20080730
20080725
2006
i just moved again, and as most everyone probably does, i had to go through each and every article of clothing/writing/tschotchke in each and every box. so, i was looking through all of my moleskins and began to read about my trip to NY in 2006, it was the first time i travelled out of state on my own to meet up with absolutely no one.
12.17.06 (5:45am)
I'm hungover right now. It was really smart of me to get drunk the night before having to board an early flight to New York. I'm at the airport at the moment. I just finished eating a teriyaki chicken bowl (5:45am), only it was teriyaki chicken over mexican rice and beans. Some lady just put a cat in a bag down on the seat right next to me. She just left. The lady sitting next to the cat is yelling over to the lady who's cat this belongs to. My grammar is atrocious right now. Wonderful. Well, I have a story to tell. I'm not sure how to start, but I will start at where it first became a story inside my head. So, I was waiting for my taxi this morning and I called home. I was telling my mom how I hoped my taxi (that I called the day before) wasn't running late, because about a year ago I called a taxi and they were around 15-20 minutes late, and so I called a different cabby. It turned out that both showed up at the same exact time, and I went into the cab that I called secondly, because the other guy was late, and that's that. The taxi driver, whose cab I left abandoned, was obviously very pissed off, but I wasn't in the mood to care. So, this happened a year ago. Anyway, so, back to this morning, the cab driver shows up while I'm on the phone with so and so. She (so and so) was enlightening me about her sexual escapades with a fellow drunkard at the party. As soon as I got off the phone, the driver immediately started to speak to me. He said that he recognized my address and remembered that some time ago I had called up two cabs, both of which showed up at the same time, and I did not get into his cab. He thought it was because his vehicle was unmarked. He kept asking if I remembered this. I hesitated to admit at first, but oviously this story was ironically fresh in my mind. After a while, I acted as though a jolt of electricity went through my body. Oh! Yeah! Sorry about that. The story continues, but I'm bored of this story already. Basically there were no harsh feelings. He gave me his card (it turns out he is the owner of the cab company) and told me to call him whenever (I need a cab)...The ride cost $39, I gave him $45, he wished me a Merry Christmas.
12.17.06 (9:30 pm)
Took a cab to Gershwin Hostel. This place is retarded. It looks like Andy Warhol threw up in here. I'm sharing a room with possibly 19 other people. As of now, I've only met 2. They are from Denmark and have been travelling around the world for the past 3 months. It feels so free (mmmm...cliches) to be alone somewhere, almost like I'm lost, but not entirely. It's expensive to travel alone. It's dangerous to travel alone.
12.18.06 (10:00 am)...on my way to Dia Beacon.
I pretty much have no fucking clue. I mean, I'll just walk around, wait around, until something happens. For some reason I have been feeling like I'm in Chicago right now. Maybe I'm in the right place, I mean, because there are two girls, one on either side of me, sitting on the ground, they look like hipster art kids. One is knitting, the other is flipping through an art history book and wearing Dr. Martens. Suddenly I miss my burgundy patent leather Dr. Marten boots. I hope I don't miss the 1051. I don't know if that's the time of departure or the number of the train.
So, my sleeping situation. What weirdness. I should probably get earplugs and an eye mask. Even around midnight, when everyone has returned to the room and is finished using the bathroom, there are many noises to cause alarm to the light sleeper. There are the people in the hallway using the internet and laughing at their various cellphone rings they are testing out. Also, there is this varying mechanical sound coming from the heater (close to my head), it sounds like a trail of marbles dropped from the top of the Empire State building and down into a manhole. And then, when one wants to get up, get dressed and leave, one has to do it with the lights off, or else be the only asshole in the room who doesn't.
12.18.06 (11:30am)...inspired to write abstract nonsense after reading Rebecca Solnit.
Thinking about how what is, no longer exists. How we do not really experience the world around us, we experience ourselves through the world around us, just as we are never listening/speaking to one another, instead, we do these things for ourselves. We are really listening and speaking to ourselves and ourselves alone. It is not possible to loose our stories before engaging with one another. And, in much the same way, it is not possible to loose oneself. It is possible to loose the world around us, especially since it may very well already be lost. The only fathomable way that one might be able to loose themselves, is if they have not found themselves to begin with.
12.18.06 (3:30pm)
Dia Beacon is quiet, white, towering. Donal Judd and his silly disappearing slopes. Hardly any of the pieces in the galleries are lit. Because of this, the eye is extremely sensitive to disappearing and appearing light, of the natural sort. Specifically, I am speaking of the enormous semi-cylindrical Richard Serra piece which rest firmly on the ground. But, as one walks around and through each piece, one sees slivers of light pass through spaces between the floor and the rusted ore. Someone, about 3 or 4 days before I left Oakland, was just talking about Bruce Nauman's fish fountain. From far away, the sound of water seems to be artificial, perhaps because of the industrial warehouse it is in. And yet, as soon as you turn the corner, droplets of water start to hit the face, and one sees the water spurting out from randomly punctured holes in the body of bronze fish. Long plastic tubes trail down from their bellies into a basin. Directly opposite the piece is the only window on the floor of that gallery. A wall of window. I look out at the horizon, listening to the water fall.
12.18.06 (10:30pm)
I pooped.
I would leave it at that, but I have something else on my mind. So, I went into a church today. After I turned my cellphone off, I slowly walked in and entered from a side door and continued to walk towards the back. Right away, in the back corner, I encountered a homeless man who looked like he had been camping out for a while. He had his cellphone plugged into an outlet. I blindly stepped over the chord and continued walking towards the altar, but stopped in the middle and sat down in a pue. From the corner of my eye, I saw a woman placing her fingers in a fluid motion along certain premeditated places on her body. I wondered if she could sense that I was not of the same faith, that I was simply observing. I was staring intently at the works of art in front of me. The mother mary draped in white cloths, the jesus figure drench in gold, his small white hands gracefully clasped together. I was a witness, but nothing was happening. As everyone but the homeless man had left, I proceeded to move forward until I was sitting right in front of a stately depiction of the virgin. I started to draw her, once again, feeling self-conscious that someone might be watching me. WHOA!!!! interjection here, there is a man who just sat down in the booth in front of me (i'm in a jewish deli at the moment, writing about my day earlier on), he's bleeding all over his face is bleeding all over the place and he's talking nonsense. The waiter came over and told him to wash his face. They finally took his order. This potentially could be a problem. Okay, back to the church. So, I was drawing, feeling perverse and such, while observing these paintings as though I was in a museum. I begin to notice the similarities between both institutions. A looming feeling of someone watching. A feeling of having to pay attention, to control the thoughts. A quietness, a pureness, a focal point. How does this iconic face of Jesus differ when placed in a museum? Is the museum a stand-in for the church? Jesus is an ugly void.
12.18.06 (2:01am)
What if pockets were gloves?
You stick your hands inside your pockets and they fit perfectly to your fingers, gloves.
12.19.06 (8:16pm)
motherfuckmotherfuckmotherfuck. goddamn tired is what i am. bringin the whiskey downtown with a soda. hella.
12.19.06 (10:21pm)
"That is sooooo Dada" - mike.
12.20.06 (2:34pm)
I saw Vincent Gallo on Prince Street today. I texted my friends, and none of them knew who he was.
12.17.06 (5:45am)
I'm hungover right now. It was really smart of me to get drunk the night before having to board an early flight to New York. I'm at the airport at the moment. I just finished eating a teriyaki chicken bowl (5:45am), only it was teriyaki chicken over mexican rice and beans. Some lady just put a cat in a bag down on the seat right next to me. She just left. The lady sitting next to the cat is yelling over to the lady who's cat this belongs to. My grammar is atrocious right now. Wonderful. Well, I have a story to tell. I'm not sure how to start, but I will start at where it first became a story inside my head. So, I was waiting for my taxi this morning and I called home. I was telling my mom how I hoped my taxi (that I called the day before) wasn't running late, because about a year ago I called a taxi and they were around 15-20 minutes late, and so I called a different cabby. It turned out that both showed up at the same exact time, and I went into the cab that I called secondly, because the other guy was late, and that's that. The taxi driver, whose cab I left abandoned, was obviously very pissed off, but I wasn't in the mood to care. So, this happened a year ago. Anyway, so, back to this morning, the cab driver shows up while I'm on the phone with so and so. She (so and so) was enlightening me about her sexual escapades with a fellow drunkard at the party. As soon as I got off the phone, the driver immediately started to speak to me. He said that he recognized my address and remembered that some time ago I had called up two cabs, both of which showed up at the same time, and I did not get into his cab. He thought it was because his vehicle was unmarked. He kept asking if I remembered this. I hesitated to admit at first, but oviously this story was ironically fresh in my mind. After a while, I acted as though a jolt of electricity went through my body. Oh! Yeah! Sorry about that. The story continues, but I'm bored of this story already. Basically there were no harsh feelings. He gave me his card (it turns out he is the owner of the cab company) and told me to call him whenever (I need a cab)...The ride cost $39, I gave him $45, he wished me a Merry Christmas.
12.17.06 (9:30 pm)
Took a cab to Gershwin Hostel. This place is retarded. It looks like Andy Warhol threw up in here. I'm sharing a room with possibly 19 other people. As of now, I've only met 2. They are from Denmark and have been travelling around the world for the past 3 months. It feels so free (mmmm...cliches) to be alone somewhere, almost like I'm lost, but not entirely. It's expensive to travel alone. It's dangerous to travel alone.
12.18.06 (10:00 am)...on my way to Dia Beacon.
I pretty much have no fucking clue. I mean, I'll just walk around, wait around, until something happens. For some reason I have been feeling like I'm in Chicago right now. Maybe I'm in the right place, I mean, because there are two girls, one on either side of me, sitting on the ground, they look like hipster art kids. One is knitting, the other is flipping through an art history book and wearing Dr. Martens. Suddenly I miss my burgundy patent leather Dr. Marten boots. I hope I don't miss the 1051. I don't know if that's the time of departure or the number of the train.
So, my sleeping situation. What weirdness. I should probably get earplugs and an eye mask. Even around midnight, when everyone has returned to the room and is finished using the bathroom, there are many noises to cause alarm to the light sleeper. There are the people in the hallway using the internet and laughing at their various cellphone rings they are testing out. Also, there is this varying mechanical sound coming from the heater (close to my head), it sounds like a trail of marbles dropped from the top of the Empire State building and down into a manhole. And then, when one wants to get up, get dressed and leave, one has to do it with the lights off, or else be the only asshole in the room who doesn't.
12.18.06 (11:30am)...inspired to write abstract nonsense after reading Rebecca Solnit.
Thinking about how what is, no longer exists. How we do not really experience the world around us, we experience ourselves through the world around us, just as we are never listening/speaking to one another, instead, we do these things for ourselves. We are really listening and speaking to ourselves and ourselves alone. It is not possible to loose our stories before engaging with one another. And, in much the same way, it is not possible to loose oneself. It is possible to loose the world around us, especially since it may very well already be lost. The only fathomable way that one might be able to loose themselves, is if they have not found themselves to begin with.
12.18.06 (3:30pm)
Dia Beacon is quiet, white, towering. Donal Judd and his silly disappearing slopes. Hardly any of the pieces in the galleries are lit. Because of this, the eye is extremely sensitive to disappearing and appearing light, of the natural sort. Specifically, I am speaking of the enormous semi-cylindrical Richard Serra piece which rest firmly on the ground. But, as one walks around and through each piece, one sees slivers of light pass through spaces between the floor and the rusted ore. Someone, about 3 or 4 days before I left Oakland, was just talking about Bruce Nauman's fish fountain. From far away, the sound of water seems to be artificial, perhaps because of the industrial warehouse it is in. And yet, as soon as you turn the corner, droplets of water start to hit the face, and one sees the water spurting out from randomly punctured holes in the body of bronze fish. Long plastic tubes trail down from their bellies into a basin. Directly opposite the piece is the only window on the floor of that gallery. A wall of window. I look out at the horizon, listening to the water fall.
12.18.06 (10:30pm)
I pooped.
I would leave it at that, but I have something else on my mind. So, I went into a church today. After I turned my cellphone off, I slowly walked in and entered from a side door and continued to walk towards the back. Right away, in the back corner, I encountered a homeless man who looked like he had been camping out for a while. He had his cellphone plugged into an outlet. I blindly stepped over the chord and continued walking towards the altar, but stopped in the middle and sat down in a pue. From the corner of my eye, I saw a woman placing her fingers in a fluid motion along certain premeditated places on her body. I wondered if she could sense that I was not of the same faith, that I was simply observing. I was staring intently at the works of art in front of me. The mother mary draped in white cloths, the jesus figure drench in gold, his small white hands gracefully clasped together. I was a witness, but nothing was happening. As everyone but the homeless man had left, I proceeded to move forward until I was sitting right in front of a stately depiction of the virgin. I started to draw her, once again, feeling self-conscious that someone might be watching me. WHOA!!!! interjection here, there is a man who just sat down in the booth in front of me (i'm in a jewish deli at the moment, writing about my day earlier on), he's bleeding all over his face is bleeding all over the place and he's talking nonsense. The waiter came over and told him to wash his face. They finally took his order. This potentially could be a problem. Okay, back to the church. So, I was drawing, feeling perverse and such, while observing these paintings as though I was in a museum. I begin to notice the similarities between both institutions. A looming feeling of someone watching. A feeling of having to pay attention, to control the thoughts. A quietness, a pureness, a focal point. How does this iconic face of Jesus differ when placed in a museum? Is the museum a stand-in for the church? Jesus is an ugly void.
12.18.06 (2:01am)
What if pockets were gloves?
You stick your hands inside your pockets and they fit perfectly to your fingers, gloves.
12.19.06 (8:16pm)
motherfuckmotherfuckmotherfuck. goddamn tired is what i am. bringin the whiskey downtown with a soda. hella.
12.19.06 (10:21pm)
"That is sooooo Dada" - mike.
12.20.06 (2:34pm)
I saw Vincent Gallo on Prince Street today. I texted my friends, and none of them knew who he was.
20080701
monologic dialogues.
All that I see, he said.
Surely.
Necessarily.
By Zeus, I do not, said he.
Quite inevitably, he said.
Far more real, he said.
It is so, he said.
Why, no, not immediately, he said.
Of course.
Necessarily, he said.
Obviously, he said, that would be the next step.
He would indeed.
He would indeed.
They certainly would, he said.
I concur, he said, so far as I am able.
Yes, it is likely.
It would be by no means strange, he said.
That is a very fair statement, he said.
They do indeed, he said.
Yes.
Yes, that seems likely, he said.
I certainly have, he said.
It is likely, he said.
True, he said.
What is that?
True, he said, I did forget it.
By all means, he said.
Most true, he said.
No, by Zeus, he said.
Surely.
No others, he said.
Of course I would.
By all means.
Of course.
We did.
What one?
Why, yes, it must, he said, if that is possible.
They were, he said.
Obviously.
No.
What?
*taken from Plato: Collected Dialogues. Book VII.
Surely.
Necessarily.
By Zeus, I do not, said he.
Quite inevitably, he said.
Far more real, he said.
It is so, he said.
Why, no, not immediately, he said.
Of course.
Necessarily, he said.
Obviously, he said, that would be the next step.
He would indeed.
He would indeed.
They certainly would, he said.
I concur, he said, so far as I am able.
Yes, it is likely.
It would be by no means strange, he said.
That is a very fair statement, he said.
They do indeed, he said.
Yes.
Yes, that seems likely, he said.
I certainly have, he said.
It is likely, he said.
True, he said.
What is that?
True, he said, I did forget it.
By all means, he said.
Most true, he said.
No, by Zeus, he said.
Surely.
No others, he said.
Of course I would.
By all means.
Of course.
We did.
What one?
Why, yes, it must, he said, if that is possible.
They were, he said.
Obviously.
No.
What?
*taken from Plato: Collected Dialogues. Book VII.
20080507
blue crab sex mystery.
an extremely rare dual-gender crab was caught in the Chesapeake bay (some time ago). how did the waterman who caught this crab know that it was a bilateral gynandromorph? watermen apparently conducted their own experiment by throwing the gynandromorph into a tank with a female crab. the confused crustacean first began mating as a male and then changed its mind and ate the female.
20080429
20080428
HATE mail.
today, like any other day, i had multiple tabs open in safari. i was surfing all around, simultaneously watching my gmail-inbox tab, waiting for a number sandwiched in between two parentheses to pop up. finally i get it: (2) and i get extremely excited, stop what i'm looking at (sleepy kitties on youtube) and switch over to check the mail. oh how wonderful, someone commented on my blog today. it's nice to know that people look at it, even if they are angered by my 'uninformed' opinions. actually two people commented (see Myles and Nicoloff posting) and i thought it would be worthwhile to give an appreciative response. first off, i will just copy and paste the comments in this posting, for those of you who are lazy:
SNAKEOIL said (at 8:05pm today)...
In regards to Michael Nicoloff's poetry: just because you don't get it, doesn't mean it's not good.
SNAKEOIL said (at 8:12pm today)...
p.s. i bet you think american apparel is "omg so edgy!"
fake transgressive L.A. dumb ass
ANONYMOUS said (at 8:49pm today)...
For all yr smack about Eileen's hair--your should have seen Nicoloff's fantastic hair six months ago. I mean, fantastic! But wait!!--that would mean that you had actually attended some readings in the Bay Area and knew who Nicoloff was. Because he was there...and probably reading his great and really fast poems at several of them.
You should really check out this guy:
http://trainwreckunion.blogspot.com/
You'd be great friends. He's equally uninformed.
in response to SNAKEOIL, why yes, like, totally, like, omg, american apparel is like so edgy. i love their flashy rehashing of the eighties onsies, omg and i love that they are like totally all over the place now like so whenever i travel i can stop in and get some awesome dayglo leggings, omg, like totally, because like, sustainability most definitely means going global, fo sho, ah mah gah.
in response to ANONYMOUS, who i suspect is most likely the same person as SNAKEOIL (suspect is the word 'smack' and the time in which this last comment was posted, so close to the other two); well, you are correct, i have not seen Nicoloff's hair any other way than the way it was worn that sunday at 21 Grand. but, thanks to flickr, i have this great photo of his hair, and i'm only guessing that this is what you were referring to when you say "fantastic!"
i apologize for any offensive/uninformed criticism i have relayed over the internet. perhaps you feel as though i have provided the blind and dumb criticism that Roland Barthes once wrote about, but i have not once claimed to be an intellectual nor have i stated that i understand or do not understand anything whatsoever. all i intended to do, which i apparently was not very clear about, was criticize the performance of these poets. i find it sad that presently, to be considered an acclaimed poet (in any nationally or officially recognized manner) one no longer has to include performances on their resume. the only criteria necessary are physical publications. Homer's art of orally composed poetry is slowly dying.
SNAKEOIL said (at 8:05pm today)...
In regards to Michael Nicoloff's poetry: just because you don't get it, doesn't mean it's not good.
SNAKEOIL said (at 8:12pm today)...
p.s. i bet you think american apparel is "omg so edgy!"
fake transgressive L.A. dumb ass
ANONYMOUS said (at 8:49pm today)...
For all yr smack about Eileen's hair--your should have seen Nicoloff's fantastic hair six months ago. I mean, fantastic! But wait!!--that would mean that you had actually attended some readings in the Bay Area and knew who Nicoloff was. Because he was there...and probably reading his great and really fast poems at several of them.
You should really check out this guy:
http://trainwreckunion.blogspot.com/
You'd be great friends. He's equally uninformed.
in response to SNAKEOIL, why yes, like, totally, like, omg, american apparel is like so edgy. i love their flashy rehashing of the eighties onsies, omg and i love that they are like totally all over the place now like so whenever i travel i can stop in and get some awesome dayglo leggings, omg, like totally, because like, sustainability most definitely means going global, fo sho, ah mah gah.
in response to ANONYMOUS, who i suspect is most likely the same person as SNAKEOIL (suspect is the word 'smack' and the time in which this last comment was posted, so close to the other two); well, you are correct, i have not seen Nicoloff's hair any other way than the way it was worn that sunday at 21 Grand. but, thanks to flickr, i have this great photo of his hair, and i'm only guessing that this is what you were referring to when you say "fantastic!"
i apologize for any offensive/uninformed criticism i have relayed over the internet. perhaps you feel as though i have provided the blind and dumb criticism that Roland Barthes once wrote about, but i have not once claimed to be an intellectual nor have i stated that i understand or do not understand anything whatsoever. all i intended to do, which i apparently was not very clear about, was criticize the performance of these poets. i find it sad that presently, to be considered an acclaimed poet (in any nationally or officially recognized manner) one no longer has to include performances on their resume. the only criteria necessary are physical publications. Homer's art of orally composed poetry is slowly dying.
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