dear weekend,
give me back the things you take and take and take. and thanks, seriously, thanks. she drank her beer well. i got new nicknames for the B.O.T.H.(back of the house) and a motto(we run this shit). nic is now nicolas, man of science. i am now simply "quality control". i also saw this fight, which im blaming all on you. good thing those two bothered to roll thick. because thats how i do, or not at all! o and then not only did you compel me to mix strawberry juice with whiskey, you had me beat EVERYONE's ass in that car bomb speed test. I AM FUCKING IRISH. I AM FUCKING ITALIAN. so dear weekend, get bent. i know it was you who made those 2 girls fight. i know you added the 3rd one just to get them to fall over in a mess of heels, taking out that entire table. i know it was you that made them make out. it was cruel, having forced that fat kid to watch it all. he kept mouth breathing and he was sweating all over everything. i am however grateful, pleased as punch. i ate pork twice in only 3 days. TWICE! and then i saw my nana, and i know it was you who made her ask me why i wasn't married yet. i know you made her tell me im getting old. i know you then made her forget all that and re-ask me both things over and over all through lunch. you pulled my clothes off in some unexpected ways. you put them on in some even more unfamiliar ones. you bit me. burned my fingers. surprised me in texts. reminded me of some things i'd forgotten. made me laugh at my own jokes. like that one about telling a girl i was writing a screen play when she asked what i do. "Whu z ab-owW-tuh"... "its a screenplay based on Oregon trail." that was actually kind of great of you, dear weekend. between the cordova wolf and text based pioneer role-playing im finding it hard to hold a grudge on the other things. wait, honestly. weekend. dear sweet weekend. darling. comrade. captain. sweet, sweet-heart. i forgive you weekend. i want to have you babies. i want to punch you in the fucking mouth. rock you to bed. paint your fences white.
dear weekend, i want to laminate you, and carry you with me wherever these fucking weekdays try and drag me.
you are my secret. my first impression. my waves. my overcast in a warm bed. i are yours. i are. i are.
sincerely, humbly, brazenly yours,
b
Sunday, January 30, 2011
january! jean! shorts!
in honor of tobias funke, and in celebration of the odd winter heat wave... i did:D
Monday, January 24, 2011
votes and a tally
ok so, i can't take credit. this one was a gift from someplace close to harvard and mit where julia roberts teaches girls to become women. a.t. im gonna have to come up with a clever way to say "thank you" and "sorry" at the same time. because i am, o and im fascinated by what it is you do:)
ok for the masses: the footage is from "breakaway" (1966) by bruce conner. if you don't know what a purity ring is you are either not from the south or likely hell-bound:). i obviously posted the video frame poorly, i can live with myself on this one... so i hope you find it in yourselves to live with me like this as well. if you aren't 18, close the door before watching i guess. otherwise, what i though was a joke was pretty enough to force this post.
ok for the masses: the footage is from "breakaway" (1966) by bruce conner. if you don't know what a purity ring is you are either not from the south or likely hell-bound:). i obviously posted the video frame poorly, i can live with myself on this one... so i hope you find it in yourselves to live with me like this as well. if you aren't 18, close the door before watching i guess. otherwise, what i though was a joke was pretty enough to force this post.
on sonnets? all over them.
firstly: im not being sarcastic about the form. classically sonnets have been about selfless love, depth of concern and romantic exultation. as forms began to fall apart like other old things might throughout the 20th century (in zee west) classic ones like pantoum, villanelle, heroic couplet and sonnets received a nasty little stigma of being too naive, constrained, inorganic and elementary. often naive is just a nasty thing people say about retaining a degree of hope. constraint might be the best lesson to learn before you aren't. inorganic is likely a critque that speaks more to the historical short comings of the critic. finally, i think it's worth pointing out that there is alot of potential gravity in being elementary. i think its safe to say that often there is more metaphysical value in the word "damn" or "fuck" than in the word "metaphysical". although dearest o'hara* would get mad at me for feeling that way, even though he did all the time.
so i feel like sonnets, once freed from there stigma and left to roam in this silly age have to ask themselves before they fall asleep each night, "what exactly am i good for in this anvil of a year '011?" id say they're about perfect for content like this...
Bars/Mouths
a sonnet
Lindy Luckett: SHIT i saw her last night!
what the hell came out of my 3am mouth
i wonder. what it would be like to pin you back
to a sink. dye all those blonde locks pink!
Lindy Luckett! fuck that name is syrup! i
bet i could say it a thousand times and mean it.
and who couldn't when speaking to such a sinner's
mouth and eyes, so tracer bullet, so lampshade!
Lindy Luckett! granted the bar was girl-full,
but honestly its like a tipped over recycling bin
sometimes. i'm fairly certain despite being Catholic
drunk and your trillion cigarettes we were breathing
mouthfuls of air like stair-walkers, and i'd have prized
having you punch me in the mouth and pull me back.
see, slant rhyme a traditional scheme to bits, establish a thematic content that flies against the older ideal but wades comfortably in the general area... you have enough ammunition to depose all manner of beat era tyranny. all the while leaving yourself with something that i would assume amounts to a literary cookie or juice box in the above case. sonnets are lovely, and as minute hands do what they do i would argue that sonnets have kept pace well as not only a reminder of what was once accepted concerning love's potential with far less cynicism but also as an old best toy with all the new possibilities of simple being older and having such.
post script - at some point my run on sentences must transition well outside the boundaries of prose. i wish i knew better when exactly that was. i'd be content tossing handfuls of punctuation at my messes. in the mean time: i guess this is "fuck you" MLA.
* frank o'hara - american poet circa mid 20th century. trolled around society in new york. named dropped shamelessly in his work. gossiped shamelessly outside of it. died after getting hit by a dune-buggy in the hamptons (likely was drunk).
"as for measure and other technical [literary] apparatus, that's just common sense: if you're going to buy a pair of pants you want them tight enough so everyone will want to go to bed with you. there's nothing metaphysical about it. unless, of course, you flatter yourself into thinking that what you're experiencing is "yearning."" frank O
what an ass:)
so i feel like sonnets, once freed from there stigma and left to roam in this silly age have to ask themselves before they fall asleep each night, "what exactly am i good for in this anvil of a year '011?" id say they're about perfect for content like this...
Bars/Mouths
a sonnet
Lindy Luckett: SHIT i saw her last night!
what the hell came out of my 3am mouth
i wonder. what it would be like to pin you back
to a sink. dye all those blonde locks pink!
Lindy Luckett! fuck that name is syrup! i
bet i could say it a thousand times and mean it.
and who couldn't when speaking to such a sinner's
mouth and eyes, so tracer bullet, so lampshade!
Lindy Luckett! granted the bar was girl-full,
but honestly its like a tipped over recycling bin
sometimes. i'm fairly certain despite being Catholic
drunk and your trillion cigarettes we were breathing
mouthfuls of air like stair-walkers, and i'd have prized
having you punch me in the mouth and pull me back.
see, slant rhyme a traditional scheme to bits, establish a thematic content that flies against the older ideal but wades comfortably in the general area... you have enough ammunition to depose all manner of beat era tyranny. all the while leaving yourself with something that i would assume amounts to a literary cookie or juice box in the above case. sonnets are lovely, and as minute hands do what they do i would argue that sonnets have kept pace well as not only a reminder of what was once accepted concerning love's potential with far less cynicism but also as an old best toy with all the new possibilities of simple being older and having such.
post script - at some point my run on sentences must transition well outside the boundaries of prose. i wish i knew better when exactly that was. i'd be content tossing handfuls of punctuation at my messes. in the mean time: i guess this is "fuck you" MLA.
* frank o'hara - american poet circa mid 20th century. trolled around society in new york. named dropped shamelessly in his work. gossiped shamelessly outside of it. died after getting hit by a dune-buggy in the hamptons (likely was drunk).
"as for measure and other technical [literary] apparatus, that's just common sense: if you're going to buy a pair of pants you want them tight enough so everyone will want to go to bed with you. there's nothing metaphysical about it. unless, of course, you flatter yourself into thinking that what you're experiencing is "yearning."" frank O
what an ass:)
anticipation like a fork, turning
resolutions for the week: listen more. find a few swords worth enough of a fall to actually engage people in what might possibly be meaningful conversation. find something between these two things that might compel some desire to write. try to sleep. try to eat. get over how boring this post is in an effort to care more that i bothered to post than the terror that i can at times be exactly that: dull.
relevant confession:
im more comfortable having eyes bright with a weekend's stories than the monotony of the many things i simply must "do". to be honest im convinced this is not too much more than being lazy. replacing novelty with beauty is a trap. i can drive a constant type of dissatisfaction with life that forces audacity into a habit littered with laziness. like pop music possibly or reality television. content often falls victim to a trained appetite for simple stimulus.
there is an obvious place for this kind of entertainment. it can be respite, even cathartic. however it is no place to build a home, accomplish a life. wake up, dusty human. there is in fact beauty, regardless of how long you've neglected it for the sake of piles of clever jolts. there is an art to all of this that overwhelms your artful self destruction. there is a gravity to the grand effort of a day, and in it there are new jobs for the author.
maybe boring was just an excuse. likely it was never actually boring at all, a day, things that must be done. maybe be this label i've given the to simple work (tedium, monotony) was never more than the sad child of a simple cowardice, topped with all manner of excuses for an often overly indulgent young man.
*runs tongue over canines / feels a pulse*
now fucking go to sleep or you'll never make class.
relevant confession:
im more comfortable having eyes bright with a weekend's stories than the monotony of the many things i simply must "do". to be honest im convinced this is not too much more than being lazy. replacing novelty with beauty is a trap. i can drive a constant type of dissatisfaction with life that forces audacity into a habit littered with laziness. like pop music possibly or reality television. content often falls victim to a trained appetite for simple stimulus.
there is an obvious place for this kind of entertainment. it can be respite, even cathartic. however it is no place to build a home, accomplish a life. wake up, dusty human. there is in fact beauty, regardless of how long you've neglected it for the sake of piles of clever jolts. there is an art to all of this that overwhelms your artful self destruction. there is a gravity to the grand effort of a day, and in it there are new jobs for the author.
maybe boring was just an excuse. likely it was never actually boring at all, a day, things that must be done. maybe be this label i've given the to simple work (tedium, monotony) was never more than the sad child of a simple cowardice, topped with all manner of excuses for an often overly indulgent young man.
*runs tongue over canines / feels a pulse*
now fucking go to sleep or you'll never make class.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
not even kidding: this is how we WoW ppl talk to each other
so i uhhh... stay up late alot, and since servers are getting a sandpaper tug-job, i've been drinking the better part of an 18 pack of vortex neck miller lite bottles, smoking alot of cigarettes, eating left over sushi from earlier tonite and reading every 4.0.1 shaman thread i can find.
today (hopefully) when LS goes live we are all stepping into a new game together. for a general loner in game, who fancies lvling secret alts (prior to real-id), hours of farming various mats bc i get tunnel vision chinaman syndrome while catching up on episodes of the daily show or w/e gordon ramsey show i can get my banana hands on, and long water walks on the beaches of STV... i couldnt be more thrilled on the eve of Cata to be in the company of so many players i respect and enjoy and under the leadership of someone as patient, perverted and overly good natured as Alan.
we as a guild are on the verge of an incredible chance to create epic momentum heading into the most exciting expansion this game we all share and love have ever seen. i believe in the work we've done. i believe in the trials that forged us as a grp (member losses, attendance lulls, endless wipes on twins in togc, icc10m grp drama, getting used to uruu, getting used to rudi, getting used to melee's weekly gifts of unique and surprising ways to wipe us, getting used to kakes forcing slogans like "HEY MEAT" and "sounds like prom night" into situations that didn't warrant it, cringing when the girls argued in vent (as if it was somehow more volatile than any of the rest of use telling one another how bad they were), seeing the guilds we were all in pervious to <Del> falter, the sad condition of hunters past and present ( im suggesting as much plight as blight so dont be offended), cruico, dks that can only express themselves in terms of racial slur before quitting over loot, hipps' SM questline, making alli laugh so hard im convinced she often pees herself, making alli so angry im convinced she often pees herself, a whirlwind of parallel life issues from jobs gained to jobs lost, illnesses, romantic tragedy, romantic comedy, also, saleos' theft of green beans and the ensuing debate over the appropriate uses for bacon, cuban santa claus, the return of arefest, the introduction on incredible new talents among the army of knuckle-dragging apps (ilu ben), the abolishment of binds during raid... which was an incredible act of leadership, the demise of arthas followed by the standard jokes about how bad a pally foldring is or "damnit! we wiped release", that guy that bought kingslayer a couple weeks ago whom alan had stand at the throne and was thus ushered to his death with the first wave of valks)
we are a rare guild in terms of our capability and our relationship to one another... and if youve played this game long and still enjoy it you know how true this is.
download your patch, regem, respec, play the AH for massive profit, buy all your new fun glyphs... and ill see you @ 8 server blizzard willing.
download your patch, regem, respec, play the AH for massive profit, buy all your new fun glyphs... and ill see you @ 8 server blizzard willing.
ice cream,
kakes
kakes
another part of aforementioned advice
love:
love conquers all, but sadly it does not control all. ill hit on the later part in a minute but for now love is my subject. a metaphor ive always found very vivid and valid is weeds in sidewalks. love takes on the unglamorous job of the weed. weeds being only situationally unwanted plants and organic or essential parts of the natural world is an important point. a weed is a flower under the fight circumstances. it is a remedy under others. and alot of the time it can be both at once. important to this subject matter is its relationship to sidewalks. sidewalks being inorganic, an informative sociological byproduct of an contrived culture. sidewalks impose an unnatural repression of the more organic surrounding with the idea that what is given up by crushing the more natural things around them is gained in simple connivence. when goals that often obscure love and the search for love come into play people tend to create sidewalks everywhere in their lives. they throw out what is most essential in exchange for what is most expedient to making that suppression of love less difficult to stomach. but gloriously and to the untrained eye very unimaginably weeds endure. they press against the concrete, they overcome the inorganic sidewalk and they break through. not by way of hammers or wrecking balls but by way of this simple fact: in the end the weeds came first and if or after the needs for those sidewalks are rendered obsolete time dictates the inevitable victory of the weed. love is alot like this, it breaks through peoples walls, it overcomes their false worship of selfishness, distraction and comfort. it does all of this because it is more essential, more necessary, and like a weed, love conquers with a force that is foreign to the world of sidewalks.
(i ended this original email with a disclaimer about how fucking bad my grammar was and i think i mentioned i had achieved more run-on sentences and elaborate sentence fragments than faulkner, which isn't possible because faulkner was downright awful)
a part of some advice i gave once
control:
outside ourselves its a myth. absolute control doesn't happen, but the fact that lesser degrees of control exist sometimes falsely compels us into believing in control and our possession of it too much. when it comes to sav like i mentioned before you lack a strong voice with her in the sense that it would be almost impossible at this very moment to confront her with concerns for her lifestyle without setting off ww3 and triggering every defense mechanism she has. this lack of voice or sway with her is a current fact but i believe strongly not a permanent one. however acting as if you had a voice you don't have with her right now will likely only make her likelyhood to alienate you more sever. curt i think you love in the real sense of that word more than anyone else. therefore i think any act you take to try and call her out, corner her or seriously intervene in the parts of her life she isnt sharing with you will only serve to increase the parts of her life she wont share with you. and she needs you anywhere she is still willing to have you. she needs your love and your love must accept that while it is a conquering force it is not a controlling force.
it can be easy in your situation to psych yourself up into wanting to confront her by sensationalizing possible horrible scenarios wherein she gets hurt or worse because "you didnt step in". these thoughts are bullshit and should be dismissed as best you can. theyre bullshit in the same way powerball is. so not entirely bullshit but so astronomically unlikely that they make almost no sense to risk everything on. accepting your current lack of a voice and her fragile state of mind towards you. and taking into consideration how much she needs you despite her fully knowing it... do not play the lottery with her. take the love you have and the control u dont and harness the incredible qualities you have of patience and long suffering and just love the girl in any way she lets you. o and if your thinking "if i really love her ill confront her because i care"... our parents used the same reasoning to raise us somewhere between guilt and a beating throughout our entire childhoods. confrontation may be in order at some point when you get back some of the voice you had with her once, but until then remind yourself that a mute's ardent confrontation and warnings look crazy to everyone else... those kind of words from you right now will fall dead and push her further away from the best thing she has; you.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
its worth pointing out this one has Memphis in it
a slow wake
your a ball of fire kid
a regular matchbox by early morning!
shivering in the sheets,
swaying the entire bed
like all the steeples of memphis.
what surrounds your bastille
torches and shovels by early morning?
shivering in the sheets,
swaying the entire bed
like streets in the memphis-summer.
you can keep
the answer in your mouth.
tight amid those startling canine teeth,
barred from all the weak ears,
from the privilege of new air, life
its clear
in the unframed-couple,
folded 19times over by the early morning.
painted in all those scattered strokes.
a bruised and burning palette,
your eyes
a hell of a answer.
a sick little affair.
a real ax in the wall.
a pile of emptied shells.
a floor swept wide with faux-rubies.
what a bedroom you've built.
what a way to be reborn.
almost limp in the sunlight
best guess: was at/in a wedding
a balcony, a perch
some suits, two wheelchairs, a slew
of botton down shirts, the crowd
is swaying to
the eery sounds
of a thousand swords
being sharpened.
buzzing electrons.
alot of bulbs.
air pressure.
pews.
a regular easter without candy.
a real christmas eve without treats.
and a crowd?
my, my! and now some...
white-shirted lions!
ooo-ahh-pointy
teeth!
ohh-wow and claws
just like klaws!
isn't this refreshing? like syrup or roses?
isn't this wonderfully uncomfortable?
what a pulse
against tall tall windows!
drawn shades, bald, and careful mouths...
what a brilliant little pack of pathos...
such passion.
unexpected as chineese fireworks, love, money in old pockets.
where have you all come from?
the eggs are all found, the antlers are resting for now...
there's no candy.
only this floor of swords, two wheelchairs, this solitary sheep.
whatever, i had fun
all with
front teeth, the romance of guns, patience
ice
on the nose, the nose, nose and ice on it
alot of ice
alot between it
alot of new room
then (she or shes, no them) the near worthless glasses
all worthlessed up, tape tape bent dirty mouth - oh wait...
<break>
drugs in the ice, no
just prolly in the ice, no
yes there but more between it
<taxi!> for fuck'sake please...
yes your name is nick
yes your name is amanda
yes megan, you said so... ealier, now this.
blood under a nail
down the back of an ankle
between a toe, the tongue
haha, honestly... prolly IN the drink(s)... this,this,this
what a show, what a church, what a pile of planets
impossible, edged and splintering skree.
three gifts from a girl out of reach:
a tired laugh, hope and anyword that means the same thing.
best part about old poetry: trying to recall what the fuck you were talking about
sort of, a birthday
made me want to bleed a little
to sleep for days, to be hit in the mouth,
to fall down stairs while holding
full bottles, a stack of plates.
(a dog i was too frightened to name.)
i drowned it,
through a window.
as the world hummed like a child-
hood home's appliances in the night.
as the ceiling fan should have cut in pieces
a series of sleepless evenings. i did.
i drowned it.
used the black in my eyes, chest, fingernails
for a millstone.
in
the
hope
that
now
when ...
>breathing comes back toward involutary,
the moonglow tints two sets of red lines
on two collections of a back and neck,
a downed lamp ushers peculiar sleep
full of adjar mouths and fields of feathers.<
i find nothing stalking
the new freedom and mad draw of a small declaritive and a proper noun.
a car full of brontes crashes into a wall made of sub 3 syllable nouns
respite with sylvan trim
wooden lips are two
luna, mother of maddness
wooden lips are too
close eyed, and by and by
an odd strength to see
it through. see it through
luna, wooden lips, mouths
askew, the lips are two.
emrald, sapphire, charriot
no no just this earthquake
hands and glue glue glue
please, luna, time to see
moths and dust
moths and dust
moths and dust
briars, wolves, minute hands
past this
to you
wooden lips are two
luna, mother of maddness
wooden lips are too
close eyed, and by and by
an odd strength to see
it through. see it through
luna, wooden lips, mouths
askew, the lips are two.
emrald, sapphire, charriot
no no just this earthquake
hands and glue glue glue
please, luna, time to see
moths and dust
moths and dust
moths and dust
briars, wolves, minute hands
past this
to you
if vegans dream of tofu sheep, this is for ewe
bad decisions make for the best stories, and if life is a narrative then cigarettes are my punctuation and all my conjunctions have an alcoholic content. my mistakes aren't at all. they're my creative process, and you are nothing short of writer's block. an entirely unanticipated respite in this whirlwind of loose leaf. my confusion, inconsistency and erratic disposition are best confessed with words like surprise and gratitude. i can only hope you'd forgive such a weak apology.dear lord i sound like an asshole, grammatically and otherwise:(
with icing,
kakes
hello human, what a brute you are without them
tools for extended survival:
1. be very kind without EVER considering the follow through.
2. all questions should be fitted with a very large arrow pointing directly away from oneself.
3. internalize grief/longing. these will come in handy later.
4. qualify all commitments/convictions and follow them with an insistent facial expression that compels listeners into the talkers again.
5. always act confused by simple phenomena as if every little thing was a beautiful life lesson filled with intrinsic worth.
6. eat 50%> meals out of plain sight.
7. in the calm, contrived and isolated space these rules form. release held breath, wince and hope.
(the above is taken from earlier advice offered to a truly impossible person)
2011 act 1
"what did you do last weekend?"
"got catholic drunk, fell down stairs and to sum up the rest im pretty sure i broke my moral compass"
(conversation about new years) yay 2011
"got catholic drunk, fell down stairs and to sum up the rest im pretty sure i broke my moral compass"
(conversation about new years) yay 2011
chopsticks: more like the kids song than the sushi ones
10 years:
maybe more than 20 countries
4 universities
3 very different and important romantic relationships
5 houses
1 apartment
1 dorm
5 dogs
6 cats
1 passport about to expire
3 drivers licences
5,000+ beers
250+ bottles of wine
30 scars (rough count)
0 broken bones
0 stiches
3 car wrecks
47 states
200+ airplane rides
50+ train rides
0 major illnesses
360+ days of world of warcraft
3 jobs in coffee shops
2 cars
2 bikes
3 computers
3 pairs of cowboy boots
1 night in jail
0 dui's
these are some of my ornaments, and if it could possibly be true that we aren't only or are more than what we've done... im compelled to hope who exactly i am hasn't been given a voice at all yet. otherwise i think at least i could claim that my personal waste of a decade was accomplished with a notable degree of artistic merit. i feel tidally. i hope always. i want rest not only for myself but for everyone i know. i can't honestly think of someone i hate. i'm unsure what to actually do with any of this. hi, my name is bobby.
maybe more than 20 countries
4 universities
3 very different and important romantic relationships
5 houses
1 apartment
1 dorm
5 dogs
6 cats
1 passport about to expire
3 drivers licences
5,000+ beers
250+ bottles of wine
30 scars (rough count)
0 broken bones
0 stiches
3 car wrecks
47 states
200+ airplane rides
50+ train rides
0 major illnesses
360+ days of world of warcraft
3 jobs in coffee shops
2 cars
2 bikes
3 computers
3 pairs of cowboy boots
1 night in jail
0 dui's
these are some of my ornaments, and if it could possibly be true that we aren't only or are more than what we've done... im compelled to hope who exactly i am hasn't been given a voice at all yet. otherwise i think at least i could claim that my personal waste of a decade was accomplished with a notable degree of artistic merit. i feel tidally. i hope always. i want rest not only for myself but for everyone i know. i can't honestly think of someone i hate. i'm unsure what to actually do with any of this. hi, my name is bobby.
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