The Cat's Out of The Bag

Horses Can Addict Themselves To Air

More Ways To Hook Your Hawse:
"On the American desert are horses which eat the loco-weed and some are driven mad by it; their vision is affected, they take enormous leaps to cross a tuft of grass or tumble blindly into rivers. The horses which have become thus addicted are shunned by the others and will never rejoin the herd. So it is with human beings: those who are conscious of another world, the world of the spirit, acquire an outlook which distorts the values of ordinary life; they are consumed by the weed of non-attachment. Curiosity is their one excess and therefore they are recognized not by what they do, but by what they refrain from doing, like those Araphants or disciples of Buddha who were pledged to the 'Nine Incapabilities'-. Thus they do not take life, they do not compete, they do not boast ,they do not join groups of more than six, they do not condemn others; they are 'abandoners of revels, mute, contemplative' who are depressed by gossip gaiety and equals, who wait to be telephoned to, who neither speak in public, nor keep up with their friends, nor take revenge on their enemies. Self-knowledge has taught them to abandon hate and blame and envy in their lives, and they look sadder than they are. They seldom make positive assertions because they see, OUTLINED AGAINST ANY STATEMENT, AS A PAINTER SEES A COMPLIMENTRY COLOUR, THE IMAGE OF ITS OPPOSITE. Most psychological questionnaires are designed to search out these moonlings and to secure their non-employment. They divine each other by a warm indifference for they know they are not intended to forgather, but, like stumps of phosphorus in the world's wood, each give forth his misleading radiance."
'Palinurus'

MC OCD wants to know if ya'll get paralyzed in speech by automatically seeing the layers of possibilities 2?

oh dear. some conflicts.

http://stuffwhitepeopledo.blogspot.com/2009/07/travel-to-exotic-locations-meet.html

Safe in the deep end and not too close to shore

Thinking today how nice the sounds of pearl harbor are, especially:
luv goon
California shakedown
slivers of you
http://www.myspace.com/pearlescentharbour

I mean they know what they're doing. Their fotos have the lo-fi, washed-out beach aesthetic that every other album on gorilla v bear's got this year and they're "influenced" by this Dharma Connection video, shot of raging new agers doing yoga around buddha statues and is rife with "visionary art" and Is really good. "Has your guru showed you how to move." This sort of open-your-chakras-brother-eagle-crystal-keeper music/scene totally compliments in my mind the house scene that has continually shaken the vibes and minds of the psychedelically inclined kids of the underground for more than twenty years. Whether it's dancing your body into trance states, churning up your kundalini flow or OMing out after vaporizing some weed, the lyrics of house music and new age tunes similarly, however cheesily articulate those blood flowing(to retire the "warm fuzzies")feelings these experiences induce.
The other video under their site's influences, about Jamaican Rum sum up much of the earnestness and indulgence in having a good time, apparent in the band's(Ted Mulry's Gang)version of cliched Caribbean pop. Truly silly, goofy times on a tropical beach, smoking weed with kids who've grown up reading a lot of alan watts, ram dass and camus,listening to roxy music and dick dale. But back to album.
Wish We Were Here!? I mean pretty perfect. Most of us half halfheartedly wish the same. High achievers in artistic endeavors give a good name to seemingly star-gazing, spaced out girls. I mean no one is present all the time. Why should it be assumed that these personalities are off nowhere, or thinking about ditzy things. I mean fairies and personal dramas factor is some of the time, certainly. But so do metaphysics and the history of the school building I'm sure.
I love almost entirely their weed-loving-lady aesthetic and without trying to use the words lo-fi, fuzzwave or chillwave too much, they've done pretty well rounding up some hypnogogic beach-boys pop hits. I'm not too sure yet why surf guitar has impregnated new wave/no wave so much these last few years but its romantic and dreamy. Maybe until these nice young ladies have more songs out it is best that they leave the precariously cool idea of their vibe playing through the ears, ever changing from listen to listen, allowing for more mutable mellow emotions, an idea its seems that is what a lot of this is all about (please see Genesis P-Orridge's ideas on constant progression of self toward no fixed point), instead of letting those sweet beach waves stagnate in the tide pool of too much rigid visual exposure.

got the stink of a few months on em

If We Could Only Find Our Sheet Music Again

Truth and sand and boys who forget girls when they’re gone
Mud up from the bottom of beer cans
To kiss cigarettes with and we love poems about drugs
Drugs and poems and flavors of eastern philosophy
Ringing truer with each passing puff
Puff pass passing that truer ring
That warm sun we all really wanted to fly to
And let its every color seep deep into our skins
Our ability to embrace anything beautiful slowly
Eroding with every conformed movement
That we let break against our beautiful bones
Our harp string spinal chords
Our hides, better for stretching across drum heads
Than let waste sallow
We await playing ourselves
In the same notes, in the chorus of vibrations
We forget that for a time our mother’s hearts and organs sang to us
And played us like church bells
where we hung like clappers within


Salute Before You Slap

You, shirt-sleeved deity
Look down towards that great, expansive
Inner elbow,
Some last frontier.
Spreading like deltas,
From a divine view
Your veins are to that
Mosquito which pushed a flag
Down softly into your skin
Claiming your blood his own
His winged body waving like a windsock now
Filled, the color of his nation’s patriotism
Always red.


Legs On The Beach

Airplanes advertising from the skies
selling a brand that sells you fries
baking your skin in front of your eyes
you forgot banana boat was selling you fries


Playgrounds in Your Coffee

Gum drop,
All the pretty candy colored
Compliments
You give
For a quarter
For a quarter
You gave a dollar more
So that I’d kiss you with a
Purple tongue

You Can Sit Here If You Want, or Give Me You're Tired, Your Poor, Your Huddled Masses...

"My name's Forrest, Forrest Guh-ump."

>Forrest Gump: American Spirit personified. Walkin', talkin', marathon-running American Dream -boat.
>Jenny or Jen-ayy: The Actual American, living or trying to live with the American Dream.
She is wed to the idea of this dream (as well as fo reals in the filum.)
She <3s the optimism, but does not embody it herself. Instead, she runs away from it in phases of rebellion (the '60s yos,in both peaceful + panther fashion) and welcomes it back when she needs that indelible presence (cause she got knocked up with the spirit O'76)
She = the reality of the American trying to live in this "spirit"- she's addicted (yayo), naive, (thinkin naked bob-dylan-guitar-skit was a legitimate road to baezville),and passionate (about Playboy or something and singing) only to become: oversexed (via yayo and peace) and unmoved (via yayo and panthers) and ends up falling into the true American reality of suicide, motherhood and AIDS. (1980s= bummertime)
She dies while the American Spirit lives on, in a big plantation house. He keeps on, to keep on fostering childlike hope for the next generation with books about a simple life with monkeys and feathers and things. Old Mother from the Gentile Past taught American Spirit these values, and they shall be passed on.
I Am Sam is the sequel to Forrest Gump or something, Forrest Gump II: The 90's years, with more Beatles and more dummy-pops/prodigy-child pairings. That or FG was the precedent case that allowed for the former.


this one goes out to that famous autistic savant that drums in that band The Beatles.
R-O-C-K in tha U-S-A you guys

ode to the watermelon

a good poem to ring in the summer....

Ode to the Watermelon

The tree of intense 
summer, 
hard, 
is all blue sky, 
yellow sun, fatigue in drops, 
a sword 
above the highways, 
a scorched shoe 
in the cities: 
the brightness and the world 
weigh us down, 
hit us 
in the eyes 
with clouds of dust, 
with sudden golden blows, 
they torture 
our feet 
with tiny thorns, 
with hot stones, 
and the mouth 
suffers 
more than all the toes: 
the throat 
becomes thirsty, 
the teeth, 
the lips, the tongue: 
we want to drink 
waterfalls, 
the dark blue night, 
the South Pole, 
and then 
the coolest of all 
the planets crosses 
the sky, 
the round, magnificent, 
star-filled watermelon.

It's a fruit from the thirst-tree. 
It's the green whale of the summer.

The dry universe 
all at once 
given dark stars 
by this firmament of coolness 
lets the swelling 
fruit 
come down: 
its hemispheres open 
showing a flag 
green, white, red, 
that dissolves into 
wild rivers, sugar, 
delight!

Jewel box of water, phlegmatic 
queen 
of the fruitshops, 
warehouse 
of profundity, moon 
on earth! 
You are pure, 
rubies fall apart 
in your abundance, 
and we 
want 
to bite into you, 
to bury our 
face 
in you, and 
our hair, and 
the soul! 
When we're thirsty 
we glimpse you 
like 
a mine or a mountain 
of fantastic food, 
but 
among our longings and our teeth 
you change 
simply 
into cool light 
that slips in turn into 
spring water 
that touched us once 
singing. 
And that is why 
you don't weigh us down 
in the siesta hour 
that's like an oven, 
you don't weigh us down, 
you just 
go by 
and your heart, some cold ember, 
turned itself into a single 
drop of water.

pablo neruda

A return

There are some important film projects on our horizon that I believe should be steeped in the musty brew of our think tank again.

High Achievers: Burning down stereotypes and following people who get high, really very high within their respective fields, but also like to get down.

Feargal Sharkey: Messenger of the Gods? (Question Mark?)
Too deep a subject to probe with anything less heavy and battle-worn than the very trident with which Poseidon stabs at interesting things that swim through his mythological waters.