(no subject)
our band could be your life
real names'd be proof

me and mike watt played for years
punk rock changed our lives

our band is scientist rock
but i was e. bloom and richard hell,
joe strummer, and john doe
me and mike watt, playing guitar

(no subject)

This is what broke it open for me. Matt Gersting died. And I said that over and over again in my head, out loud, typed it; just cause it was a fact, and true, but it made no sense. Matt Gersting died. It was easy to say and it meant nothing and it didn't hurt. It took almost two days but now it does hurt and it hurts a lot. Like I get up in the morning and it just sucks.

I don't know this person or this facebook group but I knew Matt Gersting and he WAS loved by hundreds of people. Which is pretty fucking astonishing when you think about it. Think about 100 people. Can you name 100 people? Can you name 100 friends? Can you name 100 people who love you who you are not related to? One hundred. Name 100 numbers between 1 and 100.

Being in a band is a bizarre sometimes public manifestation -- at best  -- of friendships, or at worst -- relationships, much like being in a gang. I was in a gang with Matt Gersting. Inasmuch as it meant me playing sand paper every third song, we were in the same gang for a while.

But he was in like 20 gangs! He was loved by hundreds of people.

He was loved by more than 1 hundreds of people.

I moved into his house

Feast of Flowers' Yearling 2: New Frontiers


"To rescue from oblivion the memory of former incidents, and to render a just tribute of renown to the many great and wonderful transactions of our progenitors, Billy Blandlegs, native of The Floridas produces this historical essay."

Like the great Father of History, whose words I have just quoted, I treat of times long past, over which the twilight of uncertainty had already thrown its shadows, and the night of forgetfulness was about to descend for ever. With great solicitude had I long beheld the early history of this venerable and ancient city gradually slipping from our grasp, trembling on the lips of narrative old age, and day by day dropping piecemeal into the tomb. In a little while, thought I, and those revered burghers, who serve as the tottering monuments of good old times, will be gathered to their fathers; their children, engrossed by the empty pleasures or insignificant transactions of the present age, will neglect to treasure up the recollections of the past, and posterity will search in vain for memorials of the days of the Patriarchs. The origin of our city will be buried in eternal oblivion, and even the names and achievements of Wernher Von Braun, William Bartram, and Dr. John Gorrie will be enveloped in doubt and fiction, like those of Romulus and Remus, of Charlemagne, King Arthur, Rinaldo, and Godfrey of Boulogne.

Determined, therefore, to avert if possible this threatened misfortune, I industriously set myself to work to gather together all the fragments of our ancient history which still existed; and, like my revered prototype, Herodotus, where no written records could be found, I have endeavored to continue the chain of history by well-authenticated traditions.

In this arduous undertaking, which has been the whole business of a long and solitary life, it is incredible the number of learned authors I have consulted, and all to but little purpose. Strange as it may seem, though such multitudes of excellent works have been written about this country, there are none extant which give any full and satisfactory account of the early history of The Floridas.

In the conduct, of this inestimable work I have adopted no individual model, but, on the contrary, have simply contented myself with combining and concentrating the excellences of the most approved ancient historians. Like Xenophon, I have maintained the utmost impartiality, and the strictest adherence to truth throughout my history. I have enriched it, after the manner of Sallust, with various characters of ancient worthies, drawn at full length and faithfully colored. I have seasoned it with profound political speculations like Thucydides, sweetened it with the graces of sentiment like Tacitus, and infused into the whole the dignity, the grandeur and magnificence of Livy.

I am aware that I shall incur the censure of numerous very learned and judicious critics for indulging too frequently in the bold excursive manner of my favorite Herodotus. And, to be candid, I have found it impossible always to resist the allurements of those pleasing episodes, which, like flowery banks and fragrant bowers, beset the dusty road of the historian, and entice him to turn aside, and refresh himself from his wayfaring. But I trust it will be found that I have always resumed my staff, and addressed myself to my weary journey with renovated spirits, so that both my readers and myself have been benefited by the relaxation.

Thrice happy, therefore, is this our renowned city, in having incidents worthy of swelling the theme of history; and doubly thrice happy is it in having such an historian as myself to relate them. For, after all, gentle reader, cities of themselves, and, in fact, empires of themselves, are nothing without an historian. It is the patient narrator who records their prosperity as they rise—who blazons forth the splendor of their noontide meridian—who props their feeble memorials as they totter to decay—who gathers together their scattered fragments as they rot—and who piously, at length, collects their ashes into the mausoleum of his work, and rears a triumphant monument to transmit their renown to all succeeding ages.

What has been the fate of many fair cities of antiquity, whose nameless ruins encumber the plains of Europe and Asia, and awaken the fruitless inquiry of the traveler? They have sunk into dust and silence—they have perished from remembrance for want of a historian! The philanthropist may weep over their desolation—the poet may wander among their mouldering arches and broken columns, and indulge the visionary flights of his fancy—but alas! alas! the modern historian, whose pen, like my own, is doomed to confine itself to dull matter of fact, seeks in vain among their oblivious remains for some memorial that may tell the instructive tale of their glory and their ruin.

"Wars, conflagrations, deluges," says Aristotle, "destroy nations, and with them all their monuments, their discoveries, and their vanities. The torch of science has more than once been extinguished and rekindled—a few individuals, who have escaped by accident, reunite the thread of generations."

The same sad misfortune which has happened to so many ancient cities will happen again, and from the same sad cause, to nine-tenths of those which now flourish on the face of the globe. With most of them the time for recording their history is gone by: their origin, their foundation, together with the early stages of their settlement, are for ever buried in the rubbish of years; and the same would have been the case with this fair portion of the earth if I had not snatched it from obscurity in the very nick of time, at the moment that those matters herein recorded were about entering into the widespread insatiable maw of oblivion—if I had not dragged them out, as it were, by the very locks, just as the monster's adamantine fangs were closing upon them for ever! And here have I, as before observed, carefully collected, collated, and arranged them, scrip and scrap, "punt en punt, gat en gat," and commenced in this little work, a history to serve as a foundation on which other historians may hereafter raise a noble superstructure, swelling in process of time, until Blandlegs’ Floridas may be equally voluminous with Gibbon's Rome, or Hume and Smollett's England!

And now indulge me for a moment: while I lay down my pen, skip to some little eminence at the distance of two or three hundred years ahead; and, casting back a bird's-eye glance over the waste of years that is to roll between, discover myself—little I—at this moment the progenitor, prototype, and precursor of them all, posted at the head of this host of literary worthies, with my book under my arm, and New York on my back, pressing forward, like a gallant commander, to honor and immortality.

Such are the vain-glorious misgivings that will now and then enter into the brain of the author—that irradiate, as with celestial light, his solitary chamber, cheering his weary spirits, and animating him to persevere in his labors. And I have freely given utterance to these rhapsodies whenever they have occurred; not, I trust, from an unusual spirit of egotism, but merely that the reader may for once have an idea how an author thinks and feels while he is writing—a kind of knowledge very rare and curious, and much to be desired.

Meditations on the Fall
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T  W  O         T  H  O  U  S   A  N D       F   I   F  T  E E   N


"Home is where the privacy is. Draw all the opaque curtains, button the hatches, and with the whispering drone of the air conditioning masking all the sounds of the outside world, you are no longer cheek to jowl with the random activities aboard the neighbor craft. You could be in a rocket beyond Venus, or under an icecap." -- John D. Macdonald, Deep Blue Goodbye, Travis McGee #1


Nilsson's "Knnillssonn" with two cases of Beer Thousand. Living in an attached unit to a former TV * VCR * REPAIR that now just stored hundreds of pieces of discared motel furniture. Ed said I could take a nightstand. I had just distilled 10 years worth of the detritus that collects when you have a home -- when you are in the same place for a long time -- into 142 square feet. I called it Lil Versailles. It was in Forest City and you had to step down off a tree trunk to get to my door. It's best quality though was that it was so cramped it sort of felt like living on a houseboat. I had some extant nautical decorations (an old wooden barometer, you know, for hurricanes) and a Murphy bed and at first even played some harbor sounds from the internet. At the time I thought it might be the worst point in my life, but almost immediately after I realized it may actually be one of the best.

I was in the belly of the whale.
Or I was in a capsule on top of a rocket.

I still couldn't stop thinking about her but I had to. Ed made me take his cable. For the first time in nearly ten years there was cable running through the little crate sized TV I won on a game show as a boy. On Monday January 5th and early in to the morning of the Epiphany, the holiday that commemorates the three gifts of the wise men, Late Show started: "From the Hague! International City of Peace and Justice! It's the Late Show with David Letterman!" From the Hague! If I'd had a hat on it'd have blow right off. And then the next night, again, from the Hague. On the third night I couldn't wait to find out if the the show was coming to us from the Hague. I made appointment television and at 11:35 it goes dark and, "FROM EL PASO TEXAS! HOME OF THE WORLD'S LARGEST RESERVE OF HELIUM GAS! IT'S THE LATE SHOW WITH DAVID LETTERMAN!" This was not mentioned in any of that summer's tributes and retrospectives.

I'm trying to put together a "fall playlist" songs that are autumnal, but not spooky. I've also been trying to organize/orient my brain towards autumnal things. But it keeps getting hot out. My brain feels like its on the cusp of something but its too scattered to make any sense right now. I've got fragments of Emerson, New England, Kerouac, Salem, Plymouth Rock. I'm trying my best to embrace the Northeast of the time being.

Meditations on the Fall
I'm trying to put together a "fall playlist" songs that are autumnal, but not spooky. I've also been trying to organize/orient my brain towards autumnal things. But it keeps getting hot out. My brain feels like its on the cusp of something but its too scattered to make any sense right now. I've got fragments of Emerson, New England, Kerouac, Salem, Plymouth Rock. I'm trying my best to embrace the Northeast of the time being.

Meditations on the Fall
"A simple and sincere account of his own life, and not merely what he has heard of other men's lives; some such account as he would send to his kindred from a distant land; for if he has lived sincerely, it must have been in a distant land to me."

This is going to be only my second autumn. The first was 12 years ago, but also here. Then, I was a freshman in college. More accurately I was out of high school. I was out on my own for the first time; physically at least. Outside of my home.

There's a phrase that reoccurs in the book about vanity records. "Real people music." I think it's well understood by looking at blue album photo, then green album photo, then red album photo and seeing how becoming unreal is no bueno.

*     *      *

We live in an a time when you can access new things so well that you arent stuck listening to the same albums over and over again. But music is something that gets better the more you hear it. I remember how the darkness doubled, I recall lightning struck itself.

our lives are structured in days so that we perfect The Day.


I love the simultaneous combo of hot and cold water. Or air. Hot and cold temperatures. Florida springs, fire.

I am outside thinking about you.

I just saw you ride by my house on a bike. Like I summoned you. Then while I was thinking that, you walked back. I shouted Hello but you didn’t hear me. I walked to the fence and waved. I thought you were having bike trouble. And I figured if you needed something you could come here. But you just kept going. Shouted something to me but I didn’t hear it.

Would Florida Jesus be covered in mosquito bites? If the revelation of God to Man had just happened in a different climate would there be any unique revelations compared to the richly allegorical desert setting we have now? Would Jesus kill a mosquito that landed on him or let it bite? Would a mosquito even land on Jesus? Serious theosophical questions.

I just saw you on your way passed my house again. You asked me if I wanted to go to Hideaway. I said maybe in a little bit you gonna be there awhile? Real cool. Or is it actually because I don’t want to because I’m afraid to. Let me finish my beer and then I’ll ride my bike up there.

(no subject)
I only care about two things The Bloods and Crips and Hurricane Katrina.

The Crips hate the bloods so much that whenever they write a B they cross it out. I wish they had a way to type that. If there was a Crip font. My name starts with a B and I like it so much I think I'll start signing my name with a crossed out B. Not that I am in any way attempting to affiliate myself with the Crips. Although thats the right side to get on.

If the goal is to kill off poor people what will happen when only rich people are left? War gets rid of a lot of poor people. It's a good tactic.

(no subject)

The myth of sunshine, the allure of escape. Those immaterial assets.

Charles At The End II
Charles stopped calling himself Charles. Just Chris because that was his real name. And not in any declarative "I AM NO LONGER CHARLES" fashion. He's just many years older. No one's real name is Charles. No one's.

The intervening years was Duke Ellington's "Blue Pepper" from Far East Suite at full blast in sparse Knights of the Old Republic college apartment, iTunes sharing as social network get the apt 301, 101, 203 IM name come over "Dual Mr. Anthony Tillmon, Williams Process" at full blast hey what kind of party did you expect!

Dirty Three room spinning.

Rats. Back from Europe and rats.


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