Bathers.

Home Economics.

Farm Frame.

This is a look at my Gramps' farm out my parents' kitchen window.
I took this while home for Thanksgiving, 2007.

This is where I grew up and it's where I'm starting a gallery.
The first piece is a small painting (5" x 7") by Matthew Feyld, called
"Untitled (green sweater)," which I purchased at the lovely
Cinders Gallery, in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

Below is the same view, facing thirty degrees to my right.

Variant.

I found this piece of sincerity/doggerel in my jacket pocket.

XX

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example, 'The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that I could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

-Pablo Neruda

(translated by W.S. Merwin)

Tibetan prayer stones. Sichuan, China.

Endgames.

Endgameshesophicaryatidallentriestartedyingoterrestrophysicalibrarsenallentriesys-
temperattitudderlyricallingnomusicolographicaltechniqu'est-cequestionalismallereali-
smallerealisticalongitudinaltitudentistryanobodyingamersatzoolongeeringatoraspect-
yourselforoncellularcenycynicalifornightyleringitintannabulousedentarpaulinsiderever-
sageweatherselfulgencemergenerationationalistickledbellyricannedromedaringleade-
readagentilenderridandysfunctionallentriesonofabreadwinnereadingtokidsomemories.
I WOULDN'T TRUST DURESS: YOUR OWN DECISIONS
ofwhatstocomeditragicalifoundatingonlineareasonablemish.
allgauliscomprisedofthreepartisandwichinghourglassestuaryandrewardentedamhave-
regardstopulencentralalalalalalalalatitude. I admit :slowingamesmitherestoforher-
epiphanywhere cast for those who love her. a boon to all mankindnessencesquest.
Inourtimesirredeemabundanceriffyingledappledtocertainanityedulocusamoenusbaum-
gescheftsfraulinearealismelterrificlenientitypogratiatorphanniemalicenteradiushinterd-
untillerpullsthewooloutofmyeyeswhatcanIsay:rulessayImustplayonuntilthegamesend.

Just merged.

A hypocrite is a person who - but who isn't?

-Don Marquis (1878-1937)
__________________________________________________

Recording: we're working to try and improve the sketches we've done so far.
Marathon to keep the spirits high after weeks and weeks and months and months of grim days in offices in Midtown.

Songs include:
Drugged on Lotus
Rejoiner
Alfa Romeo
Mint Condition
No Comment
Red & Purple/Mesomorph
Bloop Control
Midnight Moms
Roses
We're Friends

This also roughly makes up our live set. We're playing next at Pete's Candy Store
in Williamsburg, BK. on February 25, 2008.

Basement Books.

The mind tends to wander at work, especially with the silent encouragement of books surrounding me.

Basement Books

The basement books can wait a while
Their jackets’ dust cannot defile
What lies within, belabored words
Of spirits hoping to be heard.

For I am writing my own mind.
It found me, I sought not to find.
And locked in rhythmic lengths I stride
To sew some seams I cannot hide.

Or maybe something darker lurks
Within the mildewed cellar works.
That keeps me cuddled to the sun.
Down there I’d be the only one.

It would be nice to have a friend.
To face the call of lonely men.
‘We’re not them!’ I’d say to him.
‘Our futures, they are not so dim.’

But where am I? Now the sun is slight.
Am I so different in the light?
Up here or there, I’m still alone.
And through my dust, we’ll all be one.

Written at the New York Public Library