AMF 2012 and South Korea.
It's been awhile. Facebook statuses render minute and inconsequential blog posts obsolete, though the inconsequentials are eventually what conglomerate into the consequential. Or something. Or Facebook About Mes. I thought I had untouchable pocket rockets once, but big slick under the gun nailed Broadway on the river. Now I'm on tilt.
Imply what you will. She was all that.
Atlantic Music Festival; like that vast ocean of total hedonism that self-generates high school drama by disguising the idiotic with a shroud of beautiful music that seems to endlessly provide life with a cheesy soundtrack. Think Copland meets Enya. Punctuation makes perfect - he said/she said. He said, "she said"! He said she "said". The era of the man child runs amok through the hilly paths of Waterville, ME, where one summer screams at the other pitiful fifteen through the hoards and masses of still-tonal composers and begs the human soul to tangibly feel. Refusal.
In Korea now, again. Just started. Feeling at home. Seoul, like single-malt scotch, functions identically to other escape routes from a year that has changed your life.
If I added the word "forever" to that last sentence, I'd be a douche. So I didn't.
Inspired simultaneously and erratically by the blog thoughts of both Stanley Lee and Ned Rorem.
Aug 14, 2012
Feb 7, 2012
Beauty.
Beauty is everywhere.
In the starry romantic prayers of an insane Schumann, setting songs from writers whose initials abbreviate palindromically or sound like the decrepit green bottles of a Korean liquor that washed away our 20s into an alcoholic lake of noraebang frenzies and bright K-Town lights.
In the mean Asian curves of the new NSX and its postmodern comeback to howl into the California night down the circuitous curves of the 280 screaming at the invention of a homogenous culture plagued by aerodynamic zero fades and blacking out tail lights with obscenity divine.
In the solidarity of the love affair between solitude and ash trays, where the black spit filled latter wildly cackles at the pathetic visceral reality of the former and clouds perceptions of truth with a thick smoke, and a surgeon general's warning is drunkenly read in retrograde, and inversion, and retrograde inversion and inversion retrograde and noisrevni edargorter.
In the eye of the beholder, unless the beholder is Newt Gingrich.
In the polluted smog-filled night-sky of the New York City river view, discernibly visible only to the fur-coat elite of the Trump inhabiting penthouse whores and the health-conscious or vanity-stricken runners of the Hudson who twist their emaciated necks to the right running downtown to sullenly glimpse at "une barque sur l'océan" then wonder why Maurice was Basque.
In the sordid memories of the quirky alliterative long love lost, where the sea of tormented tornadoes fought voluptuous volcanoes and anti-climactically produced a pianissimo finale, where dumbfounded confusion killed communication and like a Renaissance poet sank into the alcoholic wine of the tumultuous embrace of eternal romantic pain and solitude.
End post.
Beauty is everywhere.
In the starry romantic prayers of an insane Schumann, setting songs from writers whose initials abbreviate palindromically or sound like the decrepit green bottles of a Korean liquor that washed away our 20s into an alcoholic lake of noraebang frenzies and bright K-Town lights.
In the mean Asian curves of the new NSX and its postmodern comeback to howl into the California night down the circuitous curves of the 280 screaming at the invention of a homogenous culture plagued by aerodynamic zero fades and blacking out tail lights with obscenity divine.
In the solidarity of the love affair between solitude and ash trays, where the black spit filled latter wildly cackles at the pathetic visceral reality of the former and clouds perceptions of truth with a thick smoke, and a surgeon general's warning is drunkenly read in retrograde, and inversion, and retrograde inversion and inversion retrograde and noisrevni edargorter.
In the eye of the beholder, unless the beholder is Newt Gingrich.
In the polluted smog-filled night-sky of the New York City river view, discernibly visible only to the fur-coat elite of the Trump inhabiting penthouse whores and the health-conscious or vanity-stricken runners of the Hudson who twist their emaciated necks to the right running downtown to sullenly glimpse at "une barque sur l'océan" then wonder why Maurice was Basque.
In the sordid memories of the quirky alliterative long love lost, where the sea of tormented tornadoes fought voluptuous volcanoes and anti-climactically produced a pianissimo finale, where dumbfounded confusion killed communication and like a Renaissance poet sank into the alcoholic wine of the tumultuous embrace of eternal romantic pain and solitude.
End post.
Jan 25, 2012
2012.
Another long dry spell for the blog. What's been going on? I turned 30 and this blog will soon celebrate its 10-year birthday; when I started it, I couldn't legally drink.
Atlantic Music Festival was fun. Will start second home there. Met Ethan Hawke and I was like all "whoa no way!" and then I was all "way."
I have nothing to say, mainly because I have nothing to feel. Eternal mind of the spotless sunshine. The Dionysian psychology revolves around conceptual fantasies rooted in expectation; namely, that the best is yet to come. But is there a dichotomy when only one side is right? Nietzsche's Apollo and Dionysus function more around inconvenient truths versus reassuring lies - only one is fun.
Ginsberg says that "Truth climbs upon the bed like a black cat purring and Truth is even in the ass. Is truth an objective theory, a way of life? No truth is instant perceptions. I was still taking it up the ass after the house was sold for firewood in the fucking fifties."
The era of the man child; there is no other way to live. Smoke-filled rooms inebriate the emotional cerebrum and monotony blurs consciousness with the right type of bourbon. Lenny once said that "ten thousand people yell your name and then you're alone in a Berlin hotel room." Can you face the night and enjoy it?
Will write more later. Or not.
Another long dry spell for the blog. What's been going on? I turned 30 and this blog will soon celebrate its 10-year birthday; when I started it, I couldn't legally drink.
Atlantic Music Festival was fun. Will start second home there. Met Ethan Hawke and I was like all "whoa no way!" and then I was all "way."
I have nothing to say, mainly because I have nothing to feel. Eternal mind of the spotless sunshine. The Dionysian psychology revolves around conceptual fantasies rooted in expectation; namely, that the best is yet to come. But is there a dichotomy when only one side is right? Nietzsche's Apollo and Dionysus function more around inconvenient truths versus reassuring lies - only one is fun.
Ginsberg says that "Truth climbs upon the bed like a black cat purring and Truth is even in the ass. Is truth an objective theory, a way of life? No truth is instant perceptions. I was still taking it up the ass after the house was sold for firewood in the fucking fifties."
The era of the man child; there is no other way to live. Smoke-filled rooms inebriate the emotional cerebrum and monotony blurs consciousness with the right type of bourbon. Lenny once said that "ten thousand people yell your name and then you're alone in a Berlin hotel room." Can you face the night and enjoy it?
Will write more later. Or not.
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