Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Kaleidoscopically Haloed Love Child #9

There are a variety of different routes Jane can take home from work. She often will decide on a route, then randomly change it after months of diligent love for said route, because of a last minuet realization that she had become familiar and bored with said route. Her sojourn home, was one of very few things that Jane was ever flighty about. That is to say, her emotions were rarely mercurial.

At this point in time, Jane fancied taking the A train home. She liked the route for many reasons. For one, it took some time, around an hour everyday. Jane could listen to at least one complete album on her commute, if not more. Also, when she arrived in the Broadway Junction station in the evening, the shitty stained glass windows cast the many travelers in kaleidoscopic light. Beams of color haloed heads and illuminated individual hairs at the peaks of those heads. She felt the colored light provided a gentle wash that made most everyone more attractive.

What she liked the most about taking the A train was the capacity filled during rush hour. When she stepped in the train, the panicked riders behind her often jammed her in. Jane steps lightly when she walks, so it takes very little effort to move her against her will. On one particular day she was bullied in like any other day. She stood with her hand straight up against the ceiling of the car, because there was no available pole to grab for stability. Her fingers went numb quickly. She was sandwiched between a hoard of pretty teenaged girls, cackling and smacking their gum and a man. Jane was afraid of teenagers, so she quickly turned her back to avoid confrontational eye contact. She found herself pressed tightly against the man’s back. The man was large. He had a strong build and stubble a plenty. He was clearly definable even from a distance as man. Jane allowed her body to jerk and sway with the train’s turns, sometimes exaggerating the movements, continually leaning against the man in front of her.

Jane looked at his satin Yankees jacket. It was worn; the seams were pulling apart from one another. The train lurched, and she stumbled closer. She let herself fall into him slightly more. Jane thought about what would happen if she were to lie her head on his shoulder and say “Take me home and be sweet to me, and don’t let your affections drift away too soon.” She thought better of it. “I could make you happy,” Jane thought.

When the train arrived at Broadway Junction, the man stepped out. Jane stepped out and followed behind him. She kept her distance and her eye on him until he faded into the crowd. Upon reaching the top of the stairs, a pigeon flew past Jane’s face, causing her hair to wrap around her eyes. Jane rode up the escalator, feeling inexplicably euphoric. She watched the people pass on the escalator next to her and achieved a small sense of vertigo. Jane saw all the faces in the multi-colored light and wanted very badly to say “Happy Birthday,” to all of them.

Psychologically Relative to A Potato Love Child #8

Laura had a dream about being a potato. She sat on a table, being a potato. She could feel her fibers, and skin. She was surprised to find that the eyes of the potato didn’t see anything at all, not even something surreal and magical, as she would have guessed. Laura woke up slowly that morning, remembering her dream, and feeling a little upset that she could never dream anything more exciting.

Laura generally dreamt in feelings. When explaining it to someone, she equated her dreaming abilities to what it must feel like to dream when you were born blind. She has physical sensations, and can hear things, and has an understanding of the place and time of the dream, but never a visual to accompany these things. Often it had surfaced as a point of contention in relationships, when people woke up, and rattled on about the epic visual narrative dream that they just had. Watching people gesticulate wildly and listening to their speech patterns accelerate to a manic state, she became irritable. She lacked any sort of empathy for these stories, and worse yet, struggled to try to visualize what they were saying. This was to no avail. Laura simply had a mind not geared to see things. When Laura thought of a chicken, the word ‘chicken’ in large block letters appeared in her brain. That indeed was the most visual thing she thought of on a daily basis.

Google was taking longer than usual to load. She tapped her fingers and immediately regretted doing that, as it felt cliché and embarrassing. Laura typed into the search box, ‘what is wrong with me why can’t i dream normal?’. It was again, loading extremely slowly. When the page finally loaded in its entirety Laura was disappointed. The first item on the page was Google offering a spelling correction: what is wrong with me why can i dream normal. This, she felt, was insensitive of Google, to point out that a more common search was a sentiment of just the opposite of the one she recently typed. Laura scrolled down the page. There were Freudian references, sleep paralysis sites, sleep apnea sites, the Schizophrenia Daily New Blog, and a handful of sites titled ‘What is Wrong With Me?’.

Laura had a dream about being a potato. Laura thought to herself, with her chin slumped in her right hand. Laura felt as frustrated as a human being, as she did as a potato.

Laura wished she were a potato.

Cool Culán and his semi-imperative mission.

James has been writing some weird shit. It's fucking great. Go read it here, then here.

Sunday, October 28, 2007

The Mux (Mool)

Brian has a new side project.

It's amazing. Go listen.

Rappers, Brian also makes incredbile beats. He is also amazingly shy. Hit that shit up.

And also and also . . .

Ladies, he single. And a beast in bed. The only man who could tame this monster for 3 + years before insanity took hold. Go on, write the mother fucker an email. Buy him some candy.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

Imaginatively Morbid Love Child #5

Shawny was in a terrible accident when he was five. Doctors made many remarks to his parents that is was ‘a miracle’ that he survived. His precious little body rolled under the tire of a garbage truck in what was known to be a horrific sledding accident. Although crushed and mangled, after months of life support, surgery, casting, and years of rehabilitation he grew to be an adult with many ghastly scars and a slight limp.

Shawny is what you would call a good person. He does not lie, steal, or cheat. He makes a conscience effort to avoid manipulating people and can clearly articulate his feelings to other human beings. His face has a horrible scar that runs diagonally across all of his features. He is regardless, quite handsome. Because of the years of rehabilitation, he is adept at maintaining his physique, motivated by an enduring thankfulness for his own life.

His parents are proud of him. His wife is doting. His friends and co-workers, due to his angelic demeanor, adore Shawny. Shawny is an excellent water polo player and horse trainer.

Shawny sits on the edge of his bed one morning. It is early. The sun has not yet risen. Shawny is thirty one years old. His wife is breathing shallowly behind him, sleeping rather restlessly. Although Shawny is generally proud of the man he has become, he has small momentary bouts of depression. He fills his lungs and holds the air until there is a slight tinge of pain. Shawny’s knuckles turn pale as he grips the blanket on the end of the bed. Overwrought with the feeling that his life is an incidental coincidence, that it may very well be someone else’s life he is living, Shawny slowly lets out the breath he has been holding. This feeling he had kept a secret. It was irrational and pervasive, something that occurred to him at some point in his childhood when he realized how close he had one been to not existing at all. It swelled from time to time, rousing him from sleep or suddenly killing his appetite. He would sit somewhere when this happened and imagine what kind of person deserved the life he lived. Often he imagined a Nobel Prize winner or an Olympic gold medalist, but this morning, Shawny imagines a wretch. She is younger than him, roughly 23. She is quiet, reserved, often coming across as a prude in certain public settings. She is a woman, thin in areas, and horrifically curvaceous in others. A woman whose body and actions are paralleled in their sexual exploits. This woman he imagines is crass and selfish, unyielding and unlovable. She smells of cigarettes and a cheap rose water perfume, which she used to cover up the smell of sex that follows her. This woman, or maybe girl is the proper word, is manic and has a tendency to control others without thought or concern. She has self-destructive qualities but not self-destructive enough to rid the world of her waste of a presence. She is a grotesque example of life. Shawny trembles at the thought of the imagined woman who very well could have been scrambling about the world he held in such tender regards.

Again Shawny sighed. He looked back at his wife and smiled a forced crooked smile. Shawny felt motivated to continue to be alive.


I am nearing a mental breakdown this morning. I need help from any of you readers to are all academic and shit and understand philosophy and space and time and physics and all that shit. I went to art school, man. Ok ok let me get to the point, sorry I'm freaking out very quietly this morning right now trying to figure this out! ZOMG! So, I want to know, did the internet exist before computers? I dont understand. It is a place. I often visit this place, DONT EVEN TRY TO TELL ME IT IS NOT A PLACE FUCK YOU ILL KILL YOU SO BAD AND YOULL BE LIKE OUCH.

Please, my brains are in danger of implosion or maybe explosion or melting or something. I want to understand the ethereal geography of the internet. IT IS A PLACE.

ZOMG! too much coffee to early ZOMG!


Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Self-Emaciating Love Child #4

Ann sat at her desk during her lunch break. She was fasting. She sat
with a small carton of grapefruit juice, which she cautiously drank
through a straw with two red stripes running vertically on it. She
called her new eating habits a fast when people asked why she had
stopped eating once an hour. Ann is hypoglycemic and generally needs
to eat exactly that frequently. She has devised a new, discrete way to
commit suicide. She is never going to eat again.

It will take some time, but the wait is worth the effort, Ann often
thinks to herself. No one will know the better; no one will feel
responsible or hurt when she exhausts herself. Ann likes to think of
death as a needed and prolonged nap. That is how it must feel, she

While the office sits in the lunchroom, eating and talking and
laughing, Ann sits in her rolling chair, spinning around and around
over and over, inducing a continuation of lack of appetite. Ann has
always found extreme pride in her abilities of self-control. She
spins, eyes glossed, shaking ever so slightly. The laughter wafts down
the hall to her, reverberating in her hears, making her head buzz just
a little.

“Freak me out,” he said to her.

“What does that mean?”

“Give me head.”

Ann didn’t have any ambition to sleep with him. Her normal level of curiosity was not affecting her judgment. She felt as though she knew exactly how it would go. She knew she would run to the bathroom and weep afterwards, on the toilet, while taking a piss, with her head buried in her knees, which were wrapped with her abused, sex soiled panties. She wasn’t sure why she was going to do it anyways.

Just one more person, then I’m going to stop, Ann thought to herself.

Ann generally always went to bed an hour before she anticipated being tired enough for sleep. She liked to lie awake in the dark, and have varied fantasies about boys and self-destruction. Tonight, Ann thought about her last lover. She was fond of him. She lied on her back, with her hands on her breasts, imagining him grabbing her shoulders and shaking her violently, and slapping her small face viciously and repeatedly and saying to her while crying softly, “Stop this. Stop this. Stop this. I want you for me."

Ann’s stomach growled. She rolled over and fell asleep.


For the record:

After posting this yesterday I received a rash of emails expressing concern for my well-being. Although the concern was appreciated, I would like to clarify in an official way that these character sketches are only vaguely based on myself if even at all. Worry not little baby bumble bees, this is fiction.

On a lighter note, I'm glad it freaked you all out.

P.S. Sorry Dad. But I guess this is what happens when you give your five-year-old daughter Camus to read on the school bus, and use Kafka for bedtime stories.


Monday, October 22, 2007

Things that can be found nestled in the book I am currently reading.

The book just so happens to be Like Life by Lorrie Moore. Not that it matters, but I am enjoying it very much.


Ellen Frances documented our Sunday-All-Day-Lady-Date.

I am going to announce it to the world:


She wrote this. Holy wow.

Friday, October 19, 2007

Crackers United

Crackers United linked Tristan's music video and my photos. They are nice.

I toured their site. It's a pretty fucking good music blog. Hit that shit yo.


B-money Dropped in NYC

We had an adventure day. I took some pictures of said adventure.

Brandon was lying down on a dirty rooftop the pervious night, so our exciting adventure started at the laundromat.

Next we went to Time Square, so Brandon could take a picture for his moms. Brandon gets a little cranky in crowds.

Look mom, I'm New Yawk! (That is what the picture message for his mom did not say. That is what my brain said.)

We had some German broad take our picture. It was much more complicated than it should have been because she didn't speak a goddamn lick of Engrish. Two cameras and about 10 failed attempts later, we look a little awkward.

I am wearing my awesome new hat. I feel like Amelia Earhart when I wear it.

(I bitch slapped him after I took this photo)

A wild Brandon Butterfly, in his natural habitat, loitering uncomfortably and suspiciously in front of fruit stands in Midtown.

We tried to go to the top of the Empire State Building, but it was a 50 minute wait to pay 13 bucks to walk out onto the observation deck with a bunch of fat retards, so we changed our minds and got on the train for the Natural History Museum.

Brandon is a motherfucker.

I am also a motherfucker.

We bought hot dogs and ate them on the steps to ward off our hunger before stumbling through the museum wide eyed and empathetic.

Brandon demonstrates hotdogary.

I take the best photos with tubes of meat nestled in my mouth.

It is so shadowy and calm in the museum. Everyone looks nice.

We agreed that we felt a great empathy for this epic little fellow.

Brandon liked this painting. He said he wanted it in his room.

Nemesis (I am allergic to mosquitos and have many tiny scars because of this).

What a motherfucker.

I heart this display.

On a closing note . . .

Yesterday I saw a cat on a cooler in a corner store licking its asshole.

Thursday, October 18, 2007

My friends are beautiful geniuses.

Recently-ish, some friends of mine in Minneapolis did a performance at the bookstore James works at.

These people are really neat. Go look at their blog, hardland/heartland.

Crystal, is one of these warriors, and she makes beautiful fashions. Buy some of them at ugly hats. And also, go look at things you can't buy here and here.

Crystal used to be my roommate and she just got run over by an evil car on her saintly bike after a night of singing Purple Rain at a lesbian bar and slamming her fists on the floor all the while. She has gigantic medical bills from said evil car, so go buy her shit and send her tons of kisses cause she is a beautiful creature and I love her.


Oh yeah, go listen to Mux Mool. I like the song, night court.

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Sonorously Spirited Love Child #3

Sarah Jean is not exactly sure when her life began to feel less dramatic and unique and more like a Jean Rhys novel. She left her house at 7 in the morning, with her lover still in her bed. She knew he would be gone when she returned home that evening. She knew he would be very far away.

On the train Sarah Jean listened to very sad music, the kind with swelling violins. She thought about her lovers. How many there were, how far away they all lived, how beautiful their hands all were. She thought about various watches and scrappy pieces of string tied to wrists that meandered over her body late at night. Sarah Jean realized she had never taken a vacation for any other purpose than to spend some time with one of said lovers. Sarah Jean thought about how much it would cost to visit beautiful Luce in France for Christmas. Luce was Sarah Jean’s only female lover. Luce made Sarah Jean feel the most beautiful, of all the lovers, however, Luce was also the coldest emotionally of all the lovers. All the lovers. A wash of dissatisfaction fell over Sarah Jean as she listened to sonorous strings. Once, a man who was courting Sarah Jean wrote that her brown eyes were sonorous. She never understood that.

At one point or another, Sarah Jean always asked two things of her lovers. Never have her requests been granted. She asked politely for them to be blood brothers. Once, she almost got one lover to commit. She had a sharp kitchen knife, but he winced and pulled his hand away from her and the butcher knife, as she sat straddled on his naked body. Her other request is more severe and generally ends in pleading. Always, it is taken with poetic sentiment, or as a joke. Sarah Jean begs her lovers to kill her. She sometimes wishes she had stayed with the one lover whom she was certain was going to take a chainsaw to her face after a hot bath if she stayed with him any longer. Often during sex, Sarah Jean likes to imagine she is being stabbed.

When Sarah Jean arrived at work, ten minutes early her co-worker and old college friend looked at her and said, “You don’t give a fuck about the world today, do you?”

“No,” Sarah Jean Said.

“Nice black eye.”


Monday, October 15, 2007


My computer is at the end. I can't get a new one for a while. Fuck. I don't know how to write in a notebook. I don't even know if I know how to use a pen anymore. Fuck.

I won't be blogging for a while, maybe, I don't fucking know.

Regardless, I'm still smiling.


P.S. This made my fucking day.

Friday, October 12, 2007

For the record.

Today I am so happy. If someone tried to shoot me in the face I would smile at them.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Emotionally Baffled Love Child #2

Tammy wakes up at 5am. She works at 9am. She likes to have her morning to herself. To take them on slowly. She enjoys the emotion of being overwrought with hesitation. Paralyzed with indecision. At 5am, the alarm goes off. Tammy hits the snooze knowing she won’t go back to sleep. She will stare at the white transparent window curtain backlit with cascades of orange helium vapor light. For ten minutes she stares, wondering if she is depressed. When the alarm goes off again, she delicately shuts it off, caringly, so as to not hurt the feelings of the little alarm. Tammy trips over a scattered pair of shoes as she meanders to the bathroom so as to take a shower.

After showering, making coffee, spending quality time with her cat, checking her email, reading the New York times, preparing lunch and breakfast, filing her fingernails, making her bed, neatly stacking the books and magazines by her bed, pacing back and forth, and taking 14 pictures of her window curtains on her cell phone, she leaves her apartment, closing a total of 6 locks on her way out. Tammy walks to the train, with her eyes half open, still not suffiently awake.

On the train Tammy reads a book. She is not reading it though. She is too tired to read, but slovenly holds it open on her lap as a deterrent from eye contact with other passengers.

At work Tammy sits at her desk. She opens her word documents and her three ring binders. Tammy is a copywriter for a reality TV Production Company. Everyone working in the 25 x 30 foot office has been sick in the last week.

Tammy thinks to herself “This place is like a petri dish.”

Tammy shudders.

At 5pm Tammy walks, again, to the train. It’s an hour to work, and an hour back. As she walks, Tammy watches the ground, being sure to walk inside the cracks. Tammy is not paranoid, or Obsessive Compulsive, but finds that the walk passes more quickly if she occupies her mind with something. Tammy sees something glinting on the sidewalk ahead of her. She bends to pick it up. A man whistles at her. It is a dime. Tammy puts it in her pocket and enters the train station, not exactly convinced of any reason why she did that.

An hour home. Tammy rides home an hour. Passively. To get home she has to do nothing but sit and wait. Then board the train, then sit and wait for it to arrive at her stop. The train surfaces after a few stops. It over looks Brooklyn. The sun is hot on her neck; she sweats and can feel the soft willowy hairs begin to form ringlets at around the crown of her head. She stares forward, out the window.

Tuesday, October 09, 2007

i do not suck all the time (part deux)

Zygote In My Coffee published me.

Unless you are part of my crime fighting literary team of comrades, you haven't read this story.

Go read it please. It is cool.

Man With the Shovel, Is the Man I'm Going to Marry

I wrote a music video for Tristan before I left Minneapolis. It was based on a photo series I did a few years ago called "The Death of Me".

I think it is beautiful.

It recently dropped on Pitch Fork, acompanied by a flattering review. I am so proud.

You can see the original photo project here.

I am so proud, there are no words.

Saturday, October 06, 2007

i do not suck all the time

pineapplewar published me

you may have already read this. but hey. whateves.

p.s. (post script) im drunk as a skunk.

p.p.s. (post, post script) brandon rules.