i was

slingshot

Fri, 03 May 2013 04:05:09 -0400

"A remembered relation of spaces, a hole, a circle, a shaded area — and a whole life comes alive. The..."

Tue, 02 Apr 2013 23:33:48 -0400

“A remembered relation of spaces, a hole, a circle, a shaded area — and a whole life comes alive. The real appeal of the map, perhaps, is not so much that it stores our past as that it forces our emotions to be pressed into their most parsimonious essence — and, as every poet knows, it is emotion under the force of limits, emotion pressed down and held down to strict formal constraints, that makes for the purest expression. These maps are street haiku, whose emotions, whether made by the well known or the anonymous, are more moving for being so stylized.”

- gopnik

gimmemyvoice

Sat, 23 Mar 2013 19:31:04 -0400

i still hold my lungs in high esteem

breath before the next act

loosen your tie

ok. i give up.
sardines are my preferred lunch
twice turned corners
notice the salutations

and hellos building goodbye castles

for the dukes and peasants

let’s make this work for everyone

i give up
eventually very much nowhere
find me in the wasteland
yea, april is the cruelest month
april is the cruelest month

i drink my wine in soft melodies
don’t tell me who i am
interestingly never in the position to remark
slurp the soft
you’re voice is strange,
can’t you whisper
the bending isn’t becoming
for you

bangs for whimpers
lungs for ashes
cold tongues encased in brittle…

simmering flawlessness
rose mouth, ice frothing lips
don’t kiss me, I’m a wanderer

6.9

Tue, 12 Feb 2013 01:25:19 -0500

struck with a thought

cradled a thought

found a thought

stumbled upon a thought.

encountered a thought.

inhabited a thought.

lost a thought.
fought a thought.
still fighting thoughts.
thought i thought.
gave a thought.
or gave a shit.
want to think?
thinking.
i thought.

got a thought?

"Do not think that one has to be sad in order to be militant, even though the thing one is fighting..."

Mon, 11 Feb 2013 17:04:40 -0500

“Do not think that one has to be sad in order to be militant, even though the thing one is fighting is abominable. It is the connection of desire to reality (and not its retreat into the forms of representation) that possesses revolutionary force.”

- M. Foucault, preface to Anti-Oedipus (via raynoll)

Nabokov on reading:

Sat, 26 Jan 2013 20:38:09 -0500

“Incidentally, I use the word reader very loosely. Curiously enough, one cannot read a book: one can only reread it. A good reader, a major reader, an active and creative reader is a rereader. And I shall tell you why. When we read a book for the first time the very process of laboriously moving our eyes from left to right, line after line, page after page, this complicated physical work upon the book, the very process of learning in terms of space and time what the book is about, this stands between us and artistic appreciation. When we look at a painting we do not have to move our eyes in a special way even if, as in a book, the picture contains elements of depth and development. The element of time does not really enter in a first contact with a painting. In reading a book, we must have time to acquaint ourselves with it. We have no physical organ (as we have the eye in regard to a painting) that takes in the whole picture and then can enjoy its details. But at a second, or third, or fourth reading we do, in a sense, behave towards a book as we do towards a painting. However, let us not confuse the physical eye, that monstrous masterpiece of evolution, with the mind, an even more monstrous achievement. A book, no matter what it is—a work of fiction or a work of science (the boundary line between the two is not as clear as is generally believed)—a book of fiction appeals first of all to the mind. The mind, the brain, the top of the tingling spine, is, or should be, the only instrument used upon a book.”

you need to eat memories and digest them on a regular basis, like kale and garlic and wine

Fri, 25 Jan 2013 18:14:08 -0500

you need to eat memories and digest them on a regular basis,

like kale and garlic and wine

dream 1

Sun, 20 Jan 2013 04:52:08 -0500

i read a Brodsky poem earlier today,

(‘i sit by the window’)

so of course,

i moved my chair and pulled back the curtains:

“i said the forest’s only part of a tree,

who needs the whole girl if you’ve got her knee?”

and i remembered late last evening when i decided to sharpen a few knives,

slow swipes back and forth across japanese stone,

then stoned,

to bed,

and my dreams largely consisted of this act - sharpening select blades

and cutting white paper suspended in mid-air.

small cuts of life make up Life,

or maybe Life is only a piece of small cuts,

and the forest’s only part of the tree…

nin/miller

Sun, 13 Jan 2013 04:06:33 -0500

the days when i witnessed myself as a conductor

and coordinated sweeping passages of my own life

with broomsticks and lullabies of monstrous childhood fears

i feared the day the sun would stop burning at the age of 6

and one can only imagine how petty my fears are now

growing inward, sadly,

preferring to spread out like moss which holds life beneath snow, ice and the driest winters.

i recently went to the snow for the first time in years. Our cars slid down the hill and missed the driveway on the first night. we rose the following morning to shovel ice and snow from the driveway, tossing massive chunks into the neighbor’s territory; we carried firewood on our shoulders and the tops of our heads; we teased darkness, gambled in the wretched outskirts of Nevada and smashed icicles from the edges of our cabin. I cannot recall the last time i laughed so tremendously, three days in a row, my stomach was sore; we tended to a roaring fire which has only now caught up to my soul and ignited some furious desire for life in all its naked intensity and melting.

*and here begins another attempt to write on a consistent basis in this goddamned blog*

it’s now a sharp and bitter san francisco night. listening to sally whitwell play philip glass, reading henry miller’s letters to anais nin, flipping pages in “sons and lovers” and finally, after a week away from my apartment….

to bed.

li

Sun, 25 Nov 2012 01:40:00 -0500

st make

2. other accomplishment

3. hawk siting on thanksgiving

4. armless

5 the solitude of moving forward

6 leaving space ahead of oneself

7 performance

8 photographed music

9 systems of sound

o

Sun, 25 Nov 2012 01:39:05 -0500

visionaries

electrifying quilted minds

on the spotted table married to former desires.

lightly walking towards the funny corner
wanting peeks
lowering my eyes to uncomers

i felt necessity
lifting my gaze
into an eye
peering deeply

silly games of look,
look look like you want something

l4

Wed, 12 Sep 2012 23:35:42 -0400

another night and rimbaud turns off my tav

smells the mold in the latrine

i find nearly eleven words to explain my state

nine of which are insufficient and tossed aside for icing on future cakes

pennies on my executive silences

in a stranger’s room, late in the dusty afternoon,

john smokes my cigarettes and i nap on my stomach

my mullet hanging into the sleeping box

L morn

Sat, 01 Sep 2012 23:00:44 -0400

wendesday lived quietly.

i spent the past four mornings born after sunrise

she quietly sipped on my becoming sleepless

hardly took the time to measure my goodbyes

of swift visions, isolations, victories or sailboats

my sadness was not becoming

undone as i was in the smile of her first eyelid’s twitch

when finally i was

no longer as delicate as the beginning encouraged me

being such a thorn as to protrude violently into the sunlight

cracking through my eastern window

expecting two bodies sprawled

like woodless pioneers

clipping sheets

for winter fires

split milk

Thu, 30 Aug 2012 17:45:42 -0400

there was the situation today,

a morning espresso at matching half with @benjaminlotan

to discuss travel, business, future plans,

not much sleep last night:

lotan working until 7am,

i, drifting off, after intense conversations, at 3:30,

and upon exiting, a little girl was standing in the doorway,

in a puddle of pure white,

wondering why it got on her dress,

the mother anxiously trying to clean everything up

but keeping it cool so the girl wouldn’t get upset.

for the young one it was almost comical, but curious,

and even slightly spectacular, since it was quite a scene, in the doorway of a busy cafe,

and she was right in the middle of it all.

as we left, ben remarked that perhaps 20 years down the line,

that might potentially be her first real memory,

vivid,

wild,

pure white against concrete and doormats

grey and windy san francisco swaying curtains in the background of her childhood

anti-oedipus, reading1

Tue, 28 Aug 2012 20:29:28 -0400

this book, i can already tell, will mark a radical shift in my thinking,

and reignite that Thinking about Thinking, Desire, bla bla bla

“A politics of desire would see loneliness and depression as the first things to go. Such is the anti-oedipal strategy: if main is connected to the machines of the universe, if he is in tune with his desire, if he is “anchored,” “he ceases to worry about the fitness of things, about the behavior of his fellow-men, about right and wrong and justice and injustice. If his roots are in the current of life he will float on the surface like a lotus and he will blossom and give forth fruit…. The life that’s in him will manifest itself in growth, and growth is an endless, eternal process. The process is everything.”

In the past, i’d read Nietzsche, Freud, Marx, etc and soak it up at the top level of my brain. And i think some bits here and there would trickle down. But none of it is really in my blood; it isn’t circulating. I’m going to make sure that i take this book in through other avenues, i’m going to inject it straight into my veins and let myself bleed into my chair will smoke spirals around my thoughts of desire and all the lives i might live.

l.8

Tue, 28 Aug 2012 14:06:30 -0400

terrible sunburn on my nose from san francisco burning,

ok and usually not possible.

figuring paint colors for Toad Apartment. possibly lighter blue, lighter grey.

i want to reinvigorate the space.

listening to Channel Orange album on repeat. Can’t get enough.

Laid down last night listening to Dirty Projector’s new album as well.
Some gems on there but often missing the little something that pushes me over the edge. that carries me.

Roy Orbinson, Love Hurts, stuck in my head all day, for that creamy melody.

Beasts of the Souther Wild is a must see. Fresh, beautiful, very sad, triumphant, overcoming, no fear, better and better the more i think about it. One of the best films i’ve ever seen. absolutely.

j.6

Tue, 28 Aug 2012 00:02:31 -0400

I feel,

somehow,

newly defined.

by my own terms.

my thought has previously suffered from a lack of deep questioning,

like scraping autumn leaves from the buried earth,

and i saw, earlier today in the park on the side of Alamo,

how questions are parameters, launching pads, paths of thought outlined ahead of my feet, around my feet, they are my feet, toes.. and to operate within walls, and to give yourself walls, to exercise efficiently - meaning tearing down walls - brings you forward, into new territory. Even when you build walls around spaces you already know. These spaces are redefined by their absence, by what is now Framed, what can now be concentrated on, more intensely, you take away choices, force upon yourself different opportunity, solve another kind of problem….

i have often been a victim of my own thinking,

easily falling into the comforts i have developed in myself.

so i’ve now begun to rent my apartment out to travelers,

from wherever in the world. they will take me from my space,

i will go live in berkeley, or wherever the fuck, it will knock me off the regular patterns,

but i stay focused, move forward. things become more interesting. i’m more interested in what will happen with my own life. the question of What Will Happen With My Own Life

“between the idea

and the reality

between the motion

and the act

falls the shadow”

6/8/11

Wed, 25 Jul 2012 00:49:59 -0400

“what soft passions had you,

despite time and old technologies

visionary over letters

and longing for days spent without books and writing

only speech and body.

from marble negotiations

all forbidden fruits made delicious as they’re forgotten

now we remember taste

once i only and understood through my ideas and sight.

sniff your nose

touch fingers

lick tongues.

oregano sweethearts

recovered journal

Wed, 25 Jul 2012 00:44:06 -0400

5/31/09 2:30pm my process, interrupted by technology.

5/31/09 6:15pm bring me your access,

i loved you every morning

a million like us

forgetting everything to be anything

now it’s done, you’ve felt it

to how, did we cover up the darknesses

stealing paintings on the sidewalks

from throat to throat

curled up over miller and miner stories.

how did we perfect our passion?

i woke every morning to talk about what i would do

so i could talk forever

i could have been your last stop

if i could ever stop

born every night to vacuums

wiping up my pure mornings

clean as aw whistle

but i couldn’t whistle for help or any dog on the street

my days are wandering

i wonder my path in history

people licking their chops in san francisco,

if you’re chasing something it will always chase you

you stop searching once you’ve found it, i mean,

when you stop searching you’ve found it

deadlines cut your life into dead lines.

in alamo square i found a blade of grass,

which told me i was rooted in the earth.

that i have smell and a yell

for outcasts and vagabonds on the horizon of yellow dreams,

purple windowsills.

notes from recovered journal

Wed, 25 Jul 2012 00:38:39 -0400

6/2/11 remembering that others do not accept and embrace life in the way you do.

6/3 remembering music must be joyful or thoroughly aching. never just motions and robots singing blues.

6/7/11 please prepare for war in every instance

6/12/11 i would like to plan these days off

6/12/11 how long does it take to digest something?

6/13/11 please prepare for love in every instance.