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AussieAri's weblog
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last modified Dec 22, 2001 at 22:31
I went to Warehouse 21 on a whim just to see what the heck it was about after work last night. I remembered that our school boy band One If By Land was playing there along with some others.
Behind the hoard of teens in scrappy vintage clothing, with wild haircuts, lots of gently clinking metal, sucking on cigarettes like teats amongst dying attempts at garden decorations was Trevor, lead singer of One If By Land, sitting in a chain by the main door looking spaced and satiated as he does when no one's talking to him or has his attention.
---You missed the other good bands, what you mean you?, well- yeah, that’s ok 'I heard you suck', Ha! Last set's inside, you didn't have to pay?, Usually, but now you won't be disappointed.
They're name was SNMNMNM- guys that play tuba, trumpet, accordion, trombone, guitar, and drums.
Sort of like Moxy Fruvous meets They Might Be Giants meets Supergrass when they were still a garage band.
To my surprise, one of the awesome bus boys from the cowgirl books shows there. This one was his. It was certainly fun to listen to, but like most things when I’m restless- I know it’s good and enjoyable but I don’t enjoy it as much as I know I should be otherwise of times.
It's wonderful Santa Fe has something for teens that involves art and a place to socialize, and that a mixed crowd shows up for it. Wish we had had something like that in Dallas. It was just as i remember high school- people not really knowing one another or knowing how to, most just stood around trying to look cool, some gossiped. Some really had fun and boogied down. The band did rock.
Me, i just got some odd looks and double takes.
Joe Ray, Paramount spoken work guy and booker, suggested i go to the poetry workshops hosts does down there.
The thing lately has been though- either my pride in being distinct or this sense i've gotten that spoken word genre and collaborative isn't exactly what i want to head to in my work. Spoken word and reading it really is a performance, an acting up, a jamming more like when i played music. If anything I just want to experiment with it and use it to warm up a room when i'm reading.
But then- who the fuck books poets that aren't reading to the crowd? And i do feel obliged in certain ways, which is a constraint.
I saw Derek Walcott read Wednesday. It was a READING not a performance. Everyone in the house was listening, all the white haired white folk and I. I closed my eyes, didn't need to strain to see him his words were so beautiful.
After intermission was an interview. In it he illuminated the benefit to society to educated young poets, the fostering of creativity and the 'teaching', why he thought the reading of poetry would die out the way it was headed, it's current inaccessibility and obscurity, the prevalence of 'moi' in poetry, how maybe there should only be a few good readers and how there only are, why poets are shunned from the stage, the usefulness of American English colloquialisms and their play in modern poetry- especially the difference and importance between epics and lyrics.
How do you decide what to do when you don't know what you can do?
Spatz.
Lined Jackets.
French cuff dress shirts.
Victorian high collar shirts.
Suspender dress pants.
Today i received in my ever surprising campus mail a note to house Winter Tour perspective students.
With the title heading that read like a personal add, "Looking for some one to spend some short fun time with, non-committal, must like walking around campus, be intelligent, bookish, possible relationship" It was utterly coercive in it's suggestiveness. Good thing the prospies and their parents don't know how they're being represented.
Maybe Lindsey is right. I should just run around campus in a jumpsuit of some sort with red and black racing stripes down the side. Just to be ready for any action, with say, full fencing gear, a formal suit, workout cloths, machanic work cloths, a bikini or what not beneath.
Damn...now i really want a jumpsuit of my very own.
I like my Bacchai with a full jug of red wine and the ripping apart of Orfeo.
I finally spilt tea on myself by mistake this morning. I knew it would happen some time before the end of the year.
"AHHHH! Scalding water on my crotch in the morning! AAAHHHH!"
A Christian Theme Park. Further proof Tampa/Orlando Florida is just a fucking evil floating neon palm tree cesspool of swamp
Nopq
Equality in homogony, a flat = sign.
Wake up and just- feel your body.
Today, Atalia, tomorrow, Parnassus.
"There are many navels of the universe." -Mr. Starr
Blog is back up so i'm backlogging, you'll just have to be scrolling. Thanks to a kindly Moss, i'll be switching my blog soon- no more nasty suprises.
Johnnies often speak of being intellectually or mentally seduced. “Conics make me want to cum” “Calculus makes me wet” “I’d have Euclid’s baby.” “Newton was sexy.” It’s true the brain is the biggest sex organ and the heart is the stirrer of all erogenous zones. (As we translated from the Odyssey Line 352 -thoughtful gonads of soul in Euriklaia, thoughts can be associated with testicles and testimony, an odd relation.)
Now our fingers may stumble, we may waver fucked up on whatever, and we may not get laid, but we may go home a little more satisfied regularly with our discourse like intercourse and if we’re lucky we daily brush souls without realizing it at the time.
It’s time to rant.
The other day I received a flyer from the Administration with a cute little person “hear no/see no/speak no evil” clip art picture on it. It asked students to be part of the solution and not the problem. By circulating at school sponsored events watching who has alcohol and reporting on it for $6.25 and hour- as much as I make as a lab assistant and 25 cents more than Reike makes working the coffeeshop at school. They are using my tuition money to have my peers spy on me because of this court case, making Colleges now landloards over their on campus students. One court case like that would mean St. John’s endowment and then some. Bye bye Johnny. So what’s next? The Junior Sex League? I’m reminded of the ways in which I was most irked in Catholic high school.
I’m wondering if my desire to take a year off after this sophomore year will see me back at SJCSF the following year. The community here feels pedestrian and sedated this year, the classes through the years have gotten progressively less active. For the first time ever since highschool, against fully awareness and judgement in sobriety, I’ve felt like breaking shit. I’ve had one soulful chat the whole year so far.
Oregon Chai.
J.R. LIGGETT Bar Shampoo.
I still have no idea how to talk about music, I can only describe it.
We can't agree on the topic of religion but at least we both agree salt makes eggs taste very good.
Break dancing
Pizza tossing
Welding
Archery
Snowboarding
ASL
The Piano
CPR/ First Aid
Make a wooden boat
Mountain Climbing in winter
Dj Mixing/Scratching
Ax Throwing
Chainsaw Sculpting
Salsa
More lasso tricks
Zippo lighter flipping
I am verily out of the garden. And I say the paper is good. Now something from the past in retrospect:
If the world were you and I,
To be an Eden’s paradise,
Of Simply endless boredom.
"The Big Box Of Sex Toys Marked XXX"
I Heart The Magnetic Fields.
The snow always wakes me. I get happy and silly as a puppy EVERY time. I’m getting to know the different kinds of snow and how quickly a gust is coming in.
Winter, being Hailed in.
The storm in the mountains begins
sweeping in closer by seconds-
lightning where my eyes look
thunder when my heart thuds
a dark sky is descending.
Then it passes, unrelenting
there was left a calm white pebbling.
I was petrified of fucking up my hands when I rode my motorbike- now I have thick riding gloves that ease my mind of this worry. I don’t feel the wind across my knuckles and think I could be feeling gravel next. But my own hands horribly mangled and scrapped would stun, shock, and sicken me as much as oh, say, Radinov getting her earlobe and earring shot off, or the sacrificial victim that has his beating heart removed from his chest before his eyes by the Thugge Priest in ‘Indiana Jones and the Temple Of Doom’.
Chocolate chip muffins in the morning or die.
I've become so addicted....
For all you that have thought of doing sport fencing but had no clue how you’d fit in.
Do not touch my morning muffing
You fucking freshman muffin jacker.
-Share a good meal. If they’re indignant, fuck em.
-Participate in a sport/activity that involves trust: Rock Climbing, Rope courses, riding a (motor)bike with them, sparing, rafting, sailing, group balances.
Side affects of the latter, however, are far more drastic than a little food poisoning or an upset stomach.
If I were deaf I’d sit right on top of the speakers at every rock concert.
Enuie- the enemy of Johnnys.
I’ll kill the little bugger when I find him- if I can lift a finger.
The Good, The Faith, The Relative, and The Actual.
What is true is that there is true and false present?
To touch something
You are touching
Yourself-
With flesh and receiving sensation
To think something
You are thinking
Of yourself-
First and receiving in ends a sence.
Being sensitive is not self consciousness. And as we think of it- what is so bad about being conscience of self? As being of self in selfishness.
!@#$ Lords of Acid are playing ABQ. on a seminar night.
I’d forgotten alcohol is a laxative. *gurgle*
Bacchus Marsh, Victoria. It may be a satilite city but it's just a cool name.
It does pay to ASK first. Otherwise I would have been hitting on my Greek tutor’s WIFE.
In my waking hours I’m subconciousely dreaming of Thanksgiving break and when I dream it’s of what happens with that break time- getting into bars only to be tossed out by the person I’m flirting with, sleeping with a peer, or not having a home to sleep at. A view of things to come? E-gods.
Just because you can destroy life does not mean it is not sacred and you are a god in the ability to kill or by killing. That’s the point of sacrifice and its difference from murder.
External conflicts occupy the mind of America.
There is a new sign up on the punching bag station that has finally been bolted to the floor of the gym: Do Not Use Sticks On Bags.
All because of lil ol’ me and me alone. Bugger. I thought punching bags were meant to be hit and sticks do not do them any more damage than a roundhouse kick. Not that they'll listen to me. @#$%. Now I’ll have to find a dead tree.
Wrote the first collaborative poem I’ve written in years with Reike. Is as follows:
Poets-
Squat sideways on tables
Eat paper for breakfast
Smoke pens
Walk upside down
Poets-
Take blackberries from the mouth of the blackbird
Commit drive bys with rhymes
Speak French to streetlights
Fill leather bound editions with feathers
Poets-
Love syntax strait up
With a twist
On the rocks
Or inverted.
Poets-
Live in pictures, inside rosebuds, on the moon, in the interval of a fifth
Poets-
Read books about Tantric Sex
Exotic cuisine
Quantum Physics
Fixing Ceilings
Poets-
Make shopping lists of simple verbs
Finger paint with blood
Pack needles with lead
Unzip their heads
Take turns in circles
Pay their way by praise
Do not own what they burn
Poets-
Stomp ears carefully
Brush teeth with sea foam
Swab the decks with spit
Dust for ghost prints
Poets-
Treasure-Floating lint,
pennies under heels,
stains of pomegranates
and assonancements
Poets-
Of every gender menstruate
Poets-
Shave their retinas
Lick library book bindings
Poets-
Sip tea like coffee,
and coffee like tea
Drink the juice of adverbs,
Stain their lips with nouns
Poets-
Turn collars to wind
Bend neckties to butterflies
Kiss copper statues lips
Mow the grass with toothpicks
Poets-
Stalk the unicorn
And show promise at 50
Poets-
Check the pulse of statistics and myths
Digitally remaster the moment
Steal
Copyright to God
Poets-
Think about writing
and write about thinking
and think about writing about thinking about *SLAP*
Turn the other cheek
Poets-
Step be-tween-time
Lay down in the glass in the dark for a quick fix
Paint white zebras black and black zebras white
Divide by Zero
Jump conclusions to beginnings
Poets-
Are the biggest con artists the world has ever been duped by.
If the things you own own you- I may have equipage but not own it or claim to.
This cold makes me feel like I’m passing out my heart in hacks. I wonder if I’ll end up with a new one threw this sickness.
My Bible and me, the King James Red Letter Version is large and good for thumping. On Halloween as I was in my old school girl uniform before being a pretty pretty princess Tim cursed at something or other and I jumped out from behind him impulsively smacking him with the bible and yelling ‘Don’t Blaspheme!!’ to which he swore again, and to which I whapped him a second time. It was so fulfilling to some perverse idea in my past.
She chooses to write about time
Or always ends up there about
And when I see her around
I don’t know if she’s living in sequence with mine
I wonder, would it be different, could it?
Shall I make a visit not a chance encounter
And I think, next time, yes, next time.
An umbilical, a leash, and a noose are all one.
I would bat your mouse off the table just to watch it fall.
I’d be an emotional slut needing your attention, ten four- if you don’t hear me I’ll just yowl some more.
I’d rub up and down shedding on your best suit.
I’d paw at your genetals too.
I’d frequently demand to be let out and in of the house.
I’d gnaw on the carpet.
I’d cling with claws to any fabric.
I’d purr into the phone when you were talking.
I’d sneeze on you.
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