It always sparkles like a party on the other side of the mirror and the guests are something ghostly and faint – all the images of a previous life overlapping this reality in the most restless of ways – the attention grabbers! – the show stoppers! – the dismal gab of old conversations that have fallen into fashion thanks to the help of yours truly (whose truly?) who’s truly trying to magnify the depths of the lost art of lounging in the ether (and I don’t feel a thing.) The place where the water sparkles crystaline secrets in the void of non-time – and all I really meant was “latenight”, but repetition is a tough business, so you have to come dressed in your finest just to catch your own attention – and now mine’s switched to fatigue and the way my cats keep circling the room wondering why I won’t shut up and go to bed – please kitties – genius needs a mouthpiece and I’m reworking my audition for the spokesman of the next generation, though that’s not really what I mean now, nor was it the last time that fiasco overwhelmed me. Ha! Death in sixty-nine and the eternity-fish shapeshift to 69’s in the course of three years, though now I’m simply on vacation – a range-life and I’m free to walk the waters of innuendo, alluding to whatever I damn-well please – so what’s it really like? They speak softly and the chords glitter in the atmoshpere drumming out a heartfelt lullaby. It’s like learning a new language that you already knew long before the onset of spacetime. Superstring theory and the hotchicks dance to math.

the following sentence is false.

the preceding sentence was true.

weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee...

Fame throwa pass out the gold, but it’s raining non-stop digitized black and white on the security channel, which is all the more weird ‘cause I can hear the water soft-tapping the trees in the back yard – leaf after leaf after leaf, and down to the ground, soaking all the forgotten pine needles, broken branches, etc. – something reminiscent of early-man pre-dawn strangely juxtaposed with the here and now of current technology. There’s a tree just beside the pool wrapped with little white softglow christmas style lights. It stands festive melancholy overlooking the tables and chairs where people would be clamouring if it weren’t four in the morning. These are the dead hours that go unnoticed, but I’m no stranger to haunting the nowhere spaces – always sulking listless through the nonexistent times.
There’s a small portion in the back of my mind where all my thoughts of something longsince lost have thought themselves out again and again on an endless loop until they eventually took the form of something like dark matter – they became entities unto themselves – they grew and grew to the point where my brain could no longer afford to sustain them – they caved in on themselves and left a void. I can’t remember what their point was, but I know something’s been bothering me – something keeps pushing me forward to some non-goal that I’m hardpressed to realize.
There’s a song playing on an internet radio station. It’s sad and going nowhere. It’s acidjazz for lack of a better word. It’s vibrating up from nothing, making no point whatsoever, yet it’s saying everything I meant to say. There’s a piano that keeps fading in and drifting out. It’s telling the tale of motion. Someone is moving – their image is flickering on a wall slightly distorted by the curves and crevices of cold cement blocks – it’s a movie that no one’s watching. They’re on a subway. They’re on a bus. They’re going through empty towns. They’re going nowhere. It’s a different day but they have no way of knowing. Yesterday looked just like today looked just like tomorrow looked just like next year and they’ve lost track well into to death which gave way to birth which started the process of a string of days bleeding into each other on an infinite loop and it’s hard to say who’s talking about who at this point.
There’s a person sitting in an empty room where candles flicker late into the night. They’re watching the Movie That No One Watches. They’re saying nothing. It’s the Movie’s Director. I take the seat beside them and smile. I’m tired and my eyes are burned out red. The Movie’s slowing down until it becomes a collection of still images that imply the essence of everything. I feel like a cat curled up and sleepy. There’s a brief flash on the screen and the action continues. The Director’s gone. I’m watching the security channel again. The music’s in sync with the wind making sleepy ripples across the pool’s surface. There’s the sparkle of lights reflected on the water. Today fades into tomorrow.

There are only so many relatively uninteresting ways you can say that you have nothing to say – mope and wander – fucking whine and blah – just blah in the most lost sense and latenight doesn’t seem to have the same thrill it once had (or perhaps never had.) But you have to push and keep pushing in the face of emptiness ‘cause adversity wasn’t the right word at all – and words are just symbols that get forced to symbolize the most nowhere concepts – and here’s a concept: destiny loves the carrot-rope game – everything has to be kept at arms length ‘cause the length is where the lesson’s learned, yet if I’ve learned anything distance means nothing quantum physically speaking, and all this talk is getting me nowhere which is apparently exactly where I’m supposed to be.
I’m not sleeping ‘cause keeping the language off the streets is an all-night gig. It doesn’t pay well, but the fans are alright. “Turn up the houselights – I have something important to say!”, and then he says, “Eschelon yr dreams and they’ll come true.” (type slowly) But I’m typing so slow that I don’t see the point – it feels like trying to read a roadmap by pressing your nose against the “you are here” sign – all the rest is blurred. And he speaks up once more to say, “Frozen images, respected few.” (type slowly) And this all feels like it would make sense if I could step back and see the big picture, but I can only move forward at a human pace. (blind and guided) And the guide is being more obvious tonight – he’s ditched his usual zen-prick silence – given up his usual no-response is the ultimate response trickery ‘cause I’m cracking – I’ve nearly blown my cover. He’s begun resorting to spy-like imagery – everything has a meaning so now I have to cling to every word that passes my ears or pops into my head. “Simply put, I want to grow old. Dying does not meet my expectations. Let’s drink a toast to all those who arrived alive to tell about their struggles in hushed tones around the fire. It’s late winter.” And everyone sings in unison, “We are underused.” I had a sense of that when I originally signed onto this job thirty something years ago, though it’s taken Saturn’s full orbit to really drive the point home.
I think it’s the separation that bothers me most (even if it’s only temporary.) Don’t take this job if you’re not cut out for seclusion. Nor should you take this job for the admiration it inevitably brings. Take it because you’re in love with love. Take it because you realize everything’s magic. That’s why I did. Anyway, I’ve gotta go now. It’s time to brighten the corners.
“Listen to me. I’m on the stereo.”

What do I look like first thing in the morning? If you guessed 'old' you were correct -- leave your name and address and I'll send you a t-shirt.

It’s blazing late softglow orange and from what I can tell this is obviously the middle of nowhere. I distinctly remember the sound of those songs they used to play back when everything supposedly meant something and she was too young to drink legally – ah me, the typical sleaze I’ve always been, dragging the kids into corruption, though it was ultimately me, who ended up dying a million exaggerated teenangst-style deaths (and really, there’s nothing more tactless than whining about girlfriends in public places.) Jesus, I remember the time Joe smashed the glass at his ex-girlfriend’s feet at the Moto Lounge (five inches from my feet), and then turned and stormed out like a little girl throwing a temper tantrum, and I found myself thinking, “That’s it – I don’t care who Sherry fucks – I never wanna look that lame in front of this many people.” – but of course, Joe’s always been a local rockgod, and hence a thousand girls ran to his side in an attempt to do anything to ease the pain of his glorious broken heart. They’re brooding off in the distance, making their way through latenight streets, sauntering off to where the real action is, and I’m here drunk watching the cool kids play pool wondering why I can’t seem to pawn my demo tapes off on anyone good. (something that meant something at twenty-five, but would-be rockstardom lost its’ flavour around the time I turned twenty-eight.) (and of course all hope was dead by thirty.) Sherry’s drunk, bouncing from person to person stamping them on the back of the hand with a little rubber happyface stamp. She’s wearing a short white skirt and her ass looks incredible – she knows it too – everybody knows it – the pool kids are standing there watching her make her way through the crowd. She’s heading towards me. (She has property to claim.) Maura’s sitting on my lap, and Sherry’s asking her if she wants a happyface stamp – Maura’s thrilled (such an odd little scorpio – something like a twenty-two year old child.) Sherry’s jealous, but she’s trying to cover it up – she’s talking too fast and being too nice – she seems so alien to me – this isn’t the person I spent the last four years with. I have my arms around Maura’s waist, with my hands clasped, resting in her lap. I’m getting under Sherry’s skin, but it’s such a hollow victory. Sherry has to leave. She has to go meet Jacob Lucas at the Milk Bar. She’ll walk down the street past the bums – past the drunk kids falling over – past the empty skyscrapers – past the parked cars – past the weekend cops – past the underpass of the people mover – past the emptiness of latenight – past the essence of everything that once was. She’ll move in with Jacob. She’ll fuck his roomate. She’ll even fuck her boss. She’ll see my cousin in Gainesville. She’ll tell him everything. She’ll get engaged to Jacob. She’ll marry Jacob on Cinco de Mayo. She’ll disappear. I’ll lose interest. I’ll feel empty. I’ll drink and drink. I’ll bounce from nothing to nothing. I’ll take another job. I’ll make a decent living. I’ll have the life snuffed out of me by corporate America and a dull routine. I’ll sober up and realize how nowhere I am. I’ll read physics books. I’ll read philosophy books. I’ll champion my own importance. I’ll feel disconnected. I’ll check my watch.
It’s funny how things seem to have a way of sliding into oblivion and here we seemingly are, with our heads turned slightly off to one side, only years later wondering how the fuck we got so far off track in the first place – our desires have all been burned and now we simply want some vague solution to some vague problem – some vague notion of some vague comfort to soothe all of our vague anguish.

Blank want and it fades into nothing in particular.

*This entry is best viewed with phony English accent.*

"How to View Truly Magnificent Works of Art. Lesson One: My Profile Picture"

A childhood of cartoons has taught me that in order to paint a brilliant picture, one must first gauge the object's distance and size by closing one eye and peering over the top of the thumb. Certainly, this same philosophy must apply to photography... hmm... I'm surprised you don't see more photographer's thumbs in the pictures on this site... I guess they must airbrush them out.
Or, if that explanation isn't satisfactory, one may choose to view my new pic as if I were giving them the "thumbs up!", which I most certainly am.

Everything careless was so cylindrical, but what I really meant was cyclical, but the cycle’s careless ease lost track of me, so I faded gloomspun and sent, dull like nothing when your head’s too fuzzy to say what you didn’t mean, even if you didn’t mean it – and really, all I meant was to aim for one long, nonstop run-on sentence that would sum up everything when nothing fits right and the sighs are all you have on the sidelines when the sides are lined with the dregs of humanity – and believe me, I’m not judging, I’m relating to the noise in my head that keeps that restless feeling in my chest that keeps me awake, regardless of how late or how tired or how listless or how bland I should’ve been by now.
Drinking gave way to sobriety, which gave way to physics, which gave way to zen, which gave way to the knowledge that ‘now’ is almost too relative to define, and hence, it’s implied that when I say ‘now’ I’m thinking in terms of some cosmic one-and-all, or did I mean all-in-one? Probably, but it really doesn’t matter now, nor did it then, nor will it in times to come, and fittingly so, it’s come time for me to say what I meant back then.
I distinctly remember the slow sound of lounge jazz filtering out of an open door up the street one night not long after it had finished raining – the typical middle of the night scene and the party crowd longsince gone home – the gritty feeling of shoes slopping through shallow water on wet sidewalks, and my hands in my pockets while I was glancing up toward the streetlights, noting the way the mist lingers in the bronzeglow haze. There was a faint smell of perfume, but no trace of the girl. The truest essence of everything is metaphysically crystalline, but it does you no good when you’re flesh and bone, hung out to dry and empty. All you can do is wait once you have a sense of it, and the sense of it is the only thing that keeps you waiting. I don’t doubt this is real. Philosophy is tired, and these days I have enough clout to make my own religion.

12 days of sobriety so i thought it would be funny to try and recreate my original profile pic without the drinking and without getting engaged 30 minutes after the picture was taken.

weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee