
“Welcome Theives”
in Russian
on his ass.

ii.
See I was at that party
and so was she.
We hadn’t met yet,
didn’t meet that night.
Separated by the oceanic divide
of Hubert’s bleeding ass cheek.
Our mutual fear of being presented
with the bloody horror
(the gun didn’t work so hot)
kept us on opposite sides of the house
and so we missed each other.

iii.
I chew my fingers and eye up that quinoa with suspicion.
They look like curly little tails in the eggs,
and though they seem kind of cute.
I still just want rye toast, black coffee.

iv.
Stop pacing, and if you’re looking for the radio, it’s busted on the floor over there.
The stove’s heat melts the patterns on the pane,
it refreezes into slashes across the glass.
how’d it…
oh it just fuzzed and popped and stopped.
That asshole of a trained rabbit
pokes his head from under the couch
and climbs in my boot,
probably to shit.
A large piece of mirror stands in the corner
reflecting a sliver of the scene.
And I cannot remember
when the glass monster was trasmuted
by lack of time or indecision
from art supply to home décor,
but I have nearly cut my foot open on it twice already.

v.
–I remember
how we did eventually meet.
All five of us were moving into the slanted house together.
You and I were the only ones who showed up early to sign the lease.
You opened the pickup door and the ice cracked like a pistol shot
get in, it’s freezing.

vi.
The radio’s bowels are all over the coffee table.
I am searching for a loose wire.
You don’t have to fix it.
but I really am desperate to fix the thing.
After I drop you off at the hospital
I will be home, alone, before work,
feeling useless as all hell.
I’ll want the news
and the paper ain’t gonna sate me.
I want to lose myself in those disembodied voices,
let their words become my thoughts,
let the waves bounce through my brains.
My toast pops up, it’s burnt.

vii.
oh ¬ and I am wide awake
and it is morning

VERMONT!!!!!!!

you so crazy

Bloodless

It is common in the case of anemics
to develop Pica and eat any number
of strange objects. Coal, hair, metal
wax and dirt. I could never imagine
feeling that familiar weakness
and consuming nails and bolts.
Washers filling the void in my belly,
till my stomach jingled like a change purse.

But when I peel the heart shaped beets,
their red dye, reflective and pooling beneath,
and I eat the raw slices,
they taste like the earth that they were born from.
And I know what the others were trying to devour.

It is the fortification of the self.
Each piece a charm against the flaw in my blood
that grows up from my liver,
until it hits the follicles and I?m left pulling
a thousand tiny hairs from the bath drain,
and the comb, and the rugs of my house, and the pillow where I sleep.
As if my body laments the innate disconnection
in my mode of consumptive urban living
and the brick and mortar worlds and shells I?ve constructed
and then expresses it's sorrow by rejecting a thousand slivers of me.
Screaming as they fall, each piece reminds
that such surroundings are no path to real safety.
You must be brave enough
to swallow all the earth yourself
and stand to be shaped
by the wind and by the rain.

...
Christa Pagliei

Happy Thanksgiving!

I am blessed in so many ways. Thank you for my family, my friends, and my opportunities.

Ok, this is too good not to link.

Nazi Name for Dutch Ship Draws Outcry
AP
posted: 10 HOURS 3 MINUTES AGOcomments: 182filed under: WORLD NEWSPrintShareText SizeAAA
AMSTERDAM, Netherlands (Nov. 9) - It ought to be a proud milestone in the Dutch seafaring heritage — the construction of a new ship its owner claims will be the world's largest. But there's one problem: its name.

AP
Pieter Schelte Heerema
Edwin Heerema, founder of the company that has commissioned the $1.7 billion vessel, wants to name it the Pieter Schelte after his late father, Pieter Schelte Heerema, who was renowned as a maritime engineer but was condemned for his service in the murderous Nazi Waffen SS.
The choice of name has provoked outcry and has revived painful questions about Dutch collaboration with the country's World War II occupiers.
"For people who know his pitch-black history, this ship should not be named for him. Not now, not ever," said Ronny Naftaniel, director of CIDI, which monitors anti-Semitism in the Netherlands. He said Edwin Heerema's desire to honor his father was understandable up to a point, but the choice of name was "tasteless and unethical."
Edwin Heerema's company, Swiss-based Allseas Group SA, rejected the criticism.
"Pieter Schelte Heerema was widely appreciated in the industry during his life and the companies that came from his heritage have an excellent name in the offshore industry," spokesman Jeroen Hagelstein e-mailed in response to questions.
But it's an awkward matter for the government. It gave Allseas' Netherlands subsidiary a $1 million tax break for its part in designing the ship, and now acknowledges it didn't notice the name until a Dutch journalist, Ton Biesemaat, raised the issue.
Hagelstein said Heerema joined the Nazis out of opposition to communism rather than enthusiasm for national socialism. He said he then switched sides and joined the resistance in 1943 "as he could no longer associate himself with the ideas of the Nazis."
He noted that Heerema was tried and released shortly after the war, which shows he "cannot have been seriously delinquent."
The respected Netherlands Institute for War Documentation said that's technically accurate. Heerema was sentenced by a Dutch court to three years in prison but quickly released, the courts having recognized his unspecified but "very important" services to the resistance between August 1943 and March 1944.
"You have many different kinds of collaborators: some are passive and some are active. This man was prominent, a leader," said NIOD spokesman Fred Reurs.
Truus Menger, who was a prominent member of the Dutch resistance, called the naming of the ship "an open display of disdain and aggression."
In an interview with The Associated Press, she acknowledged that Heerema ended up aiding the resistance, but said: "Oh, I know how that goes — he had a change of heart. But in the end, he wore the suit and he served Hitler."
Heerema's file at the NIOD contains a report of a speech he gave in 1941 in which he was quoted as saying "The German race is model. The Jewish race, by comparison, is parasitic ... therefore the Jewish question must be resolved in every Aryan country."
Some 70 percent of the Netherlands' 140,000 Jews perished in the Holocaust.
After winning promotions within the Waffen SS, Heerema became assistant director of an organization that rounded up unemployed Dutch workers and resettled them in Nazi-occupied areas of Eastern Europe, where hundreds died.
After a falling-out with his German superiors in August 1943, Heerema disappeared until his arrest in Switzerland in March 1944.
After his release in November, 1946, he headed to Venezuela where he began a new company and rapidly achieved success.
As a postwar industrialist he was credited with such important innovations as the semi-submersible crane vessel for work in rough seas.
He became a multimillionaire and member of the Dutch elite, but questions about his past resurfaced periodically until his death in 1981.
The new ship, to be used for laying oil pipes and decommissioning North Sea oil rigs, will be 1,253 feet long and 384 feet wide, making it the world's largest in area, and the heaviest at 210,000 tons, Allseas says.
It said on Oct. 24 the financial crisis would not prevent the ship's completion in 2012. It said it has reached agreement on around $250 million worth of contracts and is reviewing bids from shipyards in Southeast Asia to build the hull.
The tax break prompted Sharon Gesthuizen, a lawmaker of the opposition Socialist Party, to put formal questions to the Economic Affairs Ministry on Oct. 28.
"Do you see it as your responsibility to protest the naming of this ship, given the extreme sensitivity of the historical events that are connected to that name?" She asked.
The ministry has two weeks to respond.
From Associated Press and AOL

Whaaaa!

What a weekend. You know you're on the rocket car to dork town when you find yourself excited about the prospects of spending the evening listening to NPR's Wait Wait! Don't Tell Me and Say Anything and doing laundry. In my defense, at the end of this laundry party there's my girl Rhea, a Homemade pizza, and a bottle of wine, but seriously folks this has been a doozy of a weekend. Friday I realized that I double booked my two part time jobs. The realization of that fact at 8 in the morning nearly sent me into a panic attack. Now, a normal person would probably figure it out and THEN inform all nessiary parties of the outcome. But instead Hilary, who is the current head of our film department and to whom I am the assistant (Job #2!), got these wonderful  batshit crazy emails from yours truly:

Email One 9:53am

Hilary,

I did something really stupid.

I'm on the work schedule at my other job for 2:30-6 today and I didn't notice until now because I am an idiot. I am calling the other people at work to see if someone will cover. If someone can't cover for me I have to go in. I will fix this. I am so sorry. Between this and the flyer mixup I feel like an jerk. I promise this will be the last "thing."

Chris


Why am I so self depricating? It's like. IN CASE YOU DIDN'T NOTICE I AM A F*CK UP

Email Two 10:10am

Please disregard my former message of incompetence. I will see you at 3pm. Should I be there early to help organize? I get out of class at 2:15.
I'm sorry about that email, sometimes I get anxious when I feel like I put things out of my control.

Chris

So what exactly am I doing here? The email is 20 mins later, when Ginevra said she could cover my shift. (thank you thank you thank you degerotype goddess of my heart.) Why couldn't I just have waited to send the e-mail. It's like my first impulse it always to FREAK OUT instead of say...considering the actualities and true nature of the situation I find myself in. 

So the event that I had to go help at that night went fine. The rest of my daylight hours were spend in Migrane hell in the dark UNTIL I felt alot better and decided to go spend the rest of my night hanging out with Jeff at his place. So I descended from my apartment, only to discover that...

My bike got stolen. 

The bike that was my moms and that I loved forever is no longer in my possession because some ass decided to cut through my chain and take it. I called the police and filed a report but I am just like UBER bummed about this whole event. 

I can't even type about it I'm so friggn' distraught.

That being said. If I find the individual who took my bike I will make them rue the day learned to ride. By breaking their legs. kidding. kind of.

Saturday was better, I worked at Scribbles and had some beers and good talk with friends who I hadn't seen in a long time.  

Which brings me to where I am now. Listening to NPR and drinking smartwater.

Isadora, Multimedia Dance Piece

Boy! It's been such an epic gap between updates! In my defense though, there have been a ton of new developments in my personal and kinoeye (ie moving image making related to camera work) life. Midterms hit me with vengeance and though they all went well they took up most of my extra time and left me fairly dead to the word and unable to post.

So, since my last post I've been keeping pretty busy. I was a PA for a commercial shoot with Verde Group which was a cute little two day gig. They're a great little VT based indie production company owned by a husband and wife, so it was local.

I've started working with the choreographer Susan Levine, doing the experimental videography for her dance piece titled Miss. We're using this really interesting program called Isadora. 

Here's a little video that explains what it does and how it works:

Should be pretty cool. I'll keep you updated. Check out Troika Ranch, they do a lot of really dope multimedia work.

Turn, Twist, Wrench

 

if you clip the wings of a dragonfly

it will contort on the wood floor, until someone kills it

 

flapping in desperation

unable to move properly, only to squirm

 

that’s what’s in my gut

 

I can feel its rise, like mutant ecstasy

shattering my concentration

 

ripping through my grey matter like gojira

rising, born out of my shadowy depths

 

…breathe slow.

lest the beast overtake you

 

fingers on collarbones tapping constantly

with the part and parcel and whole twisting inside me

 

digging teeth into cuticle flesh

and gnawing the inside of my mouth

 

like a trapped animal trying to bone-saw an appendage

sacrificing a limb to save it’s own life

 

the unrelenting hum in my brain, sturm und drang

warnings of danger long-past or never-was

 

memory, open now

I remember convincing myself of suffocation

 

on route four, in the morning, in the traffic,

in the car, driving to work, having to pull over

 

I wanted to climb out the window in the filthy truck stop

and scream

 

the tsunami has reached my shores

it blows out my mind

 

I’m acting weird and my hand starts bleeding

the blood filling the empty space between nail and flesh

 

there is no escape, it’s inside your head

and the congestion of people is so frightening

 

even familiar faces, like masks

vulgar trauma personified

 

till my whole self, wrenched by dread

barely cognitive

 

 

is sucked through the wind-tunnel foyer

out the door, into the night

 

expelled onto the porch

invisible, sweating, pupils narrow

 

cold air makes me shudder harder

…breathe slow.

 

delicately, strand of hair by strand of hair

I unmount my terror, and open my pack

 

Don’t you know that’s bad for you?

Excuse me, I only smoke so I can breathe.

 

squish and crunch

a rocket out of horror

It's wednesday. Rhe and I got food

Some things that happened:

Terror

Permanent Trauma, wtf is up with this mask?!

I bought delicious mushrooms. From the co-op guys, seriously.

City Market Co-Op has the best produce man. Organic and local goodness baby!

Even the bag is heady and recycled and edible!

Good Girls Love Yogurt

Cake Mix for a dollar!

I menace Cliff with a mixer!

Rhea's mouth

Obama is a Trekkie

"One of the presidential candidates saw me and gave me the vulcan signal. It wasn't John McCain." - Leonard Nemoy

I need me some action jeans!

List of My Favourite Words

1. Aberration

2. Atomic

3. Aperture

4. Beatific

5. Brain

6. Betwixt

7. Belladonna

8. Clandestine

9. Clever

10. Climax

11. Casanova

12. Cluster

13. Door

14. Dystopian

15. Dirigible

16. Dialogue

17. Death

18. Ectoplasm

19. Engendered

20. Ecstatic

21. Exoskeleton

22. Fever

23. Fig

24. Foe

25. Ginger

26. Grave

27. Gizzard

28. Happenstance

29. Haggle

30. Hand

31. Ichthyosaurs

32. Ignoramus

33. Idiomatic

34. Ice

35. Ink

36. Juniper

37. Juxtapose

38. Jingle

39. Knuckles

40. Kipper

41. Laudanum

42. Lux

43. Lithium

44. Mighty

45. Minx

46. Marvelous

47. Narcoleptic

48. Nifty

49. Never

50. Orgasm

51. Open

52. Oval

53. Panegyric

54. Pantheon

55. Polymath

56. Posthumous

57. Popcorn

58. Quixotic

59. Quagmire

60. Queasy

61. Rage

62. Ring

63 Ravenous

64. Ritzy

65. Sasquach

66. Shallot

67. Sea

68. Sacred

69. Tremble

70. Transverse

71. Tinker

72. Underwhelmed

73. Union

74. Ugly

75. Vapid

76. Vortex

767. Virile

78. Vista

79. Vanguard

80. Whimper

81. Wallop

82.  Wonky

83. Wiggly

84. Xenon

85. Xerox

86. Young

87. Yearn

88. Yammer

89. Yes

90. Zephyr

91. Zeitgeist

92. Zipper

Gabba Gabba We accept you...

Lately I've found myself deeply interested in the history as well as the current incarnations of the circus side show. Though it is plagued with pain and alienation I've developed a real respect for the people whose lives I've come to learn about. It wasn't a simple life, especially for these people who were often treated as human chattle, yet many of them persevered and developed in the face of adversity in a time when society at large wanted nothing more from them then to gawk and stare. These were people who were often deeply intelligent and sensitive but had to figure out ways to protect themselves from the public at large. (Though at the time I'm fairly sire that the public at large was convinced that it was they that needed protecting.) Here are some of my favourite performers that I have discovered...

Mary and Elizabeth Chulkhurst were a pair of conjoined twins born in 1100 (before the advent of the freakshow) to a well to do family in England during the reign of Queen Elizabeth, we might not even know of their existence if it was not for the fact that they sold molded cakes with their image on  it. These were sold with the profits going to the poor and needy in their area. When one passed away the idea that they should be separated was postulated, however the surviving twin rejected the notion saying "As we came into this life, so shall we exit it." Though really with the quality of medicine in 1100, who can really blame them?

Here's a picture of the cake mold.

Another character in sideshow history that I quite admire is that of "Clifford Thompson" or "Count Olaf" the 81/2 foot tall norwegian farmer from North Dakota. He was often billed as a descendent of the King Olaf the Viking, and was thus a "Viking Giant." I can practically hear P.T Barnum rubbing his hands together from here. Aside from the distinction of simply being one of the tallest people ever on record Clifford was a member of the Elks. He was also a dairy farmer and would often endorse milk at county fairs holding a sign that said "Look what milk did for me!" Later in life he earned his law degree in under two years and was thus the tallest practicing lawyer on record. Though he married dancer Mary Mars, who he met while in Barnum's show in 1939, I can't find a record of them having children.

The last person I'm going to talk about today is my favouite. Zippy the Pinhead was a Liberty Corner, New Jersey native and the catalyst in my interest in the sideshow as he is in many ways a favorite son of Jersey. Famous for his unusually tapered head freak shows would tout him a a micro-cephalic, yet he displayed none of the educational difficulties associated with the disease. In fact Zip, as it would seem, was a shrewd showman, using his unusual physical appearance to pull his poor African-American family out of poverty. After he had ceased touring with both Ringling Brothers and PT Barnum Zip settled down in Coney Island. During his exhibition time there Zip once saved a young girl from drowning in the ocean off the boardwalk. After rescuing the girl and returning her safely to her parents Zip disappeared to avoid the accolades of the crowd. It seems that this man, who would often screech and howl behind bars in a furry suit as a "missing link" felt uncomfortable with being on display in the more average sense. Or maybe he was afraid it would blow his cover as being of inferior intelligence. In fact Zip's last words were to his sister, "Well, we fooled 'em for a long time, didn't we?"

13

He was calling out to her

It was only after the gun went off that she truly knew what it meant to be alone.


save a life,
no faith in love,
my sickening vice,
grows larger everyday

working on something longer. will post soon.

gore

When she woke up, with the sheets all covered in blood she knew something was very wrong.
But the real question was...where was the rest of the dog?

started this instead of writing tonight

i'm going to the movies to see hellboy2 now.

have i filled your shoes with lead darling?

virginia woolf filled her pockets with rocks

i read her last letter and i decided to take a bath

in the bathtub her ghost came to me

told me that my egomaniacal self absorbtion was the result of the mtv generation

i said i didn't have cable and that she was crazy and maybe she shouldnt bother me in the tub

she handed me a razor

i shook my head and said that if i was going to die it wouldn't be naked

she said maybe i should think of the people that i bring down and make depressed

i said that i wasn't her and if she felt guilty regarding her husband that was her business

but it made me think unsettling things anyway

i hummed the little song i sing to myself in bed

I don't exist I don't exist I don't exist

and i submerged myself waiting for some answer to come from this lukewarm baptism

i just got cold and the water got dirty

virginia was getting impatient.

can you at least hand me a towel? i asked

no.

i explained that i was american and twenty one and lonely and had writers block

and that combination made one too lazy to make decisions relating to the cessation of ones life

she said it was a clear cut lack of commitment to my craft

and i asked her if she wanted to watch eraserhead with me, it's pretty fucked up and you might like it i told her

she said ok, but only if i would consider hanging

i said i'd think about it just to shut her up

she handed me a towel

she's a huge david lynch fan now

and she doesn't bother me in the tub anymore

What're you screaming as if it's the end of the world?

when i wake up around one am i can't even function well enough to vomit.
i keep wondering if this is all that i'm good for, and I remember you and the little house and the phone call.
there is something worth fighting for, i tell myself, something more important than work at noon or making a chicken soup. there are all-night-conversations and stars and wrapping blankets around the two of us on nights that ware almost-warm-enough-but-not-quite. i think back to before we were lovers, when we sat awkwardly in my tiny bedroom watching movies. lying foot to head on that twin bed. did you know that when it got too late I thought about asking you to stay? now after these two months of solitude i really honestly regret those few months of lost nights in your arms? I can't sleep anymore without you really. when I do the dreams are full of the sheriff and of sleep paralysis and nightmares


please save me baby. i'm dying here without you.

its still 21 days and I have no place to live but the bottom of some bottle that in the end makes me teeth feel fuzzy and my heart feel sore. I keep trying to escape my loneliness but there is no escape but you,

you said you'd call. I guess you didn't have time. and that's ok.


21 days

and tomorrow i want to take a fucking bath

The night the metal heads shattered the window.

By the time he arrived it was too late. The plasic solo cups were strrewn about the living room and the place stank with the acridic air of burning cigarrettes. Pushing his way throught the crowd he searched the living room's bumping and grinding bodies for his pink haired roomate.
"Elise! What is going on?"
She turned, smiled and appeared at his side on a wind of burbon.
"It's a party, dumbass."
She handed him a flask. He looked around and realized that he was in a sea of people that he couldn't escape and that he would never be able to get out of his house. He took a swig.
"Atta boy! You'll have fun."
Suddenly she made a ridiculous face and gestured double thumbs up as if she were the Fonz.
"I'm gonna get you laaaaaid!"
Nicky sighed. This was going to be interesting.

A Poem that is Half by Ben and Half by the internet

Nuke The Fridge.
Jump The Shark.
If they can make art into schlock.
I can make schlock into art.

Considering Canada

Crinkly Roses

The flower,the last he gave her, dried to a crisp long ago and spun in the bud vase from the draft coming in from the window. She was waiting for it to fall apart. When it did, maybe her heart would stop breaking.

A note

reading the last few entries...i guess i'm feeling a little trapped in the house. I don't know why. I went to a movie today.

I'll be back in VT soon.

disfyn-shui

the cookbook rips in half
a break in the heretical text
allowing the real question to slip away
like a rat through a crevice
bones chatter
and night blooms, a black flower
damask prints, and missing links
this house is a tomb

A mayfly really in the grand scheme of things

Sitting wrapped in her towel she tried to remember a time when she didn't feel trapped in this old house. It's gingerbread trim and bright colors should have inspired some other emotion, but it didn't. When passersby would stop to talk about the towering Victorian's history her mother would gladly oblige with dates and the names of previous owners, but to Alice she felt like a brief blip in the life of this house. A fly on the wall, and it made her queasy and produced feeling of unwelcomeness. When she was little she would pretend that she was a princess in her turret room. The days of such imaginings were gone. She counted the days before she left for University.

diary 2

I exit the book-store clutching my copy of the diary of Anis Nin like a talisman against some unforeseen danger. The sun blinds me upon exiting into the street, and the crowds of people milling bout along the long brick avenue make me dizzy. My contacts bother my eyes and I curse my vanity that forces me to wear them even though they pain me. As my eyes adjust I see Jenna standing. She is, as she always is, resplendent in her ease. She stands in a floral skirt and sandals, her jet-black hair, dark skin and composed bearing remind me of the grace of the Indian women I see along the streets. She fumbles with a lighter and places a cigarette to her lips. This fumbling, I know, is the result of nerves. I inspect the scene with more care. Standing in front of her is Hunter, a former boyfriend, who has all the vulgar earthyness and bearing of a steel worker. Her hands flit and her mouth smiles but I can see the weariness in her eyes. He cannot. I suddenly feel so very protective and defensive of her, which makes no sense. I don’t desire to posses her, she interests me as she is, but this protectiveness bothers me and I do not know why. I approach her and she doesn’t notice me until the last moment. I am her escape from this unwanted conversation and when she notices me I can see the thought flicker through her mind. Her shoulders relax and she makes the excuse of our date to leave. As we walk down the red colored street the crowds of people that were so offensive to me suddenly melt away. I am elated to step by her side and wonder why she has this effect on me. We pause while she speaks to some people that we both know, but I am quiet, Jenna loves to talk and I let her, which is probably why she spends time with me. I watch her put out her cigarette on the sole of her shoe and I notice that her toenails are painted a florescent green and it reminds me if Sally Bowles from Cabaret. We had planned to get a drink, but she tells me that she has no money so I promise to buy her one. We enter the nearest bar, which is full of people and dark. She weaves through the crowd and finds a table at the back. Men stare at her wherever she moves and I am not envious. I always shrink from the masculine gaze, it makes me feel uncomfortable and uneasy. As if I am being analyzed and dissected, open and naked. Yet she seems to thrive, to blossom under the gaze which utterly destroys me. As we sit together and she talks of her difficulty with men. The difficulty being that there are too many. I want to hold her hand. I don’t. That kind of closeness that seems so easy for most women eludes me. My mother calls me a cold fish, I think it’s just emotional reservation that comes from being an over-sensitive child.

Ghost in a Teacup

She picked up the fragments of the teacup off the living room table. It had survived so many moves between houses and apartments and cross-state trips and now it lay in two halves. It was her own fault for leaving it in the living room where everyone got drunk and played games and had the kind of discussions that involved large sweeping arm gestures. She had just wanted some piece of her history in the community space like everyone else, but her history was laying there cleaved in two. She hadn't even been there to see it break. Even the cup itself seemed faded. She remembered buying it at the garage sale with her mother before they started fighting so much, when she was little and was still convinced that one day she'd grow up to mosaic the kitchen walls with sea shells. She would glue the pieces together but the cup would never again hold water. It seemed so appropriate, because it the early afternoon light, in the dirty living room, she felt as though nothing could stand the test of time. The dreams were just ghosts in that teacup, and now even the ghosts had nowhere to hide.

She felt naked.

Chlorinated

The corporate courtyard fountain re-pumps it's water again and again in an endless loop. People ask me again and again if I'm OK, if I'm tired. Yes, I am exhausted. I am that cheap concrete fountain, recycling old joys in a glass cage courtyard. The water, stale and septic, reeks of chlorine and prays for rain. But even this water will evaporate, and I too will return to the lakes where I belong.

Monday, June 23, 2008

There was nothing left. The houses had crumbled. The streets had grown over with weeds, their winding tendrils reaching over the tar that had become sticky under the sun. The corpses had long since rotted away, the bones bleached in the sun. The silence was unending and thick. There was a sickening wet crack and a tree crashed to the ground. It proved beyond any doubt that a falling tree makes noise, even if not a soul is alive to hear it.

Dean Koontz interview with Newsarama.com

NRAMA: In the larger view of your works, many of your novels contain genre elements. Were you a comic book reader as a kid or did they or their stories influence you at all?

DK: I was never into superhero comics. I was fascinated with Tales from the Crypt and that sort of thing, and also with Scrooge McDuck and his endless battle with the Beagle Boys. Once I began having success with novels, I really had to restrain myself from building a giant money bin, filling it with coins, and driving around in it with a bulldozer.


I've never been a huge Dean Koontz fan but this might possibly be enough to make me want to read his book Frankenstein: Prodigal Son. It's being adapted into a new comic book by Chuck Dixon and Brett Booth.

LadyKiller: A Short Film

Bizzare Moments In Comic Book History

Lately, I'll admit, I've been addicted to stumble upon. Spending hours upon hours clicking the stumble button. Looking at the bizarre things that people put up on the internets. My favorite things to find however are the old comic book covers that seem to make little or no sense. It seems to go a little like this, Stumble: hilarious prat fall, Stumble: Scenic Photos of India, Stumble: GIANT GREEN NAZI GORILLAS!!!




No Kids I'm not joking. At what point did Hitler go, "Fuck this, it's giant green gorillas all the way!"

Or perhaps this classic moment...


Yes, ladies and gentleman, his superpower appears to be taking sterioids. And Wearing really shitty white hotpants.


Yet nothing hits me like this one...


HENRY THE NEIGHBORS CALLED AND THEY ARE CONFUSED. I'm confused why he wants to confuse the neighbors and why he needs a BOOK to do it. Who the hell wrote this tome? Is there a market for texts like these?

This too gets honorable mention...


Why is she a nurse at a castle and where did she get such a dope cape. I want it. Want want want.

And for the finale...


RIIIIIIIIIIIIIDE THE LIGHTNING!!!!!!!!





In other news, I am in Jersey and Drew is coming tomorrow to hang out for a few days. We're going to the MOMA! Hooray!

Cool as Hell! Find Credit:Stumble Upon

Why didn't I think of this?
Now officially part of my memory castle.





Link to original blog: http://www.curbly.com/DIY-Maven/posts/3688-The-Amazing-Staircase

Video Blog # 3

Hey yall. I know it's been a long time, but as you are all aware this is frequently the last thing on my to do list and therefore often gets pushed onto the next one and the next one... Just suffice to say that things have been really really stressful lately. I'm running on all caffeine and it's taking it's toll on my sanity. On the bright side boyfriend-face Drew is considering starting a blog of his own! WOOT. I'll keep yall updated. WATCH MY VIDEOS





BAFFLING ASPECTS VIDEO IS UP!!!!!

A New Short

Based on Gabriel Garcia Marquez's "Eyes of a Blue Dog"

Just Kidding

I love the song hash pipe apparently




lolzorz

So for some reason my party shuffle decided to only be Hash Pipe. I came home from old english translation and there it was. Suddenly my computer was the guy at the party pretending to be the guy at the party who listens to indie rock to pick up chicks. my computer was a frat-guy-at-the-party-pretending-to-be-emo.



oi vey. I'm sorrry it's been so long between posts. First I turned 21, which was pretty awesome. I don't have too much to say regarding that except I had a nice party. Here are some pictures!











Ok so then I've been wicked sick and then I had to make up piles of work...I had no blogging time. Let's leave it at that. I am planning on some really cool video shorts this semester at school. It seems like it's going to be a lot of fun. I've rediscovered coffee. Coffee is amazing. I was all into Tea, especially chai, forever but now coffee is my drink of choice. I may or may not be turning into Henry Rollins.



I had a crush on him in highschool. Which explains alot about me actually.

I'll be posting a vblog friday, but now I got work up to my eyeballs.

Peace

heath is dead

Heath Ledger Discovered Dead in Soho
Posted by Michael Clancy at 5:55 PM, January 22, 2008



The actor Heath Ledger was discovered dead, pills sprawled around his naked body, in the Broome Street apartment of Mary-Kate Olsen, the NYPD said Tuesday. According to various news accounts, the 28-year-old Australian actor appeared to be a victim of an accidental overdose or suicide.

The NYPD released a short statement that did not mention the actor by name:

ON TUESDAY, 01/22/08, AT APPROXIMATELY 1530 HOURS, IN THE CONFINES OF THE 5 PRECINCT, POLICE RESPONDED TO 421 BROOME STREET AND FOUND A M/W/28 UNCONSCIOUS. THE VICTIM WAS PRONOUNCED DOA AT THE SCENE. M.E.'S OFFICE TO DETERMINE THE CAUSE OF DEATH. INVESTIGATION CONTINUES.
Voice film critic J. Hoberman had this to say about Ledger in Brokeback Mountain: "But moony as Gyllenhaal is, he's only barely able to hold up his side of the equation; it's the self- contained Ledger's repression and scary, sorrowful, hard-luck rage that fuel the movie."




>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

his last film was the dark knight



oh man this whole thing is whole weird

UPDATE COMING SOON!

image from NatalieDee.com (she's pretty much a rockstar)