[ why? ]


...do i write?

if i had a simple answer,or better still, knew what to say to properly explain it, i'd have already wrapped it up. since that's not an option,...onwards and upwards.

i was / still, am by nature insular. perhaps "only child syndrome" whereas my imagination was always vivid and took to art formats like a fish to water. being very young, or as far back as coherent memory will take me, i drew all the time, half heartily creating stories that i'd abruptly stop in the middle of because i would have, what i thought, was a better idea to follow through on. this had become, until the time of this blog entry, a consistent habit. thoughts and ideas flow much faster than i can physically catch up with.

as many children, my major influences were what i saw on television, movies or comic books. all of which i hoped to aspire to someday until i grew a little older and began to appreciate music around the age of ten or so. for everything else the aforementioned mediums inspired me, the use of sound, like my mom's doors', bowie, beatles, and velvet underground albums opened up a realm where the most amazing feelings and ideas came fourth by nothing more than just listening to a 4 minute piece of music and it acting like a drug. i was hooked.

also by that age, we purchased cable television and a mainstay for me was mtv. the idea of paying to watch television seemed alien but since i wasn't paying the early MTV channel was something i would never turn off, even though i had in my hands my first remote control. synthesizers has just broken and bands like human league, and artist like gary numan and thomas dolby were exciting. here were songs that were exhibiting sounds that felt like another race of beings had descended onto earth and were playing wonderful celestial soundscapes. down with guitars, up with synths and sampling devices like the early fairlight. exciting times as a child, but the price paid for true artist was growing dim. the sun was setting on true artist. directors who had no idea what to do for a video, and musicians who had no idea what to do with the new technology were both fucking it up and by a good wide margin. the decade of credit cards, cocaine, and bad fashion had kicked up dirt over the substance of true artist. jesus was replaced by coca cola.

back to the writing,....i felt some background of the times was required to explain my mindset.

i began writing in 9th grade. i was at the time, kicked out of my school for being a problematic student who failed 2 grades twice. not that i wasn't smart enough, i just didn't give a shit. this landed me in a special program called the "phoenix project" ( to this day sounds like a bad movie ). the problem, or blessing with this was out of the 3 schools in the city, they took 10 of the least wanted students and put us together. this of course ran the same risk of putting criminals in jail. they all share their bad ideas and come out more educated and savvy in their exploits. however i found a connection with two teachers, the most important being an english teacher mrs. harrington. until then i hated english. reading shitty books and writing shittier book reports. i was finally encouraged to write something of my own. a poem. it wasn't very good, but apparently good enough for her to pull me aside and ask me to write more for extra credit.

so i wrote the extra credits and was inspired to write more. it's notable that at the same time, i had my first experience with drugs and alcohol. usual fare, pot, schnapps, and the occasional acid trip provided by my hooligan classmates. This may or may not have contributed to the extension of my urge to write, sketch, and paint. in any event, in measured doses i found that it at least seemed to speed up the process.

it was around this time, i discovered a developing nocturnal nature, and spent hours in a 24 hour coffee shop from 11 to 3 in the morning meeting both nice people and unsavory characters. i foolishly gravitated towards the more dangerous people, which put me, as a 14 to 16 year old in situations i was thrilled by, as equally frightened. drugs and sex were the natural way to spend a night before school. i was intimidated, frozen, and wanting to know more. these were individuals who eclipsed any 'dangerous' fools i knew as classmates. sneaking in and out of my house was easy. shaking some of the odd ideas and practices i saw and took part in while in an altered, sometimes comatose mindset was something all together a separate entity.

this gave me my very first outlet to write. experiences i felt i couldn't talk about so my only recourse was to take pen to paper. at first it was all very blatant, however i had begun finding books i'd enjoyed like '1984' ' a clockwork orange', and 'do androids dream of electric sheep' which became the film 'blade runner'. the overall felling in those books somehow connected to how i felt. not at all literally, but as most disenfranchised teenage idiots feel.

i began to write about my personal experiences as well as fictional stories under the guise of these atmospheres. like 2 pictures on tracing paper put on top of each other that together looked abstract. this allowed me, by the time i was 17 to begin seeking out my own lingo and mannerisms. i also enjoyed slamming two words together just to see how they sounded bouncing off one another.

i wrote from the only experience i knew in short form...lyrics. these eventually back doored me into several go nowhere bands, but they liked my writing and had a steady deadpan voice that allowed them to put up with me. i tried to learn instruments despite my lack of coordination and found a solace in keyboards as by then, sequencers and 4 track recorders were available to the mainstream public, however still, at a steep price point. i was far too thick headed to want to accept any ones ideas, so i usually took my lyrics and left in a huff. i fought rhyming and writing a chorus. i wish i had played well with others. i needed them more than they ever needed me. i was too short sided to realize that at the time and in certain ways,...still that way. I always, and still do feel that i could bring something productive to a musical environment.

so, that's why i write. it's a good therapy and years later it was necessity as certain personal reasons demanded such a safe outlet. drugs or hurting yourself are not only ridiculous ways to vent, but they will both, eventually kill you.

i enjoy writing things to this day. especially that i can put very personal feelings and dip them in metaphors and twist them between lingo spoken in a fictional place, even if it is a place set in my own imagination.

some are actual events
some are complete fiction
most are a blend only for certain people to decipher.


not sure if any of this was a clear explanation.

minimal observances part 1:

it's getting dangerous.

i wasn't born in time to experience the late 60's, wherein drug fueled hippies took the last push to knock the pyramid over. it takes many pushes. like knocking over any large, heavy object over it requires rocking it back and fourth several times until gravity decides to join you and finally knock that fucker over.

i was born by the time they had wrapped everything up. they killed both kennedys, and m.l.k. a shot across the bow. never again will any substance enter the government. we'll dazzle you with showmen, rodeo clowns, ideology sick freaks, and the occasional perceived level head. no one now will dare disrupt our plans to throw the society overboard now that we've slain the brave. we are the home of the brave, however only in packaging now.

a two party system is like a cola war. everyone has their favorite brand. this is the illusion of choice. like magnets that push against each other, right and left hold each other up. their supporters don't think so. then again, who has the time nowadays?

it would be interesting, at least to me and the scant voices that creep out from behind my brain at times, if all the billboards and posters that are selling products, be it food, liquor, or electronics, replaced their logos and images with a simple photo of their c.e.o.'s. disturbing at best. maybe downright orwellian. truth in advertising i say. that's not the salesman purpose however. it's to entice, confuse, and beat you down with it's repetition and bright, primary colors.

my thoughts crossed my eyes again. i'll focus again.

the left and right have an invested interest in each other. christ isn't around anymore so they have to crucify each other. pepsi or coke? yankees or red sox? cheer at the pantheon which is now the digital stage. newsmen are gone. true reporters have faded. the current of the wind determines what stance they will take. straw and exit polls determine your fate.

sadly though, like a coffin being laid into the ground, we are all mourners, watching the death of honesty and true progression lowered 7 feet in a steel lined, top shelf casket that was sold like a car dealer. it's important that the bugs don't eat our emptied bodies too soon. we must die in luxury. even in death we are spoiled. even in death we require that our egos be fed, on shitty greasy food, on mindless television plot, on trophy spouses, on bigger and better versions of everything that's only now, just nearly a day old.

i once got in trouble for smoking pot. i should have known better than to cheat a a game like monopoly. my silver representation moves across the board after i roll the dice and i keep landing on properties i already own. if i were younger, i would have started my drug regiment much earlier. only this time, a man or woman, with a degree who knows nothing about me would decide that i needed to relax at 7 years old. who knows better i suppose. pink floyd i imagine doesn't sound better or worse. no matter, you take take your drug of choice as long as it's one that's taxed to the hilt or you have to sell someone else's soul for a 30 day supply. ....dime bags are much cheaper.

the money in my wallet is a lie. the ever more colored paper, with images of men i learned of in school used to represent something. it used to resemble gold somewhere. the amount of gold determined by the number on each of it's four corners. it hasn't in a long time. it had been moved onto silver,...now, it has moved on to nothing. just dry threaded paper. an illegal currency for these, the oddest of times. gold is worth something? an element that doesn't oxidize. a theoretical worth determined by people who know no more than we do. the economy is fake, we're courted by a fraud. the only thing of value is now being collected, envelope by envelope, to money for gold commercials who will gladly exchange free shipping for the chance to pay you 10 cents on the dollar for the last commodity left in the free world now that the dollar has let out it's last breath and will not return to inhale again.

Their mouths empty with a pointless sound

Loosely strung together thoughts emerge

Walls I keep walking into and bouncing off of

Succession of impacts growing more intense

Popular intercestions where dead eyes meet

All of the coordinates are wrong

There were pictures of prophets

Burning in a fire casting off blue smoke

All these personal memories

Corrupted by my own points of view

Pick up pieces of the sky from the ground

Bolt together angles slammed into spheres

Point random signals blind until they bounce

So I can get my own bearings away from here

And begin to rebuild a truer north

Walking streets at unsafe hours

Tossing ideas and humor back and fourth

Fashion their shapes into our own

Days fell behind, leaving a lifetime’s hole

kyra again.

it comes and goes. big sister type.
military garb.
looks good on her.

watches your back.
communicate better in r.e.m. states.

maybe until something else comes up.

i never would have spotted those cowardly fucks.

wait,
wait,
wait,

let them come to you,...........on your terms.

i don't have access to much patience, so whatever is in reserve is what i'll have to use.

black roots,
then blue,
then purple across one eye

all business

i like that.
no bullshit.

i may get more intel tonight.

her schedule.
says i should avoid the chalk
"clear and askew is better than foggy and drone".
she says
she says
it makes sense

one of the few things that do.

this technology is giving me away.
might be time to disappear.

further instructions needed.

wait,
wait,
wait,

did i mention my patience is low?

i can't get into the details outside of the fact that a series of actions and repetitions has my radar up.

i knew things and people were suspect, but not to the degree i've recently discovered.

i'll post more when I'm certain of circumstances and of individuals who may or may not be C.S.'s

i opened a you tube account. until i get any sounds going in a suitable direction i have no idea what i'm going to use it for. maybe just buy a cheap web cam and rant.

here i am. lost inside a casusal conversation with a girl i could be old enough to be her father. a kind art student, an patient person who pulled me through to understand my attempts at art were worthy. Sometimes a right phrase of words, especially when you're considered "wise" makes a world of difference and empowered you. Like an elder of a tribe. As it was only yestersay I was in my early 20's and a blink of an eye later, i'm some used up fool in his mid 30's.

amazing how much a decade takes away

"do a gunner"

a wider canvas is nice.

do some more tonight.

as for the soundy, noisy bits. i could do with another round of recording samples.
amazing what you can make a window closing sound like in a PCM editor.