A beautiful creature lost it's life today...I took it...
and although I feel somewhat horrible about the brutal "killing", I am pleased knowing my mother is safe, that she is okay and can continue to garden at her leisure. I love her, and although I tried to preserve it's life, holding the thing back, trying to calm it down, it still persisted to cross into our territory... it threatened my mom with its teeth, it tried to bite her, it almost bit me, and even after I managed to push it out of our yard and onto the street, It charged back and made me feel "uncomfortable" so with the shovel I had, I fucken cracked it over the head and cut a deep gash into its trachea, killing it with a blunt object and watching it bleed out. I debated giving it another whop to shorten the process, but a respectable animal deserves it's final wishes, it deserves to live as long as it can, and although I am against the harm of a wild creature, nothing will ever threaten the peace of my mom, the peace of my dog, the peace of this home.
fuck it, I took another chop and whiped its head off. my mom bought me chinese food after
Friday, April 27, 2012
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Influence.
Fairmount Park, Riverside California.
Fall 2011 found me here, with a backpack and food, water and a camera -side of this lake, alone and reading, reading this excerpt. I would drive about 20 miles, to watch the sun go down here, with these words, and this experience; reading over and over:
Tom: I didn't go to the moon, I went much further -for time is the longest distance between two places -Not long after that, I was fired for writing a poem on the lid of a shoebox. I left Saint Louis. I descended the steps of this fire escape for the last time, and followed from then on -in my father's footsteps, attempting to find in motion what was lost in space -I traveled around a great deal. The cities swept about me like dead leaves, leaves that were brightly colored but torn away from the branches. I would have stopped, but I was pursued by something. It always came upon me unawares, taking me altogether by surprise. Perhaps it was a familiar bit of music. Perhaps it was only a piece of transparent glass. -Perhaps I am walking along a street at night, in some strange city, before I have found companions. I pass the lighted window of a shop where perfume is sold. The window is filled with pieces of colored glass, tiny transparent bottles in delicate colors, like bits of a shattered rainbow. Then (all at once) my sister touches my shoulder. I turn around and look into her eyes... Oh, Laura, Laura, I tried to leave you behind me, but I am more faithful than I intended to be! I reach for a cigarette, I cross the street, I run into the movies or a bar, I buy a drink, I speak to the nearest stranger...Anything that blow your candles out! (Laura bends over the candles.) -for nowadays the world is lit by lightning! Blow out your candles Laura-and so goodbye. . . .
(She blows the canldes out.)
(The scene dissolves)
Tom's speech at the end of this play...
Fall 2011 found me here, with a backpack and food, water and a camera -side of this lake, alone and reading, reading this excerpt. I would drive about 20 miles, to watch the sun go down here, with these words, and this experience; reading over and over:
Tom: I didn't go to the moon, I went much further -for time is the longest distance between two places -Not long after that, I was fired for writing a poem on the lid of a shoebox. I left Saint Louis. I descended the steps of this fire escape for the last time, and followed from then on -in my father's footsteps, attempting to find in motion what was lost in space -I traveled around a great deal. The cities swept about me like dead leaves, leaves that were brightly colored but torn away from the branches. I would have stopped, but I was pursued by something. It always came upon me unawares, taking me altogether by surprise. Perhaps it was a familiar bit of music. Perhaps it was only a piece of transparent glass. -Perhaps I am walking along a street at night, in some strange city, before I have found companions. I pass the lighted window of a shop where perfume is sold. The window is filled with pieces of colored glass, tiny transparent bottles in delicate colors, like bits of a shattered rainbow. Then (all at once) my sister touches my shoulder. I turn around and look into her eyes... Oh, Laura, Laura, I tried to leave you behind me, but I am more faithful than I intended to be! I reach for a cigarette, I cross the street, I run into the movies or a bar, I buy a drink, I speak to the nearest stranger...Anything that blow your candles out! (Laura bends over the candles.) -for nowadays the world is lit by lightning! Blow out your candles Laura-and so goodbye. . . .
(She blows the canldes out.)
(The scene dissolves)
Tom's speech at the end of this play...
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Lost Bounce
Eyes open, and I'm awake. That dog's barking again, (the one down my street). Can hear it, outside the window, muffled, or behind a fence. It's ugly, this bark, it's undisciplined, and anything triggers it. Anything sets it off. It's never-ending barrage of primal vocal chords just further reminds me that trying to nap, trying to get mail without someone approaching me at the mailbox, -trying to do anything on this street is fucking useless, and all my neighbors, friends and facebook people must think i'm dead, they must think I don't care, and quite honestly...
I don't.
This generation, I don't understand them, especially in America. They're lost, they're confused, they're into some weird shit I just can't relate with. Dubstep. Raves. Plugs, and stuffed animal backpacks. Elmo. Shit like that, and The Voice or Twilight or Kobe Bryant and the Lakers. I don't understand it all, and secretly wish not to be a part of this industry, or work my way through the enterprise. And laying there semi-sweaty, not too hungry but all the more empty, I think about how badly I would just want to get away from everyone else dying, and me and my dogs, our woodland camo hats and m21's... We would just spend the day filming viral video clips, and firing weapons at herds of running pigs, with my bug out kit, and 4WD Polaris -back at the ranch and big screen TV, Xbox live and our helicopter... We would forget about all the late people, and co-workers that call out... We could come to terms that power isn't in the people, and the media which informs you that auto-tuned rap music is the shit, and furthermore; wearing hats that resemble animal heads are cool, and that making other people happy is the way to life, and in between trigger pulls, and recoil control, we would reflect back on the Street of Old People, on the Street of Scared Community and friend's brothers being shot and killed at their front door... We would remember Club Tempo, the pool hall down the street from a house I grew up in, when kids ran the snack bar, when kids ran the basketball courts, and gas was less than two dollars.. All the young families, grilling and listening to tapes, when they seemed so happy... It makes me sick really, to think my tax dollars, (or just my currency in general) are being circulated to pay for MTV's latest hip-hop rotation, or the latest political campaign filled with lies -transmitted via tube, via "devil box" to the person brainlessly sitting there, on their hemorrhoid-ridden ass, and it hurts not to see anyone else standing up for this shit, or their dreams, or just their identity as fully-functioning, clear headed adults. Defending themselves, cutting people short. It's un-inspiring, this whole economy, this whole situation, so I've held onto what little inspiration I can get, and milk the words of somebody who sees this whole thing from atop a perch, and it's not about money, it's not about the kinda numbers we will never see again, it's not about sales or pie charts that remind us how successful we are -across the board, and the kinda digital capitol we search for.. it's about being successful at living your own life and inspiring others to go out and get the happiness of their choice, the meaning they find and imprint in the marks of their experience.
and if it were truly up to me, I'd make my living as an artist, and getting people to think, getting people to question the ideology of their lives, looking deep into how their passed has shaped them, and how it helps contribute to their little village today and hopefully, undoubtebly inspire them to multiply themselves ten-fold, get them to see that every voice matters when it's building up, when it's putting down...
I don't.
This generation, I don't understand them, especially in America. They're lost, they're confused, they're into some weird shit I just can't relate with. Dubstep. Raves. Plugs, and stuffed animal backpacks. Elmo. Shit like that, and The Voice or Twilight or Kobe Bryant and the Lakers. I don't understand it all, and secretly wish not to be a part of this industry, or work my way through the enterprise. And laying there semi-sweaty, not too hungry but all the more empty, I think about how badly I would just want to get away from everyone else dying, and me and my dogs, our woodland camo hats and m21's... We would just spend the day filming viral video clips, and firing weapons at herds of running pigs, with my bug out kit, and 4WD Polaris -back at the ranch and big screen TV, Xbox live and our helicopter... We would forget about all the late people, and co-workers that call out... We could come to terms that power isn't in the people, and the media which informs you that auto-tuned rap music is the shit, and furthermore; wearing hats that resemble animal heads are cool, and that making other people happy is the way to life, and in between trigger pulls, and recoil control, we would reflect back on the Street of Old People, on the Street of Scared Community and friend's brothers being shot and killed at their front door... We would remember Club Tempo, the pool hall down the street from a house I grew up in, when kids ran the snack bar, when kids ran the basketball courts, and gas was less than two dollars.. All the young families, grilling and listening to tapes, when they seemed so happy... It makes me sick really, to think my tax dollars, (or just my currency in general) are being circulated to pay for MTV's latest hip-hop rotation, or the latest political campaign filled with lies -transmitted via tube, via "devil box" to the person brainlessly sitting there, on their hemorrhoid-ridden ass, and it hurts not to see anyone else standing up for this shit, or their dreams, or just their identity as fully-functioning, clear headed adults. Defending themselves, cutting people short. It's un-inspiring, this whole economy, this whole situation, so I've held onto what little inspiration I can get, and milk the words of somebody who sees this whole thing from atop a perch, and it's not about money, it's not about the kinda numbers we will never see again, it's not about sales or pie charts that remind us how successful we are -across the board, and the kinda digital capitol we search for.. it's about being successful at living your own life and inspiring others to go out and get the happiness of their choice, the meaning they find and imprint in the marks of their experience.
and if it were truly up to me, I'd make my living as an artist, and getting people to think, getting people to question the ideology of their lives, looking deep into how their passed has shaped them, and how it helps contribute to their little village today and hopefully, undoubtebly inspire them to multiply themselves ten-fold, get them to see that every voice matters when it's building up, when it's putting down...
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
1st.
Woke up, with some things on my mind, another bad dream last night. Strapped on (literally) my new shoes, running.. watch too, but went for it, out of my house; 0415 hours or some shit, 0415 out in front, fog hanging over, and a gray sedan passing (headlights on), and up the first hill, thinking to myself:
- hotcakes (3)
- bacon
- sausage
- eggs
- extra syrup
- hash browns
- and a muffin.
Anyway, no really (that was serious) but anyway, fucken...sometimes we get an apple, and on the outside there's a spot, a big black one, discoloration on the red, and the spot of brownish apple we see inside this hole makes us wonder, makes us question if the rest of the thing is just the same. If the rest of the thing is just as rotten? If it's even worse... and after a few bites -walking into the store, you have the confidence, (because you know what's in the bank account), what you want is here, and what you saw on the outside, wasn't the entirety at all, and instead of being hungry you are set... the third time will be easier than the first -if you can hang...
Saturday, March 24, 2012
snapping a picture
Boxes in hand, walks out.
"I'm quitting this job, -fuck this place." He said.
About half a minute later, not even after a few seconds from when he was gone... I run around the corner, and into his (former) office. Raid the bitch...
Supplies, highlighters, pens, paperclips, staples, and a calculator. I needed to re-up, and took his envelopes too, the Vanilla kind.. 8.5x11.. Those are hard to come by, and took some "post-its" too, the sticky notes, the kind I can write absurd numbers on, the kind I can leave around my office -with false notation and fake phone numbers, giving the appearance that I work hard...Sitting in the office, waiting for the phone to ring and walking to everyone's cubicle, individually telling them i'm going to "break the seal" and nodding at them, waiting for some eye contact and a nod back to tell me I can use the bathroom now.
That awkward moment when you tell a complete stranger you have to "drain the lizard", and subsequently stand there, waiting for their approval.
returning to my desk (the one I sing at) I think about how annoying it must be to work with me, when I dedicate songs to people, and proceed to bust out all the lyrics from Mariah Carey's "Can't Let Go" single, and emotionally belt them out loud. Vocalized enough so my Iranian boss can hear, and silently wonder if I'm being completely serious...honest about my Livescan, criminal background, and fingerprints.
I think about that one time I got screamed at for doing 90 on the freeway, or the time he accused me of masturbating in the bathroom.
I think about how shitty this economy is, and how much of a fucking joke/waste of time it is to try, and attempt to maybe, possibly sell a car to some Southern Californian, oriental Chinese low-baller...and staring at the phone, watching the seconds tick by on a digital clock... I remember all the other jobs I've had, and how great it is to keep a list of all the people i've seen fired from this current location. I think about what it must be like... totin' around old pictures of yourself, back when you were "in the scene" with a Coors Light in your hands, and a smile on your face. Everyone in the picture -gone, except for you. Last one here, -with thin, receding hair and people that fix your car in secret.
I think about how great it must be to finally fucking leave this place. Finally do it big, when Jay-Z's "Somehow, Someway" finally becomes real, finally happens to a used car salesman, when it finally happens to me...
"Bryan..." He says. I turn around from pretending to mark up some imaginary list in my folder...
"What's up Todd?"
"I'm quitting this job, -fuck this place."
We shake hands for the last time, and even though we weren't cool all along... He says nothing to anybody else, silently gathers up the things he's packed, and with his boxes stacked, boxes in hand, opens the door, and walks out.
"I'm quitting this job, -fuck this place." He said.
About half a minute later, not even after a few seconds from when he was gone... I run around the corner, and into his (former) office. Raid the bitch...
Supplies, highlighters, pens, paperclips, staples, and a calculator. I needed to re-up, and took his envelopes too, the Vanilla kind.. 8.5x11.. Those are hard to come by, and took some "post-its" too, the sticky notes, the kind I can write absurd numbers on, the kind I can leave around my office -with false notation and fake phone numbers, giving the appearance that I work hard...Sitting in the office, waiting for the phone to ring and walking to everyone's cubicle, individually telling them i'm going to "break the seal" and nodding at them, waiting for some eye contact and a nod back to tell me I can use the bathroom now.
That awkward moment when you tell a complete stranger you have to "drain the lizard", and subsequently stand there, waiting for their approval.
returning to my desk (the one I sing at) I think about how annoying it must be to work with me, when I dedicate songs to people, and proceed to bust out all the lyrics from Mariah Carey's "Can't Let Go" single, and emotionally belt them out loud. Vocalized enough so my Iranian boss can hear, and silently wonder if I'm being completely serious...honest about my Livescan, criminal background, and fingerprints.
I think about that one time I got screamed at for doing 90 on the freeway, or the time he accused me of masturbating in the bathroom.
I think about how shitty this economy is, and how much of a fucking joke/waste of time it is to try, and attempt to maybe, possibly sell a car to some Southern Californian, oriental Chinese low-baller...and staring at the phone, watching the seconds tick by on a digital clock... I remember all the other jobs I've had, and how great it is to keep a list of all the people i've seen fired from this current location. I think about what it must be like... totin' around old pictures of yourself, back when you were "in the scene" with a Coors Light in your hands, and a smile on your face. Everyone in the picture -gone, except for you. Last one here, -with thin, receding hair and people that fix your car in secret.
I think about how great it must be to finally fucking leave this place. Finally do it big, when Jay-Z's "Somehow, Someway" finally becomes real, finally happens to a used car salesman, when it finally happens to me...
"Bryan..." He says. I turn around from pretending to mark up some imaginary list in my folder...
"What's up Todd?"
"I'm quitting this job, -fuck this place."
We shake hands for the last time, and even though we weren't cool all along... He says nothing to anybody else, silently gathers up the things he's packed, and with his boxes stacked, boxes in hand, opens the door, and walks out.
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