Meet Tesse. Curandero, Singer, Harmonica player, Brother, Cultivator of Pineapples, Palmitas, Yucca, Platano, Maiz, Uva, Expert Machette Wielder at this Zona de Conservacion in the Amazon Jungle.
NEW RELEASE FROM LOST FROG
portland bike ensemble live at il corral
craig burgardt david moscovich kelvin pittman shane schneider whitney woolf
moscovich arrival in tarapoto
grass huts national geographic scenery
one bathroom for the whole airport
no soap
motortaxi to the hotel
less than a dollar
the hotel is closed
the gates open for a moment
do you have any rooms
no
i know another hotel says the driver
i can trust his eyes
i can trust
snapping moving shots of the jungle whipping by
little did i know
in less than an hours time
i would be sharing a cup of
ubechada
a rare jungle fruit liquor
with three others in the wherehouse
and the señora the mother
would be telling me stories
about the seven cleansing herbs
she sells in plastic bottles
and that i would be telling her
about the cherry liquor i grew up drinking
that resembles the ubechada
how happy i would be
in less than an hour
in this humid jungle town
jungle town
more jungle than town
grass huts national geographic scenery
one bathroom for the whole airport
no soap
motortaxi to the hotel
less than a dollar
the hotel is closed
the gates open for a moment
do you have any rooms
no
i know another hotel says the driver
i can trust his eyes
i can trust
snapping moving shots of the jungle whipping by
little did i know
in less than an hours time
i would be sharing a cup of
ubechada
a rare jungle fruit liquor
with three others in the wherehouse
and the señora the mother
would be telling me stories
about the seven cleansing herbs
she sells in plastic bottles
and that i would be telling her
about the cherry liquor i grew up drinking
that resembles the ubechada
how happy i would be
in less than an hour
in this humid jungle town
jungle town
more jungle than town
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Highlights of the NW tour.
All Seattle dates cancelled due to an extreme loose stool ping-pong tournament with the dogs of hell's lacerated intestines, in a discreet love hotel in Fukuoka City. a solo performance complete with I.V. Drip and a five-hundred dollar airplane cancellation charge. Thanks, Zawa Restaurant of Fukuoka, now and forever dubbed The Salmonella Cafe. What restaurant in Fukuoka serves sashimi on hot rice? The Salmonella Cafe. After driving down to Portland, a grand ol' welcome party show at The Barn with Oregon Artificial Limb Co., a bombshell blowout with Abusive Delay and Footsolo, Shane and I (Spasmolodic Duo) followed with a reading from atop a very comfortable bed, upon which I had been sleeping off my jetlag throughout most of the show. The performances were stella-cellular, comparable to the delicious warmth of homecooked bread, if the bread were laced with an angelic aftereffectivepneumonicpneullucination pill. Then came Tuesday, a perfectly wonderful set reciting short fictions and sputtering embargoes from Castro's Weatherman (my Cuban novel) wonderful because of the masterful Doug Haning, who was musing piano improvisations at The Tugboat Brewing Company, Portland's one and only living room for people with a palatte for Chernobyl Stout, 13% alcohol. That same night with CexFux at Valentines, just down the street in a sweatier, funkier game of pallandrominoes, a new expanded version of the impro-funkestra with Asa Gervich, JP Jenkins, Mark Kaylor, Jonathan Sielaff, Luc, Shane Schneider and a few others who brewed a palatable liver-cleanser of dense monstermash audio vittles, and as you can see below, god drew an impression of this young man's tender mobilibido as he spat nonsensical chatter-collisiosyms into the mike:
∬ ﾉ( _,,_
(＼＿／) ⌒ /../ ﾐ
（´ 〜｀''） ././ ﾐ
／ ,. ＼_//
ヽ_) '┐
i' ,,-*ｰ､. `i
（＿_| * （＿_）
*
*
*
Next stop on the NW circuit was the Someday Lounge, keeps a video archive of performances, including our This is Not This October 17th performance at the Phase One Words and Music Show, hosted by Garrett Strickland, archiving the nun's habbit I was sporting that evening, complete with a very, very, heavier-than-god silver cross around my neck. Jesus. Footsolo was on amplified bicycle baked to perfection like some slithering metallic goose in chocolate mole. One night later, or was it the night before, I was slated in on the mike with FIASCO, on KBOO radio's Night of the Living Tongue, hosted by the dangerously ravishing Jennifer Robin. Bass clarinets, blenders, egg beaters, keyboards, dulcimers, neon fan, trap-set, saxophones, guitars, electronic transliterations of the formulas for nuclear energy (I'm not kidding), with Tim Alexander, Jerry Soga, Juan, Alejandro Ceballos, Bryan Lightcap and the Reverend Papa Sweat. The final night was tied-up and hung at The Waypost, with Shaun opening the night on solo piano, followed by Plankton Wat on deliciously langorous solo guitar meanderings. The nun made an appearance there as well, with Footsolo screeching and tromping gears of metal eating itself on the electric bicycle, a former member of the Portland Bike Ensemble, Whitney Woolf. Another highlight was catching up with novelist and freestyle-fiction storyteller Mike Daily, whose novel and double-CD set ALARM [2007], an ambitious and psychedellicollaborative shout-out to experimental fictioneers (including Portland's own Kevin Sampsell, who is featured as a character in the novel) scored triple points with heavyweights like Eckhard Gerdes, Steve Katz and Raymond Federman, and he still has copies. IN between the madness, I managed to place copies of my chapbook of flash fictions, Voices From the Fictionary,at the wonderful Reading Frenzyand Powell's City of Books. I was also happy to be able to drop off a few copies of Donkeys, a brilliant gem of a guided tour through scurvy English freakculture by the one and only Nottingham poet and performance artistThe Fug.
And now for a more than surreal stopover in a small university city in the middle of the American prarie, in the middle of the middlewest, with an underrated subculture and plenty of time to reprint a more readable manuscript for Castro's Weatherman: Ethnography of a Bumbling Sex Tourist, before a few weeks in the sur-reality of the Peruvian Amazon....
All Seattle dates cancelled due to an extreme loose stool ping-pong tournament with the dogs of hell's lacerated intestines, in a discreet love hotel in Fukuoka City. a solo performance complete with I.V. Drip and a five-hundred dollar airplane cancellation charge. Thanks, Zawa Restaurant of Fukuoka, now and forever dubbed The Salmonella Cafe. What restaurant in Fukuoka serves sashimi on hot rice? The Salmonella Cafe. After driving down to Portland, a grand ol' welcome party show at The Barn with Oregon Artificial Limb Co., a bombshell blowout with Abusive Delay and Footsolo, Shane and I (Spasmolodic Duo) followed with a reading from atop a very comfortable bed, upon which I had been sleeping off my jetlag throughout most of the show. The performances were stella-cellular, comparable to the delicious warmth of homecooked bread, if the bread were laced with an angelic aftereffectivepneumonicpneullucination pill. Then came Tuesday, a perfectly wonderful set reciting short fictions and sputtering embargoes from Castro's Weatherman (my Cuban novel) wonderful because of the masterful Doug Haning, who was musing piano improvisations at The Tugboat Brewing Company, Portland's one and only living room for people with a palatte for Chernobyl Stout, 13% alcohol. That same night with CexFux at Valentines, just down the street in a sweatier, funkier game of pallandrominoes, a new expanded version of the impro-funkestra with Asa Gervich, JP Jenkins, Mark Kaylor, Jonathan Sielaff, Luc, Shane Schneider and a few others who brewed a palatable liver-cleanser of dense monstermash audio vittles, and as you can see below, god drew an impression of this young man's tender mobilibido as he spat nonsensical chatter-collisiosyms into the mike:
∬ ﾉ( _,,_
(＼＿／) ⌒ /../ ﾐ
（´ 〜｀''） ././ ﾐ
／ ,. ＼_//
ヽ_) '┐
i' ,,-*ｰ､. `i
（＿_| * （＿_）
*
*
*
Next stop on the NW circuit was the Someday Lounge, keeps a video archive of performances, including our This is Not This October 17th performance at the Phase One Words and Music Show, hosted by Garrett Strickland, archiving the nun's habbit I was sporting that evening, complete with a very, very, heavier-than-god silver cross around my neck. Jesus. Footsolo was on amplified bicycle baked to perfection like some slithering metallic goose in chocolate mole. One night later, or was it the night before, I was slated in on the mike with FIASCO, on KBOO radio's Night of the Living Tongue, hosted by the dangerously ravishing Jennifer Robin. Bass clarinets, blenders, egg beaters, keyboards, dulcimers, neon fan, trap-set, saxophones, guitars, electronic transliterations of the formulas for nuclear energy (I'm not kidding), with Tim Alexander, Jerry Soga, Juan, Alejandro Ceballos, Bryan Lightcap and the Reverend Papa Sweat. The final night was tied-up and hung at The Waypost, with Shaun opening the night on solo piano, followed by Plankton Wat on deliciously langorous solo guitar meanderings. The nun made an appearance there as well, with Footsolo screeching and tromping gears of metal eating itself on the electric bicycle, a former member of the Portland Bike Ensemble, Whitney Woolf. Another highlight was catching up with novelist and freestyle-fiction storyteller Mike Daily, whose novel and double-CD set ALARM [2007], an ambitious and psychedellicollaborative shout-out to experimental fictioneers (including Portland's own Kevin Sampsell, who is featured as a character in the novel) scored triple points with heavyweights like Eckhard Gerdes, Steve Katz and Raymond Federman, and he still has copies. IN between the madness, I managed to place copies of my chapbook of flash fictions, Voices From the Fictionary,at the wonderful Reading Frenzyand Powell's City of Books. I was also happy to be able to drop off a few copies of Donkeys, a brilliant gem of a guided tour through scurvy English freakculture by the one and only Nottingham poet and performance artistThe Fug.
And now for a more than surreal stopover in a small university city in the middle of the American prarie, in the middle of the middlewest, with an underrated subculture and plenty of time to reprint a more readable manuscript for Castro's Weatherman: Ethnography of a Bumbling Sex Tourist, before a few weeks in the sur-reality of the Peruvian Amazon....
I'll be dressed as a bearded nun with a voice like satan, again, for this one...
this is not this - electronic voice
(moscovich and foots)
plankton wat - guitar
s.r. ongley - piano
the waypost
3120 n williams
saturday october 20
8 pm - free
this is not this - electronic voice
(moscovich and foots)
plankton wat - guitar
s.r. ongley - piano
the waypost
3120 n williams
saturday october 20
8 pm - free
PHASE ONE: Words + Music. Portland, Oregon 10/17...
[NEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEW
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newNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnew
NEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEW
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WE (K)NEW:
- Finishing up a split-season residency of sorts, BECCA YENSER once again joins Phase One for what will undoubtedly be yet another stellar reading of her impressionist poetry and prose. With wry humor and unexpected poignance, Yenser deftly renders - with gem-like language – a pratfall ballet of tenderness, shame, and vulnerability; light refracted off the mirror of memory and back to illumine her characters’ purest and most unifying humanisms. A rising talent if there ever was one.
- Experimental electro/hip-hop multi-instrumentalist RASHEEDA AMEERA weaves entrancing beats and soulful vocals, rhymes and flutes, typewriters and turntables. We are very pleased to have her at this month’s show.
- NORA ROBERTSON, formerly McCrea, spent her first post-collegiate year in Cluj-Napoca, Romania, learning to cook a mean chicken paprikash, which does appear somewhere in the novel she’s working on. Her fiction, poetry and essays have appeared in such publication as Redactions, 2GQ, and Plazm. “How to Boil an Egg,” a recipe-poem from a collection-in-progress entitled Body Project: A Cookbook, was nominated by Redactions for the 2007 Pushcart Prize. Her spoken-word performances have been included in the 2007 Public Works multimedia series (curated by 2 Gyrlz Performative Arts), the 2004 Enteractive Language Festival, and in the multimedia reading series Phase One: Words + Music. She lives in Portland, Oregon and teaches ESL in the Portland Public Schools.
- Not as much a band as it is a ritualized gathering of energy, WHITE FANG plays songs the way that light does, bouncing and shattering and reforming without any real sense of self. Not as much music as it is a way of thinking, White Fang is more beast than band; that one dark form in the shadows that you shot at but didn't check to feel for a pulse and now there's something loud and bright coming up the stairs looking for you with beer and good vibes.
- DAVID MOSCOVICH is the author of the recently-completed book Castro's Weatherman: Ethnography of a Bumbling Sex Tourist, which is either a tragicomedic novel or a prolonged and lewdiculous way of clearing his (the author’s) throat. He plays the amplified bicycle, performs vocally in an invented and improvised tongue, and lives inside a scurvy, time-traveling shadow in Edo Era, Japan. (BLOG: dyslexistential.blogspot.com)
- Hailing from the myriad landscapes of Ohio – creeks, hills, rivers, farmland, and Native-American burial mounds - OHIOAN & NATIVE KIN is the familial joy-child of Oryne Warner. After hightailing it out to this, the other O-state, he went to work distilling both his and a musical history. The new album, BEING OF THE GOOD RIVER, is a culmination of this, a “life put into a canoe and set a-flame”. Featuring contributions from members of Shaky Hands, Old Time Relijun, Evolutionary Jass Band, Joggers, CexFucx, Eternal Tapestry, Au, LKN and many more, Warner has crafted a musical experience that musician and writer Adam Gnade has called “a haunted universe where high-plains drifting country rock rolls like a thunderstorm into swampy firefly-lit funeral processions that disappear; later reborn as junkyard free-folk or midnight dixieland-goes-drum-circle-joy freak-outs… Birth, death, rebirth, god and blood, love and strength, snow and fire, riffs cycle back over a clattering landscape of busted-up Americana, faces emerge out of the fog and it's fuckin' Mardi Gras down that rainy alley.” Definitely not to be missed.
All this WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17Th
at SOMEDAY LOUNGE (125 NW 5th Ave)
9 PM. $5. ALL-AGES!!!
See you then, Portland!
- Garett Strickland
Host / Curator
Phase One: Words + Music
www.myspace.com/phaseonepdx
[NEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEW
newNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnew
NEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEW
newNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnew
NEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEW
newNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnew
NEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEWnewNEW]
WE (K)NEW:
- Finishing up a split-season residency of sorts, BECCA YENSER once again joins Phase One for what will undoubtedly be yet another stellar reading of her impressionist poetry and prose. With wry humor and unexpected poignance, Yenser deftly renders - with gem-like language – a pratfall ballet of tenderness, shame, and vulnerability; light refracted off the mirror of memory and back to illumine her characters’ purest and most unifying humanisms. A rising talent if there ever was one.
- Experimental electro/hip-hop multi-instrumentalist RASHEEDA AMEERA weaves entrancing beats and soulful vocals, rhymes and flutes, typewriters and turntables. We are very pleased to have her at this month’s show.
- NORA ROBERTSON, formerly McCrea, spent her first post-collegiate year in Cluj-Napoca, Romania, learning to cook a mean chicken paprikash, which does appear somewhere in the novel she’s working on. Her fiction, poetry and essays have appeared in such publication as Redactions, 2GQ, and Plazm. “How to Boil an Egg,” a recipe-poem from a collection-in-progress entitled Body Project: A Cookbook, was nominated by Redactions for the 2007 Pushcart Prize. Her spoken-word performances have been included in the 2007 Public Works multimedia series (curated by 2 Gyrlz Performative Arts), the 2004 Enteractive Language Festival, and in the multimedia reading series Phase One: Words + Music. She lives in Portland, Oregon and teaches ESL in the Portland Public Schools.
- Not as much a band as it is a ritualized gathering of energy, WHITE FANG plays songs the way that light does, bouncing and shattering and reforming without any real sense of self. Not as much music as it is a way of thinking, White Fang is more beast than band; that one dark form in the shadows that you shot at but didn't check to feel for a pulse and now there's something loud and bright coming up the stairs looking for you with beer and good vibes.
- DAVID MOSCOVICH is the author of the recently-completed book Castro's Weatherman: Ethnography of a Bumbling Sex Tourist, which is either a tragicomedic novel or a prolonged and lewdiculous way of clearing his (the author’s) throat. He plays the amplified bicycle, performs vocally in an invented and improvised tongue, and lives inside a scurvy, time-traveling shadow in Edo Era, Japan. (BLOG: dyslexistential.blogspot.com)
- Hailing from the myriad landscapes of Ohio – creeks, hills, rivers, farmland, and Native-American burial mounds - OHIOAN & NATIVE KIN is the familial joy-child of Oryne Warner. After hightailing it out to this, the other O-state, he went to work distilling both his and a musical history. The new album, BEING OF THE GOOD RIVER, is a culmination of this, a “life put into a canoe and set a-flame”. Featuring contributions from members of Shaky Hands, Old Time Relijun, Evolutionary Jass Band, Joggers, CexFucx, Eternal Tapestry, Au, LKN and many more, Warner has crafted a musical experience that musician and writer Adam Gnade has called “a haunted universe where high-plains drifting country rock rolls like a thunderstorm into swampy firefly-lit funeral processions that disappear; later reborn as junkyard free-folk or midnight dixieland-goes-drum-circle-joy freak-outs… Birth, death, rebirth, god and blood, love and strength, snow and fire, riffs cycle back over a clattering landscape of busted-up Americana, faces emerge out of the fog and it's fuckin' Mardi Gras down that rainy alley.” Definitely not to be missed.
All this WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 17Th
at SOMEDAY LOUNGE (125 NW 5th Ave)
9 PM. $5. ALL-AGES!!!
See you then, Portland!
- Garett Strickland
Host / Curator
Phase One: Words + Music
www.myspace.com/phaseonepdx
The Quit-aholic
I had to have the job -- what's more, I knew it would be mine like the cheap, easy bitch of a job I knew it was, despite the claims it was a refuge for the gourmet palette in a tasteless take-out industry, I knew it was the dregs of this six-lane highway, that they called it a Boulevard was another greasy misnomer. I wasn't completely aware that I was doing it again, mouth dry as a whip, offering myself as the courteous, whimsical asset they just couldn't live without, dressed in my best corduroy blazer and purple necktie. My target -- Donald Levy, charismatic proprietor of the newest five-star drive thru (yes, a gourmet drive-thru monstrosity) in Los Angeles, and admittedly a brilliant chef. When in the initial days of training (he insisted everyone sample the menu in order to better serve the whiny, upper class, poodle-obsessed clientele) he offered us a green tea sour cream gelato, I had to admit I was dealing with a world class jackass -- the ingredients and the taste were of such high quality, such obscenely perfect texture and deliciousness, it deserved the same ambiance; an uptown location, the best crystal, the white tablecloth, the pristine service and at least two discreet on-location high class prostitutes. Instead, Levy was packaging his Huso-Huso Belugan Caviar in cheap, white polyurethane, destined only to be mauled in a CO2 frenzy by some ratty Chihuahua hussied up in rouge and a pink garter belt and netted stockings.
The ending should go something like this…
Dear Mr.Levy, and all the employees at Fiddler’s Feast,
I have a confession. I am a quit-aholic, and you are my latest victims. The past three and a half years have been a whirlwind of petty addiction, a relentless game of seduction, deception, capture and release – a dangerous adrenalin-ridden game of impermanence which at its base is a deep cloud of despair and a whole lot of valium acquired by unscrupulous means. And the loneliness of a man whose only sense of power lies in his ability to say no – No, I’m not waking up at 8:30. No, I’m not making coconut mousse Italian parsley cake for that whore with the Pomeranian in a wedding dress. No, I'm not going to light a Belgian chocolate candle at our only table for the 5-digit couple who want the romantic, slow-food experience at this absurd Dadaistic experiment gourmet fast-food Frankenstein. No, I’m not picking up my last paycheck and no, I don’t give a flick of a bugger’s ass.
Thus it is with regret, and a great rush to the head for me to inform you – I quit.
I had to have the job -- what's more, I knew it would be mine like the cheap, easy bitch of a job I knew it was, despite the claims it was a refuge for the gourmet palette in a tasteless take-out industry, I knew it was the dregs of this six-lane highway, that they called it a Boulevard was another greasy misnomer. I wasn't completely aware that I was doing it again, mouth dry as a whip, offering myself as the courteous, whimsical asset they just couldn't live without, dressed in my best corduroy blazer and purple necktie. My target -- Donald Levy, charismatic proprietor of the newest five-star drive thru (yes, a gourmet drive-thru monstrosity) in Los Angeles, and admittedly a brilliant chef. When in the initial days of training (he insisted everyone sample the menu in order to better serve the whiny, upper class, poodle-obsessed clientele) he offered us a green tea sour cream gelato, I had to admit I was dealing with a world class jackass -- the ingredients and the taste were of such high quality, such obscenely perfect texture and deliciousness, it deserved the same ambiance; an uptown location, the best crystal, the white tablecloth, the pristine service and at least two discreet on-location high class prostitutes. Instead, Levy was packaging his Huso-Huso Belugan Caviar in cheap, white polyurethane, destined only to be mauled in a CO2 frenzy by some ratty Chihuahua hussied up in rouge and a pink garter belt and netted stockings.
The ending should go something like this…
Dear Mr.Levy, and all the employees at Fiddler’s Feast,
I have a confession. I am a quit-aholic, and you are my latest victims. The past three and a half years have been a whirlwind of petty addiction, a relentless game of seduction, deception, capture and release – a dangerous adrenalin-ridden game of impermanence which at its base is a deep cloud of despair and a whole lot of valium acquired by unscrupulous means. And the loneliness of a man whose only sense of power lies in his ability to say no – No, I’m not waking up at 8:30. No, I’m not making coconut mousse Italian parsley cake for that whore with the Pomeranian in a wedding dress. No, I'm not going to light a Belgian chocolate candle at our only table for the 5-digit couple who want the romantic, slow-food experience at this absurd Dadaistic experiment gourmet fast-food Frankenstein. No, I’m not picking up my last paycheck and no, I don’t give a flick of a bugger’s ass.
Thus it is with regret, and a great rush to the head for me to inform you – I quit.
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Gaijinge*[GAI-JEEN-GAYE] Release Party. Neighbors' Complaints. Host dressed as a nun. An unidentified man streaked naked through the polluted river below. A cross-section of Fukuoka that includes five large apartment buildings, each ten or more stories high, each floor fifteen apartments, an approximate density of 2500 persons heard the noise coming directly from the nun's apartment. Live music by Common Laughing Point.
*Gaijinge is an annual Fukuoka music and new fiction magazine in both Japanese and English. Poetry by Onaka Shunsuke, The Fug, Hugo Velaquez-Marinescu. Comic by Greg Higgins and Mike Daily. Interviews and photos with Ai Yamamoto,Rokugenkin, 2-Bit Brain Boy, Yuko Kawasaki, Maruyama Yuji, Yuki Okumura, Anthony Guerra, Toshimaru Nakamura, new fiction by David Moscovich and a special bondage interview with Onaka Shunsuke.
Both Gaijinge and Voices From the Fictionary are now available through Dead Trees & Dye [UK]andWasabi [Japan]
Voices From the Fictionary
Volume One (24 pp.)
This flash fiction chapbook is volume one in a series of unknown length. Only fifty copies printed worldwide. And locally, how 'bout that. Get your copy now, before another printing makes this printing look antique, collector, cult, first edition, ah-hem. Experts from the CNN/ABC/CBS/C-SPAN/FOX NEWS NETWORK CONGLOMERATE are considering a new merge with Nancy Reagan this December.....
Now available through Dead Trees & Dye [UK]andWasabi [Japan]
Did you see Randall Randy with his depixelizer couplet gun and his striped gangrene tracksuit at the arcade? He was pressing some old beige codger to push the button built into the back of his sternocleidomastoid.
Touch it, or I’ll find somebody who will! he screamed into the poor cranky’s ear. The aging bloke had just bet his entire bucket of coins on the number three plastic horse, but Randy’s voice clogged the horses’ hooves mid stride, with yellow number three leading and red number five a nickel’s length behind.
The old man was a hollowed out huffer in a Disneyland t-shirt and fell like an oily feather when Randy grabbed his finger and thrust it into the gristly pentagon soldered into his neck, sending security into paroxysms of nausea, instantly smoking the cameras and exploding the lights, tumbling the token changer machines and disintegrating every digital device in the room, and it was a room the size of an unkempt, ash blue city block.
When an addict has no social support, we all lose, don’t we?
Touch it, or I’ll find somebody who will! he screamed into the poor cranky’s ear. The aging bloke had just bet his entire bucket of coins on the number three plastic horse, but Randy’s voice clogged the horses’ hooves mid stride, with yellow number three leading and red number five a nickel’s length behind.
The old man was a hollowed out huffer in a Disneyland t-shirt and fell like an oily feather when Randy grabbed his finger and thrust it into the gristly pentagon soldered into his neck, sending security into paroxysms of nausea, instantly smoking the cameras and exploding the lights, tumbling the token changer machines and disintegrating every digital device in the room, and it was a room the size of an unkempt, ash blue city block.
When an addict has no social support, we all lose, don’t we?
Like Some Kind of Language Slut
Thank you for your interest in Flash-Flood-Fiction magazine. Our decisions were difficult, but we have decided not to use your submission(s). We have included below our editors' comments on your work; we hope you find them useful.
David Moscovich/ Story: Masahiro the Bull
Editor 1 Vote: No
Ed. 1 Comments: I find this story Offensive.
Editor 2 Vote: No
Editor 3 Vote: No
Ed. 3 Comments: This story made me ill.
Editor 4 Vote: No
Ed. 4 Comments: A fresh voice, but not sure why he went home with the panties and kicked the pervert into the water.
Thank you for your interest in Flash-Flood-Fiction magazine. Our decisions were difficult, but we have decided not to use your submission(s). We have included below our editors' comments on your work; we hope you find them useful.
David Moscovich/ Story: Masahiro the Bull
Editor 1 Vote: No
Ed. 1 Comments: I find this story Offensive.
Editor 2 Vote: No
Editor 3 Vote: No
Ed. 3 Comments: This story made me ill.
Editor 4 Vote: No
Ed. 4 Comments: A fresh voice, but not sure why he went home with the panties and kicked the pervert into the water.
NIGEL STALEY PHOTO EXHIBITION: 23 August-9th September.
F U K U O K A
B I K E
E N S E M B L E,
CLOSING PARTY, ９月８日は I.A.F. SHOPで、 FUKUOKA BIKE ENSEMBLE福岡自転車音楽とmoscovich meets the fug１９：００すたとよろしくね！！！ come and have a DRINK!
2007年09月08日
FUKUOKA BIKE ENSEMBLEは.......麻子、ナイゲルステリ、デビドモソコビチ、と かれたちの自転車です。たのしんでください！よろしこ。。。。 FUKUOKA BIKE ENSEMBLE IS......ASAKO, NIGEL STALEY, DAVID MOSCOVICH AND THEIR BICYCLES. TO BE SERVED HOT OR ICED. WORD, MOTHER-TRUCKERS!
F U K U O K A
B I K E
E N S E M B L E,
CLOSING PARTY, ９月８日は I.A.F. SHOPで、 FUKUOKA BIKE ENSEMBLE福岡自転車音楽とmoscovich meets the fug１９：００すたとよろしくね！！！ come and have a DRINK!
2007年09月08日
FUKUOKA BIKE ENSEMBLEは.......麻子、ナイゲルステリ、デビドモソコビチ、と かれたちの自転車です。たのしんでください！よろしこ。。。。 FUKUOKA BIKE ENSEMBLE IS......ASAKO, NIGEL STALEY, DAVID MOSCOVICH AND THEIR BICYCLES. TO BE SERVED HOT OR ICED. WORD, MOTHER-TRUCKERS!
Letters to the Future: Ohtake Shinro
David Moscovich, meet Ohtake Shinro. Nice to meet you. I'm really fond of your cut-ups. Work. I'm fond of your prolific output.
That's about how it went with my historical meeting of Shinro Ohtake, the collage artist, who told me he started doing collage at the age of 21 (math tells me that's about thirty years of collage art), he recently had an art opening at The Fukuoka Art Museum, and I caught up with him at an afterparty at Tetra Artspace, quite coincidentally but for good reason. Not only is he a collage artist but also he plays in an improvisatory band called New Chanel, which he features in some of the collages. But don't mistake me, Ohtake's output is by no means limited to collage, and by no means limited to anything we can say about him. Beyond the found, collage, paste mish-mash everyday/travel inspired art, he used large wooden crosses plastered with photographs, spray-painted or arcyllicized. enormous vinyl shrinkwrap abstracts, emasculated Warholian screenprints, and he even designed and pepper spray-painted and cut-up an entire stage of musical equipment (complete with its own similarly pastiched control room) which he actually played with New Chanel on stage in downtown Osaka in the year 2000.
Nice to meet you, Ohtake. Hope to see you in the future present past.
Have this text professionally translated for only $65: Japan is a gigantic lopsided cement scuplture gagged and hogtied, stuffed into the trunk of a BMW in wooden sandals going 125 on the expressway. プロとして$65のためだけにこのテキストを翻訳されてください： 日本は、さるぐつわをはめられた巨大なアンバランスなセメントscupltureで、行って四つ足を縛られて木製のサンダルのBMWの幹〔トランク〕に高速道路の125を詰めました。
Blair's Demands.
昨日私がもう1つを除いて首相名声のブレア氏からの緊急なメッセージを受け取ったわけではない ポール・ブレア服を脱ぐことのために福岡で有名なブレア 知らない ダンスパーティー奴と一般に達者なYakuza日本人の侮辱的なブレアが(それほどいい賞 にかなり1人のポールだけにお世辞を言うことでそうすることができた)誰でもを飲んだ。 後に続くか ものが 彼の需要(私がロンドンのルーマニア人の大使館の取引に送るだろうことを約束した)です：
Yesterday I received an urgent message from Mr. Blair, not of Prime Minister fame, but another Blair, Paul Blair, famous in Fukuoka for undressing unaware drunk blokes at dance parties and generally insulting (in that simlutaneously flattering way only a Paul Blair could) passerbys in fluent Yakuza Japanese. What follows are his demands, which I promised I would forward to my contacts at the Romanian Embassy in London:
this time tomorrow, a dour, smelly scot will run the cultural mish mash
we know as the united kuntdom
i am not united.
i demand that the monarch be killed
and all ginger
children be drowned in buckets.
furthermore,i demand gaelic be reinstalled
as our national lingo,
only gay weddings are permitted,
and we should be
allowed to eat dogs.
oh, i want an embassy in the gaza strip.
what can u do for me?
The museum is officially underway. A three-dimensional pop-up book style manga cut-up version of David Moscovich's novel Castro's Weatherman. Here are some photos of the initial construction and deconstruction. Bon voyage.
CASTRO’S WEATHERMAN
A tragicomedic novel or an exaggerated and prolonged way of clearing my throat
by David Moscovich
A schizophrenic expat living in Tokyo travels to the island of Cuba on a botched personal humanitarian mission to deliver thousands of free condoms to Cuban prostitutes in the midst of obsession, paranoia, murder and ancient voodoo rites in Fidel Castro’s Havana.
Woah. I just got off the phone [enter name brand internet calling company here] with Whitney Woolf. As always, she turned me on to something new which isn't new that I thought was new but that I knew before that somehow I had missed or thought I missed but in fact, knew. She indicated that her [new] blog is up and at 'em, a blog focused on her already prodigious [a couple weeks in, a couple weeks out] [[way out]] clip-art mail-art projects. She said she checked out all the Brian Gyson she could find at the Portland Public Library. She has quite a few new clips, and they're in color [this isn't black and white], they feature poems, or words [[{it's more complicated than art}]] assembled to be interpreted as poems, or nuclear landscapes [colored beakers within beakers] which bespeak a unique and quirky world [enter Whitney Woolf's name here] that is and can only be [(Whitney Woolf)] Whitney Woolf. In this all-too commericalized [enter hairspray endorsement (FABB-BITCH, hairstyle for your babbage)here] and franchised [enter fast-food hamburger link here (Slackdonalds: Slimmer cages Sicker Cows Snot Really Beef)] and plagiarized [enter own website here] and self-plagiarized [enter another hairspray ad here] re-appropriated self-plagiarized [Bicycle Basket Escargot: You are Where you Eat.)]and de-fabricated [enter here] and refabricated and remanipulated [enter Foucault] and reinvented [enter enter enter] and later fabricated from facsimile [exit exit exit here] and copied from modeled after [enter exit delete delete delete] and resmacked retapped rebaffled rebuttled remixed reconformed refit-to-size retyped restretched unbleached world, it's refreshing to hear a voice [although it's not a voice, it's visual art you rumpus] like Whitney and also [new not new to me two you] Chauney Peck whom Whitney sites as an influence and contemporary.
Shwweeeeet.
S-M Play Gallery Soap's 10th ann. party, hosted by Megahertz club in Kitakyushu. on the bill: The Munz, Common Laughing Point, heiraku G, The Tortoise City Band, Electro, and a tributary of DJ's... Atom, Gen, Jimi, Shim@, DJ Speedfarmer, Wada and Gizaju.
Starts at 20:00 1000 yen includes one drink and "food". Get there early, I reckon. 6.22.Friday.
This Saturday June 9th, at Love Gallery (near Reisen park in the Nakasu red light district of Fukuoka), if you happen to be in the Fukuoka area, stop by and see Lawrence English do his magic. I wonder why they call it Love. . . .
My buddy Paul Blair sent me an email early yesterday morning. This requires no explanation. If I were to explain the following email, I would ruin the suspense and humor carried within, which Paul himself carries within him, in his own special Paul Blair way, which I cannot and will not emulate, in my Moscovich way. If I were to attempt to emulate the Paul Blair way, I would end up sounding like Moscovich doing an impression of Paul Blair in the Moscovich way. Does that make sense? Incidentally, Paul Blair(e) told me there are many ways to spell his name, and the fact that I am using the Paul Blair way of spelling his name and not the Paul Blaire way of spelling his name is simply a tease. I say it's a tease because I think he mentioned some other way (the Gailic way) which may be entirely (other)different. I'm thinking further explanation is not going to detract from the following poem he sent me, as I said, yesterday morning, however, I will refrain from further explanation. I would like to add (if were hypothetically, to not refrain from further explanation, will you amuse me with your ear ((inner ear)) for a moment yes moscovich your nasty intercontinental belly is flopping tonight i can see) that lately I've found great pleasure (((presszure))((thats japanese for pleasure)(())) in introducing very short poems with long and pointless introductions. No doubt this self-satisfying playzure (playzury) in long introductions has its roots in (play-usury) a deep-seeded love for self-love (plagiar-usury) and intellectual self-flagellating seven bodied (seventh author) confusion infusion slash pumping of the trash lowbrow/highbrow hybrid sensibilities (Blare with me, now) included as in (real life architecture) of the parenthetical hyper-reality of living with a crash-course in the inimitible subtleties of the indirect gracefulness of passive aggressive Japanese prejudice (thank God ((with a capitol "G" as in Gaijin)) it's not a prejudice of the violent, virile, confederate flag waving variety in the modern (post-reality) north american south or confederate north for that matter ((read: go fuck yourself))). I may have forgotten to mention he sent this poem (((poem?))) to me very early, before nine in the morning, which is very early in the Moscovich way but perhaps not so unusually early in the Paul Blair(e) way way. And we're up, up and up again. Here's the poem. Here it is. At long last. May it ring through these plainless mountainless oceanless pollution-filled concrete pixelated streets (in the Paul Blair way).
ballad of moscovich
MOSCO BILLY
HAD A TEN FOOT WILLY
HE SHOWED IT TO THE GIRL NEXT DOOR
SHE THOUGHT IT WAS A SNAKE
AND HIT IT WITH A RAKE
NOW IT'S ONLY
THREE FOOT FOUR
-Paul Blair.
ballad of moscovich
MOSCO BILLY
HAD A TEN FOOT WILLY
HE SHOWED IT TO THE GIRL NEXT DOOR
SHE THOUGHT IT WAS A SNAKE
AND HIT IT WITH A RAKE
NOW IT'S ONLY
THREE FOOT FOUR
-Paul Blair.
Mike Daily's new novel and double CD boxset, ALARM, is set to print any day now. I've been keeping track of it's progress since Daily first showed me ALARM in its manuscript form, in two racecar red three-ring binders. I've seen him perform parts of ALARM live, and I've sat in with him a few times as well, knobbing various electronic devices while he spun the tale. It was always the propulsion of the narrator (and what he calls the alter-narrator, a voice projected behind [BRACKETS IN CAPITAL LETTERS]) that kept me and the audience into it. I asked Mike when the final print will be through, and what's the latest. Here's his update:
""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
I'm guest blogging on Claire Zulkey's blogand doing another article in writeandpublishyourbook.com
"your book is a complex beast."
--Kevin Sampsell
The complexity caused delays w/ printer. The 15 copies I got on friday were fairly tight but the FC2 appendix was a bit jacked. I'll send you one of the next batch. I'm getting excited about it again.
End of the novel blues lighter. Going to give copies to the Hold Steady tonight, they are headlining crystal ballroom. O'Grady will be performing at the FC2 thing again this year.
Garett Strickland asked me last night. Learning new sections of alarm so I can make new videos. Every performance is documented.
"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
I'm guest blogging on Claire Zulkey's blogand doing another article in writeandpublishyourbook.com
"your book is a complex beast."
--Kevin Sampsell
The complexity caused delays w/ printer. The 15 copies I got on friday were fairly tight but the FC2 appendix was a bit jacked. I'll send you one of the next batch. I'm getting excited about it again.
End of the novel blues lighter. Going to give copies to the Hold Steady tonight, they are headlining crystal ballroom. O'Grady will be performing at the FC2 thing again this year.
Garett Strickland asked me last night. Learning new sections of alarm so I can make new videos. Every performance is documented.
"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
XXXXXXTRAVELOGUEXXXXXX. Los Viajes del Santo Monstrogringo Snorkeling on Iki Island renews my faith in this sepia world.
This last weekend I took my lovely girlfriend Asako to explore the charms of Iki Island (pronounced EE-KEY, not icky, for all you anthropocentric foot scratchers) in Nagasaki ken, and for the first time in quite a while I forgot that I am "one of these things that's not like the other", that is, a gaijin. I never liked that Sesame Street episode. That was Sesame Street wasn't it? For the most part it was a great experience growing up and watching kermit the frog, reporting from Sesame Street blah blah blah. Of course the classic Jim Henson Sesame Street is what I'm talking about. No I'm not. I'm supposed to be reporting on Iki Island (scratch, scratch). Right. So our plan was to go snorkeling, and of course we had to call and confirm the day before, and the day of as well. Yes, we're coming. But then the dude (Habu-san) picked us up from the hotel, patiently waited for us at least five minutes (which if you don't know, in Japan waiting five minutes for someone is socially equivalent to waiting an hour in the States, it's pretty rude). He wasn't miffed by the lateness, then it turned out he was a swell guy on top of it. He patiently waited for us while we took a lifetime to get our wetsuits on (what are they doing in the showers? I bet he was thinking) I proudly emerged to the front of the shop wearing the zipper down the front, which I knew was backwards, but Habu-san recommended I turn it around, smartly suggesting that my neck would get wet if I didn't. And I certainly didn't come here to get wet. Then he gave us a crash course on snorkeling, as it was our first time. Shape your mouth like the French vowel "u", clamp the rubber around your teeth and bite. Breathe gently. We waddled our way in the sand, mouthing our best French vowels, tripping over our rubber flippers, choking on saltwater, holding hands in the midst of the trauma. My biggest obstacle was trying not to hyperventilate while the saltwater invaded from around my lips and through the tube. I nearly drowned about eight times, a testament to my outdoorsy prowess. Marinesports Moscovich. It's the new me. In fact we signed up for the kayaking as well, but if I could drown with flippers and a lifejacket on, surely I would sink straight to the bottom of the sea without my beloved flippers. After the first few attempts at eating moss, shedding skin and bleeding, roughed up against the reef by the waves and the invisible lightening watersnakes, we finally got the hang of it and saw a fish. Asako pointed exitedly at the fish, as it swam in the monitors of our ridiculous silent film, it was about the size of a nickel, and totally in black and white, not like what I saw on the flyers. I didn't know everything underwater is black and white until that day, really I had no idea. Invigorating and humbling both. Actually it was more like sepia. We did get to see some lettuce-like seaweed coming up from the ocean bottom a good ten or twenty meters below. Another highlight was this half-bottle half-shell organism lying on the beach afterwards (pictured above left), which confirms everything I thought I didn't know about quantum physics, chaos theory, Ken Wilber and Reaganomics. The little guys inside the shells poked their heads out and I think they had long tongues like spider dicks (or miniature horse dicks if horses were miniature seacreatures that lived inside shells or people's minds who have the talent to nearly drown wearing flippers and a lifejacket) which like, totally creeped out my girlfriend. Later we went inside for cool beers and chatted with the truly amiable staff until Habu-san gave us a ride back to the port. I'm not kidding. Living in Hakata makes me particularly sensitive to people who are genuinely friendly, it's like watching a midget do a superjump to a thirteenth floor elevator then opening the door for you. Really quite out of the way friendly, Habu-san and staff at Hawaii Bar renewed my faith in life on this archipelagos.
Highly recommended: Iki Island's Bar Hawaii Marinesports.
After reading Raymond Federman's recent novel about his life on a farm in Nazi occupied France, Return To Manure, I've decided that the secret to the brilliance in his writing is really deceptively simple. It's all about the numbers. I've calculated a rough word count for his recent novel, Return To Manure, thusly: an average of 12 words per line, an average of 25 lines per page, multiplied by 200 pages = Federman's novel Return to Manure. I believe that after reading and re-reading Return to Manure, the English language rewrite of his French novel Retour Au Fumier, the secret to his brilliance lies in the numbers. The word count. What does it all add up to? Roughly speaking, according to my average calculations, the rough word count for Federman's novel Return to Manure is 58,000 words. I believe that is the secret to the digressive brilliance of Return to Manure, a novel by Raymond Federman, an American writer a native of France famous in Germany and France winner of numerous awards and a brilliant digressive novel called Return to Manure and thirteen other novels. He currently lives in California.
I sent a letter to Raymond Federman, author of his recent novel Return to Manure, explaining my calculations. This was his response:
my dear David that's what writing is all about
to find a way of accumulating words on paper
12 words per line
25 lines per page
at the end of a couple of years you have a book
you should count the words and the lines
in the new novel I just finished
it's 204 pages long
I wrote it in French
it took me exactly 157 days to write it
therefore less words per line
less lines per page
it's that simple
everything I write is true - more or less -- though I agree with you that Return to Manure may read like a true memoire -- the way it functions however is that Federman and Erica [the fictitious ones] go in search of the farm in order to verify the bunch of souvenirs [more or less true] Federman [the real one] has in his head - but of course when they find the farm the souvenirs no longer match the reality of the place
you got that
or is that too confusing
wait till you read the book I just finished which related my childhood -- that is to say the 13 years [or was it 14?] that precede the closet -- it call CHUT: HISTOIRE D'UNE ENFANCE -- yes in French. It's a the publisher's now.
the most important - and you say it - is that it rings true
as D.H. Lawrence once put it
Trust the tale
don't trust the writer
私も外人
あなたも外人
他の国いたっら
外人すぐなら
みんあ同じ外人ブルス！
i'm a foreign scum
you're a foreign scum
go to japan and you'll
quickly become
foreign scum, too
everybody foreign scum blues!
yo soy extranjero
tu tambien eres extranjero
si vayas a japon
cada dia sera un pinche extranjero
todo la gente tenemos el mismo sufrimiento
de los pinches extranjeros
Excerpt from the novel Castro's Weatherman:
Again give him the alpha state the gentle landing on the Mare Triantium. Set the reprogramming dials on high. This is your brother. Repeat. Brother. Clone? No. Father. Vitamins? This is your Mr. Dilligent. Set the controls on high. We’re setting it as high at it will go, sir. Good. Repeat. Now with the images of the family home. And the poop under the carpets. Yes, the first house. The second house. The merry-go-round accident. The bicycle accidents. All. Repeat. We’re afraid your son has suffered a concussion, sir. He’ll have to take these for the rest of his life. Ease him momentarily into a hyperaware Cretenum Taruntius. Good. Swing him down from Crysallis, slowly into Alpetragius. Nice. Back to the Rear Martonis. And repeat. With the strawberry. The baby. The strawberry. The cries, the cries, the cries. Rewind. Ease him into a casual alpha. Lower pulse, breathing normal. Lower him into the water, easy now. Easy. Okay. Let go of the ark. Nola, let go of the ark. Am I going to have to detain you for subversion? Who’s side are you on here? The strawberry. The cries. The cries. Rewind from the top. Replay. The father. The garage, the tools, the paintings, the new girlfriend. The lovers. He’ll have to take these for the rest of his life. I’m sorry to say this. The stray cats, the first family home. The merry-go-round accident. Monday shephard’s pie. Rewind. Stoned again, looking for a virgin to huff. Bad habits start early. He’s a bummer he’s a bummer he’s a bummer every summer he’s a loyal plastic. Lower him down into the Marsh of Sleep, the Marsh of Decay. Alone in the bedroom, smoking out of a Taco Inn ashtray. Aluminum brain damage, Manhattan, Kansas. Iowa City. Paris, Texas, nickel in the water supply. Nowhere, Somewhere. Petinis Australagus. Begging from the rooftops of Lawrence. Lost in the soundtrack to Slacker. Scratching at the boots of his jailer, the first clone he wanted to fuck. Give him the images of the first clone he wanted to fuck, again. Again give him the treatment. The tenderloin steak. The alpha state gentle landing on the Mare Triantium. A stacked game of Monopoly, he’s building a ten story leggo lamp to pay off his debt. Excruciating unfulfilled lust of teenager. Medicine, turn on the medicine photographs, associate with relief. Headaches, nostalgia, psychosis, associate with health. Religion, contemplation, associate with nerves. Racked. Lower the body into the pine box, sending the message of cheapest burial. Pincher to the incher. Now the father. The scent of the vitamins under his nose, associate clone. Robot. Inhuman. Clarity of logic, emphasise logical thinking. Zoom out. Ease down from the dreamstate, ease out of the alpha, gently, up and up and up into the body. Resting normally.
Again give him the alpha state the gentle landing on the Mare Triantium. Set the reprogramming dials on high. This is your brother. Repeat. Brother. Clone? No. Father. Vitamins? This is your Mr. Dilligent. Set the controls on high. We’re setting it as high at it will go, sir. Good. Repeat. Now with the images of the family home. And the poop under the carpets. Yes, the first house. The second house. The merry-go-round accident. The bicycle accidents. All. Repeat. We’re afraid your son has suffered a concussion, sir. He’ll have to take these for the rest of his life. Ease him momentarily into a hyperaware Cretenum Taruntius. Good. Swing him down from Crysallis, slowly into Alpetragius. Nice. Back to the Rear Martonis. And repeat. With the strawberry. The baby. The strawberry. The cries, the cries, the cries. Rewind. Ease him into a casual alpha. Lower pulse, breathing normal. Lower him into the water, easy now. Easy. Okay. Let go of the ark. Nola, let go of the ark. Am I going to have to detain you for subversion? Who’s side are you on here? The strawberry. The cries. The cries. Rewind from the top. Replay. The father. The garage, the tools, the paintings, the new girlfriend. The lovers. He’ll have to take these for the rest of his life. I’m sorry to say this. The stray cats, the first family home. The merry-go-round accident. Monday shephard’s pie. Rewind. Stoned again, looking for a virgin to huff. Bad habits start early. He’s a bummer he’s a bummer he’s a bummer every summer he’s a loyal plastic. Lower him down into the Marsh of Sleep, the Marsh of Decay. Alone in the bedroom, smoking out of a Taco Inn ashtray. Aluminum brain damage, Manhattan, Kansas. Iowa City. Paris, Texas, nickel in the water supply. Nowhere, Somewhere. Petinis Australagus. Begging from the rooftops of Lawrence. Lost in the soundtrack to Slacker. Scratching at the boots of his jailer, the first clone he wanted to fuck. Give him the images of the first clone he wanted to fuck, again. Again give him the treatment. The tenderloin steak. The alpha state gentle landing on the Mare Triantium. A stacked game of Monopoly, he’s building a ten story leggo lamp to pay off his debt. Excruciating unfulfilled lust of teenager. Medicine, turn on the medicine photographs, associate with relief. Headaches, nostalgia, psychosis, associate with health. Religion, contemplation, associate with nerves. Racked. Lower the body into the pine box, sending the message of cheapest burial. Pincher to the incher. Now the father. The scent of the vitamins under his nose, associate clone. Robot. Inhuman. Clarity of logic, emphasise logical thinking. Zoom out. Ease down from the dreamstate, ease out of the alpha, gently, up and up and up into the body. Resting normally.
tuesday. eating in.
6:67 a.m
pissed and pissing in the Yodobashi parkinglot
urethra firetracks
6:78 a.m
still pissed examining random love hotel dungeons, on video
REST……………………..2850 yen
STAY……………………...6500yen
handcuffs………………...1500yen
furry……………………….2000yen
7:77 a.m
besamé mucho on infinite repeat
island of men with mp3’s for heads
the sun’s rays are pixels raining down untitled new folders
8:64 a.m
playing the electric fence with a tarpaulin dump transistor
seventy yellow and orange
ballons release from faux-spanish teal towers
flatulence ignited from two-timing towers
from babies with hips for teeth
119:76 a.m
wrinkled took off her pants
pointy missle granny breasts
pointing the way to gibraltar
outdoor shower beach all eyes
who’s that pointy-breasted gramma
on the new path to hell all eyes
on her alzheimers rum gun
on her alzheimers grin not knowing
on the new path to hell all eyes
on her alzheimers from where did she
escape
from why when
the next game of bridge all eyes
yelling “who’s hiding the soap?” all eyes
who’s that gramma pointy breasts
showering on the beach all eyes
“marmy needs the soap,”
volleyball kids under her legs
sandy ball rolling calves touching
singing
“i wanna be your barbie
i wanna be your toy
fuck me, play me, dump me…”
she'll
crack your ribs in tow just glancing at the contract
give you cataracts when she loans you her sunglasses
crack you on the bosom with her
plutonium rubber druck
6:67 a.m
pissed and pissing in the Yodobashi parkinglot
urethra firetracks
6:78 a.m
still pissed examining random love hotel dungeons, on video
REST……………………..2850 yen
STAY……………………...6500yen
handcuffs………………...1500yen
furry……………………….2000yen
7:77 a.m
besamé mucho on infinite repeat
island of men with mp3’s for heads
the sun’s rays are pixels raining down untitled new folders
8:64 a.m
playing the electric fence with a tarpaulin dump transistor
seventy yellow and orange
ballons release from faux-spanish teal towers
flatulence ignited from two-timing towers
from babies with hips for teeth
119:76 a.m
wrinkled took off her pants
pointy missle granny breasts
pointing the way to gibraltar
outdoor shower beach all eyes
who’s that pointy-breasted gramma
on the new path to hell all eyes
on her alzheimers rum gun
on her alzheimers grin not knowing
on the new path to hell all eyes
on her alzheimers from where did she
escape
from why when
the next game of bridge all eyes
yelling “who’s hiding the soap?” all eyes
who’s that gramma pointy breasts
showering on the beach all eyes
“marmy needs the soap,”
volleyball kids under her legs
sandy ball rolling calves touching
singing
“i wanna be your barbie
i wanna be your toy
fuck me, play me, dump me…”
she'll
crack your ribs in tow just glancing at the contract
give you cataracts when she loans you her sunglasses
crack you on the bosom with her
plutonium rubber druck
Tim Buck Tooth and The True History of Bigfoot
Walls made of hundreds rolls of carpets, livery breath odor of the sea, spermwhales, he asked us with twitching eyebrows to write in the Bigfoot log.
Bigfoot sometime try steal carpet. But no sighting today, said the milky carpetier, brandishing a map of bigfoot sightings.
Last sighting at Blue Mosque two thousand six, he said, snapping his fingers for the boy.
Ibrik, brought to the old Dacians inherited, I said, as we commoned our pasts and auctioned them for a tray of butter, black olives, bread, sheep’s cheese, yogurt drink, jam, and tea, tea, tea.
Bigfoot was first Ottoman king you know, said the voice from the bottom of the Arabian Sea.
Tim Buck Tooth gulped wide-eyed as we depreciated in our underwear...
I have a nasty habit of eating one particular fruit to the point of paralysis. It takes me weeks to get over it. The last time it was [grapes]. I bought twelve pounds of [grapes] and ate them between Friday and Saturday. I went to three different stores and finished their supply. Friday and Saturday are my working days. I get bored. I start eating. It's become my occupation de facto. The job description just shifted. I could have put it on a resume. Then the fruit thing happened. Now it's about the fruit. A new fruit each week. I'm suicidal, really. No one will take me seriously, but I'm killing myself. The [grapes] were almost the end for me. How many pounds of [grapes] can one man eat before he bursts? What if it were watermelon? Or kiwi fruit?
Kiwi is the armpit of the fruit family. Now, I like armpits. When someone says, I’ve just been to the armpit of California, I wanna go. It’s my favorite part of the human anatomy. If I died from eating twelve pounds of kiwi I’d be happy, cause at least I had myself an armpit. Herein lies the poverty of my affluence. Where's my bible? I've got to read my bible. Ezekiel. No, Exodus. I don't know. I need to start over from the beginning. Start fresh. Renew. Recoil. Probably throw up.
Okay. I can do this. One more day. I can live through one more day. I know the perfect guava stand.
But I need that bible. Eccleisiastes, maybe?
Kiwi is the armpit of the fruit family. Now, I like armpits. When someone says, I’ve just been to the armpit of California, I wanna go. It’s my favorite part of the human anatomy. If I died from eating twelve pounds of kiwi I’d be happy, cause at least I had myself an armpit. Herein lies the poverty of my affluence. Where's my bible? I've got to read my bible. Ezekiel. No, Exodus. I don't know. I need to start over from the beginning. Start fresh. Renew. Recoil. Probably throw up.
Okay. I can do this. One more day. I can live through one more day. I know the perfect guava stand.
But I need that bible. Eccleisiastes, maybe?
Kurt Vonnegut's dead and I can't think of anyone better than Eric Spitznagel to kick off his memorial. Spitznagel, the author of one of the better books on being a pornscreenwriter, FAST FORWARD, I read faster than I read Kevin Keck's OEDIPUS WRECKED. Spitznagel is also the web editor of MONKEYBICYCLE, always a nice read for flash fiction, space and beyond. He's also co-authoring the new Ron Jeremy biography. I hope that didn't entail any one-site research. Then again, FAST-FORWARD was a memoir, or was it fiction. The lines are blurring....
Anyway he's got a fascinating (and I mean fascinating) blog called VONNEGUT'S ASSHOLE.
He didn't just create the site.
It's been around.
Check it.
Anyway he's got a fascinating (and I mean fascinating) blog called VONNEGUT'S ASSHOLE.
He didn't just create the site.
It's been around.
Check it.
por favor lees si tu entiendes
ahora estoy viviendo en fukuoka pero fukuoka es un lugar que se puede cambiar
es un lugar con sonrisas falsas con hombres llena del dinero y no del corazon
corazon en mientira no es corazon en el hecho del sol del pensamiento del morte de lo no puedo decirte
a ti, como no entiendes casi ningunas palabras del mio, como puedes entender mi alma pero entiendes bastante bien, como soy, como no soy con las chicas altas del qualiquier nivel de la vida promisa ser una cosa del otra planeta donde
estas ahora, en su casa, solo, escribiendo un cuento nuevo
un historia del un escritor, que no puede escribe en su lengua propria
por que no le gusta inglez
lo que queiere es escapar del su lengua propria
y entrar en una casa negro, sin candellas sin luce sin lenguaje
y ser pobre, es una pobrecito corazon que queire ser peor, por que es un mediocre talento ascondida entre un cuerpo borracho, viviendo en espacia sin banyo
ahora estoy viviendo en fukuoka pero fukuoka es un lugar que se puede cambiar
es un lugar con sonrisas falsas con hombres llena del dinero y no del corazon
corazon en mientira no es corazon en el hecho del sol del pensamiento del morte de lo no puedo decirte
a ti, como no entiendes casi ningunas palabras del mio, como puedes entender mi alma pero entiendes bastante bien, como soy, como no soy con las chicas altas del qualiquier nivel de la vida promisa ser una cosa del otra planeta donde
estas ahora, en su casa, solo, escribiendo un cuento nuevo
un historia del un escritor, que no puede escribe en su lengua propria
por que no le gusta inglez
lo que queiere es escapar del su lengua propria
y entrar en una casa negro, sin candellas sin luce sin lenguaje
y ser pobre, es una pobrecito corazon que queire ser peor, por que es un mediocre talento ascondida entre un cuerpo borracho, viviendo en espacia sin banyo
Unit Structure
I asked J Morales (Unit Structure) if I he could ask himself a few questions, then proceed to answer them and send them to me for post on the blog. This is what he said:
How bout you come up with some questions, and I'll send whitty, erudite and curt replies. That way you can have proof you knew and interviewed me when I was more of a nobody.
Q. When did you first discover buddy rich, han bennink and ed
blackwell were your favorite drummers.
A. Buddy Rich was all flash and NO SOUL. Ed Blackwell as soon as I heard hit stick hit drum on "Free Jazz" . Han Bennink ? Slapstick in a viking wrapper (I mean that in a good way). My first favorite drummer was F.Meinheit (E.N.).
Q. Talk about RM.CLR, your old moniker. Did you really clear rooms?
A. More than I care to admit. Roomclearer is a dead language now.
Q. Who are some artists you collaborated with in the northwest. Can you contrast the NW scene with the SW scene, or others you've been involved with?
A. Steven "Shane" Schneider (aka Shane Ronet, Pixiestorm), Matt McCullough (aka Bad Pioneer 2000), Noely David Moscuvichy (aka YOU), Mike Daily (aka O'Grady). Everyone in the NW has such a postive attitude, I wish it rubbed off on me more.
Q. You are moving away from kit to pure electronics. Why?
A. When you have no car it is impossible to get your drums anywhere without begging band members and friends for a ride. My electronics fit in a suitcase and cover the entire audio spectrum 2. I DON'T WANT TO BE IN ANYONES BAND ANYMORE.
Q. When did you first realize that Brotzman is your favorite saxophonist. Contrast and compare him with david cross and neil hamburger.
A. Brotzman is ok. I'm more an Eric Dolphy man. Cross and Hamburger are what would happpen if you split my comedy atom.
Q. What is the role of comedy in music.
A. It has none. ALL music must be morbidly serious and painful.
Q. Tell me about your former but dazzling success as a comedian.
A. DRUGS
Q. How do you see your music evolving in the next 5 years
A. Arson will consume my equipment and I will become an overwieght bus driver.
Q. Films that influenced you
A. Satyricon, Eraserhead, Road Warrior, The Dark Backwards
Q.Top twenty artists, top ten or top anything
A. Top music makers on this day in my mind that I can come up with off the top o' my head and in no particular order:
Ali Farka Toure Pan Sonic Swans Eric Dolphy U.S Maple Funkadelic Einsturzende Neubauten. Chicago Underground DuoNeil Young Merzbow Fela Flaming Lips Bauhaus Master Musicians of Joujouka Fly Pan Am Aphex Twin Throbbing Gristle Laddio Bolocko Arab on Radar Wolf Eyes
Q. Prefer listening to noise morning noon or night?
A. Mid-day
Q. Can you address the time and place aspect of listening to music?
A. Whenever and wherever I can.
Q. Is there ever a bad time to listen to Merzbow?
A. During surgery.
Q. Disagree with this statement: "artists today are not discovered, they reveal themselves."
A. Frozen shit will never flow uphill.
Q. Difference between being an artist today versus 30 years ago, 50 years ago, 100 years ago.
A. Critcal mass has run roughshod over the individuality of "artists". Too many motherfuckers jumping somebody else's train in this here modern new fangles era. "Back in the day..." seems so much cooler since I wasn't there to bitch about it.
Q. Why the name change to Unit Structure?
A. Cecil Taylor album from 66.
Q. What about Cecil Taylor, are you like him, building simple themes into a complex cacophony?
A. Yes and no. No because he is a genius and I am disengenuous.
Q. Favorite 28th century classical composer?
A. Me! Many reincarnations from now, unless I get off the wheel, as it were.
Q. Links to your music.
A. I need to update the music on this BADLY: http://www.myspace.com/unitstructure. Soooon I will have stuff up for CEDARS as well.
I asked J Morales (Unit Structure) if I he could ask himself a few questions, then proceed to answer them and send them to me for post on the blog. This is what he said:
How bout you come up with some questions, and I'll send whitty, erudite and curt replies. That way you can have proof you knew and interviewed me when I was more of a nobody.
Q. When did you first discover buddy rich, han bennink and ed
blackwell were your favorite drummers.
A. Buddy Rich was all flash and NO SOUL. Ed Blackwell as soon as I heard hit stick hit drum on "Free Jazz" . Han Bennink ? Slapstick in a viking wrapper (I mean that in a good way). My first favorite drummer was F.Meinheit (E.N.).
Q. Talk about RM.CLR, your old moniker. Did you really clear rooms?
A. More than I care to admit. Roomclearer is a dead language now.
Q. Who are some artists you collaborated with in the northwest. Can you contrast the NW scene with the SW scene, or others you've been involved with?
A. Steven "Shane" Schneider (aka Shane Ronet, Pixiestorm), Matt McCullough (aka Bad Pioneer 2000), Noely David Moscuvichy (aka YOU), Mike Daily (aka O'Grady). Everyone in the NW has such a postive attitude, I wish it rubbed off on me more.
Q. You are moving away from kit to pure electronics. Why?
A. When you have no car it is impossible to get your drums anywhere without begging band members and friends for a ride. My electronics fit in a suitcase and cover the entire audio spectrum 2. I DON'T WANT TO BE IN ANYONES BAND ANYMORE.
Q. When did you first realize that Brotzman is your favorite saxophonist. Contrast and compare him with david cross and neil hamburger.
A. Brotzman is ok. I'm more an Eric Dolphy man. Cross and Hamburger are what would happpen if you split my comedy atom.
Q. What is the role of comedy in music.
A. It has none. ALL music must be morbidly serious and painful.
Q. Tell me about your former but dazzling success as a comedian.
A. DRUGS
Q. How do you see your music evolving in the next 5 years
A. Arson will consume my equipment and I will become an overwieght bus driver.
Q. Films that influenced you
A. Satyricon, Eraserhead, Road Warrior, The Dark Backwards
Q.Top twenty artists, top ten or top anything
A. Top music makers on this day in my mind that I can come up with off the top o' my head and in no particular order:
Ali Farka Toure Pan Sonic Swans Eric Dolphy U.S Maple Funkadelic Einsturzende Neubauten. Chicago Underground DuoNeil Young Merzbow Fela Flaming Lips Bauhaus Master Musicians of Joujouka Fly Pan Am Aphex Twin Throbbing Gristle Laddio Bolocko Arab on Radar Wolf Eyes
Q. Prefer listening to noise morning noon or night?
A. Mid-day
Q. Can you address the time and place aspect of listening to music?
A. Whenever and wherever I can.
Q. Is there ever a bad time to listen to Merzbow?
A. During surgery.
Q. Disagree with this statement: "artists today are not discovered, they reveal themselves."
A. Frozen shit will never flow uphill.
Q. Difference between being an artist today versus 30 years ago, 50 years ago, 100 years ago.
A. Critcal mass has run roughshod over the individuality of "artists". Too many motherfuckers jumping somebody else's train in this here modern new fangles era. "Back in the day..." seems so much cooler since I wasn't there to bitch about it.
Q. Why the name change to Unit Structure?
A. Cecil Taylor album from 66.
Q. What about Cecil Taylor, are you like him, building simple themes into a complex cacophony?
A. Yes and no. No because he is a genius and I am disengenuous.
Q. Favorite 28th century classical composer?
A. Me! Many reincarnations from now, unless I get off the wheel, as it were.
Q. Links to your music.
A. I need to update the music on this BADLY: http://www.myspace.com/unitstructure. Soooon I will have stuff up for CEDARS as well.
Two things.
One, Whitney Woolf's Rolling Papers. This microfiction is precisely the size of a zigzag box, but a lot bigger on the inside. Read it. Order it. Design, execution, electrocution. Yes.
"Keiko" is the one she sent me. But she has more.
Thing number two.
I found this in my mailbox today.
Hi David: just wanted to let you know that Smokebox no. 48 (April/May 2007) is live at www.smokebox.net, including your piece, “Voices from the Fictionary.” Thanks again for submitting and we look forward to seeing more from you in the future.
Marc Covert.
One, Whitney Woolf's Rolling Papers. This microfiction is precisely the size of a zigzag box, but a lot bigger on the inside. Read it. Order it. Design, execution, electrocution. Yes.
"Keiko" is the one she sent me. But she has more.
Thing number two.
I found this in my mailbox today.
Hi David: just wanted to let you know that Smokebox no. 48 (April/May 2007) is live at www.smokebox.net, including your piece, “Voices from the Fictionary.” Thanks again for submitting and we look forward to seeing more from you in the future.
Marc Covert.
My Romanian buddy Elena asked me to give her some ideas to name her new women's clothing shop in Fukuoka. So I sent her this list:
UNKO BITCH
CHAT MUFF
DINGLEBERRY
MARLOVAH WITNESS
CASANOVA SUNDAY
JUMP JUMP
GRASS
SA SA
MUMU
CHIN SLAP
PAPPY
KONTRA
FINAL MONTA
YOKU YOKU
PEACHYPEACHY
WASURETTA
BIKKURI PAW
NOVIO
LETTERS TO HELL
DEAR ELENA
DRAGA MAMEI
ACUMA UNDE
IMA DOKO
BIKKURI BRA
WIPER DIAPER
LOVE, TRISH
SUPER DUPER
WONDERWEAR
MUSCLE LADY
MUSCLE STOP
PERFECT FIT
SAIGO WARAU
NANDE NANDE
SOKO SOKO
ACHIKA SOCHIKA
BANANA PANTS
SOCK IT TO ME
LOVER'S QUARREL
RUBBER DUCK
PATRON SAINT
QUEEN OF THE DESERT
SWEET LOTUS
SWEET MARIE
SWEET SWEET
DULCE BOOTSU
MARE FRICOSA
DEEP BLUE SEE
BARGEMAN'S POLE
CHIKYU HIP
LOST NINJAS
SIT AND PULL
FINGER FUCK (a spinoff of RINGER HUT)
BONYU PONZU
KANPAI BAYASHI
UNKO BITCH
CHAT MUFF
DINGLEBERRY
MARLOVAH WITNESS
CASANOVA SUNDAY
JUMP JUMP
GRASS
SA SA
MUMU
CHIN SLAP
PAPPY
KONTRA
FINAL MONTA
YOKU YOKU
PEACHYPEACHY
WASURETTA
BIKKURI PAW
NOVIO
LETTERS TO HELL
DEAR ELENA
DRAGA MAMEI
ACUMA UNDE
IMA DOKO
BIKKURI BRA
WIPER DIAPER
LOVE, TRISH
SUPER DUPER
WONDERWEAR
MUSCLE LADY
MUSCLE STOP
PERFECT FIT
SAIGO WARAU
NANDE NANDE
SOKO SOKO
ACHIKA SOCHIKA
BANANA PANTS
SOCK IT TO ME
LOVER'S QUARREL
RUBBER DUCK
PATRON SAINT
QUEEN OF THE DESERT
SWEET LOTUS
SWEET MARIE
SWEET SWEET
DULCE BOOTSU
MARE FRICOSA
DEEP BLUE SEE
BARGEMAN'S POLE
CHIKYU HIP
LOST NINJAS
SIT AND PULL
FINGER FUCK (a spinoff of RINGER HUT)
BONYU PONZU
KANPAI BAYASHI
FIASCO update by gomez addams
dearest deer rest d arrest sir,
now hear this here now
(fiasco mantra)
thank you for acknowledging your existence.
i have just been informed by the fiasco high priest of promotional gig
procurement ministry, alejandro "bill graham" ceballos that at the
request of the la president de la pacific northwest college of art
(stupidest art school name in the universe as we know it), fiasco will perform
march 14th at 12:30 for 60 minutes. no sack lunch required.
i will dedicate my portion of this sacraficial virgin performance to
you moscofiascovich by decreeing a moment of silent sanctified
funkaficational pure solid gold prayer.
in harmolodicgoth we trust
so long suppositorisan so l o n g suppositori ouch too long
http://www.myspace.com/fiascovich
http://www.myspace.com/fiascomax
http://www.youtube.com/sogatube
Left forward, now even-stepped, now right hand holding handrail. Shifts weight to right middle. Stands. Shifts to right center, now leaning right. Now fully right-weighted, left-witted. Slows, stops, ring-ring-ring. Two schoolgirls get out. Grabs hand-rail with two hands, swings round to land in empty seat. Chin cornered by knuckleweight. Lift low knuckleweight not lifting, lurching. Almost sucking thumb. Born 1930? 1933? 1923? 1940? 1944? 1928? Pre- or Post-? Pre- or Post- indeed. Woof Woolfe. White socks [dimmed lace-cutters, can’t be a man] texture of ping-pong net. Worn lips, dying crying swollen eyes of survival and survival meal after meal curry curry curried it’s way coursed these veins. Survival of the piggest. Non-longen bided by bargeman’s poles. Silver wristwatch black dials purged the centuries of dust neath the skin of an old cunt. Denim colored pants of a cottonlike suede unlike material; fancy the mother’s been away on Saturnday sabbatical. Outer three fingers hold the rail thumb under chin keeps close to mouth, folds arms in lap-luster for the earth to spread its cheeks and blister its way into the rapturous concussion of perth wanderings. Itching elbows crossed arms. Notices, signals by scratching nose when no itch exists. Wants an itch to scratch itch isn’t there. Billboard of a gaping mouthwound bleeding gums before and after: er aqua-marine-corps logos logo crumples as it crumbles. Held tight a blue plastic baby with right arm mumbling chocolate whale artifact blubber of the pomp willed tightly round it in a tight-fisted left-hand cuddling face and lips, squinting eyemuscles tenderized launched in a fresh memory wakarimasen cultural car-wreck of a momo. Full lips, full hips, full cheeks, haha probably [a mother] locked in primordial disgustation of her chichi’s chinchin. Cotton dull grey zippersweater full roundabout to the full round bottom of her bottom, sitting swilling fingertips rubbing bottom lip. Hiccups, removes hand from face for duration of the attack. Reaches for temple in prolongued state of the union addressing her memory sadness locked down bag tightening, crinkles as it crumples.
DVD artist Kawasaki Yuko interviews Maruyama Yuji about his work. The following is unedited, unchanged and uncouth. The questions were prompted by email, from one artist to another, in Kitakyushu, Japan. This is the result.
please write 5 words that you can think of right now
Hips, hole, window, mind, and expectation
尻、穴、窓、心、希望
please write 5 key words to express your music and painting
Love, cumulus cloud, chaotic , hope, and laughter
愛、積層雲、混沌、希望、笑い
what do you think of the number 5
It is not.
なにも思わない
which one is the most important for you, sexual desire, sleeping desire or
appetite?
Sexual desire
性欲
if you were music maker of KAT-TUN, what the title of new single would be?
PonChinChin
ぽんちんちん
what color would fit for the word ' marriage'?
Light banana color
淡いばなな色
if you have unlimited budget, what kind of exhibition you want to produce?
The rotation of the earth on its axis is reversed.
地球の自転を逆回転にする
what was your best act that you ever had?
Is not hit on.
特にない
if god say to you, " i can give you one thing", what will you say?
The world without war, poverty, and liver complaint
貧困、戦争、肝臓の病気
please write 5 words that you can think of right now
Hips, hole, window, mind, and expectation
尻、穴、窓、心、希望
please write 5 key words to express your music and painting
Love, cumulus cloud, chaotic , hope, and laughter
愛、積層雲、混沌、希望、笑い
what do you think of the number 5
It is not.
なにも思わない
which one is the most important for you, sexual desire, sleeping desire or
appetite?
Sexual desire
性欲
if you were music maker of KAT-TUN, what the title of new single would be?
PonChinChin
ぽんちんちん
what color would fit for the word ' marriage'?
Light banana color
淡いばなな色
if you have unlimited budget, what kind of exhibition you want to produce?
The rotation of the earth on its axis is reversed.
地球の自転を逆回転にする
what was your best act that you ever had?
Is not hit on.
特にない
if god say to you, " i can give you one thing", what will you say?
The world without war, poverty, and liver complaint
貧困、戦争、肝臓の病気
KANOJO O HAJIMETE MITA SHUNKAN NO KOTO O IMA DEMO OMOIDASEMASU. I can still remember the first moment I saw her. KAKINE GA IMA NIMO TAORETE KISOO DATTA. The fence looked like it could fall any moment. KUSURI GA KANOJO KARA ITAMI O TORINOZOITA. The medicine freed her of any pain. DOA O SHIMETA TOKI, NOBU GA HAZURETA. The knob came off when I closed the door. SATSUJIN WA JUUDAINA HANZAI DESU. Murder is a serious offence. JAKKU GA, SHUUMATSU NO AIDA TORAKKU O TSUKATTE II TO MOOSHIDETE KURETA. Jack offered to let us use his truck for the weekend. TAIPURAITAA O KARITE MO II DESU KA? Is it ok if I borrow your typewriter?
KANOJO O HAJIMETE MITA SHUNKAN琴O IMAデモOMOIDASEMASU。 私はまだ最初の瞬間に彼女に会ったのを思い出すことができます。 KAKINE GA IMA NIMO TAORETE KISOOダット． フェンスがそれのように見えてどんな瞬間にも落ちることができました。 KUSURI GA KANOJOキャラ伊丹O TORINOZOITA． 薬が彼女を解放して全ての苦痛の。 到着時すでに死亡O SHIMETA TOKI、NOBU GA HAZURETA． 私がドアを閉じた時、ノブ〔こぶ〕は取れました。 SATSUJIN WA JUUDAINA HANZAI DESU． 殺人は深刻な違反です。 JAKKU GA、SHUUMATSU MOOSHIDETE KURETAへのアイーダTORAKKU O TSUKATTE II。 ジャックは週末のために私たちにトラックを使わせることを申し出ました。 TAIPURAITAA O KARITE MO II、DESU KA？ もし私があなたのタイプライターを借りればokですか？
KANOJO O HAJIMETE MITA SHUNKAN琴O IMAデモOMOIDASEMASU。 私はまだ最初の瞬間に彼女に会ったのを思い出すことができます。 KAKINE GA IMA NIMO TAORETE KISOOダット． フェンスがそれのように見えてどんな瞬間にも落ちることができました。 KUSURI GA KANOJOキャラ伊丹O TORINOZOITA． 薬が彼女を解放して全ての苦痛の。 到着時すでに死亡O SHIMETA TOKI、NOBU GA HAZURETA． 私がドアを閉じた時、ノブ〔こぶ〕は取れました。 SATSUJIN WA JUUDAINA HANZAI DESU． 殺人は深刻な違反です。 JAKKU GA、SHUUMATSU MOOSHIDETE KURETAへのアイーダTORAKKU O TSUKATTE II。 ジャックは週末のために私たちにトラックを使わせることを申し出ました。 TAIPURAITAA O KARITE MO II、DESU KA？ もし私があなたのタイプライターを借りればokですか？
FROM: Crane's Bill Books
CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS
Crane's Bill Books seeks writing on any subject and in any style for a
very spare anthology. Must be (1) prose, (2) untitled, and (3) exactly
thirty-one words. Multiple submissions okay.
THIRTY-ONE will be published in 2007 as a small, inexpensive, desktop
artist's book. Payment will be in copies. Feel free to forward this
announcement to anyone you think might be interested.
Thanks!
Jeffrey
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hypnotherapist, 6’ 4”, from Belfast. Telekinesis expert, speak six languages, brew my own Chernobyl stout and I know what you’re thinking. Ring ring. Males please stand, move to the next female.
CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS
Crane's Bill Books seeks writing on any subject and in any style for a
very spare anthology. Must be (1) prose, (2) untitled, and (3) exactly
thirty-one words. Multiple submissions okay.
THIRTY-ONE will be published in 2007 as a small, inexpensive, desktop
artist's book. Payment will be in copies. Feel free to forward this
announcement to anyone you think might be interested.
Thanks!
Jeffrey
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hypnotherapist, 6’ 4”, from Belfast. Telekinesis expert, speak six languages, brew my own Chernobyl stout and I know what you’re thinking. Ring ring. Males please stand, move to the next female.
D Cup Champion
I received an email today confirming what I always feared most. We are all D Cup Champions. The lot of youse.
Ａカップ
152 (5%)
Ｂカップ
376 (12%)
Ｃカップ
632 (21%)
Ｄカップ
715 (23%)
Ｅカップ
554 (18%)
Ｆカップ
358 (11%)
Ｇカップ
140 (4%)
Ｈカップ
42 (1%)
Ｉカップ
21 (0%)
Ｊカップ以上
10 (0%)
合 計 3000
Ａカップ
152 (5%)
Ｂカップ
376 (12%)
Ｃカップ
632 (21%)
Ｄカップ
715 (23%)
Ｅカップ
554 (18%)
Ｆカップ
358 (11%)
Ｇカップ
140 (4%)
Ｈカップ
42 (1%)
Ｉカップ
21 (0%)
Ｊカップ以上
10 (0%)
合 計 3000
Dub Marronics. Go see them. US Tour
I should preface the following by saying that it may not have any relation to what immediately follows it. Instead, I`ll just preface it by saying nothing instead. But it`s really fucking hard to say nothing. I keep trying to say nothing, because I don`t have anything to say. Still, when someone doesn`t have anything to say, it doesn`t mean they can say nothing.
Still, the difficulty of saying nothing persists, like a picnic on a frozen river.
That being said [or not said], the following has nothing to do with what I`ve been saying [and nothing to do with nothing, either, which contrary to something, is not at all what it appears to be].
I can`t wait to see what nothing looks like when translated into Japanese by an automated translation service. That`s right, this paragraph, as written in Japanese, has been translated by an automated translation service. The nature of the service I won`t go into, as I have nothing important to say about it.
Having said that, the following, once again has nothing to do with what I`ve been saying.
What it doesn`t have anything to do with is the Kyoto band DUB MARRONICS. I can`t tell you why I wasn`t thinking about them just now.
I seem to remember not thinking about their upcoming tour as well.
Now that hardly sounds like a recommendation.
But remember what Frank Zappa said about THE SHAGGS: They bring my mind to a complete halt.
Go see them. Dub Marronics from Kyoto, Japan. Nippon. YASUHIKO TANAKA 田中康彦 Guitar
YOKO MUTOU 武藤容子 Fraction Violin,Recorder, Bell lyra,Pianica,etc.
IZUMI OTA 太田泉 (Pico drum) beats.
Recent Release: MELTS SLOWLY.
Jan 18 2007 7:00P
luggage store gallery SF, California
Jan 21 2007 7:00P
ground kontrol portland, Oregon
Jan 22 2007 7:00P
Lo-Fi seattle, Washington
Jan 25 2007 7:00P
Lo-Fi seattle, Washington
Jan 26 2007 7:00P
someday portland, Oregon
Jan 27 2007 8:00P
gallery1412 seattle, Washington
Jan 31 2007 8:00P
il corral LA, California
私は、それが直ちにそれに続くものとの関係を持っていないかもしれないと言うことによって以下の序文になるべきです。 代わりに、私『llが単に代わりに何も言わないことによってそれの序文になります。 それを除いて 『何も言わないために猛烈に本当に性交しているs 私が何も言わないようにし続けて、着用するので『tには言うものがあります。 まだ、 誰の時かは doesn't 例えばそれで何でも持っている doesn 『tは何も言わないことができることを意味する。
まだ、凍った川のピクニックのように、何も言わない難しさは続きます。
それが言われて [ あるいは 言われない ] 以下が何ように必要なものをする 私 ' ve 諺だった [ そして 同様にことで何かにどの正反対を何もしないnothing 全くそれが何であるように思われるかでない ]。
私がそうすることができて『tは何も自動化された翻訳サービスによって日本人〔日本語〕に訳されない時何のように見えないか見るのを待ちます。 『sの右(この段落)が日本語で書かれるように自動化された翻訳サービスによって訳されたこと。 私が勝ったサービスの性質 ' t 私が何もそれについて言うことがdaijinことを持っていない 時 入る
それを言っていること 以下 もう一度何ように必要なものをする 私 I' ve 諺がそうだった。
何かに それ doesn'tには必要なものがある 京都バンドが DUB MARRONICSとあだ名する。 私がそうすることができる ' tがあなたになぜか教える 私 wasn ' tがちょうど今それらについて考えて。 私は同様にそれらの来るべきツアーについて考えなかったことを覚えるように思われます。
今それはほとんど推薦のように思われません。
しかしフランク・ザッパがSHAGGSについて何を言ったかを覚えていてください： それらは完璧な停止に私の心をもたらします。
それらに会いに、行ってください。 京都、日本からのMarronicsをダビングしてください。 日本．
DUB MARRONICS『MELTS SLOWLY』 2,500円(税込)
京都在住のスマイリーな自由音楽人マロンさん、こと田中康彦氏。元ボガンボスの永井利充さんとのユニット、アクアボム脱退後始めたのが、メンバー不定ユニット ”ダブ・マロニクス”。そのダブ・マロニクスの記念すべき1stアルバムが当アルバム『MELTS SLOWLY』。 京大、精華大学などの現代音楽シーンを作る中心の1人であるマロンさんの創造世界。とくと堪能あれ。 DUB MARRONICS are YASUHIKO TANAKA 田中康彦 Guitar YOKO MUTOU 武藤容子 Fraction Violin,Recorder,Bell lyra,Pia...
Still, the difficulty of saying nothing persists, like a picnic on a frozen river.
That being said [or not said], the following has nothing to do with what I`ve been saying [and nothing to do with nothing, either, which contrary to something, is not at all what it appears to be].
I can`t wait to see what nothing looks like when translated into Japanese by an automated translation service. That`s right, this paragraph, as written in Japanese, has been translated by an automated translation service. The nature of the service I won`t go into, as I have nothing important to say about it.
Having said that, the following, once again has nothing to do with what I`ve been saying.
What it doesn`t have anything to do with is the Kyoto band DUB MARRONICS. I can`t tell you why I wasn`t thinking about them just now.
I seem to remember not thinking about their upcoming tour as well.
Now that hardly sounds like a recommendation.
But remember what Frank Zappa said about THE SHAGGS: They bring my mind to a complete halt.
Go see them. Dub Marronics from Kyoto, Japan. Nippon. YASUHIKO TANAKA 田中康彦 Guitar
YOKO MUTOU 武藤容子 Fraction Violin,Recorder, Bell lyra,Pianica,etc.
IZUMI OTA 太田泉 (Pico drum) beats.
Recent Release: MELTS SLOWLY.
Jan 18 2007 7:00P
luggage store gallery SF, California
Jan 21 2007 7:00P
ground kontrol portland, Oregon
Jan 22 2007 7:00P
Lo-Fi seattle, Washington
Jan 25 2007 7:00P
Lo-Fi seattle, Washington
Jan 26 2007 7:00P
someday portland, Oregon
Jan 27 2007 8:00P
gallery1412 seattle, Washington
Jan 31 2007 8:00P
il corral LA, California
私は、それが直ちにそれに続くものとの関係を持っていないかもしれないと言うことによって以下の序文になるべきです。 代わりに、私『llが単に代わりに何も言わないことによってそれの序文になります。 それを除いて 『何も言わないために猛烈に本当に性交しているs 私が何も言わないようにし続けて、着用するので『tには言うものがあります。 まだ、 誰の時かは doesn't 例えばそれで何でも持っている doesn 『tは何も言わないことができることを意味する。
まだ、凍った川のピクニックのように、何も言わない難しさは続きます。
それが言われて [ あるいは 言われない ] 以下が何ように必要なものをする 私 ' ve 諺だった [ そして 同様にことで何かにどの正反対を何もしないnothing 全くそれが何であるように思われるかでない ]。
私がそうすることができて『tは何も自動化された翻訳サービスによって日本人〔日本語〕に訳されない時何のように見えないか見るのを待ちます。 『sの右(この段落)が日本語で書かれるように自動化された翻訳サービスによって訳されたこと。 私が勝ったサービスの性質 ' t 私が何もそれについて言うことがdaijinことを持っていない 時 入る
それを言っていること 以下 もう一度何ように必要なものをする 私 I' ve 諺がそうだった。
何かに それ doesn'tには必要なものがある 京都バンドが DUB MARRONICSとあだ名する。 私がそうすることができる ' tがあなたになぜか教える 私 wasn ' tがちょうど今それらについて考えて。 私は同様にそれらの来るべきツアーについて考えなかったことを覚えるように思われます。
今それはほとんど推薦のように思われません。
しかしフランク・ザッパがSHAGGSについて何を言ったかを覚えていてください： それらは完璧な停止に私の心をもたらします。
それらに会いに、行ってください。 京都、日本からのMarronicsをダビングしてください。 日本．
DUB MARRONICS『MELTS SLOWLY』 2,500円(税込)
京都在住のスマイリーな自由音楽人マロンさん、こと田中康彦氏。元ボガンボスの永井利充さんとのユニット、アクアボム脱退後始めたのが、メンバー不定ユニット ”ダブ・マロニクス”。そのダブ・マロニクスの記念すべき1stアルバムが当アルバム『MELTS SLOWLY』。 京大、精華大学などの現代音楽シーンを作る中心の1人であるマロンさんの創造世界。とくと堪能あれ。 DUB MARRONICS are YASUHIKO TANAKA 田中康彦 Guitar YOKO MUTOU 武藤容子 Fraction Violin,Recorder,Bell lyra,Pia...
New Year at Gallery SOAP/New Fiction That Has Nothing To Do With SOAP
Munz, Odori Neko, Miruko, Sourukyodai, Warai no Tsubo [Common Laughing Point].
It started when I had one of my legendary migraines, and I watched her set a plate down next to the futon, so I could roll over and lick it with the least effort. It just accelerated from there – or decelerated I guess, like forgetting to wind a watch and letting the hands stop. The power gradually drained from me, and even as the headache seemed to subside it came back with more force, so that all the lights were turned down, not even a candle, and Noriko started bringing me milk, fresh from her breast, in a delicate Arita ceramic, one of her families’ own they couldn’t find room for at the shop.
The milk was mild, warm and sweet, and it seemed to contain all the nourishment I needed. I had no doubt my muscles had been atrophying, except for the one – which she had no qualms about using, and was in fact, my only activity for the following period, the time of which I’m not certain, but it must be stated that things would never again be the same, that this dark period had sprung up unexpectedly, and its mood infected my everyday so that I could not return to the way it had been before – in effect, I became addicted.
She would check on me twice a day, minimum, in between work shifts at the hospital, where she worked as a nurse for the mentally challenged. How she managed to see me as any different I’ll never know. That she adored me I have no doubt – but the way it ended, the way it became so normal for us, gradually the routine, happened like a slip in time, starting with the first bowl of milk.
I couldn’t walk on two legs, it wasn’t allowed. Nor was I allowed to leave the apartment of my own free will, that was out of the question. If I stayed underneath the doorknob for long enough, staring at it with intent, moping audibly, she might be good and open it for me. But as soon as I was out, I wanted her to let me back in. I couldn’t control it. It became like impulse, and impulse became nature, and then there was the forgetting. Forgetting the way it was before. Like it had never been any different.
Even the thought of being on two legs annoyed me, dizzied me, remembering how gravity always seemed to pull me downwards, that as long as I could remember I only wanted to be on the floor, admiring her boots, looking up at her curvaceous body, untouchable lest I should be punished, and punished brutally, lovingly. Swiftly. Then it would be all over, and she would recover me with bandages and lick me like a cat washing its own paws, which pleased me immeasurably, and she would hold me and run her hand from the back of my head down to the end of my spine, until I fell into a stupor and a dream, yet I remained awake, dehydrated, bleary-eyed, unable to move, unable to resist her touch in the same way I was unable to resist her kicks, swift and unforgiving, pointed and focused, jamming my ribs and god knows what other bones she might have broken in her calm, eloquent fury.
She would give me assignments, to keep busy while she was at work. She didn’t want me wandering off, so she started a magazine collection for me. She would bring one home and leave it in the doorway, so that after she was done beating me and holding me I would have some reading material to hold me over before the next one. The first one she gave me was called Unidentified Mysterious Animals [UMA], and it was all in Japanese except for the chapter headings. Chapter One: The Existence of So-Called Unidentified Mysterious Animal. Chapter Two: Mysterious Creatures Hidden Under the Water. Chapter Three: Mysterious Creatures Concealed in Deep Forest. Chapter Four: Mysterious Creatures That Glide Across the Sky. Chapter Five: Mysterious Creatures that Sneak Around. Chapter Six: Mysterious Creatures that Conceals in Japan.
The magazine featured detailed area maps of the creatures’ locations, which were spread throughout the globe. Sometimes the title pages had lavish pencil sketches with English subtitles, listing the creatures divulged within: The Flying Rods, Skunk Ape, Minnesota Iceman, Mongolian Death Worm. I could make up any story I wanted to go along with the photographs – most of the text didn’t make sense to me. Aside from a few hundred familiar kanji, the rough equivalent is like reading an English newspaper with the ability only to recognize the letter “A”, and nothing else. Surprisingly, though, in the battered state I was in, I could spend countless hours indulging myself in what lay behind the kanji – the Mongolian Death Worm, 2.5m—11.5m in length, first sighted at the such and such lake in northern Mongolia, in the dead crisp of winter, by an unsuspecting family of four nomads traveling by dogsled, momentarily capsized by the rumbling of the earth, the violent cracking of the ice below them, the awesome surge of blood as they are hurled through space on the back of this giant earthworm, kicking and spitting like an electric bull, spinning them on the ice and causing the sled to overturn on itself, the two huskies killed instantly on blunt impact, the family at once shocked and adrenalized, father taking a brave last stand as the horrified women and children stand witness to his demise, eaten whole by a giant earthworm that carries his own Worchester sauce.
I had heard stories about the Chupacabras, leaving infant carcasses completely drained of blood on their mothers’ doorsteps. The photos depicted black-clawed creatures with bloody gums and eyes like the coldest lizard, but somehow I began to think of Noriko in such a way. In my imaginings, I was the baby and she was the Chupacabra, snatching me in the dead of night from my crib, whisking me away to her cave and biting into me, sucking, and sucking, and sucking, until my whole body felt as dry as my mouth when I’m dehydrated, or after coming and coming and coming; used up in that delicious way that I wanted to be used by her, abused, thrown away even, spat upon, destroyed by her power in order to feed her strength, and in feeding her strength I was fulfilling my love for her, or my obsession, depending on your perspective.
If I remember correctly, that week’s beatings were especially brutal. As I had been fantasizing about the Flying Rods, she blasted through the door and started in on me without ceremony, with a fury I had never seen, pouncing on me, burning me with her passion, squashing my face into the pillow and kicking the ribs, then turning me over and pummeling me without as much as a hello, almost gracelessly slapping me left, right, left, right, then seeing my erection through the briefs, yanking off my clothes and arresting me inside her while continuing the beating she was fucking me, and I’m sure my face was a complete disaster because the blood sprayed her bust with each new slap, now she was just spreading my nosebleed and getting off over it. But just as I thought she was finished and she had come, she opened her mouth and that’s when I knew I wasn’t getting away anytime soon. She must have had them operated on, because I have never seen choppers like that. Needless to say, she drained me, and from the neck even, as I was coming inside her. It was just as I had hoped – she was draining the very life-force out of me, in fact I thought I might not survive, with all the blood transforming the sheets into a lake of fire.
I drifted off, distinctly I remember drifting off into a dream of the very scene that just played itself out in reality – if that’s what you call it – but from a bird’s eye perspective, it must have been from the ceiling – we had very high ceilings, maybe fourteen feet high, and I was hovering over our bodies and she was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen, a true artist at work, absorbed in her doings, in no other time or space, just doing, just being what she is. The way she took hold of me like a limp rag, a useless quilt, a doll, from the instant she walked in, and from above I could see the sharp voluptuousness of her curves jolting me with their vivacity, the pale, thin, boyish character diffusing beneath her, shrinking yet absorbing her with the same relish she had for devouring him.
These were my darkest days, my best days, my days without legs, without motion, without a will of my own, my only will to be subordinated again and again by this mother beast, this – and that’s when it struck me, the Japanese pronunciation of the English word “woman” sounds exactly like the American pronunciation of UMA, as in Uma Thurman, as in Unidentified Mysterious Animal. And simultaneously, as I was lapsing into unconsciousness, I remembered passing over a small, almost unnoticeable black and white photograph in a corner of the back cover page – it was something I saw but immediately forgot due to the initial shock and denial – Noriko in her black boots with her face half turned away, the caption of which read “Mysterious Chupacabra Lady of Japan”.
Once I had to clean the floors, as she had no qualms about examining every inch on her return. She had a magnifying glass, and spectacles hanging from her neck as she inspected my work. I had taken a clean rag made it dirty, being always on all fours I couldn’t reach for the sink to wash it off, and so did my best with the soapy bucket at hand. Of course, she found a long black hair [that must have been hers she dropped when she turned around, for the floor had been immaculate moments before] picked it up and began walking towards me with intent from the other room – there were two rooms, a bedroom with a sliding glass door and one very small foyer/kitchen area, I had been on the bed, in the larger of the two rooms, but could see her coming at me with the familiar look, and I knew I was in for a good one.
What’s this? she said but I knew it was a rhetorical question, that to answer would be the same as to die an instant and violent death, crushed by the force of two mack trucks levied at a crossroads. And then the whip, she was dressed of course in the traditional black black leather leather – no, wait – I don’t like the way this one is going, it’s too predictable. Of course, she gets carried away with the beating and nearly kills him as he writhes in ecstacy – no, it’s been done before, and will be done a thousand times – no, I’m not interested in this one, I don’t want to rewrite it like that – and besides, there’s a smell of definite mold in this room, or maybe it's the dirtiest glass window I’ve ever seen in a bookstore – or maybe it’s this guy’s cellphone that keeps ringing next to me, with some stupid pop song ringtone. At least the music isn’t pumping loudly the all but ubiquitous Christmas music I’ve been getting around here – but wait – there she is – I know it’s hard to believe, this must be one of those times when the everyday is interrupted [yet again] by a moment which transforms reality into something resembling fiction – she just walks in and sits next to me as I’m typing. There’s no escape – it’s definitely her – even as I write this now she’s boring into me with her eyes, no, I can’t go on writing. I have to stop. She sits down next to me in complete silence with that brutal confidence, knowing that I have no power to resist her gaze, no power to overcome her magnitude. I’m forced to look at her yet I can’t look at her yet there is no other way.
That’s when I get an email on my mobile phone, it saves me from having to confront her – but the tone of the letter sounds familiar, and as I begin to read it I fall into a kind of light trance, where I can’t stop reading the words, even though I’m not certain who it’s from, it puts me into an immediate trance, then I realize somewhere in the back of my mind that it’s from her. Somehow she managed to send it to me as I sit next to her, she must have sent it a few moments ago when she saw me sitting here. How she knew I was here I’ll never know – now I read it self-consciously, a sheep amidst a family of wolves, knowing she’s watching me read her words, imposing her power over me, though I try to resist I start to feel the heaviness of her psyche boring into my core, I’m terrified, terrified she will destroy me for good this time, terrified and yet I desire nothing more, she will leave nothing left of me, a limp rag, a dehydrated, useless shell of a body – I’m aware of all this as I start to read her email –
WHY DID YOU THINK YOU COULD ESCAPE? THERE ISN’T ANYWHERE FOR YOU TO GO – I KNOW ALL YOUR MOVES, YOUR LAST MOVE, YOUR NEXT MOVE, THE MOVE YOU HAVEN’T THOUGHT ABOUT YET, AND THE MOVE AFTER THAT. I’M TWO, THREE STEPS AHEAD OF YOU BUT I’M ALSO BEHIND YOU, I AM YOUR NEMESIS AND YOUR HEAVIEST EROTIC FANTASY, I AM EVERYTHING YOU FEAR AND EVERYTHING YOU DESIRE IN ONE WOMAN, THERE ISN’T ANYWHERE FOR YOU TO GO – I HAVE YOU SURROUNDED, IN SPACE AND IN TIME, AND FOR ALL TIME, YOU WILL BE MINE, YOU’RE THROUGH WITH THE DISGUISES, THROUGH WITH THE FLIPPANT AFFAIRS, THE PSEUDONYMS, THE TRAVELLING, I’M AHEAD OF YOU AND BEHIND YOU BOTH, I AM A DOPPLEGANGER AND A CHUPACABRA, YOU CAN’T AVOID MY GAZE BECAUSE I HAVE HAD YOU HYPNOTIZED FOR AGES, YOU’RE DRIFTING, MELTING AWAY, AS YOU ARE READING THIS YOU BEGIN TO LOSE CONSCIOUSNESS, SLOWLY, YOU BEGIN TO DRIFT AWAY EVEN AS YOU ARE LOOSELY AWARE THAT YOU ARE DRIFTING AWAY, UNDER MY POWER, MY HYPNOSIS, EVEN AS YOU ARE AWARE THAT I AM CASTING A SPELL YOU CANNOT RESIST, BECAUSE YOU WANT TO BE HYPNOTIZED, YOU WANT TO BE UNDER MY POWER, YOU HAVE NO WILL TO ESCAPE BECAUSE IT IS YOUR WILL TO BE DEVOURED, YOU HAVE NO WILL TO ESCAPE FROM MY WORDS, AND AS YOU READ THIS YOU BEGIN TO DRIFT LITTLE BY LITTLE, INTO ANOTHER WORLD, MY WORLD, WHERE YOU WILL ONLY PAY HEED TO MY WORDS AND NO ONE ELSE’S, NO AUTHORITY, NO FORCE, NO INSTITUTION NOR WILL CAN RELEASE YOU FROM MY GRIP, YOU WILL FORGET EVERYTHING YOU KNEW, YOUR MEMORY OUTSIDE OF WHAT WE’VE SHARED WILL BE OBLITERATED, AND AS I STARE INTO YOUR FACE SITTING NEXT TO YOU, IN YOUR CONFUSED AND HYPNOTIZED STATE YOUR WILL BECOMES WEAKER AND WEAKER, YOUR WILL BEGINS TO MERGE WITH MINE, YOUR WILL IN SUBMISSION TO MINE DOWN TO THE LAST MUSCLE, BEGINNING WITH THE MUSCLES IN YOUR EYES AS THEY MOVE ACROSS THE PAGE, I HAVE BEGUN TO TAKE CONTROL OF EVERY MUSCLE, NOW YOU ARE READING THIS THROUGH A DIM LIGHT, AS YOUR EYES BEGIN TO GET HEAVIER YOU SEE THINGS AS IF FROM A TUNNEL, AND THERE IS A SMALL RED LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL THROUGH WHICH YOU ARE READING, THOUGH YOU DON’T REALIZE IT YET YOU ARE LIVING INSIDE THAT SMALL RED LIGHT, SHELTERED BY ITS GLOW, AND AS YOU ARE READING AND THE TUNNEL CONTINUES TO GROW AROUND YOU, ENGULFING YOU IN DARKNESS, THE LIGHT BECOMING SMALLER AND SMALLER AND YOU WONDER HOW THIS EMAIL SEEMS TO GET LONGER JUST AS YOU THINK YOU’VE REACHED THE END IT CONTINUES, AND NOW YOU SEE THE LETTERS APPEARING ONE BY ONE AS YOU REALIZE I AM WRITING THIS FROM THE SEAT NEXT TO YOU, YET YOU CAN’T LOOK BECAUSE YOU KNOW ONCE YOU LOOK YOU WILL BE MINE FOREVER, THE TUNNEL CONTINUES TO GROW AND THE LIGHT BECOMES DIMMER AND WEAKER, JUST AS YOUR WILL BECOMES WEAKER, YOUR MUSCLES LIMP, DRIFTING, THERE IS NO STOPPING NOW, YOU’RE LOST, YOU’RE DRIFTING, YOU’RE LOST, YOU’RE
Awake. I’m in a room lit by candles, a hundred candles lit on a corner shelf, and I can’t tell if I’m in a bed or a chair or something in between, like a dentists chair, it’s comfortable black leather or fake leather, I’m leaning back and my mouth is halfway open, and dry, very dry, my tongue comes unstuck audibly from the upper palate as I stare at the candles, trying to place myself in space – it’s not my apartment – or is it? If the furniture had been rearranged it could very well be – by the looks of things the rooms are about the same size, but the Hieronymus Bosch is missing, which leaves a gaping white hole in the wall, and as I crane my neck to see the other room, yes, I can see that in fact it is my apartment, or was, but that all signs of life have been removed except for the candles, no dishes in the sink, no teapots, no condiments on the shelves, it’s as if no one has ever lived here, an empty, now dark apartment but for the dentist’s chair. And I can’t move. Only now I’m aware that my hands have been tied, my legs hog-tied together, and the gag in my mouth – it’s all too typical. Yet I have this feeling of comfort, of warmth, of completion. A sense that my will has been perfectly aligned with what it most desires, has always desired – the feeling of giving up completely, giving up the struggle of trying to be someone I’m not, A oneness with who I am at my very core. Then as if I had forgotten everything, I remember who did this to me. And not much else. Did I have a job, a family, some semblance or pattern of existence prior to this room, these candles, this warmth that has welled up inside me? I can’t recall. I don’t want to recall. I can’t recall anything but her – her image, her warmth, her breasts, her cunt. I remember the taste of her cunt, I can even recall images of being engrossed in that cunt, tasting it, that legendary cunt. The apartment door opens, and shuts. All silence except the click clack of heels on the pristine wood. The swish of fabric. A vague sense of not having eaten for days. And then the swiftness of it all – she wasn’t into torture – it was much quicker than last time – the rush to the head – the shock – the fascination of watching the blood slide down the body – it became someone else’s body, not my own – it’s the brain playing a final trick on the mind – and though the pain was severe, worse than severe, horrendous, unspeakable, though the pain was everything and I was the pain, I could watch the scene as if from above – from a faraway space in a dark corner of the wall – as if I were floating, a scene from a David Lynch film, the blood collects against the chair's metallic pedastal, the camera slowly zooms out, above the dentist’s chair and the dominatrix, above the victim and the sparkling floor, the drops now forming pools, the pools forming streams, unequally and chaotically distributing, a portrait of blood following or not following the direction of grain of the wood, losing itself in the cracks between the floorboards, running then coagulating under the kitchen shelving, the artist standing there, unmoving, the camera continues to zoom out, now almost to the top of the twenty foot ceiling, now in the rafters, a spiderweb coming slowly into the foreground, a yellowback with red stripes busily working the web with her left and taking up the excess web with her right, skillfully placing and replacing the silk, oblivious to the scene below, oblivious to the camera’s lens.
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