Untitled
L'accumulazione

< | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | >

All of me traveling

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 20th, 2005 at 11:07 PM

A steep slope slowly reveals more, like an uncompassionate smirk
Before me it is really myself wary, myself made in its intimidating incline
And unfair and vague to me a climber: the crest was a departure, and cruel changes
Ascending I see then a thicket of countless towering trees
They line a concrete thoroughfare, a picturesque road that we flew down.
Handsome on the bright lake, all of me traveling to you eventually
Sounds of difficulty faced by scraggly creatures *eek eek*
Their apprehensive faces and hooks, fighting the faceless season
Observing I associate grief and gasp to this scene or nature’s parallel
My odyssey of struggle results from distant lovemaking
And that’s all worthwhile, all I have in my serene spaces,
I reserve a dream of us, ethereal, still happening
Glowing pink lips like a mirage against the silhouette of sunrays
Your lips on my stubborn stretched skin, older than you
A skirt from my memory banks that is yours dancing amid gusts
On the windy lawn where you really could be, or were, a gust
Like the past charm, en route to touch my unshaved cheeks

There is no pattern or schedule governing my shifting emotions
Morphing from the dreary to the fanciful resolution of all this wondering
Wandering to hoist up to the supremacy of my offering:
The first life long commitment I ever made
No tricks or trends, let simplicity be a useable adjective to describe
And endure even the ugliest of moments, oh how they invade our pretty, dense love
Resolute and stubbornly devoted to a commitment unseen for a year
It is remaining steady beyond disorienting estrangement
We can use time as another; time shouldn’t only corrode a love so fresh
I saw big cruel boundaries between the water and the future
Cleansing, astringent liquid that fate will babble over yours and mine
Are you still so relentlessly present and evasive as I am this traveler?
Of my subterranean world retranscribed by how you plastered yourself on it
Whispering opaque, visions, hallucinations, no, in all of me traveling
to you eventually
The blades of grass scraping to see of nocturnal submissions to despair
Couldn’t possibly last any longer than this long until daybreak
Morning dew soaks in my cuts’ blood, morning sun heat cauterizes

This entry has no comments.

Oh Thurston..

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 18th, 2005 at 09:07 PM

This entry has one comment.

Thinking about my dearest love, and Thurston

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 18th, 2005 at 08:56 PM

My love has off and went to France. She now resides in Aix en Provence. I am so happy she has this opportunity to taste the world. I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I am utterly devastated and in shock. When my sorrow hits like this, I usually reach for Sonic Youth to lavish me in a cacophony of serenity.

After I had my share of tears, Sister, Goo, and Daydream Nation, I was really in the mood to share this very rough but vibrant sketch that the Archivists recorded about a month ago.
Its a wham drainer and nowhere near mixed. Hell, it probably won’t be used. But for Thurston, why not?

I’m still packing for thursday departure.

This entry has no comments.

Daredevils have a place…

SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 18th, 2005 at 03:28 AM

Last night, Jamie mentioned something about the dissolution of the Treatment. She said that she missed our shows and that she still listened to our stuff and that doing so made her feel good. I miss the Treatment too, in a helpless, but realistically forward-moving kind of way. Bombast has a place if it is incomparable, irrepressible, and sincere. Sincerity as a formidable force in art can make a thing sans novelty, sans selfishness…honest. The sincere work is an unmistakably obvious primordial force and the only desirable kind of art I care to embrace these days. What a risk in subjectivity! Not sure if our art was a mere allegory for sincerity, it may have been more than that. It was a synthesis of our honest angst; shared by many I am sure. A statement was the non-negotiable performance of a wild reaction to real time, such that we all held. Madness on the brink, loneliness, and surprise at what we had found stewing in the subterranean recesses of our conscious and concealed minds. Surprise that sweaty, smoky and disoriented practice could birth what was never intended, but what was truly there. We spoke and we spoke ferocious, but hopeful. I’ll play this for my kids and know unequivocally that I left them something straight from my guts. Thanks for all who showed HONEST support. I know who you were; there was gravity in your eyes to rival the gravity of our rush to you. I wanted every song to proclaim that we were just desperate to say this to you.

I leave Thursday. I’ll say more soon.

 

This entry has no comments.

For starters…

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 15th, 2005 at 02:29 AM

Greetings. I am here typing something, not sure. I am smoky and veiled, suppressing mad ruminations, the churning beneath my opaque personality presentation is temporarily nameless. I think a fresh phase of life is upon me, weirdly unknown, inspiriting, disarming and I want to be removed to begin. Its a kind of unsettling estrangement from all things familiar, all things that consume and subsume so much of what I take to be myself. I realize how all I have done comprises so much of what I am. I want to see beyond both the beauty and sadness of this. I needed to break out of the maze for a while and so I dropped my day dream/job, joined WWOOF and I am headed here for the good work:

http://www.cerretolibri.it/

I will be a volunteer worker helping a fattoria trying to stay organic or certified (forgive me I’m inept when it comes to the terms right now). The work is simple but a real poetry: picking grapes and cultivating them so that this travail will yield a nascent wine, a baby Chianti (rich robust intense burning…am I like this). I’m still not sure how to wrastle the fantasy of this pursuit. I close my eyes and try to imagine my hands on vines, dirty, back aching. My reverie resembles the fall vagueness held in the picture beside these words.

I am also thinking of what I’ll miss…that’s more than I can begin to describe here…

 

This entry has no comments.

< | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | >