Saturday, January 24, 2004

The confession-for-later 

This is a story of telling the truth, lying, and the fearful boundary shared by the two. And it all went down over about a half-hour period this morning.

And it will have to come later.

Karmaic double feature 

Brady got the Spike Jonze directorial DVD a few days ago. It was such a cool package (loads of his videos, slick production, great sound, much behind-the-curtain action, etc.) that we got excited about the other two directors' DVDs from that same series. I'd told Brady that I'd buy one (Michel Gondry) if he'd buy the other (Chris Cunningham).

Not only did he just go buy the both of them (I thank heaven for DVD burning software), but the Chris Cunningham set was double packed with a duplicate, double-sided DVD!

Sure, fate is an inanimate process that exists as a projection of our own wants, need, and fears, but I'm going to say thank you lady luck anyway.


Friday, January 23, 2004

Your lipless riddle (part of it) 

Split down the middle,
render in two
those fleshiest faes you wished I would sample.
Crush them with everything
that you'll never do
to get ahead and dismantle
what's left; there's your riddle.


Tuesday, January 20, 2004

Produced by Teens of Arkansas 

...and I can tell by the trademark pretension, slippery-slope logic and sentimental slur. Has anyone else seen this commercial for the Arkansas Stamp Out Smoking campaign? The commercial begins with a screen-filling swastika in black and white. The announcer intones, "The Nazis used cyanide gas to exterminate millions of Jews..." Now, we see ribbons of diffuse smoke licking at the swastika as the camera camera descends to reveal: A CIGARETTE?! "Second-hand smoke contains this gas and other blah blah blah...."

Uh, what?

Every time I see this commercial, I cringe in distaste, but I also laugh (out loud, nonetheless!) out of the posturing that is publicly permissible under the broad umbrella of anti-tobacco advertising. Cigarettes are bad, people, we got it. Spend that princely budget on, you know, nicotine patch programs or other free treatment and support options. Freedom of choice is a bitch, though, so maybe tame down the iron fucking first, 'nkay? Lordy.


My current line of employment has taught me one very interesting reflexive detail: I am living testimony that one can simultaneously abhor work or effort in any sense yet still do a fucking good job.

I can't tell if this self-assessment is happy or damning.

In the meantime, I've noticed that, because I'm now getting my maximum tolerable dose of effort at work, the yum of painting and playing with the computer is being culled by my own affliction with (pure, blissful) laziness. Sorry, I'll do better.

[Edit: Man, even I don't get the title.]


Monday, January 19, 2004

My folks came down for a visit, collected a few boxes of their things, and then beat a fast path back up north within two hours. It was an awkward, uncomfortable (yet thankfully brief) encounter. Each time I see my mother, particularly, she seems a bit less comfortable in my presence. I know she's doubting my stability and integrity in the face of my brother's imminent parole (and rightfully so), but she's so well-kempt that she would never admit to even the slightest suspicion. She lets signs show through, though: coming home from Best Buy an hour ago I noticed that, of all my glass for recycling, she'd made sure to take only the beer bottles out of view. How odd. How irritating. How intriguing. I remember that, the first time she saw me with a full beard, she couldn't make eye contact with me. I suppose that I look a bit more sinister now with the beard, but damn, not that sinister. I know it makes her doubly uncomfortable that I'm homosexual. Again, this is a suspicion she has never explored, probably never will explore, but it weighs on her nonetheless.

The good thing about their visit is that it now seems that our tax fiasco has been sorted out, and with minimal fees incurred. Just over $300, I think. Now I can get back to doing what I was doing before: nothing.


Sunday, January 18, 2004

The Belt of Venus 

is beautiful this evening.

∞ to zero in 2 years 

Recent days have seen a shower of odd events that, while neither unpredictable nor too shocking, have managed to send my resolve into a dizzying spin. I'm indulging myself too much as well, so that likely isn't helping to resolve any disorientation. I, very honestly, keep catching myself thinking privately, even subconsciously, "I can't wait for the semester to end." I catch myself thinking this because I've not been in a single class in the almost two years since graduation. My poor body probably got so used to blaming everything unfortunate on the excesses required of a cohesive academic life that, now, any strain at all puts me back in that paradigm. It's silly to still be there, in that university mentality, when I haven't needed it for 22 months; does that mean that I'm holding on to it as a defense mechanism? I must admit that, as difficult as shit could get and got back when, my school-ish issues are a far cry from the brisk financial reality I'm facing now. Magnify present tension by the variables and factors necessary to get me into graduate programs and, shit, I'm not shocked that my mind and body are reacting as if I'm an undergraduate all over again. Trouble is, of course, that my "university self" was never too terribly efficient. It was (is?) such a fun game to make everything into contests of procrastination and minimal effort that, while I could totally be tearing up some bookwork right now, I can't initiate anything; with no overarching deadline, one can put thigs off infinitely, I suppose. My year off seems to have turned into two without my foreknowledge. Sure, I've painted, written, read, gone out, gotten fucked up, etc., but for the most part everything I've done since graduation day has been aimless activity, unconcerned experiments, such that now I'm left with zero product. Zero product in two years doesn't sound encouraging.

How could that happen? How could that happen again? 

For personal purposes I'm taking some P.J. out of context. I need it: personal excuses don't cut it any longer when I've got all of this pop culture among which I can find another, better justification.

Beyond all reason
Beyond all my hopes
The call of duty
Another war zone
(Makes me moan)


Thanks Ms. Harvey.


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