Tag Archives: triumph

east of the western horizon

4 Jan

hey, that sounds like a “deep” song title!

Been talkin’ to Wil about Skeletal Lamping, he holds that it is a very mediocre (okay, bad) album, I hold that it’s okay but not the best, we cannot get anywhere in this argument because I suck at arguing and he has infinitely more musical history than me. Well, you’ll have to judge for yourself. Same thing about Passion Pit: You may hate it. You may love it. You may only like it when you’re stoned to high heaven. Whatever. It’s music, and everyone is entitled to their own opinion.

For instance, I absolutely LOATHE Praxis, but I respect all members of the band (coff coff Buckethead) because they are very good at what they do. Even though I hate it. Hey, you’ve gotta give ’em some respect for being that good at creating noise.

Music is a very subjective art- actually, scratch that, all art is subjective. I’ve entered art contests, I haven’t won any of them for the simple reason that I do not follow the mold.

Oh! Speaking of art, here’s the plate (and print) that I had talked about previously, the one with Mike Poons and the Bowery on it:

(Plate)

(Print)

Totally worth the three/four weeks it took to make it. It looks great. I have like sixty copies in my room, I need to give them to people soon.

That about wraps up everything I’ve got today except this tidbit:

I’M GETTING MY LICENSE ON MONDAY.
YEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAH!

blinded by sound

15 Dec

Here are some more midnight/blind drabbles. Also, Wil hallucinates about unicorns, possibly the highlight of my school day.

It starts:

O, technicolor snowballs, the terrible twos, all makes sense somehow but that answer is a bit of a myster- oh, my stomach what did I do
And the rhythm is in us, it is part of us, of our thoughts
Neutral Milk Hotel must have exploded in alone analytic hellfire modern day fire and brimstone I suppose, but I want to be myself going into the abyss, sail away like the thoughts I think one day decades of memory. God, but-
Golden dentures melted for the poor prophets of the accurate time, of the terrible wit over of the glory that (scribble) life of the trumph the triumph
And there is nothing better than to hallelujah there always is let the coyotes take me away to the sunbeam butterflies, though the atmospheric pressure so here, teaching the things inside to bear a thir
prees, to
tell the life of a silver darkness, remembering and remembering
on and on, this glory for eternity, let things sleep and let our minds rave and wiggle and
Effort of the ties, the pole in the trees would make an exallabling(sic) memory if beheld
Bortglomt I certainly hope I love you until the end of time , or at least of this year because the end of time is a formidable challenge
But the glory in our hearts rolls on and on, trying to escape bit we refuse tonight, make me feel like a redhot poker out of the hot hot air bellows-

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The rest of that page is nigh-incomprehensible, but I tried valiantly to read it. There were several mentions of “today” but that was about it.
Probably going to do it again tonight.

Ciao.