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

There is no There.

Because you have a responsibility to be reachable in case of emergency.
Because this responsibility is supporting your lifestyle.
Because your soul hangs loose in your skin.
Because there really is no long-term solution.

*
It was in front of kids, etc.
It wasn't like debbie gibson singing I think we're alone now

but you drink from passion's cup
so it played well against yr scorpio instinct
to externalize repression

*
Pneumafevr (3:37:22 PM): (I never thought the point was to get anywhere as much as it was to put comforting hands on the anxious arms of my day allocated to being here daydreaming)
smadeleineb (3:38:41 PM): that's a long sentence
Pneumafevr (3:39:03 PM): well, it's a tale of two cities
Pneumafevr (3:39:06 PM): invisible cities
Pneumafevr (3:39:22 PM): two loves I have of comfort and despair
smadeleineb (3:39:56 PM): that sentence is unclear
smadeleineb (3:40:01 PM): PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER< despair =" 2">

Vermont Weekend, pt. 2

Some images from Jenna Levine's film, Black Box, as taken from the wall.

Vermont Weekend.

We had a magnificent weekend in Vermont with our friends and loved ones. Saturday evening the group attended an art show by Jenna Levine. It knocked our fucking socks off: completely uncanny. It was SO GOOD. We'll post some screen grabs from her work and other photographs soon.

Later that night, we played a set in the famed Gamut Room. We also walked around in the snow and saw the sun come up. A great adventure. More soon.

Alphabet Forest.

The Scottish Gaelic Alphabet is named for different trees native to that locality.

ailm (elm)
beith (birch)
coll (hazel)
dair (oak)
feàrn (alder)
gort (ivy)
uath (hawthorn)
iogh (yew)
luis (rowan)
muin (vine)
nuin (ash)
onn/oir (furze/gorse)
ngetal ("reed")
ruis (elder)
suil (willow)
teine (holly)
ura (heather)

More than simply beautiful, this is sensible and provides an ontology for language that's rooted, quite literally, in the ground beneath your feet.

Vermont

Upon thinking about our trip to Vermont this weekend for a show at our alma mater, I remembered one of the many great charms of the state. It's a simple yet startling example of what environmental stewardship looks like. There are no billboards anywhere in Vermont.

No billboards?!

This year marks the 40th anniversary of the legislation which outlawed roadside billboards across Vermont. Although it's hard to imagine today, many people at the time were strongly opposed to this ban, particularly the farmers who leased their land to advertisers and the businesses who utilized and/or profited from advertising. Fortunately, one man tenaciously spearheaded the effort to rid the state of billboards, one Ted Riehle. Mr. Riehle passed away a few weeks ago on New Year's Eve at the age of 83. I hope his legacy remains forever untarnished.

http://www.vpr.net/news_detail/78949/

Artist Discovered.

My friend Tyler just alerted me to this artist, Xavier Cha. I love her work, and I wanted to share it with you.

www.holidaycruise2006.com

Typical.

Paraffin.

This is from when we cleaned out our ears.


It took over 40 minutes, so we listened to Sigur Ros.
A good opportunity for the buddy system.

The Heart of the Matter.

True confusion: when a person dies he seems for a moment more alive than ever before. Life flares up around him. The entire chronology of his life becomes encased in crystal.

The last thing he might have been doing, he might as well do this for eternity. Every instance of his life suddenly resembles a kind of "final moment." Each memory breaks apart from the interweb of the others, calcifies and is ascribed with a sense of weight and worth. Those moments, which once were free for us to manipulate, have become finished moments.

In death he lives his life over and again in a tandem sequence of moments, time out of mind.