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hexidecimal mixups [31 Oct 2008|12:14am]
[ mood | morose ]

its interesting to think about writing codes. writing becomes not just an act of creation, but an act of building, of piling things on top of and inside each other to create a structure. word foundations, cantilevers of numbers, suspension cables out of brackets. but what if the cables dont have equal tension?

it could be the case that i have written bad code.
the tags dont align; the symmetry is off; there is a computational error.
I made the effort, i poked my fingers into so many divets and dialed a bunch of numbers and made a house of cards and all that. I did some programming homework, i put in a shit ton of effort.
i built a structure that is sadly misshapen. why is symmetry so important? biologists say that the most physically symmetrical organisms are most successful. so nature is preoccupied with symmetry. but why people too? why does code have to be the same on both sides? the sad truth is that one side is usually heavier and it falls over with the weight left unborne by the other side. the heavier side gets buried. the lighter side becomes irritated for being tied. and then youre in this flying angel position and who can talk in a situation like that?
if people are brackets, and one bracket is always heavier, then people are bad at bracketing because they cant confront the silence that comes with imbalance.

im mostly just paper procrastinating this bullshit.
ill do it tomorrow
ill do it tomorrow
ill do it tomorrow
i cant blame a bad prompt. who can write a symmetrical prompt when people are flying around in the air from imbalance.

l'dor vador

[31 Oct 2008|12:11am]
I have html prowess
l'dor vador

literary science! [12 May 2008|04:04pm]
im trying to have mmy blinders on but it feels good to do things that i like to do even if its just procrastination

being creative makes you smarter!
left vs right, left vs right
left brain
right brain
go go go!

left brain right brain go go go!
OCSB yea yea yea huh OH

the concept map is the intake and the output, its ok to integrate, its GOOD its necessary to integrate
the green tide is coming in, the tide is coming in
its usually ok, the levees leak but i have a harbor attendant, shes very attentive.
whats interesting is that even the green tide is lunar, a neap tide
neat tide
neat thoughts, mapped out thoughts mapped out in neat circles with a scratchy pen and multidirectionality
whats ALSO insteresting is that writing papers, i always want to write a paper about the writing of the first paper
i guess thats what psych majors do. majors are the major the primary! the primary colors of american occupationality identity occupationality

its just that the scientific method is my personal enemy
and its becuase of the concept map! intuitive science
intuitive science. literary science!
there is a science of fucking everything...culinary science, political science, administrative science, economic science
why not literary science? thats what i do! im a literary scientist!

african american literary canon.
african/orality is equated with historicism, with conservation and preservation-->prevents the development of a NEW and modern African AMERICAn form, separate from strictly american and strictly african. a weird line
so futurism, the attempt to make orality NEW is still kind of african, and therefore still kind of old. need a way to incorporate and finely control the ratio of old and new, of oral and textual. IS IT POSSIBLE?
i dont think its possible...there can only ever be lots of experiments, and every experiment will have different preterites for narrative reliability, and so there will always be some element of narrative fallacy.
is this going to be an eternal quandary for african american writers? i think so..........
thats why it needs its OWN criticism, one that is designed using a whole new set of semiotic standarads, different from african and different from Moby Dick
still in a nascent stage of forging a canon

...as much as i love Melv.
even landlocked lovers yearn for the sea like navymen
ROMANticism, related to roman? related to classics?
1 FIREBALL |l'dor vador

documenting brain impulses [29 Mar 2008|06:39pm]
[ mood | contemplative ]

important things that are pitted against each other. like, battles. or, other important things that stand alone.

  1. battles vs collaboration
  2. acceptance/assimilation vs separation/disaggregation/definition
  3. individualism vs intimacy
  4. facebook vs email
  5. starrbooty vs SERIOUS WORK
  6. regularity/dependability vs excitement
  7. boy vs girl
  8. girl vs boy
  9. words vs numbers
  10. humanism vs perfection
  11. humans vs nature
  12. earth vs space is an important one
  13.  rhythm vs sound
  14. nobility vs being taken advantage of
  15. dont you wonder sometimes?
  16. electronic vs instrumental
  17. 90s vs 00s
  18. revival vs NEWnewnew new new new vs. remodeling
  19. here vs there
  20. calamity!
nlue blue dont you wonder sometimes bout sound and rhythm, nothing to hear nothing to say blue blue doo boo. waiting for it or looking for it? anxiety SPACE which drive is superceding, is writing the magic tool to crack through the nietzsche fact of the psyche?  if by rule you can never know the underlying subego causes of your things, then maybe writing is the marlinspike that cracks the shell, the extenuating outlier. 20000000 leagues under the ego, thats what the book really is.

and maybe that was nietzsche's undoing, the foundation of his self-negation. anyone that writes knows what writing does--it exhumes, unearths, disaggregates, unravels, exposes how nothing holds together, but also delineates the kernels that do hold together, echoes and taps cracks against the few solid surfaces that do exist. nietzsche obviously knew about all that, he was a writer. but he was writing about the impossibility of disaggregation and clarity. in a sense, writing about the impossibility of writing. ironic! maybe the beginnings of nihilism, of his characteristic self-negation. of POMO! this is what we have to do matt!--this is the key to the new order. art is the way towards knowing. there is a way of knowing. but hmmm how is that different from the enlightenment, or from the science end of science vs god? ah shit, and this is the whole reason we are stuck. something that can't be argued against is terminally flawed, and also all-terminating.

writers that could move us along: dave eggers, milan kundera. that kind of base and disillusioned emotional realism, that theory of humanity as self-evident. emotional realism is a solidity. but then...thats only a scant departure from surrealism, realism...cubism even. fuck. how do we get OUT? thats what my honors project really should be...composing a tract that will move us out of postmodernism. maybe virtualism is the next thing.

we need an emulsifier! something that will remodel to preserve what we have, cant lose everything or start from ground zero thats impossible but we need to SHATTER and reorder, shatter and re-suspend the new parts into a new seamless whole, seamless unless you get very very close. thats an emulsifier, we just need the emulsifying agent, the glue that will hold these fragments in their new arrangement, against the will of physics, anti-intuitive, anti-gravity. suspend the particles in the middle of the air until there is no air left. a suffocating and totalizing shift. break from the concrete, rip up the brittle sidewalk like a red carpet and whip it through the air so it shatters and all the pieces fly and regather like magnets in a melting pot. the SUN! everything is an allegory for everything else--hyperconvectionary granules, the size of texas. everything is a mixture of parts, everything with a circulatory system is an emulsion. amalgam. the whole out of the parts, herman melville--MELVILLE! melville is the answer. wherefore is there no seminar on herman melville!

any group that says they have The Answer is a brainwash institute.
but melville had the fucking answer.
maybe to move forward we need to revisit melville. yes. yes. now we are getting somewhere. the man had answers. a million chapters on the anatomy of the whale, the anatomy of human thought, the psyche, the universe, the attempt to name and rename and name and identify and locate and append into a bellowing catalog of things understood, an ever-expanding and contracting list like a overworked pink lung. the list is gasping! ah shit what am i talking about. novelists write philosophical psychology, or political philosophy, but the point is always to try and portray the relationship between the world and the mind. is the mind part of the world? how does it grapple with things outside of the mind? is it possible to have things exist outside the mind? if so, do they overwhelm or submit to the mind? or can they be peers? what happens when more than one person is in a space? how do those people interact with each other, and what does that mean about the nature of the mind? is there a universal nature of the mind? is it possible to extend a theory of human thought into a situation with a group of unknown people, and make predictions about what they will do, what they will think, how they will feel? it is possible, empirically. but what about in theory? is there a point to theorizing against empirical proof? does life influence theory or vice versa? where do theories come from?
is it possible that a human can completely defy all theoretical and empirical knowledge of the way things work emotionally? isnt there a finite palate of emotions to work with, all depending on the brain? if someone is capable of an emotion that nobody else has ever felt before, are they a human? or a new species? that is a touchy issue--the othering of people. people might kind of be bound to respect that other humans are capable of their own emotions...but not a non-human. WAHHH how would you even write a character like that, who feels something that nobody has ever felt before? its NOT possible, because the only way that words get invented is to describe things that exist. and you could invent new words to describe new emotions, but they would not work as communicators--nobody would know what they mean. how many people have to be able to identify and intuitively apply a word for it to be a functional word? periphescence is a perfect example. it was contrived, but anyone that has ever felt that emotion knows what the word means. there is a large constituency for the word. but what if somebody felt something that didnt have any any any any words at all? if they couldnt reify it with any sort of expression at all, what would happen? would it disappear? would they convince themselves that it wasnt real? did it ever really really exist? what did the very very first trans person think?

or, this is how you could get around it. in the way that Camus got around it with The Stranger. you dont have to explain anything! you can just show actions and then the motives behind them are implied and characterized by the actions they are supposed to have instigated. but theres the next thing! a hidden implication about human nature: actions always have motives, and actions are always linkable to motives. a primary body and then a secondary body contingent on the first one. but what if there are people who do things that dont in ANY WAY line up with their emotional motivating landscape? not even on a deeply buried, subconscious level. That's the theater of the absurd: causation is corrupt and empty, not just deracinated but instead, never having existed at all. so then i wonder if the theater of the absurd was meant as an observation, or a forward-looking anxiety? comes back again to dickens, george orwell...children of men. maybe the theater of the absurd is the american descendant of that british tradition of futuristic dystopian thought. what is it called? does that tradition have a common name?

so anyway...novels are a philosophy about humans. it can peripherally feature other common problems for philosophy...time, aesthetics, morality...but all of those hypotheses hinge on the medium, writing, which is decidedly human and characterized by the human psyche, the subjective tenure that words have psychologically. theory of writing! this is something i should expand on more one day. make me a famous brain.
l'dor vador

Applying For Loans [25 Mar 2008|11:58am]
[ mood | grim hilarity ]

So im finally paying my overdue tuition for this semester! Really, I am being held captive as a spectator to Bill Pine's battle with the Federal Credit Bureau.

Bill  and I are sitting in his office calling various banks and asking them all the gory details about the prime rate and the abeyance period. or whatever. really, its like this:

my dad said we have to use my computer so that i can have all the information (what information?)
so im fucking around on facebook
while bill calls up well-meaning ladies with country accents and grills them until they are near tears. he has piles of yellow and white pieces of paper with hand-written notes. but because he cant find or cant read anything he writes down, he asks the same questions over and over again.

i want to run away from this situation! i dont want to be associated with my father's abrasive money-personality. on the other hand, if i sit here quietly he will do all of the grunt work for me, and it'll still look like i'm involved. i am being responsible! being tangential to this process is being a grownup!

(Bill insists on using the speakerphone for all important telephone transactions)
Bill's mumbling aside: "the guy's in india, we have a bad connection."

Since Dell's office is in India, and he has spent many bad speakerphone hours on the phone with Dell, he assumes that all phone problems are because of India, not because of speakerphone. That doesn't even make sense. Why would Sallie Mae's offices be in India? He just can't bring himself to find fault with the speakerphone. Speakerphone is the shining merit badge on his boyscout sash of Modern Technology. Hip to the jive, man. "PRIME MINUS ONE PERCENT!"

There is one more farcical condition to keep in mind during all of this. This has now been going on for nearly 4 hours, and Bill is still bellowing into the speakerphone under the guise that since i can hear it, i am involved. Meanwhile, he has asthma. And its getting harder and harder for his voice to maintain its assertive volume. In the last half hour, he has degenerated to a quavery yell. "Pr-PRIME...What's the Prime?!"
1 FIREBALL |l'dor vador

relapse [25 Mar 2008|02:36am]
death cab for cutie and live journal
even landlocked lovers yearn for the sea like navy men
what is happening
l'dor vador

Somatic Study of the Word Edited [23 Mar 2008|01:55am]

The scratching of thought-corners on the linoleum surfaces of the skull.

A spongy bloody body fiber, like the blood-soaked lining of the uterus before menstruation. That is the anatomy of the word. A living thing, writhing, juicy, absorbent, easily sloughed off. Should be sloughed off—monthly. Uterine. Uterine disturbance. The word is the abdominal pain that will not leave until it gets flexed out in a carnal process, like peristalsis. Blood loss, iron loss--fatigue, anger, volatility, volubility. A kind of agony to PRODUCE, to give life to a thought.

The expulsion of unfertilized thoughts is easy. It is when a thought gets fertilized, meets its complement, when it gets too big to come out. Can’t drip out in cramps, but becomes worse even--a parasite. Growing, eating, expanding and dividing until it is too big to roll out, but has to be squeezed out. Wracked out of the body, birthed. Colossal, turbid and still. A loud crack on the dirty kitchen floor, and then a gaping hole down into the earth.

l'dor vador

somatic study of the word [23 Mar 2008|12:56am]
[ mood | creative ]

music to remember for when it becomes popular enough to download: Force Theory. soundtrack of Jesus Camp

so interesting the way i conceive of writing when it comes from a keyboard...a different act altogether. the creations are from a different mindspace i think. different imagery.

eerie whistles hang in the space between words, and measured pauses like the sniffling clicks that come from the sinus .
everyone's bodies made of all different sizes and shapes of ovals, hanging in loose tangent to each other. easily rearranged and hollow.
what is the brain oval? what is the brainspace?
the horsehead, what is the horsehead?
the scratching of thought-corners on the linoleum surfaces of the skull.
this is what we say when we ache, when words are like the sharp crack of tap shoes on the dirty kitchen floor. when we have all of these images that we cannot put to work--so what are they for? where do you put that picture that you see? it doesnt exist but in  your seeing it. and it does nobody any good when they see it either. but not to throw away, and to save the beaver mountain town, the socially conscious nature loving town. for to save the beavers and the trees, and not to love the airplanes but for the asphalt. these are the things--what is the what! the shit is not the shit--the pigeon is the shit.

some things exist only in a floating head world, in a virtual wordspace world, in a paper world, a mindspace filled with paper words.
need a locus of time that cannot fold itself into that way
again, the scratching thought-corners, the origami. time and thoughts. folds. of fat, rolls of jelly flesh. round the waist, merry go round. free type free dash free dash dash dash jump bunjee jump of wordplay swordplay.

a spongy bloody body fiber, like the blood-soaked lining of the uterus before menstruation. that is the anatomy of the word. a living thing, writhing, juicy, absorbent, easily sloughed off. should be sloughed off--monthly. uterine. uterine disturbance. the word is the abdominal pain that will not leave until it gets flexed out in a carnal process, like peristalsis. blood loss, iron loss--fatigue, anger, volatility, volubility. a kind of agony to PRODUCE, to give life to a thought. the waste of unfertilized thoughts. because when a thought is fertilized, meets its complement, that's when it gets too big to come out. cant drip out in cramps, but becomes worse even--a parasite. growing, eating, expanding and dividing until it is too big to roll out, but has to be squeezed out. wracked out of the body, birthed. turbid and still.

writing writing writing writhing
h, is all
said the words. they bounce around against the surfaces, they sonar out and back to know where is the what, hello, hello, what is there? where are the fibers? where are the smooth surfaces? where are the shiny ants? what is the bright thing? what is moving and what is still?

l'dor vador

incomplete as of yet [18 Jan 2008|05:39pm]
[ mood | contemplative ]

The Playlist of a Modern Sailor

INTRO about Miami:

I have a friend who is from Miami, Tim. He is clever, thoughtful and compassionate, looks like a Spanish Conquistador, has a guffawing laugh, is extremely capable, really likes sugary foods, is reading a scholarly book called Medieval Mysogyny. His mother is Cuban, his father very white and in seersucker shorts, and his grandfather “Gramboo” is old, demented, and cycles through old Navy stories on a regular schedule. For the past 4 months, Tim and I lived, traveled, skinny-dipped, hiked, slept in ditches, sailed, and puked together. For nearly the entire time, we had no music with us to signify or qualify any of those experiences, nothing that would fix memories as belonging to the emotional resonance of a certain song or collection of songs. All that we had were the printed lyrics to chanteys, whatever our chief mate whittled with his guitar, and whatever we could borrow from the soundtracks of other memories. This is a sample of the odd collection of songs that we prompted each other’s recollections to spit up, and some explanations of what they represent about living at sea.

Composed by Wynton Marsalis
Played by the Wynton Marsalis Septet

This song is played at the end of every episode of, I think, Monday Drive-Time Jazz on 89.3 WPFW (a DC station), the time of day I used to drive home from softball practice everyday in high school. So, weekly I heard this song, loved it, and didn’t know anything about it. Then the last time I was home I heard it again, still at the end of this same radio show. Frantically I called in, the DJ told me what it was, and it was the glorious answer to a 4 year question.

That happened the day before I set sail, and I carried that joy of “finally!” onto the ship. The song came to mind a lot when I stood at the helm, where I could only sing quietly so as not to wake the captain, whose quarters were nearby. Also, it was much safer to sing a song that had to be recited from memory, because one that tempted you to improvise would distract you from steering a course (not at all like steering a car) and keeping a lookout.

“Sodom, South Georgia”
Iron and Wine

This is a song that I have heard a lot, but I never really zeroed in on it until working in shipyard in Key West. It played through the crackly speakers of a very old analog radio via an Ipod, a peculiar item to behold on an 18th-century brigantine schooner. I listened sitting on the dock without a shirt, taking blocks (pulleys) apart and using osphoric acid and a wirebrush to rust-bust their innards. The song was about as quiet and simple as my work, and walked along at the same dallying pace. The slowness of the song seemed like a meaningful juxtaposition with the cutthroat pace of being underway. You can only listen to the most energizing music underway, to key up for whatever your speedy task might be. The fact that I was able to listen to this one signified and enhanced a welcomed period of rest.

“Closer to the Sun”
Slightly Stoopid

This band was kind of big sometime in...the late 90s? I think I saw them play at HFStival in DC, but thought they were dumb because of their name, and because they just played a lot of simple stoner-ska. But then—!
Every Saturday afternoon instead of having Ship's Meeting, we had Field Day (supercommando of the whole ship), and my watch (A Watch: Emergency Response Team!...in a fire, it was my job to wield the fire-axe. That just means that in a lot of drills, especially ones in the dark where I had been pulled out of bed, I wandered around half naked with my shorts inside out, trying to hold my fire-axe in one hand so that none of the sail-handling and support teams running around would encounter it, while also trying to figure out how I could help the effort without the use of one hand, and without setting the axe down for somebody to step on in a roll. During these situations, I always listened to “The Immigrant Song” in my head.)
—during Field Day, my watch cleaned the galley, a room about 4x5x7 feet, and you fit 7 people in there. We had to stack people vertically because there wasn’t enough space on the sole [floor], because all our butts got big from eating white flour and sugar almost exclusively. There were people standing on milk crates that slid back and forth in unpredictable trajectories as the ship rolled, and everyone who was crouched with their faces crowded very close to their disgusting work, scraping wet bleach-soaked crumbs from underneath and behind dark corners—the crouchers quickly and periodically hopped out of the way, sliding reciprocally around the crate-sliders and shouldering their knees so they didn’t fall. The whole room's people rearranged every few seconds like a Rubik’s cube twisting, like my wringing stomach, everyone having constant touch-and-go contact on all their bodily surfaces, everyone working their hands as fast as they could wherever they were because they would soon slide to a new place with almost assembly-line timing, because the waves come at regular intervals: [scrub-scrub-slide] [scrub-scrub-slide]. It’s like the supercommando you can envision on land, but like dice in a yahtzee tumbler.

The point is that Field Day is the only time you get to listen to music while underway without making it yourself (it’s a safety hazard to not be able to hear any potential malfunction with the ship). One girl on my watch, who had been my drunken-mess-roommate on shore, always put on this song while I was scrubbing mung off of the stove, twisting and leaning and bending around people who were working between my arms, under my legs, in front of my face. And I was surprised to hear that this band has actual musical talent. Having good music while we cleaned made it a fabulous party, enough even to distract me from my heaving stomach. Finally and most importantly, Field Day restocked my quickly-exhausted catalogue of songs to sing on bow watch.

“Little Wing”
Jimi Hendrix

The most fun songs to recall are the ones that let you depart from their recording and sing your own way. This song, since it’s a pretty simple chord progression and really easy to harmonize with, and the main guitar phrases are easy to sing (which is important when you have a terrible memory for lyrics…I mostly ended up howling long vowels in lieu of words), serves the purpose beautifully when you are alone on bow watch and want something to belt out unreservedly. That means performing for the huge space in front of you that your ship is eating up as you move forward, and the flashing bioluminescents in your bow-wake, and if there’s a small moon, the 89000 TRILLION STARS and all the lightyears of space. But the most important part thing is that the only human presence is yourself. You bang on the caprail and then you have a rhythm section, and then you remember some instant when your friends danced wildly, so that you have a whole energetic ensemble that fits inside your head and inflames the great blackness of your audience, whose roaring approval manifests as waves slapping the side of the hull, and you are dislodged from the bowsprit so that you stagger and lurch, flinging your whole body into your bellowing.

I, of course, am only the most recent of a long lineage of sailors who likely give secret and private bow-watch performances to the intimate vastnesses of sky and sea. Though it seems odd to consider Jimi Hendrix as part of the same heritage as an old Irish Chantey, there is no question that as you are rocking there in your grand performance, there is a sense of tradition. How could anyone addressed by the rasping wind, as centuries of sailors have been before, keep from singing back at it? Any song that shares these qualities (simple, easy to harmonize, easy to improvise, extend, loop, splice) will tend to rise to that ancient and venerated objective of Bow-Watch Ballads. This leads to,

“The Eraser”
Thom Yorke

Yorke’s melancholy vowel-howling (like Radiohead from concentrate) fits well with my own habits. Again, an easy, simple song to harmonize and improvise. It also came up during Field Day, where I had my drunky-roommate (who used her beautiful singing as a life stabilizer) as company, and we sang some awesome 3 part harmonies.

“Maybe I’ll Come Down”
Soul Coughing

Again, same principles as the two preceding songs. Also, this song talks about maybe meeting up with someone in the distant future, which is a more or less constant theme of daydreaming at sea. In some cases, when you have no idea where in the ocean you are, and your imagination is just as real as any passing second, singing this song while you imagine the reunion faces of people you love is, in a way, fulfilling the title’s half-promise.
1 FIREBALL |l'dor vador

[10 Nov 2006|08:18pm]
But my mind, like yeast culture, will make patterns and make patterns, and make the same patterns.
1 FIREBALL |l'dor vador

could be a number of things [03 Nov 2006|04:55pm]
[ mood | cheerful ]

there are songs that do one thing, and for all intensive purposes, they are all the same song, because the brain is overreductive from the outside, neuroscience and shit,
and i feel like thats a license to be overreductive
when i dont want to run errands i say,
they are just errands, and when i feel bad at something i say
its just a thing
and whenever i get to a thinking spot i can only think about books taking all the reduced things and repeating them until they flesh out again
but still to understand you have to pick the meat off the bones
and i cant come up with any aphorisms about it oh well

if you look at fur with brown spots you could say that the spots are moving because you can say whatever you want but youre wrong, i think education is learning how to be smart about being wrong
because unless you do math or science or some shit your feelers are your thinkers. you say she doesnt know what she feels; what else does she think about?
i dont like rules but i dont like not having boundaries
i dont like flirting but i do it
i dont like to try to think if i cant think
i dont like organizing
i dont like not being able to pick apart
i dont like to identify a thing that i want soon
i like to think about things coming later
i dont like to do things I DONT LIKE TO DO but i like to do them

ive been thinking i want to create something terrible
not one of those things that hits you like gestalt yes like an audrey tatou movie, but something as immediately digestable
it wants to be something terrifying, grotesquely bloodless, something you know is true and dont want to think about
but i want to make you think about it
like a star dying, monstrous and overwhelming and unavoidable
like Beloved
yea, toni morrison, thats what i mean

l'dor vador

summer commencement exercise [23 Jun 2005|01:31am]
[ mood | content ]

finally, on days where it thunderstorms like Zeus and Neema were fighting in the sky with tuning forks and salt shakers,
the equinox cloudbuzz fog instinct activates like a sickeningly high voltage circuit
and in a trance we follow our trembling toes and noses outside,
limpid, unmerciful, hungry,
hushed and wide-eyed,
listening for tiny noises in the land of mist and fog under the sky's orange mark of ancient druids,
probing the sky for an explanation of the moon and its draperies,
it is speed season.

2 FIREBALLs |l'dor vador

if youve got a good woman [14 Jun 2005|09:47pm]
[ mood | nervous ]

no my child this is not my desire
im diggin for fire, past the skinnies and sharp words or at least dry voices
where are the ones who have been seeing all the colors in the air
come tell me!
beginning tomorrow ill be bleeding and lonely and severly unattractive

3 FIREBALLs |l'dor vador

ONGINAL [06 Jun 2005|11:05pm]
[ mood | tired ]

my foot is twitching my nose cant breath i have head pressure and arm twinge!
on stage

hold chopWstick first in onginal position, the beautiful work of trpical and chinese glorious history! now you can pick up anything!

1 FIREBALL |l'dor vador

in need of compass [01 Jun 2005|02:22pm]
[ mood | crappy ]

yes i know, cheesy literary allusions and metaphors
i apologize
maybe i should be charging more for the toll road,
the wear and tear on the highway is getting a little extreme,
ive been jumping back and forth across the bay bridge
and now im hanging somewhere underneath,
even though ive conquered the seven seas with my ultra super highball jumpkickchop,
i need to find the north star until it grows arms and has traffic directing flags
and cones
and rods
when did i grow a glaze-over?
why am i so irritated that people want to be around me?
ive been reaching farther and farther towards the sky and
now im getting sucked up by rainclouds

i dont have nearly as much patience as ive been showing
so where is it coming from?
im draining the ocean city human reservoir,
and conversations are running dry.

do i hit the tool shed and fix things up?
or is consistency just really pricey?

l'dor vador

demolish [30 May 2005|11:08am]
[ mood | luguuuubrious ]

we ate it
and now were gonna go to the BEACH
and eat morereeeeeeeeeeereree

chris: "daaaaaaaaang" (giggle snort)

we need a refiller
bring us more

The wagwan
Rises before the sunshine
Wherever the dog barks with the white fog
The blood of one thousand soldiers saturates the tampon
Memorial Day we remember the days
That the machine gun fire went kaboom

sunblock vs. suntan lotion:

stay in the baseline
or you will be called

l'dor vador

still so much to do [27 May 2005|12:57am]
[ mood | mellow ]

who gets paid to help me automatically detect my music with a remote detector
where does money come from?
where do light sabers come from
what are mothers made out of
why is everyone making excuses?

watch me sweat with people who have nothing in common with me but the year i was born, on top of patronizing worksheets and notices and homeworks and pencil marks
 i can throw it down, i turn my camera on, i turn my eyes off, i breathe out, i breathe in, i smell trees, i drink bubbles, i grab skin,

we jazz june.
we leave soon.

1 FIREBALL |l'dor vador

powerbar moon [16 May 2005|09:14pm]
[ mood | exhausted ]

ill never ballsincomindown again for wootton
childhood, sweat, dawg, silly, lightsey, monkey, blue first and third [not white, fuck you white], heat, taking 40 minutes to warm up, adrenaline, disappearing acts, prying, controlling anger, 4 leaf clovers, miles, afternoon, let the bodies hit the floor, practicing in the parking lot, earnest, pop on the sweet spot, tumors, broken fingers, babies, team, bloodtrust, hits on 3, dirt, sweat, dirt, dirt, sweat, bruises, DAMASCUS,,,,,
making home out of a mud puddle.
what do aliens think about softball?
its simple. it matters. it has always been there.
its done.
on my heart.

on the other hand
i excavated the closet...

not to mention a thwarted spanish exam and its accoutrements.

emotional exhaustion like white on rice.

5 FIREBALLs |l'dor vador

even if there are double agents [10 May 2005|10:29pm]
[ mood | content ]

oh, hey piccoloCollapse )

cat genius style
hosed and grass clipped and beethoved until we
trip over black cats and our feet bleed and we
have to shoot little boys because we go offroading in station wagons and
strip in the front yard
in the fucking SUMMER
even if my satty sepatown snizz be coughin the rough throat snazzle,
my damie's got the sizzzzzzzzzzle sinnnk--
come friday,
imma SOAK. YOU. UP.

3 FIREBALLs |l'dor vador

[05 May 2005|11:29pm]
[ mood | TRIUMPH ]

"i just took three benzyls and i am the complete opposite of unchilled out"

michelle D ho is looking

2 FIREBALLs |l'dor vador

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