random acts of culture

... is a knight arts foundation designed to get local artists off the stage and out into public. a thousand performances are scheduled over the next 3years. here is one example from this year's usitt conference in charolette, north carolina.

in notebook recovery

i've begun the mental recovery of losing my notebook 2days ago. the inclination that it's still somewhere along the canal behind the house haunts me, but just the same i'm trying to take my loss in stride and learn my lesson. the loss is crushing for a variety of reasons and those of you who carry understand what i'm talking about. beyond the facts that i was literally on the last page of the book and that i just had the mind the other day to finally digitise some of the work i'd laid between it's pages; this was the book that travelled europe with me last summer (a huge deal for me) and after filling and filing notebooks for years, suddenly losing 1 feels somehow like i've lost a volume to the chronicles of my life. i am flooded with awful thoughts of someone getting a free look into the pages of my mind; their disgusting hands gripping at the last year of my life, thumbing through my thoughts, smudging my memories, laughing at their own misunderstanding -- i can only hope it got washed away, tucked beneath a rock deep at the bottom of the canal by a gator who recognises its worth, or simply that whomever discovers it disgards it as quickly, trashing it before examining my intellect and judging my invention.

the economics of happiness

this trailer led me to isec which is worth a click, so check it out.

also check out trailers for even the rain, carbon nation, and i am. amazing works, it appears, continuing to convince a change in thought and lifestylfe through film.

the sum of all

i'd previously told you to read an article about nueroscientist david eagleman. if you read the article than you might recall the mention of one of eagleman's books entitled sum: forty tales from the afterlives which explores 40 beautifully imaginative potential afterlives; each a mirror of ourselves - examining humanity and the human condition. i was intrigued, so i picked up a copy that i've read it 3times and have become a believer of eagleman with full intentions of reading the rest of work. here is some of sum:

Ineffable

When soldiers part ways at war's end, the breakup of the platoon triggers the same emotion as the death of a person -- it is the final bloodless death of the war. This same mood haunts actors on the drop of the final curtain: after months of working together, something greater than themselves has just died. After a store closes its doors on its final evening, or a congress wraps its final session, the participants amble away, feeling that they were part of something larger than themselves, something they intuit has a life even though they can't quite put a finger on it.

In this way, death is not only for humans but for everything that existed.

And it turns out that anything which enjoys life enjoys an afterlife. Platoons and plays and stores and congresses do not end -- they simply move on to a different dimension. They are things that were created and existed for a time, and therefore by the cosmic rules they continue to exist in a different realm.

Although it is difficult for us to imagine how these beings interact, they enjoy a delicious afterlife together, exchanging stories of their adventures. They laugh about good times and often, just like humans, lament the brevity of life. The people who constituted them are not included in their stories. In truth, they have as little understanding of you as you have of them; they generally have no idea you existed.

In may seem mysterious to you that these organizations can live on without the people who composed them. But the underlying principle is simple: the afterlife is made of spirits. After all, you do not bring your kidney and liver and heart to the afterlife with you -- instead, you gain independence from the pieces that make you up.

A consequence of this cosmic scheme may surprise you: when you die, you are grieved by all the atoms of which you were composed. They hung together for years, whether in sheets of skin or communities of spleen. With your death they do not die. Instead, they part ways, moving off in their separate directions, mourning the loss of a special time they shared together, haunted by the feeling that they were once playing parts in something larger than themselves, something that had its own life, something they can hardly put a finger on.

-- david eagleman.

(i hope he doesn't mind me sharing)

i love the idea of the atoms that compiled you mourning the loss of you because i believe in science and the laws of energy. each microbe of energy, each atom that composed you is never destroyed, simply transferred from your body to something else.

so ineffable is great and each purposed afterlife is as intuitive as the next, leaving you to think about your own being and your own mortality. read sum. i'm sure you'll enjoy.

prisencolinenscinainciusol

italian musician adriano celentano. the lyrics you hear are in english and you can get the subtitled version on youtube, though celentano's intension was to speak gibberish so the lyrics don't make any sense and the music+video speak well without translation. in fact, i think the translation takes away some of the luster. enjoy.

suheir hammad

i could probably post everything i watch on ted, but she really reached me this morning. absolutely beautiful words. enjoy.

infinite credit

the united states of america functions like a video game. infinite credit is a good thing; the more credit you have the longer you can play, and when you get tired of playing you can just walk away. credit; ie. debt is dumb. why is someone in debt more trustworthy than someone who is debt-free? shouldn't someone who pays everything and owes nothing be more reliable than someone who is already financially behind? in the wonderful us of a; a country full of video gamers, there is a debt problem. we watched the government bail out the banks before they failed to save the housing market from destruction because for decades people have been requesting and receiving huge loans for homes they'd never be able to afford. of course, the banks jumped at the opportunity to loan people more money than they could ever pay back because it meant the banks would make great profits on the accrued interest and if/when the home-owners eventually foreclosed, the bank would win again. unfortunately, the banks never expected people to be selfish+irresponsible enough to simply walk away from their bad investments and didn't have the foresight to see what would happen when those millions of ridiculously hefty loans didn't get paid. as a result, the government bailed out freddie, fannie and the nation's largest banks by barrowing trillions from foreign countries and increasing the national debt to an unfathomable number so high that it will only ever be paid with blood; not money. for years i've been saying that the housing market collapse would be a minor scratch compared to the credit card debt the nation faces. look at this report listing the top ten most debt ridden cities in the country where cities with an average of about 180,000 households each owe approximately $1billion+ in credit card debt. how will that debt be paid? likely not by the people who owe it. even more staggering figures from creditcards.com suggests that as of march 2010, the us's total revolving debt which comes almost entirely from credit cards is $852.6billion off of nearly 610million credit cards nationwide. furthermore they claim that given those approximate numbers the average credit card debt per credit card debter is $15,688. there is a debt problem in this country. the united states is not in an economic recovery. there will be another, deeper bottom when the nintendo stops working altogether and sadly, it seems it's far too late to pull out the game and blow. take a deep breath. the kids are gonna flip out!

vivian maier

i was introduced to this story from a fellow photographer and was immediately blown away. it's always nice to see amazing photography, but i admire ms. maier because she shot simply because she loved to; because she loved to capture the beauty of the life around her. those motives remind me of a better version of me that used to shoot constantly - i'd like to get back into that. sadly, i think the magnitude of this photography find will never be reached again. the digital influence has made photography so much more accessible. there is so much lost in translation between the digital image on your computer screen where you can search through hundreds an hour, and the 20x30 image hanging on your wall which demands more attention and a studying of its composition. storage+printing of a digital image is easier, while storage+development of film (which nikon no longer makes) takes care, patience and knowhow. perhaps one day someone comes across a dozen external hard drives full of beautiful imagery, but will those images be 'developed' and hung in museums? or will they simply end up on flickr? is vivian maier the last great photographer? probably not. but she may be the last one the world will ever hear about.

the fire, the fight, the growth of 3

momix:botanica

last night at the mahalia jackson theatre i finally saw momix perform botanica. it was mind-blowing to say the least. inspirational and beautiful and sexual and raw at times, elegant and powerful and intriguing. it demanded your full attention and self reflection at the same time. it breathed an energy+chemistry that could be felt by everyone in the building, audience and dancer alike; connecting us all by frequency and pulse. botanica is moses pendleton's interpretative walk through the four seasons choreographed to the music of a dozen+ artists including bluetech, delerium, zer0 0ne, peter gabriel, vivaldi. the design team was incredible. lighting and sound design was beautiful and brilliant but it was the costume design and the projection design that blew me away. some costumes changed over the course of a dance; growing or stretching or changing shape. the projections simply transformed the stage into a sea or sky or field which when paired with different surfaces of mirror or matte or gloss finish created a truly spectacular atmosphere.

i continue to process this absolutely inspiring performance and may post more, but i had to post something before i let it slip away from me as i usually do. i will say, this show made me miss the creative process that is theatre.

fff # 27

lush, plush, brush, hush, gush
you can hear the tuba boom over the roar of the distant thunder vast approaching; threat of the storm unable to stop the lush sounds of the ever growing second line as it trails through the canyon of shotgun homes. fathers wearing their father's suits carry parasols and lead the march in time with the thump of the stickered bass drum. masked women wine waists and raise plush flags like the spirits around them as the trombones slide viciously through the c scale. men follow. rifling trumpets demand jubilee, replacing inhibition and anxiety with a blithe positive energy felt through each brassy note. the crowd, high on clarinets, chant the line's 'do whatcha wanna' anthem as parked cars become makeshift stages to dance on and light posts make for temporary jungle gyms. clouds follow the wind as it blows back against the brass in an attempt to hush the streets in preparation for the inevitable storm, but the shade from the sun seems to only welcome new zealots to the celebration though does nothing to dismiss the already heavy humidity. the line continues it's weaving dance through the neighbourhood finally turning down north derbigny toward the park where the gathered crowd is greeted with the beginnings of a surprisingly cool soothing rain; greeted in return with a boisterous cheer. the brass keeps blaring over the more present thunder; the rain seems to fall in tempo.
you join in as the crowd become chorus singing "i feel like funkin' it up, i feel like funkin' it up," when suddenly the man you chose to brush up against collapses, knocking your daiquiri and several other liners to the ground. a slim younger woman who turned to see the man fall seems to throw her children from her arms. another woman collapses. then another man. a shrill chilling scream resonates from the slim woman and silences the music as she dives down beside her fallen child. the crowd rapidly begins to thin, some suddenly hug the earth as your eyes race dumbfounded across the chaos. you hear a gunshot and another among more screaming as someone pulls you by the wrist to the ground. screeching car tires and the smell of burnt rubber fills the air. thunder roars, tearing through the clouds and unleashing an instantly drenching downpour that almost immediately makes it even more humid than you thought possible. as you lay in a puddle of daiquiri, blood and rain, you're eyes connect with the worried mother and are able to differentiate between the raindrops and the teardrops rolling down the her face; but not between the gush of blood from her baby's head and the blood dripping from her red-soaked shirt as she holds him. sirens blare. it was most certainly his first second line, too. the storm will wash away the streets, the incident, but never the memory.
the next morning headline on the times-picayune reads second second line shooting: 2yr-old among dead.
this story was inspired by tragic true events and the +vibes of a joyous second line.
... and while we're talking new orleans brass, check out this awesome animation featuring st james infirmary.

medecins sans frontieres

a great organization i've just started donating to. check them out.

the music scene

if you don't know blockhead is one of the sickest dj's around right now. but this video for his music scene is absolutely stunning. enjoy.

fuck you

i'm a huge cee lo fan, as you may know. man is always on the cutting edge. this, for me, has a serious stevie feel to it... enjoy.

read

the art of slow reading the struggle for the (possible) soul of david eagleman courtesy of aldaily.

the way i move fff #22,3,4

when i drink i smoke. glass then filter then glass pressed to lip in time over the a duration of the binge; heavy intoxication inevitable and ironcially the only way to clear my head. smoke streams from between knuckles and burns eyes long before the alcohol does. space and light wrinkle together blurring edges and faces until everything meshes into what was or could be. what is becomes irrelevant as i do. becoming more irrelevant with each sip or drag. shoulders tired from lifting bottle or jack. wrists weaken from baring the weight. my body sways to treble, my head nods to bass. music becomes the only direction i can take. ears and earlobes, warm with liquor sting against the cold air, absorbing the beat as i follow each tune aimlessly. tunes control like voodoo as i follow. drag. sip. bass booms. vision cloudier with each thump. sip. drag. boom. treble kicks. feet follow. drag. sip. step. step. step. boom. a less intoxicated me might have realised cold air meant i'd drifted outside. the final boom a car horn as heels flew over head and head crushed pavement. space and light blur edges into darkness. i think the car was playing the way you move.

let it flow

check out the movie flow and consider signing article31; a petition adding "access to clean water" as a fundamental right via the universal declaration of human rights.

wall animations don't get old

a week of art

i've been away from this blog a while, but for just cause. this is quick, but i needed to share this with anyone who hasn't already seen it...

fff#11

i admittedly kinda cheated because i had to rush. and this is completely unedited.

including block, clock, frock, rock, flock.

i was wearing a frock? i'd never worn a frock before. it was 12sizes too large for me, even the sleeves dragged on the ground; like wearing father's overcoat as a child - i swam in it. and i was running? sweating. and it was freezing. was i running from something or toward it? i tried to tell me legs to stop but they wouldn't listen. immense rock walls surrounded the thin rock road i ran down as far as my eye could see in both directions. the jagged narrow canyon was eerie, curving often and left me feeling terribly claustrophobic. 

turning one tight corner, still frozen, still sweating, i suddenly came to an avalanche of stone blocking my path. i wanted to stop to consider my options, but my legs immediately started me up broken rock. on coated hands and feet i continued up the mountain, dragging this enormous frock as the rocks slid away beneath me. the frock proved extremely heavy making the chore harder than it needed to be. it seemed to consistently get caught and pulled from my body as i ran uphill until it got so caught; sleeve in one hole, tails dragged into another that i literally ran out of it, kicking it from my body as i ran. it was in that moment that i realised the frock had been my only garment leaving me naked to the freeze. i wanted to go back for it after such a realisation, but again, my legs wouldn't allow it. 

banging knee and elbow (among other things) off rock and boulder to the point it drew blood i wondered if it'd ever get to the top and then surprisingly i was there. the canyon walls vanished and my legs stopped. the canyon plateau was nothing but flat brown earth in every direction. i heard what seemed like familiar chirping above me that led my eyes to the sky. there i saw a flock of winged clocks in v-formation. a flock of clocks? i'm either in a salvador dali painting or i'm dreaming, i thought to myself. it turned out to be the latter. i awoke, sheets and pillows strewn about; dreading the reality of the workday ahead of me.

relax (fff#10)

so this isn't as good as what i lost yesterday. but i'm still fine with the result. we'll see whatcha think.

before i write this week, let me just say given the words i'm pretty sure this is gonna be straight uncouth porn. 

so including dirtier, messier, sloppier, wetter, read.

i felt dirtier than ever before. the mess; messier than ever before. a broken recliner, two broken lamps, even a broken table (which broke drywall) among other casualties. and we were sloppier than ever before. candle wax, oils, lotions, honey, plenty lube, and wine; 1merlot and 2pinot noir. stained sheets, stained couch, stained carpet, stained skin.

it started with a long week at work and a promise of a relaxing friday night. that promise drove my foot and the gas pedal into the ground on my way to our little 1-bedroom on the outskirts of town so hard that i had to verbally tell myself to slow down; "the sex is no good if your dead" i reminded. finally arriving, i couldn't keep from running the steps around the side of the apartment to our porch door. fumbling with keys, i managed to insert key#1 into lock#1, turn, and before i could get key#2 into it's appropriate slot the door swung open revealing a beautiful woman barely wearing a white terry-cloth robe which contrasted wonderfully with her perfect chocolate satin skin and never completely covered her ass. she had my coat+bag in hand before i even realised i'd come through the door; too in awe, eyeing every inch of her ridiculous sexiness. she was the sexiest thing i'd ever seen, and i frequently reminded her of that. i suppose you could say she was the love of my life. why she was with me and treated me better than i deserved, i would never understand.

i snapped back into the present when she whipped my belt off from around my waist; i guess i had managed to step out of my shoes. she pushed me onto the recliner and staddled me, gently kissing my neck as she untucked and unbuttoned my shirt. i grabbed her bare round ass from just under the robe and pulled her forward returning her embrace on her neck+collarbone when she suddenly jumped up off me and the chair and for the first time i realised the smell of food in the air, though i knew we wouldn't eat it. she loved to tease in the beginning and walked off to the kitchen to check the meal, though she too knew we wouldn't eat it. she returned with a lit spliff on her lips and 2bottle/glass combinations of wine; merlot for her, noir for me. she poured and laid herself out on the couch. sexy. 

i drank and smoked with her, all the while trying to entice her into returning to foreplay, even though she wouldn't even let me join her on the couch. she was in control of these things, so i would drink my wine and wait patiently, knowing the anticipation of foreplay was foreplay. it was always fun trying to entice anyway.

my bottle of noir going dry must have been her signal to allow things to begin. she moved from the couch and knelt between my legs, unfastening and stripping off my pants, then quickly rose and began rubbing her ass against my almost instantly rock hard boxer briefs. i suddenly felt a rush of energy that seemed to emanate from my cock and standing spun her around, lifted her by her thighs and rushed her across the room slamming into the wall where i riped the terry-cloth from her body. we bounced from the wall to the desk, eventually finding the dining table. finally back at her collarbone, i worked along her perfect breasts, down her stomach toward her already damp clitoris; greeted with a series slow kisses and gentle licks. when i felt her get wetter, i flicked and flailed my tongue over and around and across her clit+labia, sucking or spreading when needed or desired or cried for. she suddenly rocked her writhing hips forward shoving her lips permanently against mine and my tongue inside her where it continued to flit and flip and whirl. 

there was another rush of energy over me and i had to enter her. coming up for air, i dropped my shorts, flipped her onto her stomach and clenching her hips thrust my pulsing cock as deep into her as possible. she moaned mercilessly as i grabbed at thigh and hip and breast, and arm and hair and shoulder; anything to pull me further inside of her. animal instincts seemed to take over.

i liked losing control. i watched my cock pump in and out of her harder and deeper than ever until the table gave way, leaving us standing in space. we moved to the couch, then the chair, then the kitchen counter, the bathroom counter, the floor and eventually the bed. when i would slow down for too long she would pour some more wine down my throat and some onto her tits and then incorporate something new into our romp. the honey was sweet. the candle wax burned. we went through an entire bottle of lube. i especially liked the vibration of her toy inside her as i fucked her ass. we fucked through the night well into daylight and i honestly couldn't say if it was morning or afternoon. hours ticked by like minutes and i was incredibly proud and surprised at my stamina. i couldn't believe any neighbours hadn't come knocking to complain about her screams and our constant thumps. how i still had the energy was beyond me, but i found myself lying on the bed, each limb tied to a bedpost.

she liked losing control too. she mounted my cock and rode me like an animal screaming and squirting repeatedly until the sheets and myself were completely soaked in her delicious cum, arching her back (her sexy back) on her final thrust before letting the weight of her exhaustion swallow me whole. and then without a word... she dismounted and left the room, leaving me bed-stricken. i figured she was coming back with whipped cream, or chocolate sauce, but then, as i laid quiet, i heard the shower. i began to worry, not because she was showering without me, or because i was still strapped to the bed, but because after her 30minute shower, my cock was still pulsing, still standing at full attention. 

minutes later my love walked in the bedroom wearing her white terry-cloth robe, as i looked on in awe, like usual. she sat on the bed next to me and kissed my lips and then the tip of my cock. "thank you," she said, more to my cock than to me it seemed. she reached into the pocket of her robe and pulled out what appeared to be empty pill boxes as she read "viagra, cialis, lavitra, extenze, magna, adderall."

"what is this?" i asked, almost laughing and slightly perplexed.

"hope you enjoyed your night. . .  and your wine." she said. "i know i did. thanks again," more to me this time than my dick, kissing me passionately on the lips. she reached for the rest of the pinot noir that sat on the nightstand, pushed the bottle onto my lips and began pouring as i coughed and gagged, trying not to swallow. then as i caught my breath, she duct taped my mouth shut. i looked her for a glimmer in her eye to tell me this was just some new sex game, but saw none. and then there was a knock at the door. 

she left the room with haste as i laid more worried about the medical implications than the fatal attraction moment i had just experienced. i briefly heard mumbling in the other room and the door bedroom door swung open. my love and 3women stood in the doorway. there was some immediate snickering followed by a series of questions and comments:

"i can't believe you did it."

"you gave him the full pack of each?"

"are you sure he won't die?"

the last question echoing my own concerns. but then my love said, "yep, there he is ladies. he's lasted this long, i don't see why he can't go longer. $200 for as long as you want. who's first?" 

1woman forked over her money and sprung onto the bed in seconds, staring and stroking my pulsing cock with amasement. i thought desperately about losing my erection, but it was no use. she lifted her skirt and started rubbing her naked pussy up+down the length of my shaft. the other women, including mine, retired to the living room without a word. i jerked and pulled on my restraints with all my might, but my only remaining energy was in my penis. as this woman smacked my cock against her clit, i thought about what all that medicine meant for me? was i gonna die? was my penis simply going to explode? or was i perhaps the luckiest guy in the world? the questions didn't really matter and as this woman slowly inserted the tip of my cock, i decided, though petrified, that i might as well enjoy it.

fff#10

... i was editing. blogger was doing that thing when it doesn't autosave. i came back to my fff from a different window after researching something. accidentally clicked something trying to drag my cursor to my edit and lost what i considered to be possibly the best fff (maybe the best thing) i've ever written. i'm clearly not going to make the deadline and i'm far too upset about it to even think about rewriting it now. maybe i'll try sometime after the drama of the loss passes. sorry to disappoint you with no story. i'm terribly disappointed myself. fuck.

before and after fff#9

bigup sweet trini for flash fictioning our friday. and i must say i doubt i'm the only one interested in reading more erotica from you  so if erotic starters are what you need then goddammit use erotic starters!

i pretty much let this piece write itself. i think i may even like it.

all that was left was/were...

all that was left were memories. i remembered giving up football for music and putting down music for more visual arts; painting and photography which, after school, proved to be my only profitable skill. i think i can remember every bride's face, but not one name. 

i remembered the call from the editor that led to my job in the city and my first thousand assignments being in the living section; newly wed and engaged couples. why we couldn't just let them send us pictures like every other newspaper was beyond my comprehension. i remembered how it was her who got me my first real assignment, and how my photo made the front page the very next morning.  i remembered our first date and me waiting for her to meet her deadline. i remembered the sight of her running to me. i remembered the feel of her crawling in next to me. i remembered her promotion to investigative journalism meant my promotion to investigative journalism after she fought for me. i remembered our months of great sex and investigation before blowing the mayor's procurement scandal wide open. 

i remembered the threats that came to the office that week, the faces of the men who showed up at my door the next and thinking how thankful i was that she was working late; will they get to her anyway? had they already? questions still unanswered. i remembered being pulled out of the trunk over the river and realising their intent, lunging at the closest one so they would finish me fast before they threw me over; anything to avoid drowning (my greatest fear). i remembered the feel of the lead as it went through my chest, the weightlessness as they threw me from the bridge and the impact of the water like a wall when i hit, just before everything went black... and nearly immediately back to light.

i lay here now with all these memories and this story to tell, but without the motor skills to express them. those memories will fade with time and i will have forgotten them completely long before i even utter my 'first' word. a lifetime of memories cast aside for a new lifetime. looking back there was a lot more good than there was bad.  

wasted (fff#8)

this week's fff. not my best work, but happy i wrote and i'm on time.
including gun, tonne, fun, plum, drum.
the gun seemed to weight a tonne, having held it at point for what felt like an eternity; eyes fixated on my target. nerves gyrated my whole arm so bad i could hear the gun rattle, which i thought only happened in the movies, and i suddenly questioned the integrity of the clenched weapon realising i never had actually fired the thing; not really wanting to fire it now. my free hand (both were wrapped in latex) wiped sweat from my brow, onto the back of my pants and then plunged into my pocket for my mobile. time check. it was a nervous habit picked up since i broke my watch though this time check served it's purpose; startling me back into my task and steadying my hand. it was nearly time for the pick up and i hadn't even begun the first act: murder. 
i stood over the sleeping victim who hadn't moved since my arrival which, if it wasn't for his occasional deep snore, would have me hoping he might have already been dead. i had looked over the hallway pictures of he and his family having fun at picnics and ball games on my way to the foot of his bed. he looked like a pleasant man, a good father and it had me wondering what he had done that i would be sent here to complete this chore. 'why me?' passed through my head too, but that answer was easy; father said so. mafia work had been easy, but i'd never had to pull a trigger making tonight feel a little something like initiation for a family i grew up in. 
my mobile vibrated 'wtf?' from carmen who was waiting with dominic outside at the car and i nearly laughed aloud at the ridiculousness of american mafia texting acronyms (they were probably updating their facebook pages too). the text, while funny, was to be taken seriously and the gun began to rattle again. i moved to the bedside and standing over my mark interrupted his dream firing three shots; two to the chest and one to the head. i couldn't differentiate between the whisp of the silenced pistol and the victims last breath. his white sheets almost instantly turned a deep plum colour. i holstered my firearm and began wrapping the body in the soaking egyptian cotton followed by the goose down comforter. 
i lugged the slightly portly father and husband by the feet down from the bed, back down the hall of family photos, down the steps and out the door to meet carmen and dom. they were anxiously waiting.
'what the fuck took ya so long kid?'
i didn't answer; instead simply dropped my gloves on top of the body and lit a cigarette, sitting on the trunk of the car to chain smoke until the night's events concluded. from there i watched dom open my gift wrapped package. 'nice work' he yelled in my direction, complementing my murderous accuracy, not aware that i wasn't proud of myself. he pulled out a machete and began hacking the body into it's six main parts; finishing the work just as the truck arrived, backing up through the yard right up to dom's butcher work. carmen helped the driver, a man i had never seen before, lower a drum from the truck bed and popped the lid. the driver put on large rubber gloves and reached for a hacked arm dropping it into the drum. an immediate sizzling sound filled the air followed by the most revolting stench fathomable hitting me like a wall. i instantly gagged as the stench hit the back of my throat, choking on smoke and eventually puking on the car's bummer. the body parts melted away in minutes and the lid was returned to the canister. all three men lifted it back onto the truck bed, the driver received a briefcase, a handshake, a smoke from carmen before leaving in his truck which read mancini chemical and waste disposal. 
with the truck's (and the body's) disappearance dominic tossed the sheets back in the house while carmen came over to give me shit about puking on the car and then ushered me into the back seat. dom took the driver's seat and drove us the hour home for which i demanded silence. upon our return my father greeted me with a proud look and my next assignment. 
i threw up on his shoes. initiation complete. 

poison (fff#6)

bigup sweet trini for spurring creativity. sorry to be late with my fff again. i know breaking the rules isn't fair... the rules are part of the exercise afterall. i won't let it happen again.

anyway, i have no idea how i feel about this piece. the trigger begged it was the eighth deadly... sin, but i just couldn't go that route, even though i kinda did. this seems to me like a spewing of loaded words grouped into phrase, but i'll be really interested to hear what people think, even if you tell me i suck and should stop writing. enjoy. or not.

it was the eighth deadly concoction in as many days; each more potent than the last. lies and betrayal finally constructing a poison of pain and sorrow and misery that could probably kill an elephant and definitely kill a man. love, the original poison, turned heads and stomachs, blurred vision and minds, loosened legs and lips and thoughts, and prevented preventative action. it was beautifully painful, torturing victims and leaving them scarred and sick, but not dead. complacency poisoned next and brought with it occasional self-pity and doubt, but worse, brought most dreadfully worrisome silence. the silence isolates but doesn't kill; though for most isolation is more painful than death. isolation is merely an incubator of poison. leave anything to stew long enough and it will rot. it brews rancid loneliness festering in a broth of hollow despair and if left long enough, suddenly there's contempt.

contempt is perhaps the most dangerous of poison because contempt breeds contempt and carries with it all the concoctions that came before. it allows lies and betrayal to spin their way into hate and love and life; one seamless lie woven so simply into the next blanketing whatever must remain hidden. if it hadn't already, self-preservation now takes complete control. pride and lust mask self-loathing and melancholy, convincing the foolish that what is good is best. surreal secrets compress and layer like thousands of years of compacted bedrock; too hard to breakup. they can only be stood upon, buried beneath feet where they can't be seen like preserved past ancestors. they are there but are only thought of, never seen. sands of betrayal become the bed to lie on and even the waters can no longer clean the distain. reflections are lost among the ripples and muck of water that used to be so clear, so calm, so blue; leaving liars to gasp for air in a whirlpool of misinformation and distrust until eventually there are only lies and betrayal. the truth, too complicated to explain and hidden so thoroughly that it is lost beyond even knowing eyes that are too exhausted from watching behind them and studying mirrors for a glimpse of familiarity. 

there is no antidote for contempt. it poisons until it destroys. leaving behind the shell of who used to be. and so i find myself concocting the eighth potion with hands i can't recognise as my own; my own voice unfamiliar as i talk myself through the process. the eighth poison mixed with pain and sorrow and misery; set for destruction. it could possibly kill an elephant and definitely kill a man. 

i drink.

quick fff#5

so i know i'm late with this fff, but i wanted to write anyway. my weekend proved to be extremely grueling and anything but restful. forgiveness please.
flake rake break stake snake
the alarm rang.
3minutes.
we all knew what was at stake. our rake. my 20per cent upped to 25; leave it to ronden to flake out. 8times we had ran this same scheme and 8times successful. why ronden flake out now was beyond me. but i didn't care. he was one hell of a wheel man, but i wasn't completely foreign to the stick shift or the getaway and was prepared to get us away with haste.
"everybody on the ground." they always listened. not a hero among them in 8attempts. pathetic really. we could have been using water pistols; they wouldn't have known the difference.
"relinquish your wallets+purses." we filled pillow cases like it was halloween, except this was faster+easier than going door to door.
1:30.
the real loot; the safe and safety deposit boxes were emptied into a pillow cases too. had become typical to break bossman's nose to get in, so now it just happened. we had our hands full of pillows.
documentation of the event had been recorded and the copy came with us too; added to our collection. we watched those tapes with pride like game film before our next football match; studied+analyzed.
2:30.
"shut up.. shut the fuck up," suddenly yelled over the tears+screams.
a gunshot.
into the air.
silence.
2:52.
:53.
"we gotta go."
out the front to the car.
where was the car?
where was the fucking car? that fucking snake, ronden!
3minutes.
cops surrounded.

read about reading

you gotta read about (and then read) the holy grail of the unconscious - the red book. you may need to register with nytimes to read the article but i think it worthwhile. enjoy.

fff#4

freakishly large hands reached out toward her, flowers in tow, knuckles smacking pavement as she pulled back in disgust. her friends behind her screamed and then continued snickering about the deformity in front of them. he looked down his long lanky arms to his giant mitts, calloused and dry from always dragging the ground, and let out a roar which silenced the audience in time for them to all hear his anger turn to whimper. snickers turned to laughter. he felt the entire neighbourhood watching him. her brother stepped across the street and grabbed her by the hand to escort her the rest of the trip home leaving him to sulk on the corner, but the girl resisted. his gaze still stuck on his hands, her feet walked into view and he slowly looked all the way up to meet her gaze. she smiled. and then he smiled. she knelt to lift his monstrous left hand off the ground and held it a moment before accepting the flowers and offering her book strap as if to say, 'will you walk me home?' the books (like the flowers) nearly disappeared in his grasp. she pulled his other hand off the ground and down the street as she slowly led the way to her house; her brother and his friends staying close enough behind them that he could see their towering shadows at his feet. as they approached her house, his short frame couldn't climb the steps, having to return her book strap so he could monkey up them and onto the porch. she awaited him at the top, her brother and company at the bottom. she thanked him for the walk home and propositioned it becoming a routine. he obliged, unable to contain his joy. as she concluded her goodbye she dropped to her knees and kissed him on the cheek. his arms wrapped all the way around them both, fingers interlocking on his back. as he released and she stood her huge clumsy feet got caught among her incredibly long thin legs and she kneed him in the head, knocking him down the giant steps where her brother and friends had been watching. he was quickly surrounded by huge feet and long legs, each friend or brother looking like a two-trunked-tree against the sky. 'lemme help you up,' said the brother. his hands shot up from the ground. the brother lifted him to his feet and said 'you best treat her well.' he nodded in agreement, knowing he would. the brother nodded in return and he ran home, dragging knuckles all the way, excited for tomorrow's walk home from school.

run children, run for your life (fff#3)

bigup fff foreman. complete with title track - great video. they never could get that right, now fleeing yet again to another unknown destination. they had been on wanted posters for sometime; branded fugitives in their own city. a family of five, used to be six, chased from their home on carondelet street by a demolition crew so the city could have another set of condominiums. already jobless among the failing economy, the family fled their home on carondelet for a place in the garden district. they were chased from there to the 7th ward when moving trucks mysteriously appeared out front one hot summer morning. they had found themselves part of a village beneath the highway in mid-city a while until the cops busted that up and had finally become accustomed to sleeping atop the levee in the park at the river bend. they broke the law when they must and the parents spent countless hours instructing their children on how to remain inconspicuous and keep out of trouble; though it seemed they never could get that right. the taught theory was simply the less they were seen the safer they would be and parents would still occasionally have to drag children back out of public eye by the neck. picnicking pedestrians arrived at the levee early this morning and while steak+ribs sizzled people took to the field to kick ball. the family would wait for the footballers to have their fill before sneaking over to steal a meal. they sat at levee's peak, enticed by scents of savory, tummies grumbling. the footballers eat, drink and lethargically return to the pitch, more juggling now than playing. with parents okay, the family beginnings their approach toward the picnic; slowly at first but with increasing speed as they reach the bottom of the levee and break for the field. mother+father reach first, children follow. they rush the blanket of food and begin to scarf ribs+steak+potato. after only a couple of minutes a football viciously slams one of the children in the head and to the ground, followed by the yells of angry footballers who were coming toward them, not chasing their football. the family would make due with what food was already in their mouths and sprinted back to the levee's peak. the father, stopping to make sure all his children were close behind, looked to see his son still eating at the blanket. with footballers surrounding the youth he ran back to protect his own biting the first person who reached toward his son; locking jaw and tearing flesh. snarling+teeth showing, he snapped at anyone who came near his son until a sudden kick to his head knocked him down. forced+held to the ground, he watched through dazed eyes as his son was helplessly placed in the backseat of a car. his head was still spinning when the footballers let him up and chased him back up the levee. he and his family watched in tears as the car holding his son and the picnickers drove off. the dogcatcher arrived hours later, tipped off to their location. the father led his family of four, used to be five, as they fled; thinking how his children never could to get that right.

nother cover

concrete jungle (fff#2)

again, big up sweet trini for pursuing the revival. this week's inclusions were: crumb bum thumb rum dumb the bum looking back at him needed a shave. the crumbs in his newly overgrown beard represented the last of his food which had represented the last of his money and he remembered feeling dumb to think that his small amount of cash would have sustained him longer than his first nine days in the big city. the dumb feeling was fleeting at best as there is (perhaps surprisingly) very little time to sulk when you find yourself living outside the walls of the concrete jungle. self-preservation skills kicked in almost immediately and he learned very quickly that living in this jungle was much like a war; a constant territorial battle, protect what's yours while still scavenging the landscape for every resource, trust no one. he had initially tried the shelter across from the nineteen-dollar-motel he resided in his first two nights where he would receive a hot and a cot but found himself too paranoid of the other occupants to sleep, clinching his bag to his chest, listening to the countless other cots speaking with... whoever. there was so much talk in fact that it was impossible to distinguish those who were engaged in conversation with the fictional from those were just crazy. the shelter's frequent screams, random gibberish and endless crying (man, woman+child) were simply intolerable to him which is how he found himself, three weeks later, beneath the stairs of the loading dock at the warehouse theatre staring at into a mirror. he knew it wasn't a great squatting spot, but made the most of it. a broken recliner made for a great chair with it's back propped up against a wall and made for a decent bed when the weather permitted. the unusual climbing temperatures had begun to melt snow+ice which dripped through his wooden roof and when accompanied with occasional rain would leave his chairbed soaking in a puddle. fortunately the dumpster that sat opposite the steps had a lid and at least provided him a dry place to be during the storms. nightly he would watch his face go dark in the mirror before he lit his tiny fire and eventually attempted sleep. on this particular night however, he laid awake on his still damp chairbed continuously flicking his lighter (also damp) in hopes that he might catch fire to the cigarette on his lips and the small kindling he had become accustomed to gathering each night in an old clay pot that used to hold the soil+remnants of some neglected office plant. warmth+light; he needed both. he flicked his lighter at least a few hundred times before his thumb was sore and he began contemplating a walk to the flaming drum at the entrance end of the otherwise pitch black lot. two veteran homeless had built themselves a refuge of cardboard+tarp over the last couple of weeks. he had watched the buildup of cardboard with some amazement as it seemed at times like their structure had multiple levels, though it consistently required fresh, dry cardboard and never looked the same way twice. he exchanged words with them the day they arrived but beyond trading some smokes for a small cup of their rum they weren't really interested in any pleasantries. he had been apprehensive about speaking with them ever since. if his lighter wouldn't ignite he would surely have to ask the certainly inebriated gentleman across the lot for a share of the light+heat source they were hovered around in what seemed like celebration. it irritated him to hear them joyful. what could they possibly be happy about? his lighter, low on fluid, flicked the tiniest flame for just a moment and his natural inclination was to draw it to the cigarette. it lit and the flame went out. he flicked his lighter a few dozen times but somehow knew it wouldn't light again. instead, inhaling hard on his cigarette he sat up, grabbed some newspaper from the clay pot and tried desperately to use the burning butt to start a fire. with no success, he lit his last cigarette off the first just to keep an amber burning and continued his challenge. little red snakes of light chased each other around the edges of the paper but wouldn't catch into flame. blowing on them in hopes they might grow only put them out or blew them apart into momentary fireflies in the moist night air. the paper simply wouldn't light and before he knew it his final smoke was out too, leaving him again in the cold ominous dark. he thought briefly about whether it was cold enough for him to die, but never allowed those thoughts to take hold of his conscious before he stood, planning to walk toward the fire at the other end of the lot. the earlier aggravating laughter had subsided and the figures around the light had disappeared. he prepared himself, lacing up boots and slipping on gloves, and began through the darkness toward the soft orange glow. he slid on a few patches of ice along the way but never made sound. as he approached the light he noticed the taller drunk had stumbled through some of their home, knocking it the ground where he evidently decided to spend the night covered in blue tarp they had been using as roof. the other gentleman was no where to be seen and presumed inside the remaining structure. finally standing right next to the flaming metal drum he enjoyed the heat a moment while he contemplated his next move. everything in the drum was burning enough that he couldn't take a piece back with him as he had planned and would need something to light before heading back beneath the steps. he looked a moment for something to light and thought about going back for a piece of the kindling he had collected in his clay pot. nothing flammable on the ground and no desire to turn back, he kicked the flaming drum toward the cardboard structure. flaming debris showered down upon cardboard+tarp and the structure was ablaze. he waited for screams+movement, but the drunks were drunk. again enjoying the warmth a moment, he grabbed one flame-less corner of their home and pulled. the house collapsed upon them. he rolled a cardboard torch out of what he thought must had been their front door and walked it and the rest of their rum back to his dwelling. lit his fire, drank his rum and slept... well. perhaps he should have left, but didn't. upon police questioning three days later he simply said he never spoke with the two men who tragically died in the fire. "one night they there, the next morning up in smoke. i figured they burned it themselves and left." not a rare occasion among bums. "it wudn't until i smell 'em this morning that i call you cops." "and you never spoke with them? know a name?" asked the officer. "sir, i trust no one. speak to no one." the police put him in the cruiser and took him away as their only suspect. he would spend the remainder of the winter months in jail: 3hots and a cot, cable television and a library, a roof and all the smokes he wanted. he smiled as they drove off, happy to have a place to call home.

the triumphant return of fff (#1)

gotta bigup sweet trini for reviving fff's. they were why i started a blog in the first place. i wasn't sure i was gonna get to participate in this 1 as i was without internet access most of the weekend, but i found myself attempting it in the wee hours this morning. i'm not thrilled with the outcome, but perhaps you will be. enjoy. it was the smell of cinnamon, ginger+peaches replacing the ganja smoke that had been hovering over my terrace all evening. those sweet smells stopped my guitar dead in the middle of cat's the wind and my thoughts drifted toward the origin of that aroma and the house to my left. mrs. jones didn't bake pies. she didn't set them out on the sill to cool but those scents emanated from her window just the same. in the heat of the summer mrs. jones showered with the windows open and from her steamy shower would come essences of cinnamon, ginger+peaches. i allowed my mind to drift into the air a moment with those scents, thinking about mrs. jones soaping her wet beautiful dark skin, curious as to what she was getting clean for so late in the night. earlier in the spring that smell had saturated my sheets on several occasions and anymore smelling her only made me want to taste her again too. she suddenly appeared on her terrace, white-robed and spliff in hand she flipped open her mobile to call, i assume, the reason for her 1am shower. she took a seat in the wicker chair closest to the railing we share without acknowledging my presence, speaking in low tones to her phone. i was quick to grab my guitar and play so she knew i wasn't interested in her talk, but couldn't help looking over at her sexy-crossed-legs stretching out from beneath her robe. smoke began to fill the air again but her sweet scent seemed to cut through the smell of burnt herb+paper. i got lost in the music a minute watching my fingers on the frets and when i looked up mrs. jones was doing the same thing; now standing against the rail, robe nearly open and in perfect contrast with her skin. she offered me the spliff and again the music stopped as i walked across my terrace to accept her gift. i took the spliff and she quickly turned, tightening her robe and twisting her hair up top of her head. 'you can finish it,' she said, 'i hafta be getting ready,' and disappeared back inside. i returned to my music after adding a clove cigarette to the end of the roach, deciding i would wait to see what kind of fool showed up at her door. when my next clove burned out i stepped into my studio apartment, guitar in tow, to grab a long sleeve as the night air had gotten much cooler. i flicked on the light setting down my guitar flicked off the light upon site of my bed deciding my ganja filled head would rather just rest. i collapsed onto the bed and plunged my face into my pillow before rolling over to stare at the silhouette of the ceiling fan wobbling above me. suddenly the fan lit up with white then red lights from outside accompanied by some a bass line that i recognised but couldn't place. music+light disappeared with a car door followed by footsteps to a terrace not my own. i passed out. sometime later i was awakened by some gentle tugging of my johnson. my wife had evidently returned from her girl's night in a good mood and i'd learned not to pass up such opportunities. how often is she the drunk one afterall? i roll to stand at attention and her lips wrap around my dick; first one set, then the other. she does all the work and comes rather quickly. i join in the second time and she quickly unveils my johnson, wet and still standing at attention, to the world. it's like getting out of a hot shower and drip-drying in the dead of winter. i'd never complain. i roll toward her very naked, very warm body and slip back into sleep. in the morning i awake and the world comes into focus. the wife is standing in the kitchen 10 feet to my left preparing breakfast. i lifted my head from my pillow enough to ask 'how was your girl's night?' 'better than usual.' she said. 'glad to hear it.' i replied, as i stretched+rolled over to her side of the bed. and there on her pillow; cinnamon, ginger+peaches. mrs. jones. i was wide awake.

a bad combination

...only in new orleans.

paradise?

12june

play

thoughts from a mile high

(started in dca) i hate/love to fly. i don't care much for the bullshit security checks and the nonsense safety announcements at the beginning of each flight ("the illusion of safety" (tyler's words coming out of my mouth (i couldn't resist))). and the act of being herded down that small tunnel before being mashed together in our tiny little metal tube always reminds me of cattle headed for the slaughterhouse, ulitmately penned in shoulder to shoulder destined to share the same (un)timely fate. my penpal will likely moo+maw from takeoff to landing; forcing the typical pointless conversation, refusing to see the book in my hand or, if i can manage, my shuttered eyes. occasionally, i get corralled next to a beautiful or interesting heifer which could possibly inspire quality talk (1 such occasion sat me next to a very pretty red girl with the thinnest, tightest dreadlocks i've ever seen), but i usually find myself next to a heavy-breathing talkative type, smelling like they've already been seasoned with onion+garlic. (continued in phl) sleep is always my first attempted course of action when flying (the night before a flight i tend to distract from any rare inclinations of sleep to increase my chances on the plane), but if i'm not out before takeoff any additional effort is futile. i always book a window seat because it's impossible for me to fall asleep without something more than the headrest to lean against, and if we liftoff while i'm still awake i'm able to enjoy my trip... i'll watch our world turn into a quilt of coloured patches woven together by stream+treeline before rising into another world of lesser known terrain. white clouds create land+sea. they blanket like a rolling desert or are sparse like a thousand islands in the sea. sometimes they tower upward like the treetops of the rain forest or are simply massive mountains. enough wind and these cloud worlds roll+crash like ocean waves. these worlds often layer atop one another; clouds turning to land+sea as we glide through each beautiful skyscape. the horizon line appears infinitely distant up here; the suns soft glow constantly rising to light each world. 1sun, 1light, several beautiful worlds. it's in these moments+visions that i find it impossible for me to do anything but reflect on our world, our life, my life, myself and the human experience. self-analysis is a constant process, but looking out among the clouds seems to always provide moments of clarity. at least once my reflection will be interrupted by desires to fly without the plane but absent of hollow bones+wings, i realise the impossibility and instead intend to sky-dive sometime soon. sometime after the plane soars past the upper tier of clouds, my mind will drift and i'll soon crack my book until we begin our dissent. as we travel back toward the earth i always seem to wonder what the world below me would look like without our influence. would it look quilted with forest, field+water? would the only paths carved into the surface be those left by water and wild herds of goat, buffalo+elephant? would it be more green, and less brown? would it be better off? i tend to think so.. (continued in ida) sitting in the terminal provides me with another favourite activity: people watching. airports mash us together and it's a great place to sit+watch the interaction. i'm a voyeur by nature; always studying others to learn about we humans more so than the individual(s). hundreds or thousands of people all in contact with each other trying to avoid contact. right now i'm watching the youth from @ least 3different families run around the terminal playing some form of tag; all completely oblivious to their differences and all the parents extremely aware. it begs the question: why don't we continue to get play with each other like so? when does that child-like nature dissipate and we're suddenly so cognizant of our differences? these differences, for some, will always be too large a barrier to overcome. suddenly there's an empty between each of us while we wait for a plane where we'll inevitably be forced to sit side by side. some would even prefer stand before they sit beside a stranger. don't get me wrong, as i mentioned earlier, i tend to not go out of my way to speak with strangers but it's because i like to remain private and have a naturally introverted tendency. still, airports really are a great social experiment. i love/hate them. (completed+revised back in nola)

hopeful music

there's something incredibly sexy about female bassists like me'shell ndegeocello whose strong, smart lyrics and often dripping wet vocals only add to her ridiculous sex appeal. well, there's another hot bassist on the rise. esperanza spalding is an amasing jazz artist whose charm+passion radiate through her bass, her voice and her smile. esperanza could do great things for modern jazz as me'shell has similarly effected neo-soul. both artists come with highest recommendation. enjoy.

boleros+blues

i'ma continue to catch up on past posts. this one is particularly tough, because i had originally decided not to post anything of this experience until my right mind made me think otherwise. the post never got published clearly, so reminiscing now is a difficult challenge. i'm not going to change what was originally written (18.7.08 11:09pm), just adding my thoughts of the process now and attempt to tie down loose ends. 2years after 3canal's caribeana imperia @ gala hispanic theatre, i was called upon by gala to design video projections for the premier production of boleros+blues: the life of agustin lara. i was excited @ the opportunity of working in a theatre that had long ago held such good memories for me and this time was giving me the opportunity to working with director; abel lopez, imperia's lighting designer+good friend; ayun fedorcha, and friend+gala's technical director (at the time); brendon vierra. the process, @ times, was certainly jarring, and everyone who worked on the show seemed to say 'this was just one of those shows;' but the overall experience was nearly pleasant. not 1design concept seemed to come together with any ease; not a single win without hours of painstaking pushing, prodding and pressure... +hundreds of hours of manual labour. set design definitely had the worst of it, though lighting+video design certainly had their setbacks, 1 designer's problems endlessly effecting the others successes. video projections, 1 of theatre's many spawned technologies, are usually last considered in design+process as the medium's functionality has yet to find it's proper place in theatre. i'ma point out the obvious right quick. theatre gave birth to video so to see video return home as it continues to find a more prominent place in modern theatre creates an interesting+exciting relationship between the 2forms; mother+daughter. i have already drawn out the technical plans for a show using multiple live video feeds of actors off stage from 4corners of an in the round space while action continues to take place on stage. my initial thought was someone dealing with multiple personalities, but i'm really looking for someone to write the right play and someone to fund what would be a technically stupid expensive show. like too many of my ideas, it'll probably never happen. back to boleros+blues. 3different projectors from 3different points each with 2different lens, squared+keyed onto the correct surface 6times, with the solution inevitably being the shortest+simplist cable run: 7500k lumen w/ long throw lens shot right from on top the lighting booth which unfortunately meant moving 2 of the hanging light fixtures out of the throw of the projector 24hours before opening the doors. borrowing projector/lens combinations from the job meant a good few extra hours in the office, but the 70+ hours i spent using the offices editing equipment creating the videos were fucking awful. it wasn't the creation, it was the extra time 5stories below ground in a place that i loathed. i even drove out to a friends place in damn near falls church 1 terribly stormy night just to break up the monotany of the office. with all of the technically difficulties i was still programming final cues 10minutes after the house opened for the 1st preview which i eventually fell asleep watching from the back row which is why when our director asked me what went wrong with the last (most important) video cue, i could only reply 'i don know.' our sm, francoise (1cool girl), later told me the technician rushed the cue. i left the theatre that night returning only to strike+return borrowed equipment to the office. as i heard it most of the designers chose to miss the opening night festivities as i imagine they, like me, were still too stressed out to enjoy ourselves. the run went well and got some good reviews. had i not moved to nola i would've been designing for 2additional shows with the gala last season. i've included some of the stills i created for the show though the more impressive creations are easily the numerous videos, particularly the final video where the actors froze on stage and my projection was accompanied by lara's beautiful music.

how to keep...

while googling just now i began typing my question and got as far as 'how to keep...' into the search engine before google gave me their top 10 suggestions. they were: how to keep a man how to keep a conversation going how to keep score in bowling how to keep an erection how to keep apples from turning brown how to keep an idiot busy how to keep a girlfriend how to keep your man how to keep pipes from freezing how to keep weed fresh ... none of which applied.

.. and back again

i've said that dc would be the last place i'd live before leaving the country. that statement remains true. i was in dc a few weeks ago (took fung to see scw @ wsc, raged with mundy, etc) and the short version of the story is that i haven't really felt right since arriving in new orleans and was amased at how quickly i got my head right while in dc. my creative process+productivity has slowed to a crawl while in nola and i'm left wondering how much i might have accomplished had i never left. i'ma not rush back because my isolation in new orleans is giving me plenty time to self-evaluate and there are still things to learned from that process. in that sense i've accomplished so much. + my creative output has improved last couple weeks which helps deter the worry. i'm just clearer+calmer in dc. i'ma eventually figure a permanent way back to dc and be outta the country thereafter. ... 'less i can get myself outta the country first. (added 7:09p, next day) talk soon. ps. i'm writing again... for the first time in well over a year. hurray.

art+letters

some time ago sweet trini introduced me to a website called art+letters which archives wonderful articles that stimulate my mind regularly like this short article updating us about the link between creativity to psychosis. what follows is a multimedia mashup of art, letters and the psychos creating it. things that have excited or impressed me over the last while. links galore. i first+foremost gotta bigup wsc's production of tennessee williams' small craft warnings. the redesign of the clarkstreet lobby into monk's place was great. feeling like an old patron of the bar as i watched the story unfold around me, realising that while these fellow patron's had come in+out of each others lives from time to time, they were all pretty much alone in the world; like single vessels passing in a thick fog... and i reflected on my own life. the direction of jay hardee and performances by talents like christopher henley, mundy spears+kari ginsburg were incredible. after meeting, kari granted me the great pleasure of designing her new ink which we already know i like a lot. from my last stomping ground to the current, i seem to not be the only 1 to have recently made the trek. creator of the wire, david simon has started production of treme filming here in new orleans and picked up by hbo. i ran into comedian, steve zahn a few month ago in the quarter and come to find out he's the lead in simon's post-katrina look at the famous mid-city neighbourhood of treme; known for being home to the musicians. the wire spoke so bluntly of inner-city society for 5years and i will definitely be interested to see what treme has to say of new orleans and society now. next is nola artist, craig tracy. i came across his paintedalive gallery in the quarter some time ago down on royal. if you're someone who recognises the human form as an art form as i do, you'll love the way the brush strokes work with the lines of the body. unfortunately some of my favourite works of his aren't in his online gallery. favourite works = beautiful colourful thick curvy women. the last nola related art was introduced to me via a video of artists from around the world singing+playing their own rendition of stand by me. 1 of these artists was grandpa elliott, a local street musician who i had the pleasure of joining in singing sitting on the dock of the bay just weeks ago after speaking with the man a while. it was a great couple of soulful minutes for me, regardless my abilities as a singer. anyway, after very brief research i found out that this video is the first episode of many like videos for a movement called playing for change which was created by marc johnson with the purpose of unifying every creed+race through the power of music. it all started with stand by me 4years ago and the latest (7th) episode, war, no more trouble (below) was just released and may be my new favourite. as said, the movement stars artists from across the world, past+present, including house favourites bob+manu. my 1critique would be that this particular cause absolutely must have current caribbean artists involved and has none as of yet. however, i must commend the editors on their work. while the video editing is good, the audio editing is incredible and deserves it's own praise. in another musical update. dj dangermouse, who has his hand in more projects than i had realised, is fighting with emi records about the release of his new album dark night of the soul. as a result he has decided to include a blank cd-r with each copy in spite of emi. mouse's new album will also include a 100+ page book of album inspired photos by david lynch (writer+producer of films like lost highway+ muholland dr) if+when it is ever released. dangermouse colaborates with dj sparklehorse on this album along with many other artists and you can currently hear it in it's entirity right now on npr's website. give it a listen for free while you can. i also gotta mention yahzarah aka purple saint james and yusuf islam aka cat stevens. yahzarah is a rising r+b singer outta nyc who is fine+talented. i'll be looking forward to an opportunity to see her perform. yusuf has just released roadsinger, his 1st album in 33years. i love cat's music and can't wait to hear what yusuf learned while converting to and studying islam. lastly, this commercial for honda is an amasing rube goldberg-esque display of physics. no cgi was used and it apparently took 606takes to catch. cool shit. ... and with all this pop culture popping up in this post, i oughta mention chuck klosterman's sex, drugs and cocoa puffs. great book. my own art sooncome. talk soon.