the new coldplay album has some gems on it. it doesn't make the impression to matches of a pristine record, but there are some ins and outs that are not to be missed. if you're into it, spend a listen on 'life in technicolor', 'lost!' (god, any song with a running&chasing beat has such a persuasion on m), the first 2:42 of '42' (the latter portion, mattress really wishes they had committed to instead of abandoning the maddening spiral they had started for such a poppy-positivity), and of course the title track 'viva la vida'. he wonders if '42' is thus named because that is the second-count upon which they decided not to deliver on the building intensity. also notable is the last 17 seconds of 'cemeteries of london'. but then, matches tends to be easy to please.
you're a fan, if you got that.
haven't been setting aside the necessary time to write lately, which is a shame. it's great to be social, but he feels so hindered, in the sense of living life in general, when he cannot spill some real thoughts out of an inkwell and onto his shoes. it is the difference between the consciousness expanding forward in phantom form, grasping and mingling with everything....the difference between that and, dragging one's brain behind on a long leash, inspecting it later for the rubbish and residue which it collects over the course of travels. counting on photographs to do your forward-looking, is backwards in retrospect; he never remembers all the little hums and whistles which he pretends to log away for later contemplation whilst he is distractabusy. he lives much too much in moment-to-moment, and also in his head in a very odd sort of manner, and he worries that it will be his undoing as a writer. or perhaps his greatest tincture. can one be worried that something will be fantastic, domineering? that it will be too much so?
his castles are still in the sky. he apologizes if sometimes his statements tend to jump onto the page (screen) and solidify themselves there....he tends to trust his mind to the tipping point of absurdity and has hopes of thoughts falling, domino-like, in an if not logical, at least personable and traceable progression. he has a tendency towards the belief that anything can be relevant. have you ever picked up a tarot card deck? he rarely does, but this is what he finds so entrancing about them: no matter what card falls, it will have a conceivable relation to something happening in your life. tarot is a thought-exercise, it is a collection of perspectives and colored-tints which one may find some help looking through, sifting through, and letting them sway the direction of one's thoughts into eddies and waterways operating under the same principles as the universe. that is, either chaos or control. which is it again?
m really has some faith that drawing a card may influence the outcome of events. why? because it spins the mind, windmill. he has seen instances of a thought effecting/affecting an actual outcome...we all have, especially if we can choose to reduce the notion to absurdity by saying that when your child wanted an ice cream cone, you bought them one. that isn't what he means, of course; his indication is much more intangible. but we can, hopefully, acknowledge that the mind exerts a definite power over its surroundings, beyond the realm of simple physical cause and effect. if you find a genuine positivity and curiosity amidst a job interview, then you will get that job. qualifications, shmalifications. this sort of thought, this wild expression, expands beyond the mind that has spun it....it leaks out of the body, trickling from every possible angle, practically beaming; it is infectious in its spread and has no boundary. perhaps it involves another, unknown dimension. he isn't here to explain the science of it to you, but, there it is. your body is unconsciously affected by your emotions; body language tells us that arms cross defensively, and that eye contact is more embracing than open arms. these are not top-snaggle examples, but they are certainly a physical manifestation of a seemingly transcendental phenomenon. thought.
"Ha ha, just joking; only trying to see who's listening
Now heads up, time to test the potential of your faults
And the results will stay confidential
For as long as you face the front of your self-esteem;
Lose focus, get broken at the seams.
Let's open up the conversation for comments
To complement your circumcised mind-state, while I ride on your anxieties
Trying to speak to the class, and justify the act,
By pointing my finger at your head, and asking you, 'what the fuck is that?'"
~ deep puddle dynamics - 'the scarecrow speaks'
how many times have we dug ourselves into a dominantly depressed hole of mind, only to find that the answer lied in us fooling ourselves all along? humans are inherently facetious; the angle which our mind takes upon any, any situation dictates the majority of its impact upon us. the outside world may be rock-like, unthinking, but it speaks its mind through our extremes, our reverend suppliance to unknowns and subconscious jitters. the illusion is that it controls us, but all along it has been we who have dropped the reins. which is an apt word, because we could so simply, yet unfathomably difficultly so deep into the game, reign over our lives in a completely different and remarkably similar fashion.
June 10, 2008
June 1, 2008
all smiles (all sparks)
the editors - all sparks
a good listen. not too many artists have figured out the seduction of negative space in music. and for a photographic concept, it seems to be found in many more places, or at least has the potential to appear on (or off) the scene. also, for a different feel, check the cover of 'feel good, inc.' by the editors. acoustic.
sitting on the waterfront today in cloudy weather, matches felt the fireworks trickle back into his vision. they have been tragically absent for some time. but when you can look at the world, at anything inside of this gigantic conglomeration of whatever-you-wish-to-call-it, and see the purity of existence (a term stolen from sam cooper yesterday)....things set themselves alight in the air, breeze-like, and spin the mind like a waterwheel.
in other news, herbie hancock's "head hunters" is where beck got samples for his recent goodness. certainly worth a listen. its got the funk that beck whittled off of it, but it also has the jazz.
matches has been making a tidy little sum off the beaten path of his job, by way of marketing research studies. who would have thought that with the economy as it is, people would be handing out money for cursory opinions of their marketing techniques and products? interesante. he feels a little silly; a little like he is fueling the possibility of them honing their advertising or products to the point of precision towards their intended markets. he thinks that he wouldn't want to have a hand in tweaking the subtleties of market-interest; at least not to the point of helping companies convince people to buy their products without thinking about it. but, he has to have a little bit of faith in the capabilities of people to make their own decisions, and to remain independent thinking entities amidst the tides of america~ plus, its kind of interesting to go to these things. you meet and have interesting conversations with people you would have never otherwise had an opportunity to meet, and one learns a little something every time one passes by. it's fun; a thought exercise. he could just as easily be fucking with these people's heads, and completely skewing their targets. and the money doesn't hurt.
san francisco last weekend was great. it goes to remind m how he really should be tucking aside moneys to up and visit his friends in other distant places. like jay on martha's vineyard, and yes eric in vietnam. passports were created to collect stamps, not dust. as an additional bonus, he could live for something like $3 a day once he stepped off the aerobus. oh, that the plane ticket were not the obstacle! also, the phobia of flying over titanic bodies of water. there is always that.
lately he has begun studying his old notebooks, his elder scribblings, and trying to thieve some perspective from them. perhaps this is what sparked the fireworks. it is quite an interesting thing to see the legacy of one's own life, to view it in a later and (hopefully) wiser state of being. he hears people talking all the time about how they cannot stand to look at their previous thoughts, works, songs, etc....but he doesn't share in this outlook. not in a smidgen of the least-ness. he values his past; it will always be engaging to distill old thoughts and situations through the filter of the advanced mind. 'distill' was a word he gleamed from the old pages (which have become quite detached from their bindings....both literally and metaphysically, now that he considers it). it is small treasures like the use of a word which has fallen out of memory, which can effect a domino-fall within him. one can feel the smile forming, growing, now erupting out of the body through all sensations and nerves. a genuine smile has an explosive tendency to it; an expansive nature. then there is the magical trans-barrier, when it sometimes expands beyond a person, into liminal space, and wraps itself around another person. that is, well....something, to see it light up another face, that thing that wound itself out of your own thoughts, your own emotions. it is a physical sensation, a touch; invisible to the eye yet reaching, disarming, penetrating. yet you know its power, can feel it like a fireball erupting through your frame which spreads dizzily, sillily (word?), washing over your surface like a quick surf chasing the shore.
i feel it all, i feel it all.
a good listen. not too many artists have figured out the seduction of negative space in music. and for a photographic concept, it seems to be found in many more places, or at least has the potential to appear on (or off) the scene. also, for a different feel, check the cover of 'feel good, inc.' by the editors. acoustic.
sitting on the waterfront today in cloudy weather, matches felt the fireworks trickle back into his vision. they have been tragically absent for some time. but when you can look at the world, at anything inside of this gigantic conglomeration of whatever-you-wish-to-call-it, and see the purity of existence (a term stolen from sam cooper yesterday)....things set themselves alight in the air, breeze-like, and spin the mind like a waterwheel.
in other news, herbie hancock's "head hunters" is where beck got samples for his recent goodness. certainly worth a listen. its got the funk that beck whittled off of it, but it also has the jazz.
matches has been making a tidy little sum off the beaten path of his job, by way of marketing research studies. who would have thought that with the economy as it is, people would be handing out money for cursory opinions of their marketing techniques and products? interesante. he feels a little silly; a little like he is fueling the possibility of them honing their advertising or products to the point of precision towards their intended markets. he thinks that he wouldn't want to have a hand in tweaking the subtleties of market-interest; at least not to the point of helping companies convince people to buy their products without thinking about it. but, he has to have a little bit of faith in the capabilities of people to make their own decisions, and to remain independent thinking entities amidst the tides of america~ plus, its kind of interesting to go to these things. you meet and have interesting conversations with people you would have never otherwise had an opportunity to meet, and one learns a little something every time one passes by. it's fun; a thought exercise. he could just as easily be fucking with these people's heads, and completely skewing their targets. and the money doesn't hurt.
san francisco last weekend was great. it goes to remind m how he really should be tucking aside moneys to up and visit his friends in other distant places. like jay on martha's vineyard, and yes eric in vietnam. passports were created to collect stamps, not dust. as an additional bonus, he could live for something like $3 a day once he stepped off the aerobus. oh, that the plane ticket were not the obstacle! also, the phobia of flying over titanic bodies of water. there is always that.
lately he has begun studying his old notebooks, his elder scribblings, and trying to thieve some perspective from them. perhaps this is what sparked the fireworks. it is quite an interesting thing to see the legacy of one's own life, to view it in a later and (hopefully) wiser state of being. he hears people talking all the time about how they cannot stand to look at their previous thoughts, works, songs, etc....but he doesn't share in this outlook. not in a smidgen of the least-ness. he values his past; it will always be engaging to distill old thoughts and situations through the filter of the advanced mind. 'distill' was a word he gleamed from the old pages (which have become quite detached from their bindings....both literally and metaphysically, now that he considers it). it is small treasures like the use of a word which has fallen out of memory, which can effect a domino-fall within him. one can feel the smile forming, growing, now erupting out of the body through all sensations and nerves. a genuine smile has an explosive tendency to it; an expansive nature. then there is the magical trans-barrier, when it sometimes expands beyond a person, into liminal space, and wraps itself around another person. that is, well....something, to see it light up another face, that thing that wound itself out of your own thoughts, your own emotions. it is a physical sensation, a touch; invisible to the eye yet reaching, disarming, penetrating. yet you know its power, can feel it like a fireball erupting through your frame which spreads dizzily, sillily (word?), washing over your surface like a quick surf chasing the shore.
i feel it all, i feel it all.
May 21, 2008
the letter A, as in abstraction
who knew that it would only take 20 minutes to walk to NW 21st, after so many months of taking the streetcar? faster? certainly. better for you? absolutely. more exhausting? admittedly yes. more scenic? depends on whether you prefer people or charmingly deserted alleyways. but a portland sunset is a fine time for strolling any day. even the rainy ones, if one gets into the proper state of mind beforehand.
the world is too complex. too? perhaps. it's nice to know how intricately the details spiral, considering how many people put their heart and soul (or perhaps just their 9-5 attention spans, but we know what goes on behind the scenes) into making something worthwhile of it. m has, without anticipation, ended up in two jobs since academics that helped in some capacity to reveal the detail, to unblanket the larger forms that most people don't give a second thought to. no, really...imagine that your couch has a blanket thrown over it, you know, to shield against the dust and sun and cat hairs and such. now whisk that blanket away, and lo! it was never a couch at all. it was a collection of smaller items; and oboe here, a mcdonald's plastic bambi toy there, an un-lidded tin of peaches over yonder (aqui, alli, alla); precise meetings of points, that give way to something larger than themselves individually. not to say that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts (wouldn't want to step on any traditionalist toes), but really what is value anyway. yes, that put you in your place, didn't it?
the point was reduced to absurdity on purpose, yes. more tangible that way, don't you think? what he really means, is really absorbed by, is all the ideas, the labor, the cooperation that goes into the production of realities in the world. engineering is a marvel, in any shade or color that you would choose to cast it in. every day, people see something and think to themselves, "now that, is neat". neat. what a horrible, candle-snuffing word; it completely robs the discovery of all intellectuality and reduces it to a bauble, a trifle, a pawn bowing to the power and complexity of the queen which rules it utterly and completely. and the mind does retain dominance, ultimately; let's not overstep ourselves here. the mind created and can destroy; the mind chooses its constructs and folds the world into whatever patterns and shapes it thinks commendable. but at a certain point, merely in an instance, even, one has to acknowledge and find a profound respect for these things, these objects, engineered commodities. one has to recognize the confluence of events and ideas and inspirations and drives which ultimately orchestrated these...things, into being. it was all human, all struggle, and it is commendable in that respect, interesting in another, and almost fearful in the way which the idea eventually took hold of its composers, trans-substantiated from a thought into a concept into a plan into a thing, and practically willed itself into the world.
it's amazing, really. and what's more, it is neat. but not in a dawdling, bashful, foot-shuffling way...in an empirical, investigative, and compelling way. it strikes one forcefully, the phenomenon of creation. it is an art, though perhaps more calculable, more formulaic in the long run than that more inspirational of imaginings. still, it has that same...liquidity to it. the modern world is steeped in design, in ideas manifest; the difference being that multiple people have had their hands dipped in this, um, pond. lost track of a metaphor halfway through, just then. what would normal commodities be like, if they were not governed by the rules of market and commerce; if they jutted up chaotically, plate tectonics, only meeting where they happened to run aground of one another? no, production process is more predictable than this....pragmatism wields its ugly hand time and time again, and we end up with square buildings. snooze.
real art, if he can be allowed to make the distinction, ascends to another tier in that it does not play well with others. real art is cloistered, secluded....there is no concurrent interplay of minds involved in the end results of one singular piece. the artist is unique in that he struggles with the thing in its entirety; he buries himself in it and does not delegate any task within it for reasons of economy or raw efficiency. a writer does not pen a chapter and then pass the baton to the next for supplement. the purpose is found in the meeting of the beginning and the end, all contained and bubbling within one cohesive (sometimes jagged) mind. the first stroke can be anything, it can be anywhere. the last stroke has to be exactly, precisely, as it is~
the world is too complex. too? perhaps. it's nice to know how intricately the details spiral, considering how many people put their heart and soul (or perhaps just their 9-5 attention spans, but we know what goes on behind the scenes) into making something worthwhile of it. m has, without anticipation, ended up in two jobs since academics that helped in some capacity to reveal the detail, to unblanket the larger forms that most people don't give a second thought to. no, really...imagine that your couch has a blanket thrown over it, you know, to shield against the dust and sun and cat hairs and such. now whisk that blanket away, and lo! it was never a couch at all. it was a collection of smaller items; and oboe here, a mcdonald's plastic bambi toy there, an un-lidded tin of peaches over yonder (aqui, alli, alla); precise meetings of points, that give way to something larger than themselves individually. not to say that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts (wouldn't want to step on any traditionalist toes), but really what is value anyway. yes, that put you in your place, didn't it?
the point was reduced to absurdity on purpose, yes. more tangible that way, don't you think? what he really means, is really absorbed by, is all the ideas, the labor, the cooperation that goes into the production of realities in the world. engineering is a marvel, in any shade or color that you would choose to cast it in. every day, people see something and think to themselves, "now that, is neat". neat. what a horrible, candle-snuffing word; it completely robs the discovery of all intellectuality and reduces it to a bauble, a trifle, a pawn bowing to the power and complexity of the queen which rules it utterly and completely. and the mind does retain dominance, ultimately; let's not overstep ourselves here. the mind created and can destroy; the mind chooses its constructs and folds the world into whatever patterns and shapes it thinks commendable. but at a certain point, merely in an instance, even, one has to acknowledge and find a profound respect for these things, these objects, engineered commodities. one has to recognize the confluence of events and ideas and inspirations and drives which ultimately orchestrated these...things, into being. it was all human, all struggle, and it is commendable in that respect, interesting in another, and almost fearful in the way which the idea eventually took hold of its composers, trans-substantiated from a thought into a concept into a plan into a thing, and practically willed itself into the world.
it's amazing, really. and what's more, it is neat. but not in a dawdling, bashful, foot-shuffling way...in an empirical, investigative, and compelling way. it strikes one forcefully, the phenomenon of creation. it is an art, though perhaps more calculable, more formulaic in the long run than that more inspirational of imaginings. still, it has that same...liquidity to it. the modern world is steeped in design, in ideas manifest; the difference being that multiple people have had their hands dipped in this, um, pond. lost track of a metaphor halfway through, just then. what would normal commodities be like, if they were not governed by the rules of market and commerce; if they jutted up chaotically, plate tectonics, only meeting where they happened to run aground of one another? no, production process is more predictable than this....pragmatism wields its ugly hand time and time again, and we end up with square buildings. snooze.
real art, if he can be allowed to make the distinction, ascends to another tier in that it does not play well with others. real art is cloistered, secluded....there is no concurrent interplay of minds involved in the end results of one singular piece. the artist is unique in that he struggles with the thing in its entirety; he buries himself in it and does not delegate any task within it for reasons of economy or raw efficiency. a writer does not pen a chapter and then pass the baton to the next for supplement. the purpose is found in the meeting of the beginning and the end, all contained and bubbling within one cohesive (sometimes jagged) mind. the first stroke can be anything, it can be anywhere. the last stroke has to be exactly, precisely, as it is~
May 19, 2008
evening in brief
memorial day coming up. what to do with a substantial brick of time once one finally gets it off of work? three days is not substantial, he knows....but it is has more substance than most other opportunities at this point. perhaps california is on the horizon; it's only ten hours away. 8.5 by matches' driving standards. how good it would feel to go back and haunt those places which he experienced under a shadow, now that day has broken. those are the sorts of opportunities which are best not passed upon.
colorful lights and interesting fabrics at this coffee shop (about to transform into a venue for sam cooper's purposes) make m realize that he need to do something more creative with his room. it isn't a very good representation, at the moment, of a place where it would be supposed that a person such as he would occupy for an undeniable portion of time. he saw on the internet the other day a faux-skylight that lights up and has clouds floating to and fro beyond it, for those without the means for a legitimate skylight installation. he would probably make the purchase if it had nighttime settings, complete with constellations and embracing spiral arms. turns out he is quite picky about his purchases....well, about a lot of things in life really. but he has been trying to make up his mind about a pair of windchimes on the east side of portland for a good four months now.
if there are two colors that play unexpectedly well with one another, they are an aqueous blue-green and a frosted purple-maroon (only ten or twenty percent maroon). he is seeing this color splash more and more recently (even shockingly at an art museum or two), and it always catches him off guard with its refined yet vibrant appeal. a good pairing.
arg sam playing.
update two days later: what a curious coincidence that a band from boulder would be playing at the same place as samtron. well, not entirely unexpected, as sam is from boulder. still, an oddity that they would happen to be on tour. high-energy. and what fortunate occurrences came from the walk back home...events which would not have happened had he decided to saunter over to ground kontrol and play pinball with christopher, as was originally on the itinerary. the most compelling things can happen from meeting absolute strangers. stopping a basketball-turned-soccer-ball-by-faculty-of-overactive-slash-tipsy-imaginations from careening into the street and getting flattened by oncoming traffic. it really makes one take a step back and think.
colorful lights and interesting fabrics at this coffee shop (about to transform into a venue for sam cooper's purposes) make m realize that he need to do something more creative with his room. it isn't a very good representation, at the moment, of a place where it would be supposed that a person such as he would occupy for an undeniable portion of time. he saw on the internet the other day a faux-skylight that lights up and has clouds floating to and fro beyond it, for those without the means for a legitimate skylight installation. he would probably make the purchase if it had nighttime settings, complete with constellations and embracing spiral arms. turns out he is quite picky about his purchases....well, about a lot of things in life really. but he has been trying to make up his mind about a pair of windchimes on the east side of portland for a good four months now.
if there are two colors that play unexpectedly well with one another, they are an aqueous blue-green and a frosted purple-maroon (only ten or twenty percent maroon). he is seeing this color splash more and more recently (even shockingly at an art museum or two), and it always catches him off guard with its refined yet vibrant appeal. a good pairing.
arg sam playing.
update two days later: what a curious coincidence that a band from boulder would be playing at the same place as samtron. well, not entirely unexpected, as sam is from boulder. still, an oddity that they would happen to be on tour. high-energy. and what fortunate occurrences came from the walk back home...events which would not have happened had he decided to saunter over to ground kontrol and play pinball with christopher, as was originally on the itinerary. the most compelling things can happen from meeting absolute strangers. stopping a basketball-turned-soccer-ball-by-faculty-of-overactive-slash-tipsy-imaginations from careening into the street and getting flattened by oncoming traffic. it really makes one take a step back and think.
May 14, 2008
phobias and photomographs
there are always, it seems, those ghosts of insecurity that steal over us. even in the midst of cheerful times, there will probably always be the occasional shiver of disquiet, of uncertainty, of helplessness. even as m sits in this quirky coffee shop for the first time (but likely not the last; cute barista), reading some van gogh, he is reminded by whatever signs and tables and pooches outside the window that his life has progressed to a remote location that is dissimilar to what he has engaged with for a very long time prior to this. the city doesn't feel so different from any other city (well, admittedly, a bit "portland" in its ways), but there are fragments of sensations that have morphed into something quite different than any colorado springtime. he is reminded of visiting his grandmother in denver, the big-big city of colorful colorado, and gazing off of her deck into the massed confusion of a metropolis. everything was shifted slightly to the left, or the right; nothing felt as it should. this skewed his perspective of denver into the negative for a long time, and only began to repair itself near the end of college when he gave it a fair shot.
now portland is 'local' for him, and moods have shifted....he cherishes the slightly-familiar over the extremely-unfamiliar, whereas in colo he was steeped in the all-too-familiar. something he has only done once or twice is now the safe play, the explored territory, even though he knows that there are layer upon layer of understandings that one goes through in exploring any one thing, place, or person. one um, noun.
what's funny is that he makes motions between two opposites in this respect....sometimes he feels that the concept is what is important....and if we're talking theory, the same ol' things are happening in portland as anywhere else (with perhaps a few *hem* unusual exceptions). he would call this the majority of the time, where he feels comfort, peace with the turnings and tides of human patterns. life and he have an inside joke, a shared understanding, and it is simple to exist in whichever way one wants to. other times, which flutter in and alight upon his shoulder from time to time, bring a mess more confusion and imbalance, constantly prodding his mind back into stasis from the step it had taken forward.
why is it sometimes difficult to progress from a thought, from a mindstate? it's simple to be on top of the world one day, and have the carpet ripped out from under you in the next. self-questioning, self-criticism, stepping in pace beside you and inquiring in terse and obnoxious terms what your plan is, or will be, or has been all along. is it too much to live a life without a unifying plan in each moment? is it a confidence, which quakes at first only in order to be forged stronger yet by bending it to your will, now, and then again, in true damascus form? ("why do we fall? so that we can learn to pick ourselves back up.") do we ever feel so justified in what we are doing, that this recedes in the wake of our conviction? perhaps that could be said to mirror the 'good times', but certainly those are not always strong enough to ward off another coming, another regress (which we may call it, even if in fact it is a signal of a deeper progression).
why is it that when we strip off a layer of ourselves, when we remember the past fully, passionately, everything seems unfamiliar again? does that mean that our new selves do not effectively incorporate our old selves? that somehow we cannot reconcile the two, into different scenarios than what they had originally existed in? if that's the case, then perhaps it would be a relief rather than a concern....it would mean that there is never a reason to get down on yourself for acting differently than you might have at a later or more experienced time...there would never be any logical way to connect the two notions of yourself within the realms of space and time~ we live the best that we can.
or perhaps we live, forgetfully.
now portland is 'local' for him, and moods have shifted....he cherishes the slightly-familiar over the extremely-unfamiliar, whereas in colo he was steeped in the all-too-familiar. something he has only done once or twice is now the safe play, the explored territory, even though he knows that there are layer upon layer of understandings that one goes through in exploring any one thing, place, or person. one um, noun.
what's funny is that he makes motions between two opposites in this respect....sometimes he feels that the concept is what is important....and if we're talking theory, the same ol' things are happening in portland as anywhere else (with perhaps a few *hem* unusual exceptions). he would call this the majority of the time, where he feels comfort, peace with the turnings and tides of human patterns. life and he have an inside joke, a shared understanding, and it is simple to exist in whichever way one wants to. other times, which flutter in and alight upon his shoulder from time to time, bring a mess more confusion and imbalance, constantly prodding his mind back into stasis from the step it had taken forward.
why is it sometimes difficult to progress from a thought, from a mindstate? it's simple to be on top of the world one day, and have the carpet ripped out from under you in the next. self-questioning, self-criticism, stepping in pace beside you and inquiring in terse and obnoxious terms what your plan is, or will be, or has been all along. is it too much to live a life without a unifying plan in each moment? is it a confidence, which quakes at first only in order to be forged stronger yet by bending it to your will, now, and then again, in true damascus form? ("why do we fall? so that we can learn to pick ourselves back up.") do we ever feel so justified in what we are doing, that this recedes in the wake of our conviction? perhaps that could be said to mirror the 'good times', but certainly those are not always strong enough to ward off another coming, another regress (which we may call it, even if in fact it is a signal of a deeper progression).
why is it that when we strip off a layer of ourselves, when we remember the past fully, passionately, everything seems unfamiliar again? does that mean that our new selves do not effectively incorporate our old selves? that somehow we cannot reconcile the two, into different scenarios than what they had originally existed in? if that's the case, then perhaps it would be a relief rather than a concern....it would mean that there is never a reason to get down on yourself for acting differently than you might have at a later or more experienced time...there would never be any logical way to connect the two notions of yourself within the realms of space and time~ we live the best that we can.
or perhaps we live, forgetfully.
May 13, 2008
juice box
how is it that every table at every coffee shop is always unbalanced? it's just a matter of adjusting the little knobs on the bottom of the floor piece. or inserting a select thickness of napkin-supports. now m has a sloshing green tea endangering his laptop (and lap) every time he lets up off the keyboard. tired of adjusting these things~ he needs to invent a cheap, perpetually-self-balancing table. phase 2: ? phase 3: profit.
everything that matches sees has the potential to become a life-changing painting. or story ("i twist up stories out of nothing.") it all washes away, down to the bare-bones framework; colors swirl in the sink basin until finally disappearing out of sight. do you think that your orange is the same as m's? he swizzles his own life's story-colors instinctively onto the wire, without even thinking about it. this naievete is why he will always be superior to a computer's cold calculations, its natural non-thought but yet its ever-vigilant...processing. mattress processes as well, but in a constant state of forgetfulness and flirtatiousness with his whirlwind sensory-surroundings, constantly imbuing himself in splatter-fractals inside and upon the sights and sounds, the memories and the re-analyzed memories and the noisy chaos in between the two.
every moment, if painted with a particular set and sunsetting-gradient of colors, if inked with the precise degree of abstraction that speaks just so to a certain person's own inner monologue, to their own aesthetic, with the correct shapes and printed movements, motions; every one has a drawing power, a spirit that can be found in it and if not captured, at least expressed. art can blow right through you like an icy mountain wind, mingling with the core and variably shutting down, numbing certain parts of you into absolute stunned silence, and illuminating, activating certain other dormant areas, stringing lights on to a map, brushing the metal side of the cavity in the old 'operation' game...a jolting bzzt that spirals consciousness, fresh breath, into new areas.
feelings. convoluted sometimes, but certainly indicators of your 'truth', your own self being located amidst world-wide waldo-madness. he knows them pretty well by now, knows where to juice the nourishing truth from the fruit; what is husk and what is energy, what is life~
everything that matches sees has the potential to become a life-changing painting. or story ("i twist up stories out of nothing.") it all washes away, down to the bare-bones framework; colors swirl in the sink basin until finally disappearing out of sight. do you think that your orange is the same as m's? he swizzles his own life's story-colors instinctively onto the wire, without even thinking about it. this naievete is why he will always be superior to a computer's cold calculations, its natural non-thought but yet its ever-vigilant...processing. mattress processes as well, but in a constant state of forgetfulness and flirtatiousness with his whirlwind sensory-surroundings, constantly imbuing himself in splatter-fractals inside and upon the sights and sounds, the memories and the re-analyzed memories and the noisy chaos in between the two.
every moment, if painted with a particular set and sunsetting-gradient of colors, if inked with the precise degree of abstraction that speaks just so to a certain person's own inner monologue, to their own aesthetic, with the correct shapes and printed movements, motions; every one has a drawing power, a spirit that can be found in it and if not captured, at least expressed. art can blow right through you like an icy mountain wind, mingling with the core and variably shutting down, numbing certain parts of you into absolute stunned silence, and illuminating, activating certain other dormant areas, stringing lights on to a map, brushing the metal side of the cavity in the old 'operation' game...a jolting bzzt that spirals consciousness, fresh breath, into new areas.
feelings. convoluted sometimes, but certainly indicators of your 'truth', your own self being located amidst world-wide waldo-madness. he knows them pretty well by now, knows where to juice the nourishing truth from the fruit; what is husk and what is energy, what is life~
May 11, 2008
will-o'-the-wisp
"one minute I held the key
next the walls were closed on me
and I discovered that my castles stand
upon pillars of salt, and pillars of sand"
matches is stewing in thoughts, confusing illusions, and listening to the new coldplay single, 'viva la vida'. it's a soothing balm.
ah well.
am disagreeing with language lately; not sure if it is just a problem with our english version or what. perhaps m got too steeped in it during college, but he has a thousand colloquial expressions that do not make enough sense for every thousand which do. take the word 'facetious'. most people don't know how to spell this word in the first place, and they think that it means someone is just intentionally being an ass. but its root is facet, as in a gemstone, another surface, a different angle; light refracting and illuminating new accents. he would use this word all the time if this held true to its fine points, but the word means just a bit of silliness, really. literally. what an utter waste of an extremely poetic and far-reaching word. now the metaphor of a facet is ruined, what with the word being locked into the lexicon for eternity. one can't just unword a word; there is no unwinding of history, no subtle snippets of extraction to tinker with the end results. maybe he should get over it and move on~
something stopped him short the other day; snagged his mind like a sweater on a stray nail. he can't remember specifically where it was, so forget about all the story backtrackery. basically, it was an older gentleman relating how he was aghast at the pace with which his life was pulsing by. this is a notion that comes from several separate sources, so there must be something to it. why is it that life seems to go by more quickly once one trickles out of adolescence? is it that the mind shifts like sediments, becoming more settled, eroding away the walls of our conscious differentiation of one moment from another? is it that days and weeks and months become more self-same (like one another) at a certain point in life? likely the point of career-pathing, which weighs a trigger heavily on matches' mind right now....maybe he should just bail right now and hop a ship to madagascar or spain, for as long as need be to establish his own initiatives. he would be remiss if he didn't mention how quickly the last seven months in oregon have been burning by. it isn't that he doesn't have an extreme density of new and wonderful experiences, or that he feels he should have capitalized on his time in some other way....it's just very hard to describe. he hopes that acceleration is not a principle which holds constant throughout life, and that it is more of a state-of-mind to be grappled with and conquered through mindfulness. which is a word he hears too little these days~
what other propulsions could exist? can it be associated with age, in that we sleep more and play less than we used to? this doesn't necessarily hold true, especially not in the present case. could it be, perhaps, that our responsibilities, that our concerns and worries, are so much more numerous and present themselves with so much more immediacy than ever before? he thinks he is on to something with that one. the savory times are those in which one is acting of their own free initiative; fusing their own individual thoughts and cares into the atmosphere around them. "growth of the soul, growth of the mind" ~twelve days. we're so often forced into positions of maintenance these days, just keeping up with all the regular bullshit to make sure that it doesn't outpace us, that we seldom have the opportunity or the energy to pursue ourselves or our dreams. who honestly has a job that isn't involved in maintenance of some nothing, some customer or financial portfolio or product or service? who actually burns away the darkness into unexplored territories with those useful eight-hour blocks of their day? even then, they would return home and have to clean the apartment and sift through the bills and separate the papers from the plastics. so much of it is halfway mind-numbing, which he thinks is the core of the problem. it is willful sedation, and this is one poignant cause of time-slippage, of wasted hours and unnoticed opportunities.
another sentence that he heard a few days ago struck him in a harmonious chord: "it's not often the things that we end up doing that we regret, it's the things that we don't end up doing." a butchering of the phrase certainly, but the idea comes through.
he agrees almost 100%. almost. call it 92. he does so enjoy attaching hard numbers to such things.
next the walls were closed on me
and I discovered that my castles stand
upon pillars of salt, and pillars of sand"
matches is stewing in thoughts, confusing illusions, and listening to the new coldplay single, 'viva la vida'. it's a soothing balm.
ah well.
am disagreeing with language lately; not sure if it is just a problem with our english version or what. perhaps m got too steeped in it during college, but he has a thousand colloquial expressions that do not make enough sense for every thousand which do. take the word 'facetious'. most people don't know how to spell this word in the first place, and they think that it means someone is just intentionally being an ass. but its root is facet, as in a gemstone, another surface, a different angle; light refracting and illuminating new accents. he would use this word all the time if this held true to its fine points, but the word means just a bit of silliness, really. literally. what an utter waste of an extremely poetic and far-reaching word. now the metaphor of a facet is ruined, what with the word being locked into the lexicon for eternity. one can't just unword a word; there is no unwinding of history, no subtle snippets of extraction to tinker with the end results. maybe he should get over it and move on~
something stopped him short the other day; snagged his mind like a sweater on a stray nail. he can't remember specifically where it was, so forget about all the story backtrackery. basically, it was an older gentleman relating how he was aghast at the pace with which his life was pulsing by. this is a notion that comes from several separate sources, so there must be something to it. why is it that life seems to go by more quickly once one trickles out of adolescence? is it that the mind shifts like sediments, becoming more settled, eroding away the walls of our conscious differentiation of one moment from another? is it that days and weeks and months become more self-same (like one another) at a certain point in life? likely the point of career-pathing, which weighs a trigger heavily on matches' mind right now....maybe he should just bail right now and hop a ship to madagascar or spain, for as long as need be to establish his own initiatives. he would be remiss if he didn't mention how quickly the last seven months in oregon have been burning by. it isn't that he doesn't have an extreme density of new and wonderful experiences, or that he feels he should have capitalized on his time in some other way....it's just very hard to describe. he hopes that acceleration is not a principle which holds constant throughout life, and that it is more of a state-of-mind to be grappled with and conquered through mindfulness. which is a word he hears too little these days~
what other propulsions could exist? can it be associated with age, in that we sleep more and play less than we used to? this doesn't necessarily hold true, especially not in the present case. could it be, perhaps, that our responsibilities, that our concerns and worries, are so much more numerous and present themselves with so much more immediacy than ever before? he thinks he is on to something with that one. the savory times are those in which one is acting of their own free initiative; fusing their own individual thoughts and cares into the atmosphere around them. "growth of the soul, growth of the mind" ~twelve days. we're so often forced into positions of maintenance these days, just keeping up with all the regular bullshit to make sure that it doesn't outpace us, that we seldom have the opportunity or the energy to pursue ourselves or our dreams. who honestly has a job that isn't involved in maintenance of some nothing, some customer or financial portfolio or product or service? who actually burns away the darkness into unexplored territories with those useful eight-hour blocks of their day? even then, they would return home and have to clean the apartment and sift through the bills and separate the papers from the plastics. so much of it is halfway mind-numbing, which he thinks is the core of the problem. it is willful sedation, and this is one poignant cause of time-slippage, of wasted hours and unnoticed opportunities.
another sentence that he heard a few days ago struck him in a harmonious chord: "it's not often the things that we end up doing that we regret, it's the things that we don't end up doing." a butchering of the phrase certainly, but the idea comes through.
he agrees almost 100%. almost. call it 92. he does so enjoy attaching hard numbers to such things.
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