horizon

Certain Signs that Death is Coming:

songs i've known for years sound brand new. it's like when you finally start to get a foreign language... oh, i keep saying to myself, i didn't know they said it like THAT.

it keeps happening. over and over, song after song on the shuffled fate of my iPod...

when i go outside everyone looks super familiar. all the people on the street and in bar windows and coming in and out of boutiques.

fade in before end titles: a reprise of the theme song plays in the background as the cast of established characters enter the street, fleeing...

Day Too

Anonymous reminds me of the characters I created only he’s way better than any of them cuz he’s real and those of u who have been around the block know that there are things too strange, sad and beautiful in this world to be imagined but nothing too strange, sad and beautiful not to have happened.

The same goes for people.


On his buzznet site he’s got a pic of his missing toe.

Of course, u know who that made me think of…

Yr Nobody 'Till Somebody Kills You.

Tod ay I woke up and decided to kill my blog. It’s gonna be a slow death…but death it will be, and with its passing version 2.0 of my innernet will get put on some state-of-the-art, next level shit as I shoot forward into my own black label, post-BRANDTRUEBOY non-existence.


u guys r gonna come with me...

Shiny Twinge

blackeyed blonde
"i feel like throwing rocks at people today"--raymi dropped that--it was just the right tight fit at the end of a post about abortion--like a pearl white hand slipping quick n' snug into a black leather glove.




hello america.

im a super sensitive person. i have found i have to monitor my sensory input. sometimes shit slips by--today at my moms i wasASSAULTED by instant death broadcast without warning on high definition tv:

Going into the second turn, Carpenter lost control of his car, which shot up the track and hit the concrete retaining wall backward. The car then bounced back across the track and spun lazily toward the infield.

The yellow flag was thrown immediately and the caution lights started to flash.

Five other drivers — all 20 were on the speedway for the final practice — managed to manoeuvre their mounts past or around the stricken Carpenter before Dana arrived. He apparently couldn’t get past and drove his car into the side of Carpenter’s at an estimated speed of 175 mph.

The force of the collision — shocking in its violence — was reminiscent of the Champ Car series accident in Germany several years ago when Alex Tagliani’s car flew into a nearly-stopped racer driven by Allesandro (Alex) Zanardi and tore it apart.

Zanardi lost his legs in that wreck; Dana lost his life in this one.

fuck you, cnn headline news.

fuck you, car makers and car buyers of the world. im gong to have nightmares tonite fer sere.

...and meanwhile outside this sad and beautiful city is filled with rich drunk assholes howling like they own the place, and insecure assholes who need to put u down before they even know u, people who have to be right even when they don't know what they're talking about and they know it. especially when they know it.

go back to school and recast yr brain

all yr shit is so 1990s.

so pre-9/11 and played out.

so black and white and self-congratulatory


it's good to love yrself but it sere as heck better be a TUFF luv.

Saturday

infinita tristeza.

BRANDTRUEBOY: bringing u the best in "gold-filled blog bling"!





a discovery

england.

heya doods.

i wanna break it down for a second. ferreals, and when i say ferreals i mean ferreally reals cuz that last post was ficcione folks...that's FICTION fer all y'all gringos. phony baloney in a sea of smoked and honey-cured ham. yep.

if u read this site for a hot blog minute than you'll know i don't put much purchase on the so-called TRU_TH but after everything i've told u guys recently, the things about my past that i trusted u with and the person i've let u catch glimpses of...the lil mama behind the curtain with tears in her eyes...after all that and after the way yr always gettin my back, i couldn't let u think i beat some bitch with a sprinkler head.

or beat anyone with anything for that matter.

i'm sorry i lied to u.

my friend DID jump random girls after school and i was there sometimes...and like a shithead i'd let that shit unfold without me, unless the tables were turning on my homegirl, which they almost never did, thank god...and even then i was just tryin to break it up, not throw bows.

so why did i lie? why did i return to the realm of the fictional?

why? cuz it's safer there. i have control of that world...the TRUE who exists in it is a protagonist and in charge of her own destiny...

something i am struggling mightily to do.

im not TRUE.

...but im also not whoever i was before I started playing her part.



I'm the sun reflected off the corner of a building

I'm the bubbles in yr freshly poured coffee, as filmed from above

I'm the masks that i created in the disparate shapes of my desires

I'm the version of myself that is doing all the things im too scurred to do.


Like telling the truth.

we used to get drunk on Chivas and Dole pineapple juice and beat up other girls after school. ok, not me, not really, but i was there and u know how it is after nothing has happened all day and suddenly actions follow actions, and time is felt, not merely known as u get to the clatter and the clang of pans flashing at the center of it...we'd roll up blasting hand on the pump, alternating between cracking up and being deadly fucking serious. my friend and i shared the same name and the same anger managment issues. i just fronted like the peacemaker. the one who wasnt going to let things get out of control. one time i was trying to pull this girl off my friend and as i did the girl said my moms was a whore and i snapped and started beating her with the sprinkler head, right there on her front lawn and i wouldn't stop and she got so scurred she pissed her pants. oh, ok, i heard myself say when i saw the dark stain spread between her legs and smelled the sharp tang of urine, now yr really gonna get it.

it's true i've spent big money buying shiny shiny boots of leather

i've also purchased sexxxy slingbacks and hi-class hooker pumps

handmade in italy

to wear with a slouch at highball hour.


not for myself but for the woman i was fucking.

so i could look across the room at her feet

and in this way find an anchor for my shyness

in the pornographic intricacies

of their delicate handicraft





mist

"hello, friends (the product placement mix)"

TRUEBOY here, getting the biggest high possible. after having lunch alone with my crown of thorns i took a handful of spring colored hedi slimane designer pills that tasted like licorice in the fresh baked pie of my mind's bluest eye. those jagged lil motherfuckers sent me out, walkin tall like a tribe called quest thru central park tho there's pain in my chest and in my joints and silvery white stripes zig-zag like jet flame tracers across my vision. the reverb from an endless scream is broadcast across an infinite bandwidth as the flat ass sky radiates orange light upon the slanted (& enchanted) pavement that i glide across in my koreatown nikes.

i've got dub plate beats and they are crisp like the alumninum wrapper on the nestle crunch bar that makes me choke. in my throat is a little bit of a philip glass score stuck there. then im crawling across the cold grass and then there are the wood chips that pierce my knees...dead yellow wood by-product, the essence of real wood blown apart like my plasterboard thoughts as i crawl towards my tree, my sacred tree in central park, while the euro tourists pause on the paths with their brightly colored MET and MOMA bags to take pix of me tripping out on this grand old dame--her cedar arms held high and her quiet vibe that of an old friend as i lean against her like the grizzly man bear cub gurl that i am...

just then the google bots crawled down the adsense data branches of hijacked frequencies

i fought and i fought

holding the lantern in the darkness till my arms gave out and i was spun tight in silken innernet web...

...

u guys were all there.

Metaphorical nut

i cant stop listening to madonna's ray of light.

I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot of mistakes. I mdaea

im not TRUEBOY

it's weird cuz now there are people i know in real life who i met thru my innernet and they call me TRUE sometimes and when they do i'm reminded of the three characters i created and all the adventures i invented for them and the fact that each one was a version of myself, but as such they were/are fiction and NOT REAL but the fact that there is now only one and she shares my face in pix and we have the same look in our eye and curl to our lip has confused things and blurred certain lines that were clear in the sand when i pretended to be 3 people...cuz im pretending a lot less now but still pretending some...

the great promise of blogging lies somewhere ahead of me--where the person that u r in real life and the person that u r on the innernet intersects and a whole new person is formed

im not TRUE...she is braver than i am sometimes, when im feeling sick on the train and i rest my forehead on my cool hands and wish someone was there to hold my head and tell me it was gonna be ok and i think to myself, what would TRUE do? how can i play this chill like TRUE and just wondering about it is almost enough to make it happen--the balance shifts and the light changes

i'm different and the world is different tho nothing has actually happened.

it's like cubism: a freeze frame of the depths of my love is revealed.

from me to me



this blog is where i tell all my secrets but i lie about the non-secret stuff.

im playing the game version of myself

against other game versions.

fuckit


im not TRUEBOY

well, maybe sometimes i am

just before i fall asleep...





hijacked

this blog is also inspired by automats:




i worked with this girl who used to go out at nite dressed like a man who was dressed like a woman.

right now i want my pussy to get fucked by a cock that i treat like a dildo.

FUCK FAMILIES.

a lot of this blog is inspired by this painting:


--"Christina's World" by Andrew Wyeth

We had a copy in my house that my moms won in a beauty pagent along with several other prints of the artist's work. I loved them all but i was most fascinated by the girl all alone in a field...what was she doing out there? why was she crawling?

I couldn't take my eyes away from her unusually thin arms and jaundiced skin...

Later on I learned that in real life, Christina was Wyeth's neighbor. She suffered from a disease that was slowly paralyzing her. Hence the innate helplessness of her pose.

She became a frequent subject of Wyeths. I'd think about that and wonder--what was he trying to show us? What did Christina know that we did not? Was there some voyeuristic urge that was being played out by the painter and then the viewer? Was a sadistic subtext the reason that the painting often filled me with such fear--at times so much so that i couldn't bear to be in the room alone with it and i'd run outside where the tree limbs up above me seemed to reverberate with wordless wisdom?

The conclusion i came to was that she was going to die out there. That long, yellow field is as neverending as the sea to someone with arms as puny as hers.

The windows of the stark, clapboard house peered down like indifferent sentries.

Her home was not going to save her:

She was forgotten--cast asunder like trash off a ship--not worth her weight in gold, but worth her own death as one by one her joints froze together like soldered scaffolding...



DEAR CHRISTINA,

BRANDTRUEBOY IS COMING TO YR RESCUE.

LOVE,

A GIRL NAMED TRUEBOY.

i never give u my number.

i only give u my situation.

and in the middle of investigation, i break down...

eager to play...but so reluctant to admit it.

outside deep in the dark shaft between my building and the other buildings there is some small animal being violently fucked over and over again...i can hear it in the silences in between songs. the sounds come at my brain from that non-place behind the pasteboard front of the everyday, where guilt cant go and pleasure and pain are one band of virtual muscle tightened and relaxed by instinct...

and i cant tell if its a dog or a cat or a baby and now that i think about it i've been hearing it on and off for weeks. fucking hell when is it going to die already?

nite lites rule.








kk

dead at 30,

buried at 70.

k. i'll tell u somethin:

im like no one you've ever met before and no one you'll ever meet again. im a chameleon, i'll fuckin sit so still i wont even blink. i'll just keep watchin and watchin...spacing out between the thought and the action. writing instead of living, acting instead of being. im a mutant from the american suburbs. i was born with the ability to turn off. low blood pressure. even lower heart rate. that's how they'll never know im lying. i slay words like im hannibal lector. white skin. blue eyes. servin the pigs coffee with an ounce in my pants while they search the place... or sittin pretty in the bright orange 2nd class car of a dutch inter-city train, wearing a tight brown dress with an attache case filled with trees and e pills, reading crime and punishment and listening to new order on an ancient phillips walkman.

drinking koffie verkeerd

dreaming of a better tomorrow...

i am the good girl. the A+ student.

i hate violence but it's not true that i've never tried to hurt someone. when u put yrself into rehab at 25 it's not cuz u hurt yrself.

if it had only been about hurting me i coulda gone on forever...

i dont have the heart to be the villian.

im too shy

tho i cum so hard i see lightning.

this aint school

there's a part of me that's brand new and a part of me that's ready to die:

it's the start of a big story...

MY big story

and yr gonna read it all. how it's gonna go down...the accusations and recompense and grief and glorrrrry...

the sound and the motherfuckin fury.

broadcast in dolby digital
live and direkt--

a citywide cinemascope.




i come correct

standing tall as i shop at the mall*

beyond the facts

and beyond the fictional...

bill gates doesnt know the innernet can pop rocky w/mtv alcoholic afternoon, french kiss styles like this...




*Actually I hate shopping but I love shops. Late at nite I head over to Madison Ave and look in all windows. It’s like a museum only better because you have the freedom of the street, where u can smoke and talk loudly on a cellphone or hail a cab and get the hell out of there at that very second, if you wanted to. In big museums i can never find the exit.

I love the beautiful, delicate designer clothes draped over headless white human forms. roman hands and gucci fingers. They cover my holes and dress my made-up characters, the ones i spend the day with in my head. I love the long shadows and the darkened cash registers in the background...there is the warm buzz of carmex on my lips as the city lights turn into lasers

steam rises from the empty street like im the last person alive.





(yep)

the white of my eyes=a flash in the pan

sometimes its easier to imagine ending my life than learning how to change.