Tuesday, October 31, 2006


I just never thought beanbags could be attractive (cause thats what my dog sleeps on). But I go here and the whole ploy with the hot woman chillaxing, asking ME, what my favorite position is, actually sells it to me. It says, hey Julian, why aren't you enjoying the comfort of a Sumo bag.


brought to you by the good folks at urban lounge furniture, penny arcade, and grizzlebees.

Monday, October 30, 2006


This last moment on a Monday I was in a movie theater at some point. And it was strange how empty it was. But that’s what Monday is; a transition. Poor Monday, where did your fun go.


This is a break I’m taking while working on my novella. I still don’t know whether I’m going to Norway. I wish they would tell me something. Would be good to know where I’ll be. How to approach the future and everything. But then, I can sit on a stone for the end and with the sky all burning. Like those crabs being really pissed that I didn’t take that trip through the black hole because Marcel didn’t think it would be prudent of me. Someone should stay behind he said before he leaped into the nothing and was gone forever. I never saw him again. Never while sitting on those stones with the waves lapping and the salty air. It was thick on my tongue and pores were porous, sitting in sweat and a damp film all over my face. The flies the last things left that fly and the shuffling sounds in the sand while my toes are half curled in the stuff and I cuff my sleeves to my elbows. The last story was about the discovery of ice. I paid homage to it and wondered what it would be if the oceans all froze. I large skating rink. There weren’t any pretty girls there to skate with. The sun was red and I just kept staring at the waves.


I was lying on my couch earlier just stretching and looking at my Woodworks piece of art. Wondering if I’d ever have a place to properly hang it. I received two phone calls. Both pleasant. I wanted to suck on a lime and drink a beer but I had neither. And food didn’t really appetize me. I had a hunger but it lapsed and now I lapse here. This is diversion.

I thought about removing all the shelves and leaving a couch, a television, and a series of screens and computer with them all on the ground, wires strung up holding dust and marionettes would cling for life from a ceiling with paints scattered. With the gardens of Babylon from the top and top tiered structures in my loft that felt the different changes of light throughout the day. And a beautiful reflecting pool in the entrance.

One thing I miss dearly was the beautiful symmetry of my old house’s front entrance. I realized a thing that always catches me to depress my mood is the entrance of the homes that are here, that I live in. That don’t hold the same beautiful stain glass hummingbirds and the wonderful sandstone. Where when I was a child I would curl up on the couch and watch in the summertime with all the large windows open and the warm air lazily following the movements of my father’s broom as he sealed the stone floor and let the whole masterpiece dry before it was a remarkable thing to the desert. Where we had brought nature to live with us and she was a wonderful guest. Full of secret and warmth and the place was always happy and never boring.

The great sky full of stars. Where did you go stars? I’m asking because I dearly want to know. And how I would line the floor with books and paper and the scratching of my pens while sawdust came in from the back porch and the great knowing arches that graced our ceiling with hanging lanterns and a kitchen the size of my entire downstairs now.


There is a great capacity to miss so much, so dearly.

Sunday, October 29, 2006


Watch the first one. Then the second one right after.



Thursday, October 19, 2006

it all slips so fast

"Whats wrong," she asked and pointed into the room. The door was half open and music was piping through and into both of our ears.

"I dont know," I said and shrugged my shoulders. "He's been lying there listening to Chelsea Girl for two days straight. Hasn't moved."

"Look at how thin he his."

"Yeah. I don't know how much more of this I can take."

"Why Nico?"

I shrugged again and looked back through the door. "Sure is sad though."

She pointed. "Is he going to be alright?"

"You want some dinner? I just can't listen anymore."

They both stepped out and the music played and piped through and out. And the sun gently crouched and organs could be heard across from the neighbor's lawn. While the needle scratched on the old plastic and the two kissed. He laid in the night. And all the time the music was almost quiet and was so soft that he cried for hours when they were gone.


I've been out walking,
I don't do much talking

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

A Normal Wednesday

I woke up at 3 and felt rested. Then went back to sleep until 6 came along and wanted to cut all ties with the world. Just forget about what existed beyond that door and drift away into nothing. The prospect was so enticing that if a shadow had appeared offering me a deal, it would have been interesting to see what I would say.

“How they pull us back in. How they pull us towards the same.”

And I told Sara this and she smiled and gave me a lopsided look. Her hair brushing her shoulders down her back. She planted her hands on the ground.

“You live the most leisurely life I have ever seen. You’re spoiled. That’s the problem.”

She kissed me on the cheek and then looked hard into my eyes. “But I rather like you. All like that.”

I sighed. Then I lied down on the bed and in the changing sky. The day was coming slowly over this part of the world. And the sun was patches of warmth drifting along the lanes that were open and free. The yellow was stretching and we were stretching.

“I thought about that. And I don’t know. I think I’m tired.”

“Maybe you don’t do enough.”

She tickled me and then got up. Swinging her slender legs over the bed and touching her toes on the wood floor. Her unpainted nails were clear and they scratched her scalp. She flashed me a smile and in her underwear and a white t-shirt bounded out of the room.

All I did was lay there thinking about her. She was watching an old movie on the tv and I could hear the sounds. Almost like a record playing. The old dim glow coming through the bottom of my door and the light coming through the blinds of the window. I managed to harangue myself. My mind recoiled as if a parent were in the room lecturing me. But I was a wholly different matter. One that presented the problem of am I right? Am I lying to myself? I didn’t really know and wished dearly to look at those reports teachers made of students long ago.

John is a tiresome boy. He rarely speaks and when involved with another student often finds himself cuffing the boy on the neck or ear. Then the class erupts and the child slinks back into the corner watching his work with the side of his eye. And Shelly makes the boys cringe as she spits and curses. But she would be so beautiful if only proper and realized a woman’s place.

Those old notes scribbled on yellow sheets of paper and thrown together in a manila folder. I wondered now what they said about me. When they did say things about me? Now locked away in a file cabinet sitting in a storage room, marked the year when the student was there and the year that the student left. It made me wonder slightly how I was as a child. But that part of my life. Those years eluded me and I grew content lying there and taking out a cigarette.

I found a stray matchbook and lit the paper. Observing from the corners of my eyes the light slowly playing with the shadow. And the dark of the day with the morning. I puffed clouds of smoke and wrinkled my noise. Then rubbed my toes on the cold wood floor and managed to scratch the back of my ears and head. I could hear Sara laughing out in the other room and then a click. She strode back in and looked at me suspiciously.

“You’ve been cheating on me haven’t you?”

My eyes widened and I inhaled the smoke and let it sit while I took on my thoughtful face. This was a game Sara played with me. To make sure that her trust in me was never at fault. Which, wasn’t, because I could say I loved Sara and found her the most attractive and enticing woman I ever knew. Her features, edging on simple and exotic. Like a town in Paris that you cannot leave. She smiled and her breasts rose as she straddled me while I continued to smoke. She wrapped her hands around my neck and begin to scratch my back.

“Because I could break your neck right now. And then who would pay for the burial. Not me.”

I grinned.

“There was a woman here just now. But she heard your light footsteps and left. She left and managed to sneak out of that window.”

I pointed to my window and the opening where the breeze squeezed on through.

“Didn’t you hear her over that ruckus from out there?”

Sara took the cigarette. She loved to smoke. She finished it off and blew the smoke away from my face and kissed me. She moved her hand through my boxers and I could feel an erection starting to form.

“Hmm. Was she pretty?”

I kept my eyes on hers and managed to grin while she moved her hand. She pushed me back on the bed.

“I’ve got to get up at some point.”

“But didn’t you say that it was all their fault? They want you to get up. I want you to stay just like you are. Right there. I'm not one of them.”

She smiled and laughed and I watched her green eyes dance in front of me. She stubbed the cigarette out on the ashtray near my guitar case and we had sex in the early morning with the light entering the panes. The slow fire dimming the dark and the day not dying. There was no sound. And silence drifted along the eaves of my house. With the ivy clinging tightly and the motions of our bodies caught the rhythm of everything outside.

The breeze drifted through. The cold of the morning wracked our bodies and fought with our personal warmth. I fell asleep after and Sara nudged her head and read a book from my bookshelf—Camus’s The Plague—while I fell far away and was dying already, with the breaking of morning and the forming of the day.


in a small ghost town, there's a little arcade
where the poltergeists play their video games

Thursday, October 05, 2006

warm up

Looked out at the mountains to the East when I went to pick up the mail. They were cardboard cutouts. Purple and flat, extending across the horizon with jagged tops and a crooked spine. If the sun were on top of them they would burn and dissolve. If the sun were below them they would be shining and total. In fury the mountains died and in fury my feet slapped against the ground and the cold watery street around. I smiled.

What about the world we thought? What about it? What about the times that we spent drinking on patios. I thought about those things and it all came up un-answered. “I don’t really know how to sing anymore,” said Barnard. Barnard was a horrible singer and a terrible lover. Barnard didn’t know his voice from a pack of hens. He quaked when he should have crowed. And he was a menace to all the women around him. We all hated Barnard and that’s why I didn’t say anything when he asked me.

That’s really all there is to say about Barnard. He is pretty trivial otherwise. And not so much of a gallant figure in any respect. He is ever disappearing that Barnard.


At this specific period I find it rather hard to finish something. Though I am not sure if it is because, 1. I am not applying myself hard enough. Or 2. because there seems to be some sort of presence adopted during the course of the semester that has become irritant and won’t go away. It isn’t annoying. It just forces time away from completing a product. If it’s a travesty then by all means, outrage should shake you. And you should spit that outrage out like a giant gelatinous goo from your mouth. Spilling forth a disgusting green. Didn’t you say you were outraged? Isn’t that outrage? You’d have to be a pussy to think no.


warming up is always an incoherent mess of shite.

Wednesday, October 04, 2006

Wednesday Window Fall

I remarked rather coldly to myself as I stepped down the stairs. There must be some way to medicate my being. But as I wrote on paper earlier—with pen in hand—that’s pretty terrible. And I sighed and thought about my insides.

There is something inside of me. I know that its what actually got me to get up and come down to school and all that jazz. I want to reach in and squeeze it to death. That’ll be the end of that annoying tidbit.

I’ve taken to walking up to windows and looking out at them for about half hour marks. Half hour marks because usually my classes all let out a half hour early and the only avenue for me to kill with is to use it staring at the things around me; best out of windows. I don’t think I fancy windows much. I mean, I like them fine and all, but I’d rather have it with no glass or thing in front of me. Just the hole in the wall and the outside.

I wrote about the process of a painter. Then I wrote about writing it. And I have a nagging suspicion, like Alvin Lucier and his experiment in the room—where Tom made an analogy about drinking—it has become that with writing. And I am writing what I wrote and it’s a layer over each other to create a drone. I wipe out the past but its still building on it.

Is my writing becoming a drone? Is that even bad. I wonder what all my selves have to say about that. Which, are slowly diminishing and dying with the coming light. That’s fine. It just use to be…it used to be easier to escape.

The failings of not having text messaging. Yet the joy in that lock and chain not existing. The retarded contradictions. And then I read the TV on the Radio interview and they asked the guy about repetition. Which was fascinating how he attributed it to a heartbeat. I am in love with that example. I fall more and more in love with repetition. Oh Gertrude Stein, how I wish to have known. Her repetition exercises are pretty neat, hell she pioneered that modern shite. That modern shite that is so delicious to read.

Do I feel liberated in my actions of an hour and 45 minutes ago? I’ve been tossing that one in my head while I have—instead—been here with that 1 and 45 time. No, honestly I don’t. But I don’t feel too sour or sore about it either. It feels more like it never existed in the first place.

I need a long look into the world I live in, coupled with the world we live in. And then try and consolidate it with approach. How am I approaching this and how are ‘you’ approaching this. Maybe that’s the key, for the gold key-ring and silver key. And its really just a piece of the key.

Then it becomes that I want to drastically drastic myself. And what the hell does that mean? Well I want that drastic thing to push me. I gave a good analogy last night. And its rather fine. All rather fine. Like sunny skies. Like laughing over a good joke. But I should become a terrible misanthrope. Ha. And then I’m a little shit. And a shit throughout most of the day.

I want to sleep well. Not this horrible excuse for sleep that I seem to be living now.

And that’s where Sara comes in.

Where we sat on the edge near her house. And on her porch we smoked while drinking cold beers in the dying autumn light. The cold was coming. The clouds in the sky puckered the sun; checkering it like a tablecloth; a tablecloth covering a wooden table and we are picknicking. Neither of us trembled and she smiled while she flicked ashes my way. When we kissed it was slow like lame tides. It was lame tides and all around us was sand. But really the trees didn’t move and it was quiet; there wasn't sand but grass. I wondered whether I could hold onto everything. Whether I wanted to hold onto everything. There was this idea of self, holding onto self in an uncertain future.


"i'm sorry for not going to your class."

"oh. its okay."

Tuesday, October 03, 2006