Outskirts of Town

Enter several ROADSWEEPERS, pushing their carts. They sing in unison:

The wise man sleeps on a bed of wool, 

The lazy man sleeps on a bed of feathers.

The rheumatic sleeps on wood,

And the rogue on a pretty girl's breasts.

If I were a worker at a Ferromanganese Plant just outside of Brescia in Italy, I would have Parkinson's by now. Instead I have lower-lombar pains that I drown in Tylenol, assuming postures only rivaled by the most self-conscious, vegan, steven and chris-watching, homosexuals. 

Calamity James

You've all probably seen it by now... "Calamity James" has struck again. The lad just doesn't do himself any justice, with these silly mistakes. How is Capello expected to stick with him, when he pulls off performances as willy wonky and ghastly as this spectacle against Wolfsburg? and you all know what I'm talking about, he's done it time and time again. He's been sterling between the sticks all season and then... good lord... who was he passing the bloody thing to?

"Porous Portsmouth Crash Out of UEFA" reads the headlines now... the kids aren't alright. You haven't done Tony Adams a whole lot of good now, have you James? He'll be the next one to get the hammer. 

Oh and Big Sam's got a shoe-in at the proverbial door at Sunderland? Keano couldn't handle it.. even after months of sporting that horrendous beard! Ferguson throws in his weight behind Ince, eh...didn't see him do that for good ol' keano?

17 dogs tried to track us down

"1938, he was 27. At that time, the Blacks often died beaten by the Whites."

Seasick Steve picked up a beat guitar and assembled / deconstructed his ragged persona, under bridges and under the noses of the Whites. He's a white, he's American. He was a hobo, living in France, spewing out the blues that comes naturally to those with fervour of the heart and leaky shoes. He bled it out for frenchmen, wearing white pants, and rosied up cheeks, from too much wine and too little discretion; thinking to themselves who is this ragged yank, how come he's got soul, and should I dispense with a euro?

...though we all wish to feed on certainties,

few things are certain,

but one thing is clear, blues saves lives, and ragged old dharma bums once laid out to dry, hitching train rides with ol' moriarty, can earn a dime or two on forgiving parisian streets.

Spontaneous Prose

I was at the adult theater with five guys, 

we were watching as they huddled around her on the large projected image,

and then "jamaican five" whispers in my ear, hey you wanna some herb?

so i take a hit and the characters in this 70s porno jump straight at me, the suckers were all around me with their cocks and muff. 

and then i climaxed

resulting in this... [points at a stain on his corduroys]

now in my post-orgasmic paranoia i usher the russian thugs with their cocks and the concubines with their hairy muff back into the tele, i don't know how they got out!

jamaican five asks me if i want to take another hit, i say, no man no, hell no, marijuana is a hell of a drug

i'm on my way out of this joint and the watchman spots me out with his flashlight,

hey there feller i think i saw you committing some illicit actions in our backroom there.

he looks at the giant oil spill-like stain on my cords, 

hey man, i was just milking a cow

...and thats your moment of zen kids.

a spoken-word narrative from "silky hair charlie" at 2:50am

Secretly Canadian

The first day of real snowfall in Toronto. Two rad dudes, labelled immigrants by their housemate of Jamaican descent, put on their shoes, double down the fire escape, embracing what they see as quintessentially "metal". Now they find an old chevy van, older than themselves, remnant of a time when a Jew named Woody would put his "Impeach Nixon" pin on, and go see Ingmar's new, Viskingar och rop.

Times have changed, we now get amp'd to go see the new bond. Some things, however stand the test of time: snow and old vans, still spells, Canadiana.

What else makes me feel a little Canadian inside, only to hide it with racist slurs:

Chevy Silverado - Canada's Best Truck, a phallic symbol and the cornerstone of Canada's dependence on America, which is only held from shining truly by commie barnacles, also known as Unions. *cough* scum!

Caesar Sourdough Croutons - In a recent revelation, I have set aside my former distaste for this, the indisputable pinnacle of whiteness, and am now fully committed to putting little pieces of bread on my salad, and further dousing it in Zesty Italian. I need to subsidize this for the folks back home. Damn you US embargoes!

JD Blue Collar Love - Put on your flannel jacket and let the good times begin! Everything from arm-wrestling to black people is fair play!

Molson Canadian Rules - This should have really been added to my assimilation kit, I'll have to sit down with Mitchell and go over the nitty-gritty of what's expected by any respectable Canadian male (He's really the go-to-guy when it comes to the essence of being white. Example, he calls me Taj and thinks I'm an Ay-rab)

Trading Caaaards - 

You will walk in the cold for it, while you've got perfectly marinated drumsticks in the fridge.

You will stand in line with schoolkids for it.

You will stand in line with Black schoolkids from the Jane and Finch area for it.

You will walk all the way back home to enjoy opening the shiny packaging, as the Guv General pursues a profession of small talk with navy folk, and Harpie looks on.

Yes I am talking about the NHL Trading Cards, pictured above, and sold at your local Macdo!

Cooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaach!

"But the water's just getting good"

Computer Liebe

Wolfgang Muller: Hey it's potato head, and potato head's lover!

Biba Kopf: I got my shades in the January of 2006

Pil Kollektiv: Who's the blind guy?

Leon's Christmas specials are here!

My Shitlist – 08

An ode to the worst this year had to offer:

 //Look on down from the bridge

Worst blog of the year and the biggest let down

Political musings run dry on debut

Brad Cox

Proof that in hyping this hollow posturing hipster that certain quarters of the blogosphere have no soul – I’ve listened to Deerhunter, its garbage

http://www.brooklynvegan.com/img/music2/coxglamour.jpg

 Level Nightclub

A Great Lake collecting all the douche canals and tributaries of the greater Toronto area – be prepared to listen to audio diarrhea and see double-popped collars

 Canadian Elections

What was this about? Asides from Layton proving that he could run a campaign on the strength of two words “Kitchen table” and “Corporations”. At least we got to see Dion play hockey and now we have some Green party memorabilia.

 Twice in a lifetime

This is more a statement about CTV and CBC in general. Let’s continue our no-TV run indefinitely Dale

 W.

If you know Colin, he’s a cool dude. You wouldn’t be able to tell judging from this pick. The most comic part of the night came thanks to the gentleman in the first row, toying with an iphone he clearly didn’t know how to use!

 Crackhead who stole my laptop

You came into my room on a hot sunny day

You saw the flag of the Islamic Republic of Iran

You saw a copy of Soul on Ice by Black Panther, Eldridge Cleaver

and yet you stole my laptop,

at least you got a pair!

 The Hammer

Hamilton, affectionately known as the hammer

A milieu for crackwhores, pimps and meth addicts, a dainty bunch!

 Cooners

This goes out to that sly raccoon that came up our fire escape, one rainy night, trotted nimbly through our living room, glanced upon my room, and jumped into my bed, and dried himself out on my bedsheets. FUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCK YOUUUUS

Spencer Rice//

YOU GOT BLOWN BY A PRE-OP TRANNY!

What might have been lost - don't bother me

Have you ever felt all your sensations driven from your appendages to your ears, 

have you ever felt your whole life coalescing on the crest of a yell, a note, a shrill cry from a silver flute?

Last night we were driven from the twilight of desert landscapes slowly to the brink of a murky reverb-laden cliff, by two nomadic plaid-dressed musicians, only to swim down below in the tumultuous swedish waters, wave after wave crashing against our eardrums, sending us into a crazed bliss. Respite was offered in small doses of melodic beauty, cocooning us in warm lyrics spoken in an unfamiliar tongue, only to be deconstructed quickly by spiraling, down-right venomous jamming.

We came in a haze to see you play your songs, you left us not buddhists, but most certainly enlightened and resolutely content. 

I want to be on a mountaintop,

with a radio and good batteries

Dialogue with a consumer product

Following in the admirable standard I have set in my bloggings, I shall not continue with my Icelandic episodes. Nothing but pilots here. Routines are for cowards. 

A consistent product - Coca Cola, the Mugabes, the Olmerts of this world

You gotta know when your days are up,

You gotta know your shelf-time

So, to cut with my fascist leanings, I shall remain:  the transmutating product!

So come on friends

To the barricades again!

ICELAND in 1991 - episode I

Iceland, as far from Washington as from Moscow, is advantageously placed in a political climate of improved relations between East and West. Having played host to the memorable Fischer-Spassky chess match in 1972, it moved onto the political chessboard in 1986, with the Reykjavik summit meeting of President Ronald Reagan and Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev.

"Tipping is not customary in Iceland"

Hunter

"thought that i could organise freedom
how scandinavian of me"

The owner of one, "delaware car", replaced his license plate, with ontario ubiquity.

Maps and Directions

I would scalp his head and put it on my face....

He's just got such a great thick beard when he grows it out, and naturally brilliant long hair

Dude...dude.....!

....But its going to waste!

Somewhere in white Ontario, he sits behind his desk, sipping on his apple cider. I would like to picture him calm, but placidity seldom resides on his visage. Maybe its the flowing hair that he parts every morning. Maybe it's his affliction, you know his, his.... Leon. It's a long story. 

He's intrigued; a white man trying to understand the suffering of a people quite distant. 

Turns an inquisitive look towards his map. 

He gets up, frowning, searches his pockets for his glasses - vanity is the death of his vision -  trying to focus on this small stretch of yellow. 

It stops there. His mind, like a native, is not known for a sedentary lifestyle. His thoughts are nomadic in nature, wild and easily perturbed. 

He dreams of a dreamy french girl, who dances like Zizi Jeanmaire and lives everyday through chanson.

He'll come back to his academic wanderings sometime. For now he's frequenting art galleries, affectionately known as parisian laundry.

Relapse

Deleware - The First State, delcares a license plate. 

Let me rewind a few shots; I feel like I'm falling into a routine, well hardly, but for the sake of brevity, yes a routine. 

I wake up, run through some menial rituals, assemble my persona, walk out the door, past our green party sign and down madison. On a good day with at least ten minutes to spare before my prof starts rambling on, about god knows no what, I'll have my headphones on. 

Nothing like a good vibration of the eardrums, before the monotone annexes brain cells.

Now I stare at middle-aged white men, standing around their houses, smoking, walking their dogs, or women. 

Now its the muscle-men unloading trucks of beer into the same dreary establishment....Madison Pub. 

Now I jump over into the parking lot; I've always preferred diagonals: a line joining two nonconsecutive vertices of a polygon or polyhedron, plus they save time. Here I come across the familiar license plate. What exactly its doing, in a parking lot behind a church, I have no clue. The enigmatic message, well at least for me, has me wondering every morning: Delaware, the first state?

Huh,

named after a British nobleman, 

Thomas West, the 3rd Baron De La Warr, 

the famous message on the plate comes from the auspicious fact that it was the first State to ratify the constitution of the United States.

Sa Blev Det Bestamt... so it was settled!

He speaks twice tonight

//The two Negro's on the metro turn to a young white broad:

Charlie Parker, wouldn't play another note, if they were to let him kill ten whites. //

If I were to draw a self-portrait, preferably with black ink, and a steady hand, YOU would throw up your hands and declare it the physical manifestation of a depraved mind. 

You would throw me glances of distaste, as I lay on your couch, precariously vulturing on my existence and half a dozen others. Stupendously unstable, and prone to convulsive, abrupt eruptions of laughter and melancholic troughs, unheard of in your circles. 

Yet here I am, at your doorstep. Both of us neurotic and suspicious. 

Let me in, I bring company. We'll feast on pictures of old, saturate ourselves in droning guitars and maybe venture out into the night. 

Ancaster via Toronto--

On The Nod - Segment One

He sat in front of me, beady eyes glaring through thick, dark, half-rimmed glasses.

The gutters were running with blood outside.

He sat his book down on the top shelf, kneeling down beside me. Picked up my head, in one hand and stared deeply into my eyes, as I lay on his Persian, hand-woven rug.

Look here mister,

Don’t be a sap

You’re done.

This place is rigged like an Indian Casino.

You wait long enough and the heat’s on you

Play it good, pack it in. Go to your old lady and sing her the tune she’s waiting to hear.

-Johnny enters the room.

Boss I got the wire.

We take him to the old garage on the water?

 -He turns to me

You going to end up a drifter?

Revenge is for suckers.

Lay on the meet, and I’ll see to it that the Spade takes the fall.

That negro is on the nod, like a lush.

-I stare at him blankly through my black eye

-He lifts up the receiver

Should I put down the hype with George, or you rather hear me calling up the Pigeon?

Its your turn.

 

Broken Ballad

Left the hum of my cubicle, at three thirty am.

Seconds later I felt the slight chill of an empty night, and cried out "all hail the American night!"
Walked into a fluorescent lit pizzeria. One look at the police officer talking on his walkie and the stale margarita pizza on display and I was back on the road with a terse apology to the man working there. I would not be hustled into swallowing unpalatable Italian food, made and served by a servile chinaman.

In third world countries stadiums fill up for politicians.

I cast an abject glance towards the north and abruptly picked up pace, running to my house. A quick shower and some grub awaited me. Got to my house and realized I had left my keys.

I laughed out loud. I was going to trounce the night!
My spirits hadn't dropped yet. I walked to an old friend, Timmy's. This is where the night really threw me a look.

In I walked, looked around, attempting to mimick the keen observance of a writer.
There stood the beatest old timer with some very respectable mutton chops, talking to this old short four foot pudgy lady. As I began to survey the empty racks, where hot rasberry muffins usually sit during the day, I heard him say: You seen this guy, Morrocan lookin fella with a reeeal nice suite (he gestures at his faded black shirt)? She slowly sways her greasy crown like a pendulum. It was like as if the great wired sieve of toronto had placed within the grimy of walls of this establishment its finest characters. On a table to my left was a balding character with a stained white shirt and bushy eyebrows toiling over math problems; on my right a young gal with a white dress rocking languidly to a tune in her headphones working on some fashion sketches in a great large drawing book; surveying her, and then shifting his glare towards me, is this other old thin hipster, his hair slicked back in grease, headphones on, with a small notebook (could he be sketching my character in this notebook, as I sit down with my mocha?).

Pervez Musharraf resigns on the tele, as I type this up proclaiming his humanity. Bhutto is dead, and Sharif is lurking around the corner. Pakistan's politics is laconic and dead. They recyle the old faces, like an old czech writer who loathes to baptise new characters in a novel he's been working on during the long cold years of Soviet occupation.

Ravenous as Nixon? Nah, he has a pretty blunt set of canines.

A self-appointed moralist? Saint Ralph?
If "the National" had their way with Ralph Nader, he would get shot fifty six times for having vague ideas.

This resident of Washington, rides his once eco-friendly white horse through and through, parading about this message he's allegedly been sending to the public, for too many years already.

Shit, man maybe he is aight, but people in America aren't that badly off, at least they don't know it yet, to listen to a populist leader who spins the political jargon wheel about "citizen power". Its the mere fact that he will never sit in the oval office that allows non-actors like him or your taxi-driver to talk horse-raddish about the bi-partisan stranglehold on America.

The words of "Summerbirds in your cellar" resound loudly...beware of false prophets!

Give the mule what he wants!

I was just watching the electric kettle reach a boiling precipice and automatically switch off, when I heard a rhinoceros or some other horned mammal devour a transmission tower, stirring up a commotion of rage and electronic clamour from my room.

I dumped the vociferous water into my mug, which contained equal amounts of coffee and sugar, and ran into my room; entering through the doorframe astounded, top hat and all!

Crying out in a fix, I dashed to my desk, dotted with mugs, like a german minefield, half-full with dark shadowy liquids.

The noise that had erupted from my room and garnered my attention from the kitchen, had been captured in a studio in Offenberg, in the dark reaches of southwest germany, by Judy Winter and Peter Oehler, and a handful of their long-haired, shabby friends. They probably lived as a collective on a lake, for four weeks leading up to their memorable session; indulging in all but a myriad of mind-altering activities. The revolutionary beggar's opera that ensued was probably the apex of their lives...just as my water came to a triumphant boil! Don't take their word for it, listen to their only remaining recordings: SWF sessions, available, only on vinyl from the subterranean German music company, aptly named, Longhair Music Label.

Moloch in the Ghetto

Moloch was a blood-thirsty Semitic deity known for demanding sacrifices of the human flesh. Allen Ginsberg was the reigning poet king of the beatnik era, with a passion for words and men!

What's the link between the two?

I wouldn't know, but ask Eldridge Cleaver:

The rebellion of the white youth in the epoch of worldwide revolution, against the oppressive injustice of their fathers, apparently took four discernible stages.

The first steps were heralded, by the irrevocable war-cry, of an oft-times tunic clad jew, followed by his assiduous pilgrims, "who were too lazy to take baths and too stingy to buy a haircut". This ravenous modern-day deity was raising his howl, a scathing, outraged denunciation of the system - demanding the first-born child of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and all the way down the lineages of these "great" slave-owners.

Cleaver, then quotes Kerouac... the lilac evening when Moriarty, a disillusioned white man, wishes he were a Denver Mexican or a soulful young negro with a husky voice.

This was just the first stage though. Moloch's revolution was content to passively withdraw into reclusive communal living, rejecting the economy of oppression. "In their cool beat pads, smoking pot and listening to jazz in a perpetual orgy of esoteric bliss, there were others, less crushed by the system, who recognized the need for positive action."

"Moloch would gladly have legalized the use of euphoric drugs and marijuana, passed out free jazz albums and sleeping bags, to all those willing to sign affidavits promising to remain 'beat'."
Hah... and yes that is where the deity of poetry ended and non-violent sit ins started.

My blues are the deepest of reds

when it rains it pours...
just had a horrible day; the human race is fickle and ineffectual

No wonder Stuart Murdoch thinks its a sin to leave the house!

I turned around an otherwise miserable excuse for the sun to come up, by turning into dominion after class, turning up the volume on b&s and turning down the aisle to pick up some delectable pasta sauce on sale!

Now, I'm no merchant, but this struck a chord with me, somewhere in between looking for bread and waiting in line:

I'm not as sad as Doestoevsky,
I'm not as clever as Mark Twain,
I'll only buy a book for the way it looks,
And then I stick it on the shelf again...

I'm only lucid when I'm writing songs.

Intermission

a man of culture is as far from an artist, as a historian is from a man of action

they were in the countryside,
he held a microphone,
she eluded him, resigning only to yes or no responses

"and your surname,
is it republic?

no

totalitarianism?

no

liberalism?

no

trade-unionism?

no

democracy?

yes"

Lady Grinning Soul

"Time – he’s waiting in the wings
He speaks of senseless things
His script is you and me, boy"

Two black Rastas were standing outside a Caribbean record shop, dressed in black leather jackets, eating instant noodles.

And the other day, I was on the subway, right.
Thoroughly enjoying Coldplay’s new album, right. (Oh the horror! Commercial music!? Oh no!)
And this flamboyant man of the homosexual persuasion enters and sits a few seats away, with one of his “girlfriends”, all the while gesturing and moving his hands in the air, like an opera conductor!
Now I am listening to “Lovers in Japan/Reign of Love”, completely oblivious to this flamboyant presence on the subway, well not completely, but I could care less, right?
And then across from me, is sitting this, this hulk-esque Asian guy who is so jacked, he can barely sit on the small subway seats. Him and his buddy, have probably just left the gym and he’s trying to read some sort of massive textbook, nursing I’m guessing. He’s inscribed on every side of the textbook, what must be his last name: HO.
Now this guy had finally settled with his highlighter, and like five different coloured post-its, right?
Then the aforementioned gaudy, glitzy, character enters the subway. I couldn’t help but chuckle as I saw Hulk get all uncomfortable, shifting and fidgeting his enormous limbs trying to concentrate on his textbook. He finally gives up!
I am out-and-out enjoying myself with this show, as I overhear Hulk talk about workout routines and his adversary talk about issues of femininity, along with all but a myriad of hand and full-body contortions and gesticulations!

look at my watch it says 9:25 and I think oh God I’m still alive

song for sunshine/goliath is ill

Goliath: 0001001110011001

Assailant: (in this case a young rebellious, sexually promiscuous, self-replicating Spyware infection of sorts) your days of nonchalant, opulent existence, and swift accumulation of funky, digital, voodoo soul food are over!

Goliath: no response - turns to flip some Jamaican beef patties!

Speaking of beef patties.. Kowalski the arbiter elegantiarum of music, movies, false ideologies and matters of the State, has resigned to reading SOUL ON ICE by Eldridge Cleaver and not downloading any music and not listening to anything but Joe Bataan (that is a such a lie.. oh god!).

Goliath will have to get a makeover in order to make it through his midlife crisis, and I.....need to go back to reading Latin American politics!

Mother Earth is Pregnant for the Third Time

There was a moment,
walking, sprinting, jumping on the sidewalk...now into the snowbank...now into someone's front yard,

there was all that and more...a song, a moment, that I mistook for an epiphany,
if not, a full out revelation, at least an idea for a post?? a frothy blend of my shapeshifting vision, to serve you guys out there in cyberland, never to come into fruition.

Two hours later, after walking through my front door:
after discussing the rejection of new music for old funk n' soul,
after trying to convince my roommate that contemporary porn is not art,
and I'm sitting at my laptop, before I park my chevrolet in the dusty drive-in of my otherworldy silverscreen of dreams;
rustling up the scraps of my intended post.

Alas, my conceptual monuments never secrete onto the keyboard, before flowing lusciously through a prism....leaving it altered, for better or worse, I'll be the judge and jury. No convincing, rousing, preacher-type, african-american lawyers are allowed for the defendant in my court either!

wars of armageddon by funkadelic is seeping quietly through my speakers... 1971 was the beginning and end of music.

Highlight of today: I printed out "The dream of a ridiculous man", as recommended by a friend of a friend. It's rich literature in courier new format is mind tantalizing pleasure when I'm on the can! CHEERS! GOODNIGHT!

Surrogate People

Triple-plied toilet paper is the death of the plumbing system!

Today I managed to clog someone else's facilities... I blame it on the triple-plied thick korean paper being used in the said household! No good! First of all its worse for the environment, and secondly it is the root of all fiascos.. (yes even the pigs of bay).

"New Dawn Fades" - Joy Division ...officially the best song to start your day off, as you exit your not-so-humble-yet-mildly-nonchalant bachelor pad! (Oui! my house takes after myself, with regards to being fashionably indifferent)

Last night...or no it was actually friday evening, I finally sat back and watched david lynch blow my mind with a wierd mixed drink of erotica, metamorphosizing characters, and blonde/brunette duality, all imploding in a plot that will leave you scratching your head. Perfect score! Reminds me of an Isis or Explosions in the sky song... calm even placid serenity at one second and the next everything is deconstructed with violent furor! Man... it was classic. I need to watch it again as soon as possible. ..and did you see Marilyn Manson feature as a pornstar???! haha

My judgement resounds: KKKK + ½K

that's all ladies n gents

Scam!!! (More news from nowhere)

I have some ideas... some sketches, a meaty blogpost with extra mustard and a mouth full of bourbon is forthcoming.

For now though I want to vent anger and enunciate on the future!

The whole "Rrroll up the Rim" thing Tim Hortons does is a Scam! I have come away with nothing... every single time, when I dig my teeth into the cup..the same red french text tells me: REESSAYEZ S.V.P

It's like invoking larry lazarus' dead body...only to find out he was content with laying down his tools! Did anyone ask him if he wanted to be raised back from the dead into the whirlpool of shit that must have been life in palestine? The romans must have been working him nine-to-five with not a prospect of a pension retirement fund...

Nick Cave is an auteur, riding his chariot through biblical lands and transporting it back to a contemporary New York, placing Larry in the queue for milk, surrounded by dope fiends and misty-eyed poets.

turn on the radio

some cat on the saxophone

she rubs a lamp between her thighs

and hopes the genie comes out alive

Archangels Don't Play Pinball

"The night is like a giant umbrella full of holes.
Someone's shot it full of drops of lime.
Like a giant pinball game constructed for King-Kong,
The moon is like a flashing 'Replay' sign.
And my city's like a giant pinball too.
The girls are flipper buttons there to press.
Easy does it, or they'll go into a tilt.
Steady there 'cos this game needs finesse."

I have found a musical saviour in Zappa,
I have found satire in Dario Fo,
I have yet to find victuals for my poor stomach.
Untimely hunger born at 3am, dead at four, and resurrected at five. These odd hours of the morn I dwell, for I am working now as we speak; all the while omar rodriguez-lopez jams away to a salsa beat in the background, drowned in muffled alien sounds.

I envisioned the avanguardista, I envisioned Mussolini and I sought finely cut linen clothing.
I need to revist some Frederico Fellini pictures, over my week-long break.

Tonight I was somewhat intrigued enough to view some Pink Floyd jams from swinging London in 66, a generation obssessed with sex and musical experimentation. I was impressed and I will probably do as our contemporaries do when confronted by something precious, download it in a rage and forget about it in an ironically named folder. (reference to older post: the infamous "hot off the frying pan") Eitherway, I have so much Zappa to go through that I should probably refrain from any further indulgent downloading before I have fully absorbed the new avalanche of music hot on my ears.

Previous to this I was going to watch the "Cabinet of Dr. Caligari", a picture from the year 1920! ... I decided against it though, for some reason silent movies do not appeal to me as much?! Apparently there is an american remake of the german original, released in 2005. Elitism equips me with self-righteous, indignant, pessimism against such remakes.

Let me finish this post off, as 'Good Girl/Carrots' - Panda Bear, plays softly in the background, with another excerpt from Dario: (this one's a keeper!)

FIRST SWEEPER: Alright... But what's this yoga got to do with being a roadsweeper?

SECOND SWEEPER: It's got a lot to do with it... Basically, it's the same principle. What can be more suitable than a roadsweeper's life, in order to suppress within us that baggage of arrogance, pride and ambition which prevents us from stripping ourselves of pointless vanities, and going forward, naked but happy, to attain the bliss and ecstasy of the platonic world of ideas?

turquoise boy puts on the blues

"lay down your lucky hand, upon her heart
morning becomes a kite, tangled up in stars
laugh in the midday light, and leave - it behind
move out into his sundry eyes, and sing, unwind"


somnolent and sober, I approach this palette
fired up on monster and wired on after eight splendor
out of this town and into an idyllic sunset I throw myself
there's something too familiar, that I seek to avoid. Maybe that can explain my ever increasing penchant for finding shelter in extensive jams. Experimentation and songs that clock in past the twelve minute mark, somehow bring me a taste of salvation. Whether its Dungen, Panda Bear or the Mars Volta... I aspire to repeat and encapsulate the "goliath", the "perfect trip", fixate on the intangible freedom that the escape from formulaic songs can bring.

I need to fix my boots... this goes beyond a simple removal of the crusts of chlorine that are left when the snow melts away. The sole/soul needs the gentle hands of a shoemaker, who works under the strict condition that his shop is dimly lit and smells of fine Italian leather, littered with empty boxes and scrap pieces, maybe a small am/fm radio in the corner playing distant jamaican dub tunes.

memories of Blake--my visions--Harlem

--We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread
bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all
beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we're blessed

I sat here, here behind my desk - hungry, wrought with exhaustion - reading the sunflower sutra.

Jesus and his lawyer are coming back in an hour.
Let me rewind:
I watched Belle de Jour today. A surrealistic work by Luis Buñuel: engimatic.

Yeasayer is immense! The demonic beast of finding new music has been put to sleep for now:
All hours cymbals provides the inebriation I require to escape the mundane.

hue of blue

retirement would do me good.

I could just put on my nice big headphones and zone out to music,
...speaking of which, there must be a glitch in the system, or I'm too bohemian to go out and look for new music. Eitherway quality* new music has been few and far between in the past months.
so I've been dusting my virtual shelf of old music that has been lying around in my ironically named downloads folder: "hot off the frying pan".

so far the only good to come out of this endeavour has been:

Autechre - Amber
Soft, textured, ambient electronic soundscapes - alien yet very human at the same time, like a martian with a human kidney (omitted heart to escape kitsch-ness, don't want to get caught in that web again. )

Sylph versus Crab

...; they thought I was like them, that I was a man, and I deceived them. I suddenly lost the appearance of a man and they saw a crab running backwards out of this human room. Now the unmasked intruder has fled: the show goes on.

I turn back, lean both hands on the balustrade. The true sea is cold and black, full of animals; it crawls under this thin green film made to deceive human beings. The sylphs all round me have let themselves be taken in: they only see the thin film, which proves the existence of god. I see beneath it! The veneer melts, the shining velvety scales, the scales of God's catch explode everywhere at my look, they split and gape.

A house offers me its black heart through open windows;

Things are divorced from their names.

-nausea