Monday, November 5, 2007
Trilogies. Account of a Ridiculous Panic Attack in 00
Trilogies.
My eyelids are exploding somehow, I know they are, in little bits, tiny miniscule explosions that dissolve the flesh around my eyes... too much caffeine in a few granules of instant coffee.. far too much. The wall clock at 10:58 3/4 is right there inside my devastatingly cold and loud eyelids and I'm SO PISSED about trilogiesI can't contain it. My stomach is careening towards my knees and my toes feel like childrens fireworks.
Trilogies. Back to the Future, Rocky, Rambo... ok, more than just trilogies, James Bond and Superman, too, then.
Clueless, clueless. Maybe I am, maybe they are.
The Songwriters, I mean, where are the musical trilogies?
Maybe they're out there and I don't know about them. MY GOD I've got to find them. Got to get them, all of them. Same bat characters in new bat stories carried over carried on carion.
My eyelids are exploding somehow, I know they are, in little bits, tiny miniscule explosions that dissolve the flesh around my eyes... too much caffeine in a few granules of instant coffee.. far too much. The wall clock at 10:58 3/4 is right there inside my devastatingly cold and loud eyelids and I'm SO PISSED about trilogiesI can't contain it. My stomach is careening towards my knees and my toes feel like childrens fireworks.
Trilogies. Back to the Future, Rocky, Rambo... ok, more than just trilogies, James Bond and Superman, too, then.
Clueless, clueless. Maybe I am, maybe they are.
The Songwriters, I mean, where are the musical trilogies?
Maybe they're out there and I don't know about them. MY GOD I've got to find them. Got to get them, all of them. Same bat characters in new bat stories carried over carried on carion.
Necromancers on Holiday
Their triangles hang in circles
on chains around their necks
Witches from Sweden
Listening to R.E.M
drinking Coke Light
Their naughty kids
Praising God
for no snow
on the island
exposing their pink thighs
on white plastic beds
sacrificing
to the Sun
Their wizard fathers in Ray Bans
Tom Cruise of Druids.
on chains around their necks
Witches from Sweden
Listening to R.E.M
drinking Coke Light
Their naughty kids
Praising God
for no snow
on the island
exposing their pink thighs
on white plastic beds
sacrificing
to the Sun
Their wizard fathers in Ray Bans
Tom Cruise of Druids.
B-Story 2000: "Free Mushy Peas"
"Free mushy peas with every order of pork faggots."
She didn't know what pork faggots were. She didn't want to find out. And as appetizing as smucked-up peas might be to these Brits, Britney would have rather choked on grits day in day out than give em a go. What was she doing in the land of fish and chips? She, a girl who'ss ideal of a square meal was a McDonalds hamburger patti (without the bun--just katsup and pickles). And as for comfort--well, she longed for an orange plastic-coated booth where she could curl up to her Seventeen magazine while listening to some Kenny Rogers.
"Can I take your order, love?"
"I don't know. This menu is just so...so complicated."
"Ri-iiight..." and with that, the waitress turned and walked off slowly.
Britney shut her eyes and sighed.
""Mueseli. I just want some fruit mueseli."
The waitress came back and clamly sat down next to Britney in a hard wooden chair. The both seemed to be waiting for something to happen, but nothing did. What seemed like hours later, both their butts beginning to numb, a bus boy came to theri table and asked if he could take theri order. The waitress didn't hesitate to request a list of the silly-named foods on the menu at the Royal Spoon and Duck. Britney didn't know what to say in the silence that passed, so she sputtered an order for coffee.
"White?"
"No. Brown. With some milk please."
"Riiiiiight" repeated Finnigan several times as he headed for the kitchen. Next to Britney "Flora" (according to her silver-highly-polished name tag), sat completely motionless, staring at the princess Diana porclain plate collection.
"It's a B-story" she told Britney thru mouthfulls of toad in the hole washed down with cold baked beans and pint upon pint of John Smith's.
"Uh...huh?" choked Britney, risking sounding a bit rude, or dumb, or both.
"B-movies, yeah? They were all over the place the year you were born. Well, now it's happening to you, only the resurgance is in B-stories, love, you're not worth the directorial effort of a film. So this is your lot. You're a character in a B-story. It's happened before, it'll happen again. You've heard of the Neil Smith Show?"
"W...well yeah."
"It's nothihng like that. Don't get your hopes up."
Britney dropped 2 fat, squat, meaningless coins down for what was essentially an enormous bol of coffee and left the Royal Bag of Muffins, or whatever it was called. She couldn't keep it straight.
She didn't know what pork faggots were. She didn't want to find out. And as appetizing as smucked-up peas might be to these Brits, Britney would have rather choked on grits day in day out than give em a go. What was she doing in the land of fish and chips? She, a girl who'ss ideal of a square meal was a McDonalds hamburger patti (without the bun--just katsup and pickles). And as for comfort--well, she longed for an orange plastic-coated booth where she could curl up to her Seventeen magazine while listening to some Kenny Rogers.
"Can I take your order, love?"
"I don't know. This menu is just so...so complicated."
"Ri-iiight..." and with that, the waitress turned and walked off slowly.
Britney shut her eyes and sighed.
""Mueseli. I just want some fruit mueseli."
The waitress came back and clamly sat down next to Britney in a hard wooden chair. The both seemed to be waiting for something to happen, but nothing did. What seemed like hours later, both their butts beginning to numb, a bus boy came to theri table and asked if he could take theri order. The waitress didn't hesitate to request a list of the silly-named foods on the menu at the Royal Spoon and Duck. Britney didn't know what to say in the silence that passed, so she sputtered an order for coffee.
"White?"
"No. Brown. With some milk please."
"Riiiiiight" repeated Finnigan several times as he headed for the kitchen. Next to Britney "Flora" (according to her silver-highly-polished name tag), sat completely motionless, staring at the princess Diana porclain plate collection.
"It's a B-story" she told Britney thru mouthfulls of toad in the hole washed down with cold baked beans and pint upon pint of John Smith's.
"Uh...huh?" choked Britney, risking sounding a bit rude, or dumb, or both.
"B-movies, yeah? They were all over the place the year you were born. Well, now it's happening to you, only the resurgance is in B-stories, love, you're not worth the directorial effort of a film. So this is your lot. You're a character in a B-story. It's happened before, it'll happen again. You've heard of the Neil Smith Show?"
"W...well yeah."
"It's nothihng like that. Don't get your hopes up."
Britney dropped 2 fat, squat, meaningless coins down for what was essentially an enormous bol of coffee and left the Royal Bag of Muffins, or whatever it was called. She couldn't keep it straight.
Friday, November 2, 2007
2nd 2000 diary
A Page, May 2000
theres's not much in my 2000 diary. I was living in Cyprus working as a singer. I wasn't very happy. Most of the diary is just notes on what I'm doing and where I'm going. I did some big paintings back then, but the diary has just got a few doodles or paint spotches from murals I was doing. This is the only page I like enough to upload... actually... I just found a second diary from 2000... it seems I wrote and doodled alot. So, correction, this is the only drawing I liked from ONE of the diaries...
some poem
my smile is the deadest thing
borrowed from somewhere else
and ripped with insomnia I
sleep all day
a hollow
expression on my lips
if I touch my temple
with fingers like nettles
I can smell your
chest in hollowed
burrows
my hands ball into fists
beating my own face
for not seeing you
I can see the panic
when I shut my eyes
with my nails scraping at the skin
that dies between them
and falls like dust
hot and sweaty in my skull
the greyness stinks of that history
-only the barracks left
-and a blood-stained surgery
cement
some wooden planks
peeling toupe-faded paints
and Lincoln's pillow under glass
remember these tears in joy?
I learn to laugh
and I forget
how much there is to remember.
borrowed from somewhere else
and ripped with insomnia I
sleep all day
a hollow
expression on my lips
if I touch my temple
with fingers like nettles
I can smell your
chest in hollowed
burrows
my hands ball into fists
beating my own face
for not seeing you
I can see the panic
when I shut my eyes
with my nails scraping at the skin
that dies between them
and falls like dust
hot and sweaty in my skull
the greyness stinks of that history
-only the barracks left
-and a blood-stained surgery
cement
some wooden planks
peeling toupe-faded paints
and Lincoln's pillow under glass
remember these tears in joy?
I learn to laugh
and I forget
how much there is to remember.
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