Now I am starting over on the back side of the sheet of paper. At this moment I am wishing I didn't label this as the back side of the sheet of paper, as it could just as easily be the front depending on the way you approach it. Now I caught a glimpse of my water glass out of the edge of my vision, my periphery.
Now I have my attention distracted by the computer mouse that is napping on the upper left edge of it's mouse pad that is sitting next to this typewriter, on the right side. Now I am making sure to think about my right and left to be sure that I got them correct.
At this moment I am wishing that my typewriter didn't slide around so much. At this moment I am glad that it slides because it reminds me, at this moment, that I am typing fast enough for the sliding to be noticeable. Now I am feeling happy with this exercise. At this moment, I am really happy with the sound of this typewriter—the sound of the little metal arms beating their tiny fists on this page, as hard or as soft as I tell myself that I want to make them punch.
Now I am distracted by Jason's phone conversation. I was able to move past the initial ring, but at the moment I can tell that he is upset at all the racket that is coming from my typewriter. Now I am left to be in this room alone, as Jason couldn't hear his conversation over all the noise and he closed himself in the back room. At this moment I can still recall the slam of the bedroom door, followed by the silent pause, then his voice exclaiming an apology for the door's slamming. It was the draft that produced the force, not his muscles in reflex to the noise.
Now I am lost.
Now, I am realizing that I separated the start of this sentence with a comma, and ended it with one too, it can keep going on and on forever if you only end things with a comma instead of a period, there is no end to where it can take you, now I think I just came up with another writing exercise of my own, ending sentences with commas, and pulling out of them their own guts, in long stretches, for miles and miles, until you end up dragging the body-end through their own drippings.
18.8.10
Now At This Moment No.3
Now I am going to attempt the same writing exercise, but instead of writing "now" and "at this moment" I will attempt to only write down what comes after I think about writing them, that way, where I place the period represents where the "now" and "at this moment" would have been.
I am ready to start. My fingers are frantically feeling the plastic keys, wondering which letters to press. I am hoping. I am at a loss.
I can't seem to stop myself from thinking about how hard it is to stop myself from wanting to write the word "now" or the words "at this moment." I am trying to find something else to capture my immediate interest.
I hear a car swoosh down the street. The car is much further up the hill than I can imagine, but I can still hear it. Cars are returning to swoosh again. It sounds like wind. I am getting the two swooshes confused with the other. The cars and the wind sound the same. I am associating the swoosh of the cars as hot wind, like asphalt, blown up from the tires into the wind above the street, and up the stairs of my apartment complex, through the screen door, past my living room, and through my ears, cooling my arms and neck before it is blown past and out the back door, the screen door in the back of the house. That's where I prefer to smoke my cigarettes, on the back stairs, at the foot of the screen door at the back of my apartment.
I am thinking how I was just back there smoking a cigarette a few minutes ago, and reviewing the previous writing exercise in my mind. I got distracted by the leaves that were growing between the cracks in the concrete by the stairs that lead themselves down into the basement underneath my apartment. I think the leaves are part of a dandelion that got trapped there but is making the best of it.
I am ready to start. My fingers are frantically feeling the plastic keys, wondering which letters to press. I am hoping. I am at a loss.
I can't seem to stop myself from thinking about how hard it is to stop myself from wanting to write the word "now" or the words "at this moment." I am trying to find something else to capture my immediate interest.
I hear a car swoosh down the street. The car is much further up the hill than I can imagine, but I can still hear it. Cars are returning to swoosh again. It sounds like wind. I am getting the two swooshes confused with the other. The cars and the wind sound the same. I am associating the swoosh of the cars as hot wind, like asphalt, blown up from the tires into the wind above the street, and up the stairs of my apartment complex, through the screen door, past my living room, and through my ears, cooling my arms and neck before it is blown past and out the back door, the screen door in the back of the house. That's where I prefer to smoke my cigarettes, on the back stairs, at the foot of the screen door at the back of my apartment.
I am thinking how I was just back there smoking a cigarette a few minutes ago, and reviewing the previous writing exercise in my mind. I got distracted by the leaves that were growing between the cracks in the concrete by the stairs that lead themselves down into the basement underneath my apartment. I think the leaves are part of a dandelion that got trapped there but is making the best of it.
Now At This Moment No.4
I see that my water glass is empty. The only water that is left in there looks like tears clinging to the side of the glass, with a little puddle on the bottom that looks as if it makes up the shape of a country, or more like a small cluster of islands trapped inside a glass ocean.
I reposition myself, folding my left leg over my right. I can feel the thigh stretching itself, the left one, as the rest of the leg spills over the right one, with my left foot being pulled down by gravity. My shoes feel sticky because I'm not wearing any socks today. It's hot and my feet are wet-cool, and the insides of my shoes feel cool-moist. Repositioning my legs now, kicking my feet back and under the seat of my chair. My toes are touching the floor, and my feet feel folded in half, with my heels up in the air doing a headstand—a toestand.
Stretching my back off the back of my office chair that itches my bottom and underneath my thighs, my chair squeaks when I move and sounds like a fart. I lift my left butt cheek up, and tilt my right shoulder down, and out escapes the chair-fart that is actually a squeak—the sound of plastic and metal releasing the pressure that I place upon it. The office chair holds me up. The office chair supports me.
I breath out a breath, realizing that I tend to hold it while I am typing. I might just be unaware of my breathing while I am typing, like I become aware after I use the word just to justify something that just happened. Using the word just is just something that I have become aware of lately, and I'm trying to keep myself from using it too often.
Scratching my neck. The hairs on the back of my head still feel like they are moving, unsettled, itching still, but in a pleasant way. My knuckles ache for me to crack them again. They are practically begging. But like my craving to stop and smoke a cigarette, I realize that I take to cracking them more that I should. It is a bad habit that feels so good. Sometimes I don't realize that I am doing it until I hear the cracks popping all at once, or in little rows. It sounds almost exactly like the clink of my Zippo lighter... no... the little ding of the bell on this typewriter that tells me when I have gotten to the end of the line sounds more like the little clink of my Zippo. My knuckles are definitely more of a cracking or popping sound. All my joints seem to crack and twist as I bend them out of my sitting position. I bend my elbows and the muscles in my arms feel as if they are tearing at the back of my skin—louder around the joints where things have been worn thin.
Pushing my hair back, I see my reflection in the glass of the computer monitor that I have put to sleep behind this typewriter. I pick at my eyes and rub my nose. Scratch my beard. Shift my weight. Now my right leg has found itself crossed over the left. I push my shoulders forward, and tilt my head back, watching my reflection lean in and lift my chin towards the ceiling. My mouth opens and my breath escapes. "I'm watching you."
I tell myself "I'm watching you" without even having to move my lips. I can understand what was said because I said it to myself.
I hear the second hand on the clock ticking in between bursts of tapping on my typewriter. I wonder how many words I am making appear in between the clicks of the clock, but I can't hear the clicking once I start typing.
I reposition myself, folding my left leg over my right. I can feel the thigh stretching itself, the left one, as the rest of the leg spills over the right one, with my left foot being pulled down by gravity. My shoes feel sticky because I'm not wearing any socks today. It's hot and my feet are wet-cool, and the insides of my shoes feel cool-moist. Repositioning my legs now, kicking my feet back and under the seat of my chair. My toes are touching the floor, and my feet feel folded in half, with my heels up in the air doing a headstand—a toestand.
Stretching my back off the back of my office chair that itches my bottom and underneath my thighs, my chair squeaks when I move and sounds like a fart. I lift my left butt cheek up, and tilt my right shoulder down, and out escapes the chair-fart that is actually a squeak—the sound of plastic and metal releasing the pressure that I place upon it. The office chair holds me up. The office chair supports me.
I breath out a breath, realizing that I tend to hold it while I am typing. I might just be unaware of my breathing while I am typing, like I become aware after I use the word just to justify something that just happened. Using the word just is just something that I have become aware of lately, and I'm trying to keep myself from using it too often.
Scratching my neck. The hairs on the back of my head still feel like they are moving, unsettled, itching still, but in a pleasant way. My knuckles ache for me to crack them again. They are practically begging. But like my craving to stop and smoke a cigarette, I realize that I take to cracking them more that I should. It is a bad habit that feels so good. Sometimes I don't realize that I am doing it until I hear the cracks popping all at once, or in little rows. It sounds almost exactly like the clink of my Zippo lighter... no... the little ding of the bell on this typewriter that tells me when I have gotten to the end of the line sounds more like the little clink of my Zippo. My knuckles are definitely more of a cracking or popping sound. All my joints seem to crack and twist as I bend them out of my sitting position. I bend my elbows and the muscles in my arms feel as if they are tearing at the back of my skin—louder around the joints where things have been worn thin.
Pushing my hair back, I see my reflection in the glass of the computer monitor that I have put to sleep behind this typewriter. I pick at my eyes and rub my nose. Scratch my beard. Shift my weight. Now my right leg has found itself crossed over the left. I push my shoulders forward, and tilt my head back, watching my reflection lean in and lift my chin towards the ceiling. My mouth opens and my breath escapes. "I'm watching you."
I tell myself "I'm watching you" without even having to move my lips. I can understand what was said because I said it to myself.
I hear the second hand on the clock ticking in between bursts of tapping on my typewriter. I wonder how many words I am making appear in between the clicks of the clock, but I can't hear the clicking once I start typing.
17.8.10
Blue Eyes Close
We spent a warm day out on the lake,
isolated and alone.
Just us.
Nobody else knew we were even there. No boats passed. No hiker’s foot was to be heard. It felt as if my wish of having him all to myself had been granted.
The lake was so calm it felt unnatural—smooth on top and crystal clear all the way through to the bottom. I asked him if he had ever seen anything like this before, and he looked at me and smiled—his eyes reflected bluer than the water’s reflection of the sky.
He took off his shirt—peeling it up his chest with his forearms, then over his head by lifting his hands toward the sky. I watched the sun rise gently up his navel, then across his chest, and appear to slow down suddenly as it reached up his neck. He smiled when the sun kissed his lips, and closed his eyes while the last of his shirt passed through his hair.
I took off my shirt—lifting it slowly in front of my eyes, so I could still watch his movement through the tiny holes in my clothes, slowly peeling them back until the sun would bleach them close.
Shirtless, he appeared closer. I stood still to see if he was approaching. His eyes seemed to grow bluer and closer, and closer, and bluer, and bluer.
I felt the hair on his chest touch mine, as he leaned in to tickle my ear with a whisper. “This is beautiful.”
He kept his head close, and breathed gently through his nose, brushing my neck with each breath. I counted four warm, and five cold before he leaned back to show me his blue eyes close.
isolated and alone.
Just us.
Nobody else knew we were even there. No boats passed. No hiker’s foot was to be heard. It felt as if my wish of having him all to myself had been granted.
The lake was so calm it felt unnatural—smooth on top and crystal clear all the way through to the bottom. I asked him if he had ever seen anything like this before, and he looked at me and smiled—his eyes reflected bluer than the water’s reflection of the sky.
He took off his shirt—peeling it up his chest with his forearms, then over his head by lifting his hands toward the sky. I watched the sun rise gently up his navel, then across his chest, and appear to slow down suddenly as it reached up his neck. He smiled when the sun kissed his lips, and closed his eyes while the last of his shirt passed through his hair.
I took off my shirt—lifting it slowly in front of my eyes, so I could still watch his movement through the tiny holes in my clothes, slowly peeling them back until the sun would bleach them close.
Shirtless, he appeared closer. I stood still to see if he was approaching. His eyes seemed to grow bluer and closer, and closer, and bluer, and bluer.
I felt the hair on his chest touch mine, as he leaned in to tickle my ear with a whisper. “This is beautiful.”
He kept his head close, and breathed gently through his nose, brushing my neck with each breath. I counted four warm, and five cold before he leaned back to show me his blue eyes close.
13.8.10
Lung Hole
Taking a drink of water.
AAAAHHH!
I made that sound after the water slipped past the lung hole in my throat.
I left out the the little gurgle that escaped before the AAAAHHH! Then I put it back in once I remembered it was there.
AAAAHHH!
I made that sound after the water slipped past the lung hole in my throat.
I left out the the little gurgle that escaped before the AAAAHHH! Then I put it back in once I remembered it was there.
1.8.10
What Just Happened
Cleanse. Cleanse. Cleanse your thoughts. Clear your mind of the things you did today. Let go, and write down the first thing that you happen to hear in the back of your thoughts—something trying to escape and surprise you. Words of wisdom or even words of a ridiculous nature. Making sense is not the point. Making something happen is happening as if it just happened.
29.7.10
Danger Zone
I am drawn to the power of words for their ability to create images that you can only see with your imagination. I see it as a challenge to make reading worthwhile, even if you only read the first couple of lines.
I stand on this stage singing my heart out, hoping my friends will at least show up for support. I can instinctually tell that most of them don't like the idea of friends who ask if they would show up to an open mic night in a venue they have never even heard of. Most will forget based on the unfamiliar name of the place you are trying to tell them actually exists.
I sing this to the crowd of one, and since you are the only one who decided to show, I'm dedicating this one to you.
Laaaaaa, la la la. Whatsoever.
Whaaaaaa, whaaaa, whaaaa. Whatsoever.
Clap-clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.
Clap-clap.
Danger Zone.
I stand on this stage singing my heart out, hoping my friends will at least show up for support. I can instinctually tell that most of them don't like the idea of friends who ask if they would show up to an open mic night in a venue they have never even heard of. Most will forget based on the unfamiliar name of the place you are trying to tell them actually exists.
I sing this to the crowd of one, and since you are the only one who decided to show, I'm dedicating this one to you.
Laaaaaa, la la la. Whatsoever.
Whaaaaaa, whaaaa, whaaaa. Whatsoever.
Clap-clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.
Clap-clap.
Danger Zone.
28.7.10
Two Weeks Notice
Damn you internet! Damn you for the unnatural habits you have formed in my thoughts. Damn you for the false sense of entertainment that beguiles me into checking up on you constantly—like a newborn child—you whine, even though you do not have a voice to call your own. Your very birth into existence fell from heaven unexpectedly, when I too was still a child—too young to know any different, without parents for a guide. I thought it was the right thing for both of us, to embrace your innocence, to feed and clothe you, to coddle and take proud pictures of progress along the way. We're family, with a relationship as neurotic as any other.
I existed before you. I had a whole life without you, full of friends, youth and good-health... well... what I'm getting at is... you need to get a job and start helping out around here, or... let me make this clear... you need to move out. Consider this your two weeks' notice. That means you need to figure your shit out, or... well... I'm changing the locks.
I existed before you. I had a whole life without you, full of friends, youth and good-health... well... what I'm getting at is... you need to get a job and start helping out around here, or... let me make this clear... you need to move out. Consider this your two weeks' notice. That means you need to figure your shit out, or... well... I'm changing the locks.
21.7.10
A Spontaneous Moment
I saw you pass by my house and seem startled to see me sitting outside. I waved, but you had already ducked behind the neighbors house. I went to chase you down, but alas, you were not to be found. I roamed the streets wondering where you had been, where you were going, and where you were headed. I wanted to think that you were remembering how we had only had known each other for a few days, yet those particular few days seemed a bit more interesting than the few days before, when we had not yet known the other. I wanted to think that you had to pass by where I might be today just because it would make the day feel more interesting—that since you happened to be in the neighborhood, you decided to take the route that was guaranteed to provide a jolt of adrenaline—and with the rush of chemistry, induce such a fantasy to make your heart caress the back of your breast and cause the hairs to tingle your lips.
A spontaneous moment.
A spontaneous moment.
20.7.10
Cloud Vomit
This morning I went downtown to pick up some more tobacco, and during the train ride there my stomach felt like it contained a small pool of acid that was stinging its way through my insides. I wanted to puke, but didn't want the stinging to spread to my tongue and cause my teeth to fall out. Ironically when I got off the train and began to cross the street, there were two piles of vomit on the curb at the crosswalk. It seemed that I might not be the only one that feels the bugs crawling around inside them. I wonder if something is going around. At least on the vomit front it feels like something is happening. Nothing much is happening outside of my sick stomach.
I picked up some more coffee, which I thought was going to be a bad idea, but it turned out fine, and actually soothed my stomach with its warmth. It is unusually cold this morning for July, and overcast with the threat of rain lingering just below the clouds. Not hard rain, just a few sprinkles. It feels as if the clouds have a burning inside their stomachs as well, and would splash us with their vomit if the right combination of smells wafts up from the streets and tickles their nostrils.
I picked up some more coffee, which I thought was going to be a bad idea, but it turned out fine, and actually soothed my stomach with its warmth. It is unusually cold this morning for July, and overcast with the threat of rain lingering just below the clouds. Not hard rain, just a few sprinkles. It feels as if the clouds have a burning inside their stomachs as well, and would splash us with their vomit if the right combination of smells wafts up from the streets and tickles their nostrils.
17.7.10
String of Thought
I can get thoughts twisted up so tight, that they feel clogged in my brain for days, and the simple action of writing them out can be all I need to untie them. The thoughts just have to be pulled out in whatever tangled mess that are in and laid on a clean sheet of paper, then I can start to work on the knots until the string of thought feels untangled.
9.6.10
Vintage Photos
Vintage photos represent forgotten moments being remembered again.
And all the people pictured in them are either dead, or completely different people than they are today.
And all the photographers have no names, but are very much present... often in shadows... and always in reflection.
And the photo itself... the wear of the paper spills layers of liquid history between your fingers.
And the smell of dusty things reminds you of treasure.
And all the people pictured in them are either dead, or completely different people than they are today.
And all the photographers have no names, but are very much present... often in shadows... and always in reflection.
And the photo itself... the wear of the paper spills layers of liquid history between your fingers.
And the smell of dusty things reminds you of treasure.
24.5.10
Why I'm One Of Those Artists That Starve
It seems absurd to foresee a museum containing a digital archive for Interactive & Digital Art. And even if it were so, a museum would not be paying for the pieces they decide to store on their acid-free servers when the very nature of the digital medium is duplication.
The digital medium is the mass-medium.
With just the click of a button, an artist can be seen by millions... in an instant... hanging their art on electricity inside millions of plastic frames.
Making art with a digital medium is this.
Helping you recognize this as art is design.
Making no income from this, while being compelled to keep making this, is bad design.
This is why I'm one of those artists that starve.
The digital medium is the mass-medium.
With just the click of a button, an artist can be seen by millions... in an instant... hanging their art on electricity inside millions of plastic frames.
Making art with a digital medium is this.
Helping you recognize this as art is design.
Making no income from this, while being compelled to keep making this, is bad design.
This is why I'm one of those artists that starve.
20.5.10
Stuck On The Plane
:: Originally written 29.6.2009 7:17 PM
Stuck on the plane, typing a way out of boredom.
Hey neighbor. What do you want me to write about? How about an alternative to waiting to get off the plane? How about a chance to wait on what words might appear next on this screen?
Being bored is pretty much the state of most of our lives. It’s the being confined part that crawls under our skin while we are waiting for a plane to land and unload us all into tubes and ports—where we will wait some more for our baggage to be unloaded next, so that we can take it home with us.
People on the plane. Listen to this. The lady that is walking down the isle, "stretching her legs," is looking for leftover Frito’s. She loves them, and is waiting to glean them from the seat pockets. She puts them in her large Frito bag of a purse. She is anxious for a taco salad.
People on the plane. Listen to this. The television that grabs your captive attention is feeding you the dreams that you will have tonight. Beware of the three dogs and the fat boy with the fro. They will only keep moving their lips and telling you nothing.
Only two more hours of the five to go. Only two more. Just keep the fingers moving in the case that they will speed up time as they tap out the minutes.
People on the plane. Listen to this. We were all fed chicken wraps for dinner, and we ate it. Don’t we all feel better?
People on the plane. I am typing this to you. We are all party people. Old and young. Shaking our asses with the turbulence. Bobbing our heads to the rocking of the wings. High above the ground… above the clouds… trapped in a party plane. Crawling through the isles waiting for our turn to go pee. Some will shit and flush it away inside, stored below our feet.
Stuck on the plane, typing a way out of boredom.
Hey neighbor. What do you want me to write about? How about an alternative to waiting to get off the plane? How about a chance to wait on what words might appear next on this screen?
Being bored is pretty much the state of most of our lives. It’s the being confined part that crawls under our skin while we are waiting for a plane to land and unload us all into tubes and ports—where we will wait some more for our baggage to be unloaded next, so that we can take it home with us.
People on the plane. Listen to this. The lady that is walking down the isle, "stretching her legs," is looking for leftover Frito’s. She loves them, and is waiting to glean them from the seat pockets. She puts them in her large Frito bag of a purse. She is anxious for a taco salad.
People on the plane. Listen to this. The television that grabs your captive attention is feeding you the dreams that you will have tonight. Beware of the three dogs and the fat boy with the fro. They will only keep moving their lips and telling you nothing.
Only two more hours of the five to go. Only two more. Just keep the fingers moving in the case that they will speed up time as they tap out the minutes.
People on the plane. Listen to this. We were all fed chicken wraps for dinner, and we ate it. Don’t we all feel better?
People on the plane. I am typing this to you. We are all party people. Old and young. Shaking our asses with the turbulence. Bobbing our heads to the rocking of the wings. High above the ground… above the clouds… trapped in a party plane. Crawling through the isles waiting for our turn to go pee. Some will shit and flush it away inside, stored below our feet.
Born That Way
He was born without the ability to get wet. When you spray him the water bounces away from him just before it touches his skin. When it rains the water looks like it is falling around him. And when he goes swimming he glides around on the surface as if he were on top of a giant water mattress that was made of a skin so thin you could not see it once it was filled with water. Surprisingly, without being able to take a bath, he never gets dirty. His sweat leaves his body without ever touching his skin. Yet he can drink normally, because “once the water’s past the skin, it can go in.”
18.2.10
Daydream Day
Either I woke up tired, or I’m still asleep and dreaming that I am tired. If you go to sleep in your sleep, would you dream in your dream?
Face Guts
I will peel your face back and watch your eyeballs roll around in their sockets, and listen to your crooked teeth click as you try to express how you feel without your lips.
Disgusting.
Your face looks like guts with eyes and teeth.
Disgusting.
Your face looks like guts with eyes and teeth.
10.1.10
Everything Must Go
The week after she died in her sleep, her bed was sold at the estate sale.
- for Mary
- for Mary
Writing Gives Me Bad Posture
My back is folded in half and my neck hangs to the floor. Slowly, in inches, I touch my toes to my nose.
Inside Guilt
I am getting nowhere. I am still inside.
I should be outside right now. I should be soaking in the sun and covering my private parts with the clouds. I feel dirty inside.
I should be outside right now. I should be soaking in the sun and covering my private parts with the clouds. I feel dirty inside.
