Ambulance by TV onthe Radio
Oh comely by Neutral Milk Hotel
Know all your enemies
Experience Everything/All of this has happened since:
Amidst the banks crashing and colliding, an event which, at the time, evoked no real emotion in me beyond an "oh", an era was occurring that would carve itself into my memory greater than any other before it. With Mercury in retrograde, as Mars in Libra aligned with Pluto, a darkened shadow fell upon Saturn's moon Titan. This lead to a peculiar kind of gravitation pull, one so great it triggered a plummet within my heart which coincided with a glance into a pair of eyes. It remains to this day beating low. That unusually low beat activated a creative surge, which also continues to this day. I sat often, staring, contemplating a mathematical problem of emotional proportion with ever changing values and infinite possibility. The solitude and staring equates to one thousand five hundred and eighty four hours (and counting) since that plummet, leaving little time for much else.
Russell Brand and Matt Morgan leave my itunes library forever. Ridiculously I feel like I have lost two good friends. I would visit them once a week, we would share in jokes, they did most of the talking. I was gutted that I missed "that" podcast. I felt that the people who never used to join our weekly gatherings should have butted out.
A crash of personalities resulted in a constant grey cloud that hung over our house. It's silver lining was so bleak that it barely enabled us to find the key hole in the front door. A sunken druggy presence, which was completely un-intimidating and non-threatening, eventually turned two outsider souls to antisocialism and depression. Screaming lows and arguments. I closed my door on them. A sallow head reclusing into books and the written word. One harrowing scream caused me to rush from my room, expecting to find serious injury, I found one of those souls screaming at the front door, unable to unlock it. I opened it for her, realising that it was her final straw.
Gunmen. Men with guns. It takes years of psychological harm, then one object, a gun, one moment of madness and one final straw for a backlash of hurt feelings and international headlines. 15 dead at a school in south west Germany. 10 dead at a college in Finland. 7 dead on a bus containing the Sri Lankian Cricket team.
A labyrinth web was woven. A group of us found a comfortable nook and remained there. A set of overlooking eyes caught mine from time to time as they moved across the nook. As they focused in on me, I was struck like a fist to my low beating heart. We stayed in that nook so long that we forgot the route out. When we got out, nothing had changed yet everything was different. We all had to find new ways to settle and move on. It hasn't been easy to shut out.
I stayed awake the night of the US elections. Barrack Obama became President of the USA, a country in which I am not a resident and have only visited once. I loved what Obama represented. I expected an immediate change to the world. But nothing happened. I waited for a few more weeks, still nothing. Eventually I gave up waiting, then something new happened, Barrack Obama became the first president to have his official presidential portrait taken with a digital camera.
I know in the depth of my stomach it's a lie, a trick. You are a fraud. A self harming soul placed one heavy hand onto my self harming soul and there I received and sent pleasure resulting in momentary inflation of the ego and self image. The ability to feel a sudden connection between myself and another rarely happens so I became dazzled by it's appeal. This dizziness and lapse in judgment on my part resulted in disorientation. Fear was constantly pumped from my heart into each one of my organs resulting in the occasional anxiety attack. Once it was over I cried emotional rape, though I cried silently behind my closed bedroom door. Not one tear was wasted. I don't cry anymore. (revision: 3/11 I do)
Jade Goody dies. It seems like the most symbolic life and death of this generation. She became a reality TV star and remained famous for doing nothing. She was loved by us, then we tore her apart, then we loved her again, with the aid of Heat, Closer and Now. She shown a new side to herself, turning from the bullied to the bully and plummeted in our expectations, again on reality TV. Then she became terminally ill. She allowed the cameras to witness her death, she invited us all to her death bed. She died at 27, it is the rock and roll age. Brian Jones, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, Jean Michel Basquiat, Jade Goody.
My neighbor utilised my self harming soul and good nature to form a self destructive cocktail but only after I had tasted hers. Sat by a pool of her blood, a craft knife (naturally) and a severed wrist. Shaking but clear. In that pool I could see a reflection of my heart. I couldn't go there. I drifted. Who could ask for better friends, really. And who could ask for better enemies. (Know your enemies). Disconnected from the event yet able to find symbolism in what I saw, I created a world of new imagining. A world exactly as this but with no people. Nothing but loneliness, nature and pure pointlessness. This fantasy makes me happy. Interceptions come in like an overheard police radio. Unclear, unknown and striking me as the thoughts of another. Abstracted visuals as if glancing into the landscape of another's memory, beyond comprehension but so completely beautiful. And what beauty I found in that blood. Disconnected from the event.
A car crashes into a Fiat Punto killing a father and son. The driver was drunk and otherwise engaged in performing a sexual act onto himself. He is jailed for 8 years, banned from driving for 15. I doubt he will ever drive or wank again.
She had been wailing all night. In complete honesty I knew what she had done but I didn't want to deal with it so I went back to sleep. April 10th, I ask her to open her door. No, she responds, you'll be mad at me. Upon hearing the no all I wanted to do was walk away and get on with the day, but that is not the right way to behave, that is not how a human being should respond to this kind of situation. Behind her door is an empty bottle of cava and five or so empty boxes of Ibuprofen. Then I shake, but remain totally clear. The ambulance arrives, staring, alone, still contemplating that mathematical problem. The grooves of the floor of the ambulance had collected grime from every accident it had visited, a time line, a biography a complete history of this van. Now I am part of that. Life and death. Four hours wasted in that hospital. The company of Henry Miller made that personality's tedious existence bearable for those tedious hours of my life. What a waste.
Kerry Katona is drunk on national TV. This Morning. God love Warringtonians, or Warringtoners as some prefer to be called.
All those people. All those brilliant people. Full of ideas. I want to reach inside the minds of each and every one. I want to relate to all of them. I want to touch their thoughts. None will fall. We remain solid beings. Beings with depth. Somewhere between intellectuals and creatives. Some neither here nor there. What beauties though. And under those watchful eyes. Inhalation. Laughter. Anxiety attack after anxiety attack. High achievement. Speak up. Slow down. Flight or Fight. Those eyes. Reading erotic material. Throwing up in bars. Being carried outside by the bouncer then laying in the middle of the road. Homing in on solipsism. Me. Only. Who could touch me really? Was it not all illusion created by myself. I connected to that road, that is the only explanation I am able to give. Those eyes linger on! They had me pinned. All I could see, because even though I am familiar with my surroundings, I am unable to see anything at all really. What was I waiting for? That suicidal friend takes me home. It was still early. We caught the second to last bus of the evening. I wake up to find a cigarette burn in my ear.
A mother in West Yorkshire kidnapped and drugged her own child. I was never quite able to comprehend what she hoped to gain from this, some form of monetary reward I think. The child was 10. Parents will continually fuck their kids up, but this one goes beyond.
Inhalation. Loneliness. Solitude. Deflation of ego. I am left with an headache and a bitter taste in my mouth. I think I want vengeance but I am unsure of the injury, whether a wrong has occurred. There are still more roads ahead of me, I may find myself laying in the middle of a few from time to time. There may be more red puddles to catch my own reflection in. The blood spilled that night was never cleaned up. It remained a dried up memoir of idiocy, selfishness of life and death, for all of us. Afterward, the people I told about the event would ask me if I was ok, not her. I responded in a human way, not a honest way.
Michael Jackson died the day that I discovered my final grade. It put a full stop to the days events Despite everything that had happened, I find myself with a first class honors degree. And what will cling to me most about the day Michael Jackson died? Those eyes, holding onto me like a cruel embrace that goes on too long. The usual conspiracy theories ensue, I take great interest in them.
She fell. I caught her twice. They fell, but they're getting better now. I fell. I was lifted momentarily by the actions of others. Those eyes fell, and I have no idea what this means. Intoxication. Disconnection. Vomit. Infatuation. Limerence. Suicide attempts. High Achievement. Lows. Loneliness. Lust Friendship. Dependence. Loss. Highs. Obsession. The influence of everyone. It turned out to be the greatest time of my life. I'm still counting the hours, the events, the landscapes, the experiences, the memories, everything. Experience everything, then create from everything you experience. And that is what I have learned, and that is how I live now.
Katie Price and Peter Andre split up. Well I saw that one coming.
All this happened since I met you. I'm not holding you responsible, but I am not taking the blame either.
Russell Brand and Matt Morgan leave my itunes library forever. Ridiculously I feel like I have lost two good friends. I would visit them once a week, we would share in jokes, they did most of the talking. I was gutted that I missed "that" podcast. I felt that the people who never used to join our weekly gatherings should have butted out.
A crash of personalities resulted in a constant grey cloud that hung over our house. It's silver lining was so bleak that it barely enabled us to find the key hole in the front door. A sunken druggy presence, which was completely un-intimidating and non-threatening, eventually turned two outsider souls to antisocialism and depression. Screaming lows and arguments. I closed my door on them. A sallow head reclusing into books and the written word. One harrowing scream caused me to rush from my room, expecting to find serious injury, I found one of those souls screaming at the front door, unable to unlock it. I opened it for her, realising that it was her final straw.
Gunmen. Men with guns. It takes years of psychological harm, then one object, a gun, one moment of madness and one final straw for a backlash of hurt feelings and international headlines. 15 dead at a school in south west Germany. 10 dead at a college in Finland. 7 dead on a bus containing the Sri Lankian Cricket team.
A labyrinth web was woven. A group of us found a comfortable nook and remained there. A set of overlooking eyes caught mine from time to time as they moved across the nook. As they focused in on me, I was struck like a fist to my low beating heart. We stayed in that nook so long that we forgot the route out. When we got out, nothing had changed yet everything was different. We all had to find new ways to settle and move on. It hasn't been easy to shut out.
I stayed awake the night of the US elections. Barrack Obama became President of the USA, a country in which I am not a resident and have only visited once. I loved what Obama represented. I expected an immediate change to the world. But nothing happened. I waited for a few more weeks, still nothing. Eventually I gave up waiting, then something new happened, Barrack Obama became the first president to have his official presidential portrait taken with a digital camera.
I know in the depth of my stomach it's a lie, a trick. You are a fraud. A self harming soul placed one heavy hand onto my self harming soul and there I received and sent pleasure resulting in momentary inflation of the ego and self image. The ability to feel a sudden connection between myself and another rarely happens so I became dazzled by it's appeal. This dizziness and lapse in judgment on my part resulted in disorientation. Fear was constantly pumped from my heart into each one of my organs resulting in the occasional anxiety attack. Once it was over I cried emotional rape, though I cried silently behind my closed bedroom door. Not one tear was wasted. I don't cry anymore. (revision: 3/11 I do)
Jade Goody dies. It seems like the most symbolic life and death of this generation. She became a reality TV star and remained famous for doing nothing. She was loved by us, then we tore her apart, then we loved her again, with the aid of Heat, Closer and Now. She shown a new side to herself, turning from the bullied to the bully and plummeted in our expectations, again on reality TV. Then she became terminally ill. She allowed the cameras to witness her death, she invited us all to her death bed. She died at 27, it is the rock and roll age. Brian Jones, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, Jean Michel Basquiat, Jade Goody.
My neighbor utilised my self harming soul and good nature to form a self destructive cocktail but only after I had tasted hers. Sat by a pool of her blood, a craft knife (naturally) and a severed wrist. Shaking but clear. In that pool I could see a reflection of my heart. I couldn't go there. I drifted. Who could ask for better friends, really. And who could ask for better enemies. (Know your enemies). Disconnected from the event yet able to find symbolism in what I saw, I created a world of new imagining. A world exactly as this but with no people. Nothing but loneliness, nature and pure pointlessness. This fantasy makes me happy. Interceptions come in like an overheard police radio. Unclear, unknown and striking me as the thoughts of another. Abstracted visuals as if glancing into the landscape of another's memory, beyond comprehension but so completely beautiful. And what beauty I found in that blood. Disconnected from the event.
A car crashes into a Fiat Punto killing a father and son. The driver was drunk and otherwise engaged in performing a sexual act onto himself. He is jailed for 8 years, banned from driving for 15. I doubt he will ever drive or wank again.
She had been wailing all night. In complete honesty I knew what she had done but I didn't want to deal with it so I went back to sleep. April 10th, I ask her to open her door. No, she responds, you'll be mad at me. Upon hearing the no all I wanted to do was walk away and get on with the day, but that is not the right way to behave, that is not how a human being should respond to this kind of situation. Behind her door is an empty bottle of cava and five or so empty boxes of Ibuprofen. Then I shake, but remain totally clear. The ambulance arrives, staring, alone, still contemplating that mathematical problem. The grooves of the floor of the ambulance had collected grime from every accident it had visited, a time line, a biography a complete history of this van. Now I am part of that. Life and death. Four hours wasted in that hospital. The company of Henry Miller made that personality's tedious existence bearable for those tedious hours of my life. What a waste.
Kerry Katona is drunk on national TV. This Morning. God love Warringtonians, or Warringtoners as some prefer to be called.
All those people. All those brilliant people. Full of ideas. I want to reach inside the minds of each and every one. I want to relate to all of them. I want to touch their thoughts. None will fall. We remain solid beings. Beings with depth. Somewhere between intellectuals and creatives. Some neither here nor there. What beauties though. And under those watchful eyes. Inhalation. Laughter. Anxiety attack after anxiety attack. High achievement. Speak up. Slow down. Flight or Fight. Those eyes. Reading erotic material. Throwing up in bars. Being carried outside by the bouncer then laying in the middle of the road. Homing in on solipsism. Me. Only. Who could touch me really? Was it not all illusion created by myself. I connected to that road, that is the only explanation I am able to give. Those eyes linger on! They had me pinned. All I could see, because even though I am familiar with my surroundings, I am unable to see anything at all really. What was I waiting for? That suicidal friend takes me home. It was still early. We caught the second to last bus of the evening. I wake up to find a cigarette burn in my ear.
A mother in West Yorkshire kidnapped and drugged her own child. I was never quite able to comprehend what she hoped to gain from this, some form of monetary reward I think. The child was 10. Parents will continually fuck their kids up, but this one goes beyond.
Inhalation. Loneliness. Solitude. Deflation of ego. I am left with an headache and a bitter taste in my mouth. I think I want vengeance but I am unsure of the injury, whether a wrong has occurred. There are still more roads ahead of me, I may find myself laying in the middle of a few from time to time. There may be more red puddles to catch my own reflection in. The blood spilled that night was never cleaned up. It remained a dried up memoir of idiocy, selfishness of life and death, for all of us. Afterward, the people I told about the event would ask me if I was ok, not her. I responded in a human way, not a honest way.
Michael Jackson died the day that I discovered my final grade. It put a full stop to the days events Despite everything that had happened, I find myself with a first class honors degree. And what will cling to me most about the day Michael Jackson died? Those eyes, holding onto me like a cruel embrace that goes on too long. The usual conspiracy theories ensue, I take great interest in them.
She fell. I caught her twice. They fell, but they're getting better now. I fell. I was lifted momentarily by the actions of others. Those eyes fell, and I have no idea what this means. Intoxication. Disconnection. Vomit. Infatuation. Limerence. Suicide attempts. High Achievement. Lows. Loneliness. Lust Friendship. Dependence. Loss. Highs. Obsession. The influence of everyone. It turned out to be the greatest time of my life. I'm still counting the hours, the events, the landscapes, the experiences, the memories, everything. Experience everything, then create from everything you experience. And that is what I have learned, and that is how I live now.
Katie Price and Peter Andre split up. Well I saw that one coming.
All this happened since I met you. I'm not holding you responsible, but I am not taking the blame either.
Torn Sweater/Little Bastard
These were taken by Roy Schatt in 1954.
I watched Rebel without a cause today and fell a little bit in love with James Dean. I enjoyed the romantic ideals and rebellion against tradition explored by the youth in the film. When I say youth, I really mean twenty somethings posing as teenagers. Ultimately the rebellion turns full circle as we see Jim Stark (Dean) fall in love and settle in a disused mansion, a sort of dystopian dream house. Throughout, Stark (and the picture in general) confronts masculinity, and asks "What does it mean to be a man?" And this question I find relevant to my own thoughts lately as I have been exploring with in myself the idea of femininity and the so called "stronger sex". The following questions are ones that I pose: Have I ever actually met a 'real man', someone completely strong, someone who is a complete protector? Can this type of person ever truly exist? Is it all just false expectation laid down upon us by a bunch of fairy tales. What does it mean to be strong? In the film it turns out that the courage to be sensitive is what fills Stark with masculinity. That and (well for me at least) his strong complex enigmatic persona. Perhaps man is truly a man when he has mystery about him. Perhaps they are only strong when their mouths are shut because when they are open they are like children. I'm not complaining. I would not like to add a "Am I right girls?" to the end of that sentence. I enjoy that men are essentially children at heart. The alpha male is obnoxious at the best of times, but it is particularly repulsive when you can see a small boy in his eyes. So who is the stronger sex? The Male or the Female? Weaker or stronger, what ever your sex, you are mostly just weak until you have that other sex by your side. Unless you are gay, the same sex scenario is essentially the same (there is a huge question mark next to the sexuality of James Dean). The love of a someone creates a new strength, a new sex. Together we become strong. Yet there is always a part of the self in tears, weakening you, wanting you to fall.....
Little Bastard....
And he fell. James Dean died a year after the previous photos were taken.
Car designer George Barris bought the wreck for $2,500. On delivery, the Porsche slipped off its trailer and broke the legs of a mechanic. A doctor from Beverly Hills, Troy McHenry, bought the engine of the Little Bastard and put it in his own Porsche. The first time he took the car out, the vehicle spun out of control and crashed into a tree. He was killed on the spot.
Another physician, William Eschrid, bought the transmission of Dean’s Porsche. He went racing – some say against McHenry – and, going in a curve, the car rolled over. He was seriously injured.Some of these so called 'facts' are not facts at all, for example Barris did not originally purchase the wreck but the mere shell. And Troy McHenry died in a Lotus not a Porche. Beyond this not much else can be verified. Snopes.com (the most reliable urban legend de-bunker) places a little white circle next to the story which means "unclassifiable veracity". So perhaps if you believe in such things as curses this is quite plausible. Otherwise it is just another one of the mysteries surrounding Dean, and another one of those pesky urban legends that I absolutely cannot wait to tell to my nephew Sebastian when he gets a little older.
Barris sold two tires of the wreck, which were unharmed in the accident, to an unnamed New Yorker. The tires blew up simultaneously, causing the car to go off the road. It was not reported what happened with the driver.
Two young thieves were injured while they attempted to steal parts of Little Bastard. Barris decided to store the cursed car safely away, but the bad luck kept coming from the hunk of twisted metal. In 1959, a fire broke out in the Fresno garage where Dean’s Porsche had been stored.
In that year, the Dean mania was still intense and so the California State Highway Patrol thought of transporting the mangled vehicle to local high schools and show teenagers the dangers of high speed driving. Little Bastard was put on exhibit in Sacramento, fell from its display and broke the hip of a teenager. On the way to Salinas, the flatbed truck with the Spyder on it
lost control and the driver was crushed by the Porsche.
Little Bastard still was very popular and George Barris took the cursed car on a tour to the other states. On the anniversary of James Dean’s death, September 30, a fifteen year old boy was standing about twelve to fifteen feet away from the exhibit. As if broken by spectral hands, three bolts snapped. The car plowed forward and crushed both of the boy’s legs.
In 1960, Barris decided to have Little Bastard shipped back home to California. In Florida, the Porsche was loaded into a boxcar, the door carefully sealed. When the train arrived in Los Angeles, the seal was still intact… but Little Bastard was missing. Private detectives went after the car of James Dean, but they could not find it. The Little Bastard mysteriously vanished and has not been seen since…
Little Bastard, Car With a Curse....
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