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To be completely contradictory, the Cremaster marathon is next sunday. someone go with me. film forum, houston street, nyc. this morning I flipped through a book of Dali. reason is a conceit of humans that pretends to be universal; paranoia, dreams, free-association, insanity, those are just human. But I did ask, confronted by that serious of paintings, what is the difference between art and masturbation? Wouldn't you rather make love to the universe in your work, or someone specific, or the viewer? Much of Dali has that sick feeling of secretly watching someone masturbate. Something very personal, not meant for your eyes. Personal, universal. The new equations of artistry announce that all opposites are equal so to get to one you go through the other. But. What is art and what is masturbation? Ever be struck, confounded even by the utter ridiculousness of culture? That most of High Art is just shit dressed up to be appreciated by a small number of people, and as that it has no more merit than a stash of star trek fan fiction? The utter fungibility of artists, how a genius is just the person who says what everyone happened to be thinking at that particular time? What sort of onanism is chic today, eh? I taped to the wall a piece of paper upon which was writtin in big bad-handwriting letters all the writings I've started but need to complete. I taped it to the back of the door so I'll see it whenever I wake up. Some of the things on the paper I haven't touched in six months. Such a shame, I was writing a chapter a day back then. All this free time and no drive. The poems look scattered, I see. The rhythm is jumpy, impromptu. I've been trying to write from a concept rather than an incept but that demands an entirely different set of muses. Impromptu was always my strong suit, writing from an Idea rather than starting at a line and diving into words feels like trying to write backwards and upside down. But then, everything feels useless, the benefits are far off or nonexistent, and what purpose does youth have besides immediacy? If i were doing something tangible instead of weaving together imaginary strings perhaps this would be easier. I thought the other day of starting a production company. In the future. Starting small. The company name of all my high school videos, which I intend to keep for anything I do in the future, was Sot Ric Toaster points to whoever can guess the derivation of that name. And don't worry, it's almost esoteric. In other news, I am applying for a position as Monochromatic Boy. considering most of my clothes are shades of grey. Also, I intend to single handedly bring back the vest into modern fashion.

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In the lower left hand corner of the paper with the names of things I haven't completed is written, larged and seriffed, "KLH". Reminding me, hopefully, of KLH. Who is celebrating a birthday soon. What should I do for her birthday? How does one celebrate a ghost's birthday? especially one who was never born. With any luck it'l be at least more enjoyable than my own birthdays.

Sometime in the night I found a tab of the version of Skip James's Hard Time Killing Floor Blues they used in O Brother Where Art Thou. Not too hard, really, but he plays it with such a grace. I'd like to see some of those bebop cats who stick their noses up at anything modal try and play with as much soul as Skip James.

I enjoy Andrew Bird's Bowl of Fire. I think he's got a pretty voice and a mean fiddle.

So Anyway. Here's a little recording of me playing around with H-T-K-F Blues. It never came out graceful, no matter how many times I tried it. And I have a tendency to space out, doing anything, No matter what it is. I'll suddenly remember I'm doing something and the moment's hesitation throws off the time so terribly slightly. I try to only allow myself one take, that's why a lot of the old recordings were so bad, either because I only let myself have one take or I tried so many takes i completely forgot what I was doing. It works if you're Roy Harper, but not so much when you're just another kid with a guitar.

directory: hardtimekillingblues.mp3 2:48@56k/s 1.12mb

nb: the more I write about myself here the less i'm writing about more important things elsewhere.

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They're right, you know. nothing matters. and that moment when sheets can't cover and your head is too big to be allowed into dreams, when you realize that you are beyond all disappointment now, because life is the disappointment. Like someone who's been role-playing suddenly sits up and looks about them and it's just a grey room, they've touched nothing real in seven years, forty nine years, seven hundred and seventy seven years. but the numbers don't matter either. none of it is, none of it was, everything you've touched has fallen to pieces, melting candles, torn curtains

No metaphor could hold this thought: everything is. and, nothing will be. everything you have known has stayed exactly where it was, wax figures, draperies. even happiness is a brittle pathway that isn't even worth the over-careful steps it takes to walk it. but you say it will be better in the morning. it always is. in the morning I will remember to forget in the morning the sun will stand between me and space and over-fill my eyes with yellow so the blue is pushed back up the tear ducts. then you hear the birds outside your window, and the glow creep over the glass like a sickness