this is a test.

good day good day. nice to have a fucking car back, sort of. the vehicle allowed me to stay out at the frog and catch a kick ass set of The Perfects' Band. bah

"What is the feeling when you're driving away from people, and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? -it's the too huge world vaulting us, and it's good-bye. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies." JK

i will comment on NYC trip later on, after several drinks showing me the way to the portal of nostalgic exaggeration.

in other news:

the year anniversary of the chechnyan rebels hostage/russian counterterrorism massacre is rapidly approaching. A year later and still nobody knows what the fuck exactly happened. fantastic.

in other other news:

israeli civilian combatants (is this what terrorists are called in the promised lands?) killed 5 palestinians in the west bank/ gaza strip. great job.

better news:

i am having a fucking righteous blast riding my newly revamped 1982 Schwinn around town. Pissing off unassuming drivers by actually planting myself in the left hand turn land when i have the desire to make a sweeping left, and since i have no horn to upbraid urbanite cocksuckers with limited perception and awareness i find my middle fingers getting a great deal of exercise; within the last the last three days i have almost been hit at least a dozen times by people pulling out too far, not acknowledging my left or right hand signals,and i have come to the conclusion that cell phones are dangerous preoccupations when hurtling a 2 or 3 ton lug of metal at speeds varying from 30 to 55 mph. Still, all the this does little to dampen my spirits as i ride nigh into the netherworlds with the biggest shit eating grin i've had in years. So if you see a fella looking like a paperboy with his grey hat on riding a rust color schwinn give a honk or a wave of affection.

Got the manuscript off to Zeitgeist press yesterday...the bookies are still tallying odds on the likelihood. All in all i'd say not so hot, but we try, we vilify, who else believes in us if not for us?
I had been desperately trying to come up with a quote to slide in on one of the front pages, but years of drug use, banging my head against regret and drano drinking has limited some of my abilities of recollection (though when i do recollect it comes at useless times). Instead, i took the first two bars from Satie's Gnossiennes series and placed it as my quote (for anyone who doesn't know, most of my writing is down to Satie/Debussy/and recently Stravinsky....especially the late night wanderings). Pretentious? perhaps.

Current Mood: yo victor!
Current Music: cowboy junkies

i have a funny taste in my mouth. i have no idea why.

leave to NYC in a few days to see a lady and do a reading at Piano's on the Lower East Side. excited nervous and otherwise all mixed up.

http://www.kark.com/news/default.asp?mode=shownews&id=4836

totally disturbing.

currently, pea-sized hail is assaulting the black tarmac of green valley.

just started reading ole Orwell's book Homage to Catalonia, a great novel about his experience on the frontline of the Spanish Civil War. All the talk of the anarchist red and black flags, the P.O.U.M's hammers and sickles dotting the gutted churches, the proletariat's willingness to run the lands and factories...yeah, all that jazz. It reminds me of being in Madrid and watching a protest take place in the streets below the hostel we were at, the black flag still flies high whether graffed onto the side of a building or hanging from a fire escape and one cannot help but feel some pride (that ever deadly sin)in the fact that there is still dissidence, that some still believe in the ideals/ideas that once (and with many still do)pulled at anxious, young minds; minds in search of something greater than ourselves, a divine sort of hope that manifested itself in us; a hope, that with many, has disappeared. In certian parts of the Camino de Santiago the signs into towns were pulled out of their dreary green with inspiring communist propaganda, or with the simple stencil of the hammer/sickle. In Granada we watched a protest form, seemingly, out of a whirlwind force of sponteniety; black masks, rocks, tear gas flooded the square while we, filthy yanquis, sipped our beers and smoked moroccan hash until our own eyes faltered and bled tears-"this isn't our fight" and so we perched ourselves in some fella's flat overlooking the demonstration turned riot turned brutal beating. Up in arms in a flash often times for nothing, but the times of nothing could also be everything and often are one in the same (tangled bedsheets). This is what art is to me, a constant funnel of change, oppression, utopia, chaos and order.

nearly the same time back as i was gone, time to get moving
at least this is what they say.

bought a bike off e-bay for a whole 15 dollars.
whoo-hoo

two people need hugs
while i drink vodka and eat chocolate covered raisins.

title: all the same, everyday

another sweat stained
triumph

staring at my shadow

while the world boars a hole
through the heart of a thousand
nay, a million revelers. remaining

whole 'gainst the might onslaught
of doubt, discourgement and
slight curses. stockades and saxophones
are one and one in a violent match
that i will never grasp

sandstone war on the edge of a
dark wine.

Current Mood: blah
Current Music: trey/drifting