mind elevate interlude...

i want to convey the complexity of what im feeling when im deep in thought, when the angles made by sunrays equals the degrees between myself and The Central Algorithm.


kissyfur


sick

Sample hook for Anonymous

yo. see if u can use this...wrap some of those sick ass verses of yrs around it or somethin...i dunno...or throw it out like a used tampon. one love. whatevs.


I free-form fell into the game of hip-hop
Stillborn to lay it down heavy like a drop-top
FUCK bein ferreal or fer trill--
My flow busts like levees and kills
Makin achey breaky gangsta hearts knock
As my infernal internal rhyme freezes time and stops clocks

{ }I rock steady from the nasty north to the dirty souf

Spirited Away

when ive got those "cant-shut-my-brain-the-fuck-up" blues i blast My Bloody Valentine's "Soon" so loud it makes my glass table buzz like its coated with electricity and i stand there in the sonic wind, pushin at my crooked ass tooth with the tip of my tongue till the lil shit feels like its getting loose, which deep down i know it isn't, but it feels like i could pop that bloody motherfucker out and spit tooth root all over the wall. which is a pretty satisfying feeling.

i bet this is what it sounded like when u got swept up in the tsunami.

I like singing when im stuffed up.

the studio audience thinks I sound great.

Im sitting here mothing the words as I read john donne, pausing to sip alka seltzer from a highball glass.

All the while my new blog baby grows

"yrsoprettywhenyrunfaithfultomeyrsoprettywhenyrunfaithfultoME"
--The Pixies

"Punishing the other person is self-punishment. That is true in every circumstance." --Thich Nhat Hanh

Do you still love me?

Do you still like me?

U refer to u and yr family as "we."

I wonder when I will be a part of a "we" again...right now, with the pain gripping my body, all I want is u.

Despite my fancy schmancy education, the only things i've ever been any good at are selling drugs, ruining lives, and mother fuckin BLOGGING.

i can't even roll a decent blunt. fuck.

oh well.

i am on strike from the rest of america

i am not an american i am a new yorker. to be more specific i am a money makin manhattanite. this morning it was all about the peeps who actually live on this sinkin sliver of an island...an army of black coats and fur muffs and trapper hats and tiny cellies and flowy denim tucked into chunky timbaland boots.

not amused. jaded. crazy.

everytime there's some citywide shit like this im made to understand just how much i belong here.

new yawk city is a city that i feel at home in...:

From the comments page of the TWU (transit workers union) blog:

You guys really have a lot of balls. All you do is drive around in circles. Your job isn't hard at all. You get paid as much as cops and firemen, while much more as teachers. Something is wrong. You're asking for way too much here. Back down and know your roll. You guys aren't as high and as mighty as you thing.

...And this in from Gawker: STRIKE=CRAIGSLIST FUCKFEST

random notes for a post about blogs...

...or a post of random blog notes...



1. I miss anti. His was one of the first sites I’d go to when I went online. Without his blog, my whole surfing rhythm is fukt.

In the morning I’d check if he updated late at night, his time. He was/is my primary wesssside connection. I entered California thru his werds and pix. In that first bombed-out winter after 9/11, NYC was as cold as a cemetery gate—the skyline glowed white against the sky like gravestones—but Anti’s California was lush and alive and hyper-color, smoked-out great like stoner super 8.




2. A “real life” friend of mine was at my place after just having returned from a trip to Las Vegas with her boyfriend. Instead of yr typical souvenir she brought me a high quality printout of a photograph she took of three white pillars rising up behind a slick, brand new-looking trash-free highway, adorned on either side by black sand raked into meticulously even rows.

“I took that at the airport,” she said, proudly, as she handed me the pic. “I’m making an oil color out of it,” she said, matter-of-factly, as though this was the usual thing to do with random shots of an industrial landscape. She sat down at my desk to pack my pipe with purple smoke, but instead picked up Raymi’s book Marketable Depression. She was immediately intrigued by the cover. “A woman I know self-published that” I said, by way of introduction. My real life friends don’t know my blog friends and vice-versa. I try to keep everyone in separate Tupperware containers, cuz im neurotic like that. This particular real life friend has suffered from depression for years. We went to the same elite, artsy college where she was miserable 99% the time. She was so chemically imbalanced that she could do massive quantities of any drug and it never seemed to alter her essential bitterness and nearly suffocating blues.

She read out loud from the book:

…some people are born into this world with a black cloud around them and some people are just too stupid to know what sadness is. The people who don’t identify with depression their sadness is anxiety, that’s what bothers them.

“Hmmm,” she said, exhaling weed smoke through her nose. “That's pretty good.” The candlelight made a halo around her afro. My friend’s means of survival has been to channel what she can of the sickness into fodder for her stand-up comedy, but it’s a dangerous myth that depression somehow fuels the artistic process. When she's having an episode she immediately loses the ability to do anything creative…which is usually quickly followed by the loss of the ability to do ANYTHING, including leaving the apartment or calling back any of her friends. Depression annihilates her will. And you need a lot of will to live and even more to make art.

She nodded and sniffed. “I like it. How do you know this chick?”

“Oh, you know…from that online…blog thing,” I said, shrugging my shoulders, as tho the innernet was like the wind and weather and other things that i have nothing to do with.

"When are you gonna write yr book?" she said.

"Soon," i said. "I'm working on it."

"You've been saying that for years," she said, dismissively.

"Yeah, I know, but that was before I had my big break-thru and isolated what the problem was."

"Oh, werd? That's awesome! What was the problem?"

"Paper," I said, taking the pipe as she passed it. "Paper was fucking my shit waaaaaay up."



3. Watched The Graduate with Jamie and Deborah, projected big and bright on one of the beautifully bare white walls of j’s phat pad. That scene at the end gets me every time, when Ben and Elaine escape from her wedding and hop onto a city bus, where they run down the aisle to the very back and sit down, her in her white wedding dress and he in his torn driving jumpsuit. They look at each other, laughing and catching their breath and then stare back at all the old, worn out faces who are scrutinizing them from the rest of the bus. They stop laughing…their smiles linger, then fade on their faces. They don’t look at each other, Elaine looks at her hands in her lap and Ben stares straight ahead. There is the sound of the bus switching gears as it merges onto the highway—heading to where, we don’t know. The scenery that has been pleasantly passing is rendered into smeared blurs as the two young lovers stare on with their thousand yard stares and you share their feeling of being cold cocked by reality cuz at this point you know the movie is over and yr own reality will be back in mere seconds when the lights come on…

But the ending is more than that fuckt-up, “oh shit” feeling…it’s about the realization of what it means to be on yr own…to make a decision, together, as young people, to cut yrself off from the people of the generation prior.

…Something my generation is just beginning to do.



…Im sorry if I blew the end of the movie fer ya…but ya see im often at my best when Im ruining something. It’s like a social tick of mine.

4. ray was inspired by my declaration that i am a post-christian:


5. Here's something: this dood sent me beautiful, poetical emails and told me he used to blog so i kept on him, fronting like the hot shit that i think i am, till he started his site back up. Imagine my surprise when i find out that "Ian Penman" is not a PenNAME as I'd so cleverly assumed but the real name of a real writer who really inspired me back in the day with his music nerd essays.


6. ...then there is the blogger who will remain nameless who makes me feel beautiful and loved...

...the one who is strong enuf to carry my heart...

I have a problem with paper, it's true. Whether it's in a book or looseleaf or in thick white stacks...it's everywhere. Im overwhelmed by it.

Do u wanna runaway

For a couple of days, maybe a week?

We can live out my hip-hop dream.

We can change the way we speak.

I’ll bring plenty of bacon

And you can cook the beef

I’ll be yr toy, and u can be my freak.

U will be the light of dawn to my pale evening sun

We’ll run away first, and then figger out where to run

I’ll meet you on the lawn, puffin a pipe shaped like a gun

I just wanna hold yr hand and spit rock lyrics

Got drama so cold breathe out and u can see it.

Play the cards I was sold, best believe im the shit.

With my inner nerd and sinner werds…

Im still ill and tuff enuf to put the truth in bold rather than to cherry tree it.

I wish I could knock up another girl.

My baby mama--keepin my legend alive.

We can get high& lsten to King Tubby &go out walking in central park, my giant mnster timbs crushing leaves lying stunned & frzen on the ground.

Go to anonymous' site...that's what I mean about purity.

I gave u the purest thing I have.

Now there isn't much left!

i feel so lonerly right now. like the world is a tight, secret handshake that i don't know how to do.

im trying to take care of myself and love myself and not act out of anger without just pushing the feeling down and forgetting about it either ...instead i try to embrace it and figger out why its there. i examine it carefully and pay it the attention it demands. it's one part of how im trying to be upfront about what i need and how i feel...saying shit outright in a calm, clear way...

i keep trying and trying but it doesn't seem to be getting me anywhere. fuck. i really really really really really dont want to be alone tonite. i feel like i cant muster the strength. i want to be held and understood...i want to be someone's special girl, with nothing else in the way--no other person or persons or job or school or ambition or fear or sleep.

i want someone who is down for me 100%.

i want real magic.

Now that it's winter I hardly ever hear my neighbors fucking. Sometimes I think I do but its the pipes singing instead...

i see colors when i cum.

A raptor! O yeah. I'd take that bad boy to midtown on a leash...some straight up jurassic part shit, homeboy bitin off heads and layin eggs.

time to get medieval

i've decided that instead of a gun i'm going to get a falcon and rock the motherfucker on my shoulder.

I am a post-christian.

jesus built my T1

on the innernet u can have it all but none of it's really yrs.

yr soul can surf the riches of the world without the weight of ownership

"possession" is so 90s...









ray