It has been seven years since my last post about—and nearly ten years since I began this blog? Since I started it I have a phone on which I can type—this was not a part of my old blogging life. I honestly wasn’t even sure if this thing still existed, but like Twitter I am glad it does, it serves as the longest term diary of my life. What a weird thing. Maybe I will take all of the posts, and bind them into a book. Or a zine. Transferring a weblog into a zine seems comically absurd to me.
I am writing from the 720, a bus in Los Angeles. I have hacker gloves on, which is a joke—they are sonply Jersey fingerless gloves that I bought for five euro in Paris two years ago, and they remind me of the gloves that every 90s depiction of a hacker wore. Except. In Jurassic Park—I don’t think that little girl wore gloves.
Hi world? Can anybody hear this? Do my followers still get notifications? This might be a new outlet, or I suppose a renewed outlet. For now it’s a placeholder.
The funniest thing is that google has not bothered to make this website mobile compatible, so I have to move the screen around to see what I am typing, which I am choosing not to do. This may be tittles with spelling errors.
April 29, 2018
April 11, 2011
February 08, 2011
A name synonomous with driftwood
Hey internets.
This world is hungry and it's people are strange.
I decided a few days ago to give away all the music I've made, or I guess the correct term is make it available for free download. Most of it is awful, but some of it I'm proud of. Mostly I want to get it out of just my computer and let people hear it. So anyway, I'm working on that project right now.
In other news, wintersession is over this week so I am keeping busy. Hope you are too.
I'll post the music as it comes.
Bye Bye
This world is hungry and it's people are strange.
I decided a few days ago to give away all the music I've made, or I guess the correct term is make it available for free download. Most of it is awful, but some of it I'm proud of. Mostly I want to get it out of just my computer and let people hear it. So anyway, I'm working on that project right now.
In other news, wintersession is over this week so I am keeping busy. Hope you are too.
I'll post the music as it comes.
Bye Bye
February 07, 2011
The dream
Me and Alex, and Sally, and Chris but Chris is called Steven.
We are in the dark, but it is hot. No wait, it starts before that.
I am in St. Paul, except it's not St. Paul. The corner of Victoria and Selby, and there's a big piece painted on a half broken cement wall. It feels like Selby-side, not those Rondo summers but those Selby-Dale Augusts. But it's still blistering and hot.
The whole neighborhood is covered in graffiti, burners and tags, and then, there's Alex and Chris, and we go on a walk which turns into a car ride, past big Eros and Vipers, Chen pieces, weird names I haven't seen before, a Delt, even a Blast. A lot of early NTS stuff. We decide we could break into the power plant, and every time I look over my shoulder it's night and then day. We're in a little forest, held up and apart from us with chain link fences, too tall. I've been here before, in a dream I had in high school.
We stare, the power plant is now a grain silo is now a version of the ghetto in the sky is now similar to the texts I read in Metropolitan Studies my first semester at NYU, where we talked about the cities of the future. It looks like Brazil to me. It is all falling apart. It scares me.
Sally is now driving and even though we all agree we are on a car it is more like a toboggan with little wheels and we rush through the over grown grass and sweat and zoom down a hill. It looks like Resident Evil.
We slam into thick mud, muck, of dead plants. It smells like swamp and bugs crawl out and over our legs. Our car was just a carboard box. At the end of the road we are on there is an entrance to a cave, and we crawl in. It is dark, and then thick brown water starts to claw at our ankles. And we think we are going to drown. We start clawing at the clay, and when we break through and create an escape we feel an enormous sense of pride. Everyone is gone now, but I am Langston Hughes professing glory in the promised land. I exit on a hill with a Billboard on it, but no message. I stare down at a row of houses and walk in through a white door.
There, in the kitchen I see V, who is feeding a baby. I am scared of this place. It feels wrong and old and V makes me feel trapped. I feed her baby and I think to myself how wretched it must be being stuck in this house all the time. I look out the window and we are in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fields and I look back in. The baby looks odd, maybe one year old. I ask her how long it's been since she left the house and she says not since the baby was born. She picks him up and I see the strain of his weight on her small body. I feel sad and go to leave, making an excuse about just passing through and needing to find something although I can't recall what.
When I turn around the baby is walking, and I am terrified but not surprised that he has been completely sewn into a denim suit, even his face is a series of denim folds.
I leave through the kitchen, and there is Eminem, eating a sandwich on a plate. Through the doorway I see hands, in a suit coat with fancy cufflinks take his plate from him and retract into a cabinet. The plate is set on clean dishes, still with the sandwich on it. I look around the corner to see if I can see the person, but there is none, the hands retreat into a mirror. I look at Eminem and say,
"I know this is going to be weird but you saw that right?"
he says "What?"
and I say "The hands that grabbed you plate and went back into the mirror."
He looks at me in a mix of revulsion and exasperation.
I say "Why do you always have to look at me like that? Like I'm crazy?"
He opens his mouth and says "Look at you like what? Why do you always..."
And his mouth turns into a dark hole which swallows me in scraping sounds and I wake up.
We are in the dark, but it is hot. No wait, it starts before that.
I am in St. Paul, except it's not St. Paul. The corner of Victoria and Selby, and there's a big piece painted on a half broken cement wall. It feels like Selby-side, not those Rondo summers but those Selby-Dale Augusts. But it's still blistering and hot.
The whole neighborhood is covered in graffiti, burners and tags, and then, there's Alex and Chris, and we go on a walk which turns into a car ride, past big Eros and Vipers, Chen pieces, weird names I haven't seen before, a Delt, even a Blast. A lot of early NTS stuff. We decide we could break into the power plant, and every time I look over my shoulder it's night and then day. We're in a little forest, held up and apart from us with chain link fences, too tall. I've been here before, in a dream I had in high school.
We stare, the power plant is now a grain silo is now a version of the ghetto in the sky is now similar to the texts I read in Metropolitan Studies my first semester at NYU, where we talked about the cities of the future. It looks like Brazil to me. It is all falling apart. It scares me.
Sally is now driving and even though we all agree we are on a car it is more like a toboggan with little wheels and we rush through the over grown grass and sweat and zoom down a hill. It looks like Resident Evil.
We slam into thick mud, muck, of dead plants. It smells like swamp and bugs crawl out and over our legs. Our car was just a carboard box. At the end of the road we are on there is an entrance to a cave, and we crawl in. It is dark, and then thick brown water starts to claw at our ankles. And we think we are going to drown. We start clawing at the clay, and when we break through and create an escape we feel an enormous sense of pride. Everyone is gone now, but I am Langston Hughes professing glory in the promised land. I exit on a hill with a Billboard on it, but no message. I stare down at a row of houses and walk in through a white door.
There, in the kitchen I see V, who is feeding a baby. I am scared of this place. It feels wrong and old and V makes me feel trapped. I feed her baby and I think to myself how wretched it must be being stuck in this house all the time. I look out the window and we are in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fields and I look back in. The baby looks odd, maybe one year old. I ask her how long it's been since she left the house and she says not since the baby was born. She picks him up and I see the strain of his weight on her small body. I feel sad and go to leave, making an excuse about just passing through and needing to find something although I can't recall what.
When I turn around the baby is walking, and I am terrified but not surprised that he has been completely sewn into a denim suit, even his face is a series of denim folds.
I leave through the kitchen, and there is Eminem, eating a sandwich on a plate. Through the doorway I see hands, in a suit coat with fancy cufflinks take his plate from him and retract into a cabinet. The plate is set on clean dishes, still with the sandwich on it. I look around the corner to see if I can see the person, but there is none, the hands retreat into a mirror. I look at Eminem and say,
"I know this is going to be weird but you saw that right?"
he says "What?"
and I say "The hands that grabbed you plate and went back into the mirror."
He looks at me in a mix of revulsion and exasperation.
I say "Why do you always have to look at me like that? Like I'm crazy?"
He opens his mouth and says "Look at you like what? Why do you always..."
And his mouth turns into a dark hole which swallows me in scraping sounds and I wake up.
February 05, 2011
Hi, hello, how are you?
It seems to me that the mall may be the saddest place on earth. But maybe that's just because I went there four times this week.
I also went to sleep much earlier than I have in a long time due to something spoiled I ate. I decided that to deal with my enormous stomach ache I would watch a VHS of 'Snatch.' I fell asleep about halfway through. I had fever dreams, and I woke up at 7:30 this morning.
I am hoping and praying (no, that's just a saying, I don't really pray) that spring will arrive soon. I'm too cold too often. I am plotting my escape to the sweltering jungle in countless daydreams. I'm off to the studio now, art studio, to edit video I think.
See you later alligator.
I also went to sleep much earlier than I have in a long time due to something spoiled I ate. I decided that to deal with my enormous stomach ache I would watch a VHS of 'Snatch.' I fell asleep about halfway through. I had fever dreams, and I woke up at 7:30 this morning.
I am hoping and praying (no, that's just a saying, I don't really pray) that spring will arrive soon. I'm too cold too often. I am plotting my escape to the sweltering jungle in countless daydreams. I'm off to the studio now, art studio, to edit video I think.
See you later alligator.
February 02, 2011
She Doesn't Understand
She clings to the cold fence, chain links scraping her dry hand, even inside this glove. The fingers are tense.
She never thought that she would be one of these, who's worst fears included teenagers. Teenagers, loss of hearing. Slipping on the ice.
She remembers how the snow used to be so beautiful, falling outside of her window, or the window of the car she used to drive back in 1966, when she was young and the snow remained a challenge to be met. Careening through plowed bumps, skidding to a stop, sometimes missing the mark. Laughing, laughing at the adrenaline that pumped through her heart, short of breath, stuck in the intersection.
She remembered when these storms were fascinating, wonderful, and how, with lovers she would lie and stare out of their windows, wrapped in sheets and the warm bodies would twitch and they strained to watch the snow fall.
She inches along the metal handrail, shuffling her feet, looking for the black ice. It's melting now, which is good, she thinks.
But it is hard to see. Her worn tennis shoes are soaking up, her feet are numb, her knees hurt. They don't hurt, they burn and ache. They creak. They are no longer fluid, these aren't the knees that ran and jumped and danced all night. These are the knees that carried babies around, up and down stairs. These aren't the knees that shy boys kissed as they sat in the grass. What happened to my body, she wonders?
When the most terrifying thing is a snow storm.
When the thought of leaving the house and slipping on the front steps becomes your biggest fear.
When you aren't ready to get out.
She never thought that she would be one of these, who's worst fears included teenagers. Teenagers, loss of hearing. Slipping on the ice.
She remembers how the snow used to be so beautiful, falling outside of her window, or the window of the car she used to drive back in 1966, when she was young and the snow remained a challenge to be met. Careening through plowed bumps, skidding to a stop, sometimes missing the mark. Laughing, laughing at the adrenaline that pumped through her heart, short of breath, stuck in the intersection.
She remembered when these storms were fascinating, wonderful, and how, with lovers she would lie and stare out of their windows, wrapped in sheets and the warm bodies would twitch and they strained to watch the snow fall.
She inches along the metal handrail, shuffling her feet, looking for the black ice. It's melting now, which is good, she thinks.
But it is hard to see. Her worn tennis shoes are soaking up, her feet are numb, her knees hurt. They don't hurt, they burn and ache. They creak. They are no longer fluid, these aren't the knees that ran and jumped and danced all night. These are the knees that carried babies around, up and down stairs. These aren't the knees that shy boys kissed as they sat in the grass. What happened to my body, she wonders?
When the most terrifying thing is a snow storm.
When the thought of leaving the house and slipping on the front steps becomes your biggest fear.
When you aren't ready to get out.
Send Blood
So he wakes up in a small room with brown walls and forest green trim. The brown walls are the color of walnuts, the outside, the shell. Forest green, if you're not aware, doesn't look good with any other color. It doesn't remind anyone of the forest.
So he wakes up, and he's smells the mattress. It's as though his sense of smell has flipped a switch as his mind becomes aware of consciousness and although he doesn't mean to he smells the bare mattress and it smells kind of like watercress and mint but also soap, old soap scum and a little hint of broccoli and of course sweat. And pee.
Not urine.
Too adult.
Pee.
So he wakes up, and what do you know? It's awful. The sun is coming through the window, poking him in the eyes, first through one slit eyelid, then the other. Then the other again. And he's sweating. And the radiator is hissing. And his underwear seems loose and damp and his legs are tied up in the sheets, which are flannel, but it's May and the flannel is overkill now.
So he wakes up, and he fumbles for the alarm clock. Except it's a phone. Except they stopped making alarm clocks. Except when he turns it off he is greeted by his daily calendar.
So he wakes up, and the first thought that is driven into his head is sitting there, waiting, in his alarm-clock-calendar-phone-email inbox. It reads: SEND BLOOD.
So he opens it up. Crunched into a tiny screen, the email seems longer than it is, at four words per line.
Please Sir/Madam,
My name is Ouri
and I wanted to
Beg of you sir
to send blood to
the troops fighting
We are willing
to exchange
Viagra and persc
ription medicines
Free tattoo remova
l and find your true
Love. Please
click
this link.
one two
one two
And an attachment.
Do they make viruses for phones yet?
So he wakes up, and he's smells the mattress. It's as though his sense of smell has flipped a switch as his mind becomes aware of consciousness and although he doesn't mean to he smells the bare mattress and it smells kind of like watercress and mint but also soap, old soap scum and a little hint of broccoli and of course sweat. And pee.
Not urine.
Too adult.
Pee.
So he wakes up, and what do you know? It's awful. The sun is coming through the window, poking him in the eyes, first through one slit eyelid, then the other. Then the other again. And he's sweating. And the radiator is hissing. And his underwear seems loose and damp and his legs are tied up in the sheets, which are flannel, but it's May and the flannel is overkill now.
So he wakes up, and he fumbles for the alarm clock. Except it's a phone. Except they stopped making alarm clocks. Except when he turns it off he is greeted by his daily calendar.
So he wakes up, and the first thought that is driven into his head is sitting there, waiting, in his alarm-clock-calendar-phone-email inbox. It reads: SEND BLOOD.
So he opens it up. Crunched into a tiny screen, the email seems longer than it is, at four words per line.
Please Sir/Madam,
My name is Ouri
and I wanted to
Beg of you sir
to send blood to
the troops fighting
We are willing
to exchange
Viagra and persc
ription medicines
Free tattoo remova
l and find your true
Love. Please
click
this link.
one two
one two
And an attachment.
Do they make viruses for phones yet?
January 26, 2011
The name I choose to give to the pit in my stomach
Stage it in a forest
Place it in the barks, and the saps, and the folded twining limbs, scooping at the fog
stage it in a forest under a thrown blanket spent of
leaves
and soot
ashes and poplars, willows, weeping willows dry whips
The papers peeling from the backs of the basket trees
Birches and pines
Mine is this song, steeped deep black
For days, sullen
Soots in meadows and warm compost
Bury, burying my feet into dark earth
dominant
But terrified
String in some sun
pulled through a sheet like cross stitch
pinpoints and pricks of light leaking through the gaps of the leaves yet
to fall
Into my eyes
so
i squint
Bring me back there
I am cold and rub my hands to my biceps
Rub my hands down the elbows
Rub my hands on the front of my jeans and I shiver
I am transformed
Back into a little boy
as I walk home from school and see my first fall and my smile lights up
And I still smiled so my teeth shone
And I was happy
And I took the bus, and I rode in those old plastic seats and peered over the edges, through the windows, through the alleys
bicycle paths
birds
singing songs, sitting next to my sister
And we were still untouched
Stage it in a forest, alone
My body deep deep in the frozen earth
As the cool trickle of a handful of the stuff
Pours onto my right shoulder, right below the collarbone
And fills that gap, seven seven seven
Handfuls of the stuff and now my arm won't move.
I look across, up, down. Searching for landmarks and there are none
I am now stung
And it burns little coals in my eyes
Hot little cloth wrapped tight and put in those dark holes
Cheese cloth marred sienna brown small, rooted in those pits
Sit down
Sit down
And my head begins to spin and I lay down and the crackle
cradles my head and
I stare into the light gray and fall asleep
I trust no one reads this anymore.
I hear the whistles still
And these hearts crack open
We traded lines of Das Racist back and forth
Um, I trip
Over words still
I've, um
There is the feeling of
Terror and tin, soft metal
Melting, liquid boiling
Rolling
In my stomach
I can't tell
Which words to put together
It's either
Mistake or misunderstanding
I didn't know then what I know now
Which is funny
Since it has all been there this whole time
Who knows, um
Hiding
Um...
Please meet me at the cliffs in the summer
Or the Row
Sham
Bow
Library
For stuffed french toast
Um... I've...
This, of all, is the worst type of sound so far.
Because it's stuck in my lungs.
And these hearts crack open
We traded lines of Das Racist back and forth
Um, I trip
Over words still
I've, um
There is the feeling of
Terror and tin, soft metal
Melting, liquid boiling
Rolling
In my stomach
I can't tell
Which words to put together
It's either
Mistake or misunderstanding
I didn't know then what I know now
Which is funny
Since it has all been there this whole time
Who knows, um
Hiding
Um...
Please meet me at the cliffs in the summer
Or the Row
Sham
Bow
Library
For stuffed french toast
Um... I've...
This, of all, is the worst type of sound so far.
Because it's stuck in my lungs.
November 29, 2010
November 08, 2010
October 05, 2010
September 07, 2010
June 15, 2010
Focus Group Tested to Appeal to Everybody
Everyone has to buy, borrow, or illegally download the new DEVO album, "Something For Everybody."
I don't dig the vocals that much, they're a tiny bit over the top, but I can't be mad at it. It's sick. One of their refrains is just a repetitive chant of "Don't taze me brooo, don't taze me brooo." Nothing wrong with that.
I don't dig the vocals that much, they're a tiny bit over the top, but I can't be mad at it. It's sick. One of their refrains is just a repetitive chant of "Don't taze me brooo, don't taze me brooo." Nothing wrong with that.
June 12, 2010
May 11, 2010
Oh Hey There!
It's finals season here in Providence, so that's why you haven't seen me. But in order to maintain your loyalty and friendship, I wanted to point you in the direction of this:
http://deadspin.com/5535220/fake-yo+yo-trickster-fools-every-tv-station-everywhere
Have fun!
http://deadspin.com/5535220/fake-yo+yo-trickster-fools-every-tv-station-everywhere
Have fun!
May 05, 2010
April 03, 2010
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