1. Yes - coldplay
2. name- the goo goo dolls
3. hang me up to dry- cold war kids
4. blister in the sun - the violent femmes
5. M.I.A. - the foo fighters
6. point to something - sleepwalk circus
7. transmission - joy division
8. psycho killer - talking heads
Monday, June 30, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
writing at the office
"...because light didn't mean anything to him. as we know, he made love with his eyes shut."
- Milan Kundera-
Cinci.
I go to museums to remember you. I tell you all about paint and how it works as a vehicle for change. This is how I change-- by way of remembering what it used to feel like to create you through kisses. Now kisses are collected from memory by admiring the paint on fabric. Every inch of canvas is reprocessed to be made beautiful in someone's eyes by the texture of the paint and the mixture of color on white. Your skin like canvas was repossessed by kisses. I took it and rearranged it with my mouth. Little licks of color screaming "LET ME OUT! I WANT YOU!"
I am screaming now as I look at the paint. I feel the texture with my hands barely touching the fabric. "I WANT YOU" still. I pretend the canvas is skin. Your skin--porous and perfect-- erupts with energy in my memory.
< I had it then I lost it. I spoke in an American English at one point. I smiled like a golden arch.
Then, I kissed you. S for me= a revealing of self
...
cinci.
I had a dream that my camera caught fire and it's parts started to dance around in specs in front of my face like fireflies or city lights. (or city lights like fireflies)
....
manila.
This is what Manila looks like when she cries-- glistening streets like shiny pennies.
She screams (but like this)
This is how she cries (title)
and then we wonder why we miss her and then we realize that it's because she holds the secrets to everything.
then he realizes that she's still sleeping and she won't come back not for a while. This is something he can't share with her. (sleep)
she's far away. She's somewhere else like cinci's far away and somewhere else but not quite because he can email her
and reach her. but you can't email someone when they're dreaming. You can't call them up. You can wake them up but then you'll destroy their dream.
(waking up) It allows you to sheare in whatever you want with them which maybe is what he wants (???) WHAT does he want? FUCK
... He doesn't know for sure. All he knows is he is going to fall in love and he doesn't care with who.
....or who with?
....or how?
....he doesn't want to be alone anymore!!
he's lost. that's the point. he'll stay lost and isolated because he's too into himself to care about this. he's too dense to see that he's missing out ....
ugh, writer's block is only in my mind?
maybe, talent leaves like people leave.
I haven't used it in a while. Maybe, it felt neglected and decided to move on to someone else who will make use of it.
- Milan Kundera-
Cinci.
I go to museums to remember you. I tell you all about paint and how it works as a vehicle for change. This is how I change-- by way of remembering what it used to feel like to create you through kisses. Now kisses are collected from memory by admiring the paint on fabric. Every inch of canvas is reprocessed to be made beautiful in someone's eyes by the texture of the paint and the mixture of color on white. Your skin like canvas was repossessed by kisses. I took it and rearranged it with my mouth. Little licks of color screaming "LET ME OUT! I WANT YOU!"
I am screaming now as I look at the paint. I feel the texture with my hands barely touching the fabric. "I WANT YOU" still. I pretend the canvas is skin. Your skin--porous and perfect-- erupts with energy in my memory.
< I had it then I lost it. I spoke in an American English at one point. I smiled like a golden arch.
Then, I kissed you. S for me= a revealing of self
...
cinci.
I had a dream that my camera caught fire and it's parts started to dance around in specs in front of my face like fireflies or city lights. (or city lights like fireflies)
....
manila.
This is what Manila looks like when she cries-- glistening streets like shiny pennies.
She screams (but like this)
This is how she cries (title)
and then we wonder why we miss her and then we realize that it's because she holds the secrets to everything.
then he realizes that she's still sleeping and she won't come back not for a while. This is something he can't share with her. (sleep)
she's far away. She's somewhere else like cinci's far away and somewhere else but not quite because he can email her
and reach her. but you can't email someone when they're dreaming. You can't call them up. You can wake them up but then you'll destroy their dream.
(waking up) It allows you to sheare in whatever you want with them which maybe is what he wants (???) WHAT does he want? FUCK
... He doesn't know for sure. All he knows is he is going to fall in love and he doesn't care with who.
....or who with?
....or how?
....he doesn't want to be alone anymore!!
he's lost. that's the point. he'll stay lost and isolated because he's too into himself to care about this. he's too dense to see that he's missing out ....
ugh, writer's block is only in my mind?
maybe, talent leaves like people leave.
I haven't used it in a while. Maybe, it felt neglected and decided to move on to someone else who will make use of it.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Murakami would write this.
A disturbed comic-book fan who killed seven people on a stabbing frenzy in downtown Tokyo had advertised what he was going to do on an Internet bulletin board, police said Monday.
As stunned mourners placed flowers, sweets and comic-book images at a makeshift shrine, new details emerged of how he kept a detailed log of his plans to wreak havoc in Akihabara, the hub of Tokyo's comic-book subculture.
The assailant behind Japan's deadliest crime in seven years, 25-year-old Tomohiro Kato, worked on a temporary contract at an auto components factory in central Shizuoka prefecture, police said.
On Sunday, he drove a rented two-tonne truck some 100 kilometres (60 miles) from the town of Susuno to Tokyo, swerving the vehicle into pedestrians before bursting out and stabbing at random with a butcher's knife.
He told police he was "tired of living" and had no motive other than to kill people -- anyone he found.
Kato reportedly had a strong interest in comic-book and video-game subculture.
In a school yearbook in which graduating students were asked to describe their personalities, Kato enclosed a picture of an action hero and simply wrote the word "curt," a television report said.
He admitted to police that he documented his journey on Internet bulletin boards posted from his mobile telephone, a police official said.
"I'll crash my vehicle into people and if the vehicle becomes useless, I'll get out a knife. Goodbye everyone!" said one posting hours before the crime, as quoted by Japanese media.
On a different site, an anonymous posting on May 27 was entitled "A disaster in Akihabara" and warned that an incident would take place on June 5.
Around the crime scene, overnight rain had washed away the bloodstains from the streets of the electronics district, where residents placed flowers and pressed their hands in prayer at a makeshift shrine set amid the neon signs.
In the Japanese tradition, mourners left offerings at the shrine including sweets, coffee, beer and -- in a twist befitting Akihabara -- comic-book images of action heroes.
"I left coffee because I think that some of the victims will need coffee in the morning," said Ukyo Murakami, a 14-year-old boy on his way to school.
"I'm afraid he did this because he played video games. But he should have known that in life, you can't hit the restart button."
Businesswoman Tomoko Iizuka, 58, was sobbing as she paid her respects with a bouquet of flowers on her way to work.
"The victims included young people with a bright future. Why did he do such a crazy thing?" she said.
"It's all his fault. He deserves the death penalty."
As stunned mourners placed flowers, sweets and comic-book images at a makeshift shrine, new details emerged of how he kept a detailed log of his plans to wreak havoc in Akihabara, the hub of Tokyo's comic-book subculture.
The assailant behind Japan's deadliest crime in seven years, 25-year-old Tomohiro Kato, worked on a temporary contract at an auto components factory in central Shizuoka prefecture, police said.
On Sunday, he drove a rented two-tonne truck some 100 kilometres (60 miles) from the town of Susuno to Tokyo, swerving the vehicle into pedestrians before bursting out and stabbing at random with a butcher's knife.
He told police he was "tired of living" and had no motive other than to kill people -- anyone he found.
Kato reportedly had a strong interest in comic-book and video-game subculture.
In a school yearbook in which graduating students were asked to describe their personalities, Kato enclosed a picture of an action hero and simply wrote the word "curt," a television report said.
He admitted to police that he documented his journey on Internet bulletin boards posted from his mobile telephone, a police official said.
"I'll crash my vehicle into people and if the vehicle becomes useless, I'll get out a knife. Goodbye everyone!" said one posting hours before the crime, as quoted by Japanese media.
On a different site, an anonymous posting on May 27 was entitled "A disaster in Akihabara" and warned that an incident would take place on June 5.
Around the crime scene, overnight rain had washed away the bloodstains from the streets of the electronics district, where residents placed flowers and pressed their hands in prayer at a makeshift shrine set amid the neon signs.
In the Japanese tradition, mourners left offerings at the shrine including sweets, coffee, beer and -- in a twist befitting Akihabara -- comic-book images of action heroes.
"I left coffee because I think that some of the victims will need coffee in the morning," said Ukyo Murakami, a 14-year-old boy on his way to school.
"I'm afraid he did this because he played video games. But he should have known that in life, you can't hit the restart button."
Businesswoman Tomoko Iizuka, 58, was sobbing as she paid her respects with a bouquet of flowers on her way to work.
"The victims included young people with a bright future. Why did he do such a crazy thing?" she said.
"It's all his fault. He deserves the death penalty."
Manila, manila, etc.
Manila speaks to me with an open heart. She speaks slowly of a time when I will have to leave her. “Live,” she says “Live well.”
The city rises early on a Monday morning. The buses clank and heap together like a herd of Alpacas rushing to get where they are supposed to be going. The question is “Do they want to go” or “Where are they going exactly?”
Manila says to me, through sleepy eyes, under sleepy breath.
“It’s not like I am leaving you tomorrow”
The coffee is ready when she says this and I am easily distracted by its smell. It’s local brew—strong and robust. Yes, I am easily distracted. I pour myself a glass. She isn’t leaving me tomorrow. I think, but aren’t we always leaving each other for something or someone else. Isn’t this how it works? I’ve already left her for my first cup of coffee.
I’ve drifted away from her. She has no idea.
“Did you hear me?” She continues, “… just pour me a cup?”
I do what she asks. I am not one to be easily manipulated by silence or open heartedness. This is a state of submission. I think. It’s true. She’s rolled over. She’s on her back. Now, I no longer want her.
Manila speaks to me quickly. She’s in a hurry today. She’s in a hurry to get it out. What ever it is she needs to get out.
She was magical when I loved her. She used to linger, silently floating on the waters of the pacific. She’d whisper “Don’t worry man, I’ve gotcha. Everything’s going to be alright.” She’d say “Shut the windows” I would. It was then that I realized the reason for the closed windows, the closed doors; her never ending silence. The windows kept her spirit in. Closing them kept her spirit from leaking away. Her silence, so profound and seductive at first, grew into a wall that kept everything inside of her.
“Who is Manila?” I asked her once. “Who are you?”
She smiled and said, “Please, close the windows and turn off the lights.”
She wrapped herself in a blanket. I crawled into place behind her. We enclosed each other. Manila slept soundly in my arms.
Now. QUICK, QUICK, QUICKLY…
She is telling me that she wants to live just live with me. No more locks and spare keys or taxi cabs at 3 am. “I want to live with you.”
She tells me this before my first cup of coffee. The two mugs sit on the kitchen table. They are lukewarm and sweaty. I bring my palm to the body of the mug. I feel its smoothness; its never-ending reliability.
Cincinnati calls after Manila closes the door and I image crawls into bed. She always likes to sleep in the fetal position. Cincinnati speaks in well formed prose. There’s no poetry in her words just perfect grammar and the remnants of a passion that had been locked up inside for too long. See! I think. This is what happens when you close the windows.
“Look” Cinci say, “I miss you.”
The city rises early on a Monday morning. The buses clank and heap together like a herd of Alpacas rushing to get where they are supposed to be going. The question is “Do they want to go” or “Where are they going exactly?”
Manila says to me, through sleepy eyes, under sleepy breath.
“It’s not like I am leaving you tomorrow”
The coffee is ready when she says this and I am easily distracted by its smell. It’s local brew—strong and robust. Yes, I am easily distracted. I pour myself a glass. She isn’t leaving me tomorrow. I think, but aren’t we always leaving each other for something or someone else. Isn’t this how it works? I’ve already left her for my first cup of coffee.
I’ve drifted away from her. She has no idea.
“Did you hear me?” She continues, “… just pour me a cup?”
I do what she asks. I am not one to be easily manipulated by silence or open heartedness. This is a state of submission. I think. It’s true. She’s rolled over. She’s on her back. Now, I no longer want her.
Manila speaks to me quickly. She’s in a hurry today. She’s in a hurry to get it out. What ever it is she needs to get out.
She was magical when I loved her. She used to linger, silently floating on the waters of the pacific. She’d whisper “Don’t worry man, I’ve gotcha. Everything’s going to be alright.” She’d say “Shut the windows” I would. It was then that I realized the reason for the closed windows, the closed doors; her never ending silence. The windows kept her spirit in. Closing them kept her spirit from leaking away. Her silence, so profound and seductive at first, grew into a wall that kept everything inside of her.
“Who is Manila?” I asked her once. “Who are you?”
She smiled and said, “Please, close the windows and turn off the lights.”
She wrapped herself in a blanket. I crawled into place behind her. We enclosed each other. Manila slept soundly in my arms.
Now. QUICK, QUICK, QUICKLY…
She is telling me that she wants to live just live with me. No more locks and spare keys or taxi cabs at 3 am. “I want to live with you.”
She tells me this before my first cup of coffee. The two mugs sit on the kitchen table. They are lukewarm and sweaty. I bring my palm to the body of the mug. I feel its smoothness; its never-ending reliability.
Cincinnati calls after Manila closes the door and I image crawls into bed. She always likes to sleep in the fetal position. Cincinnati speaks in well formed prose. There’s no poetry in her words just perfect grammar and the remnants of a passion that had been locked up inside for too long. See! I think. This is what happens when you close the windows.
“Look” Cinci say, “I miss you.”
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