dancer in the dark.

a punch to the gut

hands up

a punch to the chin

hands down

lying lifeless, seconds pass

penning in the pen.

the effects of your leaving hadn't taken it's hold yet.

sure, the upset still lingered.  oh, and anger.

a few lonely nights here and there caressing a bottle.

but, nothing catastrophic, and certainly nothing a man with a five inch beard and a criminal past couldn't entertain. 

a few months past though, then the trouble started.

and, the TROUBLE left me gutted.

immortal doggies of the world.

the man's dog had passed over the early morning hours.  it laid stiff as a surfboard in the small suburban backyard.  a line of eager ants marched forward and around the lifeless fur ball.  these ants, ever present in the final days.  

how the man hated these ants.  and hated the world for teasing him with life and death.  the man stared at the dead body with a sunken, desperate anxiety.  he looked up into the sky.  he ran his hand through his hair, with a heavy, bothered motion. the hand weighed at least a ton. 

defeated, the man went inside and sat on the dark green couch, the dog's favorite nap space. not a single thought passed through the man's head for another three hours. as he sat motionless, the sun slowly spread its energy across the living room, lighting the darkest room in the world, uninvited.

young girl, something dances in the dark...

your esteem was a transient condition, always on edge.  frailty, whims and indecision.  shakeable, always.  this can never serve you though, young girl.  

your esteem is a transient condition.  the death of you in future years.  the death of you in the past, and in present, a fragment, held together by cheap duct tape, and maybe a shoe lace or two.  maybe an instagram photo or two.  careful young girl.  

your esteem wants to own you indefinite.  it has it's dark, skinny, vein ridden, twiggy hands all over your straight, sandy blond hair.   it wants to devour your oxygen.  pay to play, but it need not beg.  

it persuades.  it lulls.  it has more of, everything you want.  i wish i could help you.  but, unfortunately, i have my own enemies.  the demons sometimes dance in the dark, but if you look closely enough, they bask in the sun.

love streams.

the sparse distance didn't illicit any particular feelings.  it was understandable.  time, and that windy distance eroded the the last remaining particles of love.  the atoms of love, the protons, the whatever ons of that feeling.  love equity, gone.   nostalgia equity, big time.  but so what?  i've heard you say that before.  i feel the same my love.  

nightmare breaks my little heart.

The palm tree is tall, my first thought.  I look up, and get lost in the turquoise sky.  Where is this green coming from?  It's easy to get lost, I think.  

The blue is forever long, and timelessly deep.  I focus back on the palm tree.  I can understand it, and I can touch it.  That eases the seeping anxiety, that erupted out of the blue, from the smallest moment, from a break from the coffee cup, from a break from the cellphone, from a break from the computer screen.  Nightmare breaks.

electronic souls.

You are invisible.  You have finally logged off.  What now? 

Can you exist without tapping into the grid?  Is being humanlike with human'ness a liability? 

Embrace the singularity with open arms, and give it all you have is the slogan of our master's.  You are worthless without it.  It's seduced us all.  

Who and how and will the rebellion begin?  Or, will Arnold come back from the future to protect us from another, even darker future?

Fuck Tyler - A very short story about revenge complete with links

Tyler was a bastard.  He pinned Susie down.  He spit on her. He tossed her around like a rag doll.  He tried repeatedly jamming his fingers into her vagina. He was evil.

Susie would fear the moments alone together.  

One day Susie bought a big hunting knife from Big Five Sporting Goods.  When she found Tyler tending to his piece of shit, 1990 Kawasaki Ninja 250R, she rammed the monstrous knife into Tyler's left eye. 

She uttered only one word; "Idiot". 

The knife stuck a few inches deep, while a screaming Tyler moved about wildly, howling ever so higher pitched until he dropped to the ground. 

Susie watched with a sort of amused bewilderment.  The blood, the screams, the man grounded by flesh frailty.  

Thumbs up Susie.  You had a good day, as I've been told.

wines and roses

If consciousness is an expression of an inner feeling, where does absolute objectivity stand?  

Is it by numbers, a sort of democratic assemblage of human consciousness? 

The complicated messy stuff however, can usually not be commodified in hyper commercialism, so, let's not bother with things that have negative zero's attached.

Anyway, this exercise starts with its own hyper assumption.  The big "if" is hypothetical mumbo and jumbo.  To be fair, we all need a place to start, right?  

Remember those starry nights, filled with wine, in a friends patio, discussing the lofty.  Expressing the ideal's, the grand, and often, the built up skepticism of adulthood and trying to find THE PLACE.  

Thinking is becoming more and more crowded with iphones, instagram's, Bielbers and articles about Yahoo buying Tumblr.  

Who gives a FUCK about Yahoo buying Tumblr?  If you do, we are not simpatico.  Sorry, time is limited and you are a marshmallow.

those times.

Sometimes confusion arises when we think we need to follow a script, a plan set fourth, mostly discovered by piecing together other paths set fourth in our peripheries.  

Follow the leader.  See, this is how it was done before.  This is how (insert name) did it.

But, you are clearly you, and not that other (BLANK ) person.  So, trust yourself, and trust IN yourself.  Lead.  It's scary.  But, aren't we all scared anyways?  

Following the script might be good when you're doing a studio picture and the committee is looking over your shoulder, but in life, a script is nothing but fantasy plots.  Or worse, an excuse to do nothing.

Relevancy When Clocks Go Wild

The question of relevancy is always an important one when the arts, cinema or any cultural element is discussed, thought about, and perused towards some end.

We can always put our heads down and slog through the terrain, to do what we love without ever needing to be self aware of our place, or our goals, both collectively and individually.  But, that's a simple pursuit.  Valid as any, but, shallow in scope. 

Instead, and often, we think deep and long about our place in the world.  And, as the world changes in rapid succession, in a culture that Alan Moore deemed "The Culture of Steam", when discussing the immediate future, certain trends emerge.  And to clarify, I believe Moore was discussing the ungraspable future culture, as predetermined by technology and its interplay with our old world evolution.

This is the time of the instant update.  And, you can look no further than the emerging talent of today to really understand what this means.  In music, the perpetual mixtape was the start, but the further you push that along, the more you get to the current state.  Just like instagram, music has also morphed into the weekly song/video style most prominent in hip hop.  I like to use hip-hop as the example, because it's elements are very immediate.  It's production, usually fast, and wordplay doesn't necessarily need to be written.   

Acts like Lil B and Riff Raff elude to a changing landscape where they are always on the cycle of relevance, because, they mimic the culture of the internet itself.  They are both shrewd, entertaining and showman promoters.  They are a new species of music artist.  Self aware, skilled, entrepreneurial, shameless and momentum oriented.  And regardless of what you think of them, they continue turning critics into fans, by sheer willingness to be out there, to take the brunt of "haters".  

In an alternative way, if Riff Raff put out a few videos, and waited for something to happen, nothing ever would.  This is a critical difference between the old and the new.  The closest example in the film world would be someone like Joe Swanberg.  But perhaps, there are countless other "video" artist who are better examples whom I just don't know.  Tim and Eric immediately came to mind as the television version, but the metaphor is not as clear.  Adult Swim nurtures these changes, and was willing to take those risks years ago.  In the world of books/blogging, look no further then Seth Godin.

In a disposable age, perfectionism isn’t valued because we just don’t have time for it.  By the time it’s perfect, the world moved 10 steps ahead.  I know, your ol school idealism doesn’t want to deal with it.  Whatever. 

The question is, in this new landscape, what if you turned it off.  What if your video didn't come out on that Wednesday, or that you stopped your twitter'ing and vine'ing and facebook.  What if you get sick?  What if you don’t make three films a year?  And what if, you weren’t birthed into a career before this all happened?  You know, in the old timey days (pre 2005) when things work different? 

The constant hustle and digital sharecropping reminds me of Jaron Lanier's critique of the internet and the middle class.  You can hustle on that street corner all you want, but, when you get sick, well, you're fucked.  But, at least you’re relevant.   :) (smiley face)

The Limits of Control

We set ourselves up to impossibilities.  Earlier this year, I decided to update this journal everyday.  This is a simple task of discipline.  And although I've said this in the past, I never committed to it until the last few months.

But...but, I fell off the wagon, as per course.  With all that pent up will power and positive 80's self talk shit, I failed at keeping my word.  

But...but why?  The simple answer is that it was never THE PRIORITY.  As soon as I was forced on some writing deadline for bigger projects (ie: feature film) and an editing responsibility that was exciting (YOUNG BUCK - The Video), I no longer felt the obligation to hold myself accountable.  Same goes for my beard, haircuts, and keeping mad muscles.  

The bigger forces overtook the smaller.  This is weak sauce 101.  I could have done both and all.  But, I choose the less stressful route.  The route that left me some metaphorical jerk-off downtime.  

And, for my own soul, that works better.  Because sometimes a motherfucker just has to sit down in front of the TV, regardless of the pretentious post-academics or over achieving ass-hats that add shame to the game.  

Do what works.  As long as you work.  Your flow triumphs checklists and made up discipline.  But try not to become a weed smoking, video game choking, fast food hoarding, eternal neophyte.  And, even if you do, make sure you go all out, with breaks in-between.  Also, call your mother once a week.     ​

​a goddamn CAT sleeping on a CAR.  Get it?

pop + trash + culture + memories.

Low culture, sometimes deemed "trash culture" is where we are.  Escapism, transfusion plus fetishizing  is the state. Pop lives in this space mostly, but, it's always had the ability to move between cultural hierarchies.  At present, it loves trash, the audience devours it, and the appetite grows because priorities have changed. 

But, can we truly call anything pop anymore?  Exceptions exist, but when history is perpetually the present, it's difficult to have a true pop culture.  Pop relies on memories.  It happens, and it was that thing, but then it goes away.  It was silly, and we loved the novelty of it.    

However,  thing's don't really go away anymore, they get continued, rebooted, or dressed in a new shiny shell.  And we don't have the options to forget.  We only have options to filter.  And boy oh boy, that net is polluted.  

ignore.

the best policy for productivity is ignoring.  tuning out.  while a few might make some short waves by pounding on that online ruckus,  the overall effect is a net-loss.   i can't quantify it.  nor, do i want to.  but, in that marathon, your just not doing the work.

so, a little honesty goes a long way.  how bout a little self reflection to find the truth.  do your morning online rituals help.  how bout those constant novelty searching intuitions that arise from boredom.  

the best question might be, why are you so bored in the first place?  

​ps:  i didn't capitalize anything.  that is mad artsy.

the book versus the other plastics.

The book is old analog.  It's technology is without a doubt, one of the most important items in the human catalog.  

Books are the enablers.  The perfect informational passing device.

Almost always a perfect gift.

Books are not CD's.  Books are not DVD's.  Although, people love to include them in there analogies of the death of physical media.  

However, those forms were never necessary to the origins of their own particular media. Cinema needs other devices for transmission.  Music the same.  These forms always change. In many ways, and even with hard earned consumer consistency, they are not standalone.  How many music delivery systems have come and gone?  

The physicality of a book includes all of it.  The written word was always meant to be passed along, in it's final form.  it duplication is always scaleable.  Not from the beginning of course, but still, it could have been duplicated somehow, with errors, money and hard work.

And even though, the scalability of music and cinema can lend itself to other product forms, they will never be perfect.  Because its delivery origins are not seamless.  Music has always been a live format.  Cinema, was birthed in exhibition.  One ticket, one play.  No pause, reverse, repeat.

The book, in it's final physicality is the delivery.  It's a perfect system.  Yes, it can have an uglier digital counterpart, but it's essence is it's form.  And, only for environmental reasons would it ever go away.  

But, that CD you're holding, or that Criterion DVD you just bought, or that new XBOX game you stole, well, that's not going to be around.  So, build your collections now you geeks and nerds.  Show them off to your kids, who will marvel at that lo-fucking fidelity that you and I loved so much.