Afraid

I met Chip Morton, Photographer, tonight after a long protracted relationship via Da Internets.

Hell of a guy. And not a bad pool player.

While we were all playing pool, Chris, Marko and I, sang along with the two The Smiths songs that were blasted. I was a little worried that Chip might think that - hell, I don't know what Chip might have thought.

But he seemed to weather it well.

Good friends are hard to come by. Keep them.

The graphic was produced by Carly after we shot back in July. I love her for it. And I'm stealing it...

...this was not one of The Smiths songs that was played, but I love it anyway.

Like all of them. Every single one.

"Girl afraid
Where do his intentions lay?
Or does he even have any?

She said he never really looks at me
I give him every opportunity
In the room downstairs
He sat and stared
In the room downstairs
He sat and stared
I'll never make that mistake again

I'll never make that mistake again
I'll never make that mistake again

Boy afraid
Prudence never pays
And everything she wants costs money

But she doesn't even like me
And I know because she said so
In the room downstairs
She sat and stared
In the room downstairs
She sat and stared
I'll never make that mistake again
No."

"When, When We Were Young

We Had No History
So, Nothing To Lose
Meant We Could Choose
Choose What We Wanted Then
Without Any Fear
Or Thought Of Revenge
But Then You Grew Old
And I Lost My Ambition
So I Gained An Addiction
To Drink And Depression
They Are Mine
My Only True Friends
And I'll Keep Them With Me
Until The Very End..."

An except from one of my all time favorite musical compositions.

Dropped out for a while this week. Felt good. Pretty much cut communication off with everyone and everything and hibernated.

And not in a nihilistic manner, in a positive one.
I ate well, exposed myself to culture (watched "The Shining" again), and listened to some incredible music (Team Sleep, et al...), and hung out with some very good friends (Debate Night party at my crib).

You gotta do it, every now and again.

You have to choose what you want. Now.

Carly on her couch. I chose the shot, she obviously chose the couch...

Random Shit, Vol. XXXII

- Can somebody explain this to me. Seriously:

"The average South Korean is three inches taller than the average North Korean, a huge gulag."
(John McCain, The 1st Presidential Debate)

- I have no desire to shoot anyone or anything right now.

- Because of a friend, I have a whole new appreciation for The Mars Volta.

- The cat suddenly doesn't like her "gourmet" food.

- I wish I would have seen The Smashing Pumpkins on the "Siamese Dream" tour. Especially the show in Seattle where they played "Geek USA" with fifty clowns dancing onstage...yep, fifty.

- Homemade blueberry muffins are really, really good. So is having someone make them FOR you...

- Having dinner with Steve and Kim tonight, which is always fun.

- The fact that Paul Newman is dead is making me unbelievably sad...

- “The trick of living is to slip on and off the planet with the least fuss you can muster. I’m not running for sainthood. I just happen to think that in life we need to be a little like the farmer, who puts back into the soil what he takes out.”
(Paul Newman)

There's Silk Everywhere

"Only Shallow"

If anyone knows, and I mean REALLY knows the lyrics to this song, please send them to me. And that includes you, Kevin Shields. I have always been able to decipher about 3/4 of them but the other 1/4, well, are mumbled and mixed so far under the noise, they are indecipherable.

AND I am deaf now, thanks to you beautiful assholes on Monday night, so trying again today to figure the lyrics out has proven fruitless.

Did you say something?

An outtake shot of Cristi from the infamous "wet hair session." She's nervous about these, but was a good sport. I think they are magnificent. And it's the last roll of film I ever shot...ever.

All Those Angels With Their Wings Glued On

A quiet Tuesday night in the universe, Mr. Kerouac.

For once.

But, not really.
It's never quiet here.

Sounds Like 40 Swallows

Singing in my already well-damaged ears.

Now.

The loudest bands I've ever seen (and the aforementioned damage):

Hüsker Dü
The Stooges
Melvins
Einstürzende Neubauten
Swans

But tonight, My Bloody Valentine won the prize.

They handed out ear-plugs at the door for free.

Did I use them? No.

The last song, "You Made Me Realise," which lasted 20 minutes, put my fingers in my ears two knuckles deep.

It felt like the moral equivalent of standing on a runway with a jet in front of me, during an earthquake.

I felt my hair moving, looked down and my shirt was blowing, then noticed that my pants were pasted to my legs.

And it was BEAUTIFUL. The assault was daunting. And Impressive. And worth every penny.

Few "reunion" shows have been worthy in my book: Gang of Four, Mission of Burma, The Pixies, to name a few.

Few and far between...

Add My Bloody Valentine to that list and put them at the top.

Just don't talk to me for a while, 'cause all I'm gonna say is "Hunh?"

It was sorta like this, except at The Roseland in NYC tonight, but you'll get the idea.

It hurt. In the bestest, most cathartic way...

...joy.

Sometimes I appreciate music more than anything else.

Perhaps it's my downfall...

While Money Doesn't Talk, It Swears

It's all right Ma, I'm only bleeding...

1826

“Neither hope nor joy are my pilots — restless despair and fierce desire of change lead me on. I long to grapple with danger, to be excited by fear, to have some task, however slight or voluntary, for each day’s fulfillment.”

- Mary Shelly, "The Last Man"

So, if I did agree to shoot you, what - and I really mean "what" - would keep me from beating the fuck out of you?

You are a formidable opponent, but right now, I know I could take you.

It's been a long night...

Mascara

"I feel soon
I will sink
Into you
What do you think?

'Cause there's still blood
In your hair
Got the bruise
Of the year

But there's something about her
Long shady eyes
I'm all about her
Shade tonight

I hate your tattoos
You have weak wrists
But I'll keep you

"Cause there's something about her
Long shady eyes
I'm all about her
Shade tonight

Well, it's too bad
It's too bad
It's too bad
You're married
To me"

- Deftones

"What Would My Grandfather Think?

of me sitting at this table writing about him, Marlboro going in the left hand and a Corona in my right? High noon of a forgotten Friday afternoon. Sunlight beaming in through the mountains forming a perfect rectangle on the table, eyes adjusting, blue-grey smoke cutting up through the glare. I swear you can see faces in it..."

- Random Journal Drivel, July 25, 2001

Well, I've upgraded to Camel Lights and Armagnac. And I take photograhs like this:



Maybe he'd dig that. My Grandparents were all tobacco farmers and both of my Grandfathers had drinking problems. I only met my Father's Father once, when I was five, as he was dying. It's a David Lynch quality memory for me, him standing in the squalor of his house (my grandmother had kicked him out decades before) with crutches on one leg, that had been amputated due to progressive gangrene. Drunk. Really drunk, like for thirty years drunk.

My Mother's Father, however, I knew until he died when I was twenty-two. And his drinking was long over. But he did smoke Camel's and the smell lingering in my parents' house after he left was one of those magical childhood memories.

They don't smell that way to me when I smoke them. Or for that matter, anyone else.

The random journal drivel was written upstate in the Finger Lakes at my friends' Cathrine and Jeffery's cabin. I've lost touch with them and I should do something about that.

But me first, for now.

"You Truly Are Incorruptible Aren't You?

You won't kill me out of some misplaced sense of self-righteousness, and I won't kill you, because you're just too much fun. I think you and I are destined to do this forever."



"I'm not a monster. I'm just ahead of the curve..."

Give Me The Keys To Your Theme Park

Really.

"The love cry of the traveling man goes
No one knows who I am
But I’m as priceless as a brass ring
That’s losing the heat from your hand

A quiet man sits quietly learning his lesson
The slow smooth wheel of disintegration
You don’t want them to talk to you
No you don’t want to take part
You say, "just get me back to the leper colony
’cause that’s where you left my heart."

I feel time pass by like a joy
No medicine can preserve
Somewhere along the line
I lost my nerve

Maybe I’m almost there

Give me the keys to your theme park
Bury me under your layer of snow
And watch me ride all the rides
Around and around I go

I don’t know if I’ve reached the bottom yet
And I don’t know if the ice has finally begun to set
I feel time pass like a joy I tried so hard to relearn
But somewhere along the line
I passed the point of no return

Maybe I’m almost there

The love cry of the traveling man goes
No one knows who I am
But I’m as priceless as a brass ring
That lost the heat from your hand"

Cristi again. As you can see, she pretty much gave me the keys...

The More I Lose The More You Find Me

Really.

"So immediately after
I see her everywhere
and I really do
I go to the hardware store to buy a hammer
a hammer
big piece of steel with an ergonomic handle
and I do
and I walk out and she walks by
with Eurotrash boy, probably from Queens
or worse...Seattle
or much worse...Toronto
but whatever
they are right there
and I have a hammer in my hand
I told the hardware guy I didn't need a bag
it comes with a handle
and time stops and so do I
and then my movie goes into slow motion
but they keep walking @ 24fps
and I'm @ 2fps or less

I fly in from the world premiere of something
black tie, Washington, D.C.
home of Fugazi, who I do not meet
but I met a foxy marine biologist
and that makes up for the lack of punk rock
land the shuttle at LaGuardia
and ride the taxi for thirty-five bucks
home
home doesn't have toilet paper, food or beer
so I venture out
corner of Houston and Broadway
walking hard
boots making noise
and there she is
perpendicular on Houston headed West
not left, but West
with her friend Greg
one of the most pathetically pompous people
I've ever had the displeasure of meeting
she's locked arm in arm with him
tonight, isn't she
motion, mine, slows
they move past

One night coming home from somewhere
I see her on Houston street
again
I'm not convinced it's her
but I am terrified that it is
terrified because
I have no response
and I fucking hate
surprises

I have not seen her since although I
see her everywhere still
long blond hair in black
I always check her walk
If it's together
and not fucked up like a newly born mare
then I know it's not her

I see her less and less now
but she's still there
like a clown
waiting to jump out
and wave
and smile"

- Random Journal Drivel, January 2000

The Opiate Of Blame

Once again, and I am so tired of reiterating this:

Don't believe anything you read here. Don't make a correlation between my drivel and your real life. Or mine. Don't assume anything. The pictures do not have anything to do with the words. The words are just that. Words. And most of them of late aren't even mine. And the pictures? Well, I took 'em...and that's about it.

Oh, and all of you, have a wonderful fucking Wednesday.

Really.

"Nothing left to say
And all I've left to do
Is run away from you
And she let me on down
With secrets I can't keep

Close your eyes and sleep
Don't wait up for me
Hush now don't you speak to me

Wrapped my hurt in you
And took my shelter in that pain
The opiate of blame
Is your broken heart, your heart, your heart

So now, I'm all by myself
As I've always felt
And I'll betray my tears
To anyone caught in our ruse of fools

One last kiss from me...yeah
One last kiss good night...

Didn't want to lose you once again
Didn't want to be your friend
Fulfilled a promise made of tin
And crawled back to you

I'm all by myself
As I've always felt
I'll betray myself
To anyone, lost, anyone but you

So, let the sadness come again
On that you can depend on me, yeah
Until the bitter, bitter end of the world, yeah
When god sleeps in bliss

And I'm all by myself
As I've always felt
And I'll betray myself
To anyone "

The Real Thing

I clench my wrists and twist my back.
I oversleep and abuse myself.
I don't eat enough greens.
I gotta work on that.
I like greens...

I am barraged by bullshit. From all sides. Both sides.
And odd. How the bullshit references the other bullshit, and none of it is true.

Other people's fantasies.
Are stupid.

So, what do I do?
I come home, have a Jack and Coke (The Real Thing) and listen to Swearing At Motorists.

This is about you.

And me too.

"Coca-Cola and pills
Won't help with that void you can't fill
Are you shooting for thrills
Or aiming to kill
The white room turns red and blue
And you're leaving without wearing your shoes
'Cause no one paid attention to you
When you sang your blues."

Actually, I think it's about a certain young gentleman from Aberdeen, Washington. But that's just my interpretation. So, fuck it.

It ain't the truth. But really, what is?

Some things are true. All of the following is:

He's dead.
Not happy.

Carolyn. Medium Format Polaroid. Taken in a moment.

The truth.



Shooting her on Saturday night made me happy.
Despite the madness on the streets of Brooklyn on Friday...

This Woman

Sometimes you get your bourbon stolen.

But you can always get it back.

Sometimes you smoke too many cigarettes when this woman is going through your work.

But ultimatley it's yours.

This woman is cute.

This woman is a figment of someone else's imagination.

This woman is
Martina Topley-Bird.

All I Really Want...

Joy.

"Hey hey, glad girls, I only want to get you high
And they're alright

There will be no coronation
There will be no flowers flowing in the light
That passes though me now
In the light that passes through me

Hey hey, glad girls, I only want to get you high
And they're alright

There will be no graduation
There will be no trumpets blowing in the light
That passes through me now
In the light that passes through me

With the sinking of the sun I've come to greet you
Clean your hands and go to sleep
Confess the dreams
Of good and bad men all around
Some are lost and some have found
The light that passes though me now
Yeah the light that passes through me

Hey hey, glad girls..."

- Guided By Voices

Thanks, Bob.

Oh, And You Know The Thing About Chaos? It's Fair.

"Do you wanna know why I use a knife? Guns are too quick. You can't savor all the...little...emotions. In - you see, in their last moments, people show you who they really are. So in a way, I know your friends better than you ever did. Would you like to know which of them were cowards?"

Fuck 9/11.

Villainous

A beautifully haunting Hayden song covered by my boys, Swearing At Motorists, called "Bullet".

And a beautifully haunting photo of Cristi, this one from Sunday night at 87 Ludlow during business hours...



"I turned the radio up a bit
I rolled the window down and took it in
I'm going too fast but I don't give a shit
There's something chasing me and I have to win
It makes sense to forget what it takes
It makes sense to forget what it takes

I found a bullet outside my door
I think it's me it was intended for
It makes sense to forget what it takes
It makes sense to forget what it takes
It makes sense to forget what it takes"

Police sirens...

Me? Now? Visceral and completely fucking honest.

I've got no other choice. And I'm happy. Well, as happy as I can be...

A Summary of Stupid Phone Calls, Lately

"I saw you driving downtown
With your windows rolled down
As you were singing along to your radio
My horn wouldn't blow
Could not get your attention
It's great to see you around
How long are you in town?
Let me buy you a beer
You can talk off my ear
Probably not a lot to say
Probably got a lot to say..."

More Swearing At Motorists.

Please support these guys, as their work is important. And poignant. And beautiful.

AND THERE IS NOTHING LIKE SEEING THEM LIVE:



Thanks, Dave.

Support for you. Exorcism for me.

I Wish

But mostly, tonight, I wish that I could have developed these four precious rolls of Neopan 1600 shot on the street and in bars with Cristi last night with Chris and Marko "assisting" even though that's a stretch. They are just great friends helping me out.

Thanks, guys.

These four precious rolls.

But I can't - or won't, not tonight.

Scarlett O'Hara's last words:

"Tomorrow is another day."

In the meanwhile, here's an an old shot of Cristi and some "Swearing at Motorists"



Which all you dumb motherfuckers should listen to.

Me included.

It's called "This Flag Signals Goodbye".

Fuck it.

I miss you. And you. And you.

I Cannot Write Without Music Playing

The silence is deafening.

As are most of the conversations that I am involved in.

But when you connect, really connect - there is nothing more holy.

And that is fucked up.

Listen to this.

"She's Thinking Long And Hard About That Wild Sound...

...and wondering, will it last?"

What Michael Gira said...

I've loved Swans forever. Seen them perhaps 10 times. The first time was the "Children of God" show at the Cat's Cradle and the last was their last NYC show "ever" in 1997 at Irving Plaza.

I carry the ticket stub with me.

You should listen to them, but more importantly, you should listen to him.

I am.

His work speaks to me.

Chaos, with feeling...

Meditations In An Emergency

From Wikipedia:

"Frank O'Hara, the son of Russell Joseph O'Hara and Katherine Broderick, was born at Maryland General Hospital, Baltimore and grew up in Grafton, Massachusetts. He attended St. John's High School in Worcester. He studied piano at the New England Conservatory in Boston from 1941 to 1944. O'Hara served in the South Pacific and Japan as a sonarman on the destroyer USS Nicholas during World War II.

With the funding made available to veterans he attended Harvard University, where he roomed with artist/writer Edward Gorey. Although he majored in music and did some composing, his attendance was irregular and his interests disparate. He regularly attended classes in philosophy and theology, while writing impulsively in his spare time. O'Hara was heavily influenced by visual art, and by contemporary music, which was his first love (he remained a fine piano player all his life and would often shock new partners by suddenly playing swathes of Rachmaninoff when visiting them). He did have favorite poets: Arthur Rimbaud, Stephane Mallarmé, Boris Pasternak, and Vladimir Mayakovsky. While at Harvard, O'Hara met John Ashbery and began publishing poems in the Harvard Advocate. Despite his love for music, O'Hara changed his major and graduated from Harvard in 1950 with a degree in English.

He then attended graduate school at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. While at Michigan, he won a Hopwood Award and received his M.A. in English literature 1951. That autumn O'Hara moved into an apartment in New York City with Joe LeSueur, who would be his roommate and sometimes his lover for the next 11 years. Known throughout his life for his extreme sociability, passion, and warmth, O'Hara had hundreds of friends and lovers throughout his life, many from the New York art and poetry worlds. Soon after arriving in New York, he was employed at the front desk of the Museum of Modern Art and began to write seriously.

O'Hara was active in the art world, working as a reviewer for Art News, and in 1960 was made Assistant Curator of Painting and Sculpture Exhibitions for the Museum of Modern Art. He was also friends with artists like Willem de Kooning, Norman Bluhm, Larry Rivers and Joan Mitchell. O'Hara died in an accident on Fire Island in which he was struck and seriously injured by a man speeding in a beach vehicle during the early morning hours of July 24, 1966. He died the next day of a ruptured liver at the age of 40 and was buried in the Green River Cemetery on Long Island."

RIP, Mister O'Hara. Your words mean something, at least to me...