{ 08 } .. . force

baby let’s play house!

I wonder why I take such pride in the automatic workings of my body. I mean, is it such an achievement to breathe out after breathing in? to eat when hungry? to shit when I’m full of shit? How much skill do I need to behave like any other person, or for that matter, any animal on this planet? Some people will go all Sartre on me arse right about now, start jabbing me with their existential schticks. And right on cue, we’ll tumble into a meaningless discussion about meaning, and blah blah et ceterblah.

Not that I’m not sympathetic to existentialism. But I’ve been feeling lately that talking about philosophy is like talking about jazz (and who am I quoting here?), no matter what words I use, they wouldn’t capture the essence. There, I just dismissed 2500 years of thinking with one badly constructed sentence.

And if death is the punctuation to a life sentence, it definitely comes after a couple of misplaced colons. There I go, still talking shite.

Plagiarism or homage? Terrorist or freedom fighter? Conspiracy or paranoia?


spiral scratch
lights out .. . { angry samoans, back from samoa }
living proof .. . { cat power, the greatest }
i’m crazy ’bout my baby and my baby’s crazy ’bout me .. . { louis armstrong, satch plays fats }

{ 07 } .. . carrier

full-frontal good! pre-frontal bad!

You know, I’m not sure why it seems to take so much work to motivate myself. I mean, really, is it so hard to get my arse over to the corner and busk for change? So what if I can’t sing, or play an instrument, or do anything else remotely entertaining. Christ, why does it always have to be a spectacle, just to shake a few coins from your pockets? I guess if it comes down to it, I could mime. Not that I know how. Or really want to.

Or maybe I’m already miming. That would explain the grease paint on my pillow this morning.

I’ve seen better days but I’m putting up with these .. . { richard ‘rabbit’ brown, james alley blues }


spiral scratch
poor boy .. . { elvis presley, for lp fans only }
superstition .. . { stevie wonder, talking book }
wall of death .. . { rem, beat the retreat }

{ 06 } .. . co-dependents

flatulence is a kind of personal growth, isn’t it?

Some time soon, it’s going to come over me, like an irritant, a compulsive itch, a rash decision. And when I reach for it, when I decide to scratch, it will become a little more deeply entrenched. Not that I want it to ever go away and leave me be. No, where would the fun be then. But I do wonder what plastic inevitable would explode if, you know, things were different. If I stop pretending that I have no choice in the matter, what could be the possibilities. Perhaps it will wind up being a let down. Or a fleeting tick in the slowing hours at the stale end of the night. It seems like a lot of work though.


spiral scratch
easy way out .. . { supercar, futurama }
down like disco .. . { the dandy warhols, odditorium }
gigantic .. . { the pixies, surfer rosa }

{ 05 } .. . soul pedlar

there’re floaties in my pool of consciousness, eww!

No damn good at all, that’s what she keeps telling me. And I’m just too tired to argue. Or maybe I don’t care enough to even have a decent conversation with her anymore. I find my mind wandering every time she opens her mouth and I see these little goldfishes coming out of it, hovering for a second before drifting skyward, belly up. Man, I gotta take it easy on that little concoction I’ve been calling velvet hammers, bennys washed down with vodka cut with grape jello powder. They’re okay in the morning, but if I have them later in the evening, I’m totally screwed til the next day.

Anyway, I thinks she’s talking again. I’m still not processing what she’s saying, and she’s starting to notice. I can see the little vertical creases forming between her eyebrows. Now, how am I gonna get out of this? I suppose I could just get up and walk out. I think it’s too late to pretend I’m listening. I should have started periodically nodding and grunting before now. I need to be smarter. I need to remember why I’m with her in the first place. I need to stop this bloody shaking.

Concentrate.


spiral scratch
betsy and the blue boys .. . { roy forbes, almost overnight }
testify .. . { parliament, up for the down stroke }
c’mon every beatbox .. . { big audio dynamite, no 10 upping st }