Month: January 2010

morning morning morning

I’ve not been good at sleeping lately
when I put myself to bed
I play with my iPhone for an hour or three before sleeping
but last night I didn’t
I just lay in the dark
hands in Big-Head Mudra for twenty minutes or so
then turning on my side
then my stomach
then the other side
then back
and when I turned again I realized I had no hope at sleeping

I got up and drank some water
a quarter of a mg of melatonin
realized the video had stalled
so coverted it to iPhone size/format and set it to upload again
then lay down again about 2…

it worked better that time

this morning I woke at 7
mucked about
made tea
had some green and brown drink with oil
showered
late as always
waited ten minutes for the train
pretty smooth getting there
switching to the bus was funny
there were five (or more) buses stacked up on Jay street to replace the G train
they were all just sitting there… hardly any people on only one of them
waiting to fill before it took off
the B57 was also ten minutes late
but it dropped me off at the top of the block where I was going
interesting industrial block

I met a kid in the hall with a gigantic red mustache
we were going to the same place and took the stairs to the sixth floor together

a female photographer shooting five ( or six ) guys
( one being her father
one being her husband )
in a wood working studio
specializing in furniture
and reupholstering in a clunky hipsters kinda way
done by two girls (didn’t meet them)

I liked the space, but found the whole meme of artistic masculinity ( the phrase “noble savage” was used many times & one of the tea blends was called that ) being created by women in a female space quite funny
though…
I kinda have always imagined the heterosexual world ( though most of us guys there were queer, but the father, husband and red stache ) to be like that
yeah, patriarchy
yeah, rugged masculinity
with a lunch packed by mama
clothes made by mama
women complicit in all our actions
even if there is some clicking of the tongues…

one of the other models there was a boy I met years ago but hadn’t seen in a while
a certain austrailian musician boy with big brown eyes…

nice to see him again, yeah
he’ll be playing every Wednesday in February at the Rockwood MusicHall, 196 Allen st, LES

we ate fine cakes made with matcha; made with bird seed: millet, flax, chia, macademia, bitter sweet chocolate and sugar crystals. ate pears with beautiful cheddar blue cheese. fine chocolates. smiled. shook hands. played with the dog…
again, the room was called on to make technology work
and upon the silence I stepped up and turned on the old stereo: appalling there was no iPod hookup
only CDs… most of them burns
and mixes at that
not trusting their unknown style
I put on a CD-R labeled Fleet Foxes after whiping off a thick layer of dust
it only skipped a few times

eating and posing as knitting and laughing
talking plenty of Tennessee
Red was from Kentucky
the Husband from Illinois
the Father had spent plenty of time in Nashville

talking of the smell of tobacco drying in sheds
that sweet smell
hats
making music
all the people we’ve been listening to
being on tour
traveling china
the stretch of the great wall we liked
and how we served our tea

photo shoots

it ended not too late
and though the photographer had me take off most of my costumy clothes
she wanted a few portraits of me when I suited up to leave…

the street was suddenly more lively
some strange motorized bear riding a bike in a tutu
with a big sign NO PHOTOGRAPHS!
like the cops flashing lights saying “there is nothing to see here!”
the bus passed me as I was waiting to cross the street
so i looked up an alternate route and walked down another street
imagining the life of living in such a strange industrial area
“we used to make shipping, now we make business”
under the freeway
waiting for a bus
minivan after minivan of chassidic Jews slowing down to look at me as they turned by me and down the street…
parking…
waiting?

I looked
and figuring I’d missed the bus
I walked down the street to see…

no, just eating lunch in a back street…
no, just late: the bus passed behind me

so I walked back to stand in the sun
waited 15 min for the next 57bus
wasted some time on Grindr
and by the time I got on the bus I hit my sugar crash

now I want to nap
but would also like to post the pictures from last night…

I’ll only have about an hour when I get home before I have to leave for Tom’s gallery show
kareoke after…

oh, wants…

.iP

practice makes less perfection
less criticism

if I spend my time going home 
every time I go home
writing about events
by hand even
by hand 
or by finger.

the day was very difficult
caught on edge
I kept wondering if it was the heated selenite that I replaced the Himalayan salt with
or that I ate a cookie before going to bed
and playing video RPgames until three thirty
whatever It is today
it wasn’t sitting in front of my computer and masturbating
but still plenty of fixating on this tiny screen or that big one

I started the day drinking healthy intentions: greens, browns, bowel brooms.
I ate left overs
I felt all shakey
I threw out rotten food, forgot to take the bag out when I left tonight, now my apartment will stink
I procrastinated long enough
the load of laundry I had to do
did not have enough time to be in the dryer
so I took it out of spin-cycle and hung it all around my apartment..
perhaps now is the time to put up the poster?
or will there probably be less people at 8am on a Sunday morning?

I went down to Envoy to see Jorge read
late as I ever am
and waiting 20minutes for the A train
I calmed and confounded myself on the train by avoiding pop music and the rpg by watching Doug Aitken videos that have been on my iP for months. Tom seemed to not like him… 
he seemed so full of ideas
far too many
equally bored and fascinated by them

They were an hour late starting, so i ended up being a half hour early… or right on time
I spent only moments rejecting Envoy and the scene… it became quickly clear it was just my insecure ego feeling threatened, thus demeaning that which was more powerful than I in an attempt to feel stronger
it occurred to me, watching doug aitken, that Succsess is about getting support, assets, resources behind you. 
amassing power, like politics and money… to be able to wrap others’ wills around your own ideas and make them manifest. 
that is the magic of masses: 
as said in that tv show: “I got clever and made them take their own [lives]”

I have learned, I notice, not to criticise unless asked to 
no matter what my mind is doing
I don’t voice it unless it is requested

after the first reader
the boy who organized the show asked if anyone was in a band? or knew how to turn up the sound?
I waited a few moments
ten seconds?
he said “no one?”
I stood up
because I can do anything
indeed 
my fingers went right to the dial after only glancing at the soundboard
I told him I’m not in a band
but will be sometime…

listening made me feel that I didn’t like poetry
I often feel that way
most poets I don’t like
nor do I enjoy overly clever fiction that sounds like it’s coming out of a creative writting class
that being said
I thought of taking a creative writing class
enjoying the assignments, feedback and community
while accepting I would not be doing the projects as she’d like me to
using sensual allusions, similies that force the flavours into the readers mouths
I think I want more sparseness
like the translated existensislisms I read as a child that made my mind work so hard to full in all the holes, cultural and literarily that weren’t covered in the translation

i had fun taking pictures
if I had an iPad
could I edit the photos I took on the train heading home?
make my selections 
and set them to upload as soon as they got on the network…

a boy sang at the end of the readings
a tall chubby boy
with a forced virbratto
an attempt at demure masculinity
I may have liked him a lot
because he embarrassed me
and I kept wanting him to stop
but while he sang songs I could not follow
I imagined them better with sweeping orchestra or punchy jazz band
such sincerity I didn’t trust
or fall for
but hey
he’s chubby, tall, big, no sense of style ( stupid grey tennis shoes )
long hair! badly braided in two tails 
again, his clunky masculine attempt at being a little girl
stubbly dark hair where his beard should have been, instead of just his thick throat
I wanted to like him
like I want to like Anthony Haggerty
how come I don’t?

I don’t trust my rejecting voice
I don’t want to say I should be more “positive”
I thought about it, perhaps a better word would be “procreative”
but all these words have messy connotations
when what I’d like to do is be more supportive
to say yes to what is happening
trust and love it
help it happen
see the beauty in it
pour out nourishing milk from my heart to make it stronger, prettier, smarter, greater

not poison milk
not strangle it’s throat

I want to be loved
and not by someone who loves like I do
with such a bitter toxic tongue

.iP

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.iP

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.iP

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domesticity

I’ve often said
the hardest part of settling down for me is being Domestic
not being all tgat domesticated
yet with a critical eye
I get blown away at all the little bits that gather
the dust that settles

I was a boy
you could never the floor of his room
currently
my bedroom is a walk-in closet
the bed was even layered with crap for a few months!
but I’ve moved back in (January 2, 2010… even a bit late on that)

yesterday I did a water cleansing ritual:
scrubbed the bathtub, tiles and sink clean
and changed the filter and washed my water pitchers (should have been
done on the solstice)

amazing how much cleaner the glass looks
and better the water tastes
and whiter the tub is
and faster the water drains

amazed at domesticity
but my kitchen still has a pile of stuff at the far (not that far) end
of it

I vacumed the rug, cleared off the end table

why do these simple tasks feel like such Events?

how often do you clean out your water filter pitcher?
oh, what IS all that film… red? black?
from the pipes or the air?
oh, new york: you’re so grimy…

but I do love living on a hill
on nights after rain, like this one
winter, no leaves to obscure the shiney street of the hill
the cars (endlessly) going down
light shows across my walls of all the reflections…

.iP

The Unhealable Wound of Failed Loving

I’m angriest at my father for his inability to love me, his wife, his
children.
I’m terrified I am damned in his jeans, to walk forever that lonely
angry hallway

I papered a wall with faces of men that I loved
had to leave certain ones out
coz it’d hurt to much to look in his eyes
or feel him staring at me

I only got halfway through
and looked up at those men
and saw them all as people I’d failed to love,
Oh Look: some girls too

I’d tried
I couldn’t figure it out

the most recent scenarios aren’t even marked there
I had no expectations with them
though I know they were hurt
their own damn fault
I’m more annoyed at the memories than impained

but they still illustrate the hollow point:
I cannot love and be loved
left now, filled now, with voidy numbness, could be said

and I don’t feel I have the heart to try it again
that tedious story retold

I suspect I have to lose everything
or have it all taken from me
the last shreds of my heart
to empty me out

til I’m not eating or fucking or dreaming or hoping
til I’m just dead, living like the rest of us
(my imaginary companions… I wouldn’t call them friends)

when I’m truely alone
and my hands are no longer busy
will an angel come to do all the work for me?
brush my hair?
fill my lungs with air?
warm that hollow space inside me?

if all of my tasks are like this, yes?
impossible projects to complete
with maps, scraps, recordings and dictates strewn about
Everywhere
but locked from my doing by some indellible vice
or blindness
loving only distractions
some impossible riddle
so simple it has no words
thus out of my realm of understanding
until I vacate myself entirely
and let another control

will I then complete the mystery of my flesh?

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i used to always
but haven’t much lately
discribed the world of us
consisting mostly of dead

I lived, once, in a land where everyone was dead
I was born dead
people there often aspire to be dead
yearn for it, and always terrified of it
wishing only to be, really, stuck in time
in endless repition
always young
always foolish
always irresponsible
always ignorant, and happy
free of the knowledge of their countless mistakes
and those of all their fire bearers

I…
i wanted only to be full alive
but that’s not how we live here
Dead
some answer I came up with
always the same
wherever I may go

something I always find funny
how those things we did when we were younger
no matter how amazing
are now a thing of the past
and something to be grown away from

pronouncing everything fabulous
pronouncing everything boring
dining at cipriani’s
taking acid in a hotel bar
hanging with celebrities
fucking with the stars

some fantastic twist to get the emotions out of the way
or only living in our heads all the time

when we hear our peers
or perfect strangers
affecting our past glories with such fascination
we can only to be glad to be past it
no matter how many lines of coke are frosting our nostrils
or toilet papers stuck to our shoes
at least we’re not stuck at that Idea of A Good Time
today

we’re something else
only glancing over our shoulders
while striding bravely into the future
either playing our film soundtrack in our headphones
or only in our hearts

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fuckin beautiful.
from Engine Summer, by John Crowley

and I found it

http://rosenschale.blogspot.com/2006_10_01_archive.html

.iP

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with surprising perfect framing: most of my clothes are from other
people.
both of these shirts were left behind for me to find
"but the question is: how do you make love stay?"

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the message board at the corner has been stuck doing thus for days
like most electronics being ignored
it’s constantly flashing in spastic patterns

but the phrase it sticks on
clever
gives me the shivvers.

I’ve been having some intense emothions these last few months
my throat’s closed
I’ve been intensely afraid
and most of the stuff I’ve written I’ve kept private because I find it
embarrassing

why now?

I’m wrestling with dæmons

I’m fine with it
of course
happy to open up my emotional channels
all the things I kept at bay in survival mode while running from dæmons
they’re here now
caught up with me
we’re hanging out
gnawing bone

waiting to see who’ll make the first move
tgat gets carried through