The Head Chairman, C of CRV and Me

It doesn't make sense
Not really.
An old ache with a new face
Maybe not so new...

So loved the first
That's why.
Ended my search
No reason

No reason! to leave
And since
Never a heart on my sleeve
Always

But found again, again
Different body
Same face, wasn't planned
But hoped for

And thhhhennnnnnn
ACHE
I saw with your pen
You made
A picture you posted
Book of Faces
And then
Doris Day
I saw with her pen
She made
A quiz she posted
Book of Faces
And you are ghosted
Gone.



a bushel and a peck a bushel and a peck a bushel and a peck a bushel...
I thought we were special













Post script: Boys are not "preetty", don't call them pretty, don't call my first love pretty, don't call him pretty.

Edie and Sara Show Their Costumes

Grey Gardens, I love you

This Is A Sandy Train

It's hard for me to watch the world move past from where I'm at for when we travel on trains at night the light from inside traps the illusions and a parallel world obscures reality so no matter how hard we try, we always see ourselves reflected in what would otherwise be the truth.












Photo courtesy of Brian Richard Walker

My Boy, Boy Lilikoi

Elle woke up.
White white white white white white white white white white white white white white

and it was everywhere.

She had been dreading this moment all autumn long. The cold, the grey, the wet, the death, the loneliness... it had seemed far too much for her to hold inside her chest. But so much had changed this past week, a whirlwind of metamorphosis and she scarcely felt like the same person.

Mawkish, that is what it all sounded like when she wrote it down and counted it out but it was the truth nonetheless. Elle wouldn't have to hold it all, wouldn't have to swallow winter by herself this year. The ache inside from the bitter cold was melting from a warmth she hadn't felt in a long time.

Untitled 7 to Boy Lilikoi.














Jónsi

A Ghost (of) You

Christina (Sara) log: I offered my good friend Ghost Of (Curtis) some bananas today. I was really hoping to just sit down and eat a banana with him, talk and you know, just get to know him a little bit better, but he didn't want a banana. Said they were too green for his taste.





Ghost of
Psychedelic Furs

In A Bay of Pigs

LISTEN, I'VE BEEN DRINKING, AS OUR HOUSE LIES IN RUIN. I DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M DOING: ALONE, IN THE DARK, AT THE PARK OR AT THE PIER, WATCHING SHIPS DISAPPEAR IN THE RAIN.

THE WORLD'S JUST BONES. THE WORLD IS BLACK STONES DRESSED UP IN THE RAIN WITH NO PLACE TO GO BUT HOME, JUST LIKE CASEY! ON A NIGHT LIKE THIS, WHY, HE'S PRO STARS! PRO SKY!

ALL LIT UP AND SICK OF FIGHTING BENEATH THE DISEASED LIGHTING OF THE DISCOTHEQUE AT NIGHT, IT DON'T MEAN A THING, IT NEVER MEANS A THING, IT DON'T MEAN A THING, IT NEVER MEANS A THING, IT'S GOT THAT SWING...

I'VE SEEN IT ALL... I'VE SEEN IT ALL. MAGNOLIA'S A GIRL. HER HEART'S MADE OF WOOD. AS APOCALYPSES GO, THAT'S PRETTY GOOD, SHA LA LA, WOULDN'T YOU SAY?

PLEASE REMOVE YOUR SPURS. COME TO THINK OF IT, REMOVE YOUR ANTLERS. HAVEN'T SEEN YOU FOR AGES. I STILL FLY INTO RAGES AT THE MENTION OF YOUR NAME: CHRISTINE WHITE!

I THINK ABOUT YOU OFTEN, OFF IN THE DESERT, LAUGHING YOUR HEAD OFF IN THE FORESTS OF THE NIGHT. SAY A PRAYER FOR THE LIGHT...

SO NOW I LIVE WELL, I LIVE IN THE MINE. I'M STILL SLINGING MUD AT THE TOWERS ALL THE TIME. I TOOK A WALK... AND THREW UP IN AN ENGLISH GARDEN...

I WAS BORN IN THE NORTH, BUT MY FATHER'S FROM THE SOUTH. LOVE IS A POLITICAL BEAST WITH JAWS FOR A MOUTH, I DON'T CARE. YOU'RE UPSET AND HAVE EVERY RIGHT TO BE. REGRETFULLY YOU DECLINE. EVERY NIGHT WAS A WASTE OF TIME. EVERY NIGHT, EVERY NIGHT, EVERY NIGHT...

YOU WERE ON THE SIDE OF GOOD. I WAS INSIDE OF THE SEA'S GUTS: A CRUMBLING BEAUTY TRAPPED IN A RIVER OF ICE. A CRUMBLING BEAUTY TRAPPED IN PARADISE. OH YES, IT WAS PARADISE!

THE TIDE COMES IN AND THE TIDE GOES OUT AGAIN. I SUPPOSE THIS IS THE KIND OF THING WE SEE EVERY DAY. THE TIDE COMES IN; THE TIDE GOES AWAY. OH, THE TIDE COMES IN, YEAH THE TIDE! YES, THE TIDE...

A RANSOM NOTE WRITTEN ON THE NIGHT SKY ABOVE REMINDS ME WHAT, IN PARTICULAR, ABOUT THIS WINE I LOVE. LIKE A PUNCTURED BEAST BETTER OFF DEAD, COMPLIMENTS GOING TO MY HEAD... LA DA DA LA DA DA!

AND SPEAKING OF MIND, THE SUNFLOWER. AND SPEAKING OF A WORLD TURNING SOUR ON YOU. I WAS 20 YEARS OLD IN 1992. I WAS BATHED IN GOLDEN SUNLIGHT, ALRIGHT!!

I WAS RIPPED ON DOPE, YOU WERE A RAY OF SUNSHINE. I WAS A HOPELESS ROMANTIC, YOU WERE SWINE. YOU GOT TO SPEND MONEY TO MAKE MONEY. YOU GOT TO STOP CALLING ME "HONEY"...

OH WORLD!, YOU FUCKING EXPLOSION THAT TURNS US AROUND. THE SEARCHLIGHT SLUMPS OVER, IT'S SO SICK OF THE NIGHT AND THE KIDS ON THE BOATS, BUSTED IN THE SHIPYARD, GOING DOWN DOWN DOWN DOWN DOWN DOWN DOWN...

YOU TRAVEL LIGHT, ALL NIGHT, EVERY NIGHT, TO ARRIVE AT THE CONCLUSION OF THE WORLD'S INUTTERABLE SECRET... AND YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH...

I'VE SEEN IT ALL, I'VE SEEN IT ALL, I'VE SEEN IT ALL...

FREE AND EASY, GENTLE, GENTLE... THE WIND THROUGH THE TREES MAKES YOU MENTAL FOR ME... CASEY, IN A STATE OF CRISIS, ON A CLOUD...











Note: Names changed for protection of the individuals

Feeling Pulled Apart By Horses

I'm not entirely sure what it means but it is how I feel.
Ég vil að fara til Íslands og að lifa einn í eyðimörkinni og syngja lög til stjörnurnar og gráta.







Einar Jónsson
Feeling pulled apaaaaaaaaaart

Cellar Door

Shape the flower in the light of the grey,
and she will walk in place of the shade.
Singing leaves found the shallow sounds
within flocculation syncopation rebounds.

And to, so soft, reverberations sigh,
hallow, hallow, hallow in the night.
Singing leaves found the shallow sounds
within flocculation syncopation rebounds.

Cellar door











And what would a Donnie Darko reference be without Mad World?

Radiator Woman

A decision is made, the first choice of free will, but it is wrong and Death sings us a song. The Radiator Woman takes us into her embrace and when we look again, decayed and eaten is our face.



Our heads, they have turned into erasers.

A Space of Mine Is Changed And Here Are the Remnants

The first time I experienced death, a dying death, not a silent, quick and common sort of death that comes to insects and plants but the weighty sort of death that can be measured, watched, felt, heard. Death that is an overcoming of a life still struggling to live. The kind of death that is palpable, that extends itself like a diffusing odor from the dying permeating and contaminating the atmosphere with it's oily vapor that sticks to the lungs and the roof of the mouth leaving the onlooker with a dry throat and stale taste on the tongue. I was eight.

What You Missed

Watching Billy Brown with you last summer is the only thing keeping me warm inside as it gets cold outside this winter.
What you missed was the greatest scene in the movie, but it was the greatest because we missed it.
It was then I knew I could love you, when I knew everything you missed and everything I would be missing.

buffalo '66
by durelimite








Full movie, if desired

But His Face Was An Iron Plague Mask

He's always tired. Always tired at this time of the month, always tired at this time of the week, always tired at this time of the day, always tired at this time of the hour. Worn, thin and grey.
Bells toll and it's time.
Walking along colorless wet leaves, clouds of carbon dioxide appear for a few moments around grey heads bowed down, close together. Perhaps there is an orb of pale light very low in the sky but nobody notices because of the vertical lines everywhere, looming, black, concrete that have been pushing back against the sky as long as anyone can remember. Perhaps that is why the air is so thin, why the sky is forgotten... It has disappeared, finally giving up the struggle against the concrete and iron fences. Why are they built? Anyone might know but nobody seems to.
But she might.
She tries to find those who will listen, but those who are ready seem to be fewer and fewer as the months tread on. For some reason her room is the coldest in the house. She follows him, ignoring the bowed heads and wet leaves. He's so tired, she can feel it, but he's not gone yet. There is something, something. She saw it in his writings, a flicker, a glimpse, a small whisper...
She grabs the back of his coat and turns him around. They face each other and the grey sun sets.

When You Come Near To Me, I Go Away

Finally. It happened. I have waited for years. I dreamed of this moment. I mulled about what it would feel like when it came. I sang songs for the aether and wrote love poetry for the dead to inspire my desires.
And now it is done.
I'm not entirely sure what will happen to me now. I may not be as changed as I had hoped. The excitement may wear off and this will pass quietly into my memory, lost, as it were, like a brown leaf fallen in mid autumn within the deep forest.

I had found a knife on Thursday during my travels and ramblings in the city. Tonight I examined it lovingly while listening to When.
I knew it was sharp.
I did.
But that did not stop me from gently sliding it across my neck, softly, slowly. I feel into a trance as Vincent crooned. My deep desire rose like a growl from the profundity of my psyche and crescendoed into my arms and hands and fingers. My heart pounded and I knew this was the moment. I knew it was going to happen. My weak protest for self preservation, stifled by my stupor, was washed out like a tracing in the sand by a wave, completely overcome by the power of my sick desire. The knife pressed into my flesh. My heart soared and my joy was inexpressible.
And then I felt it.
For a split moment I denied what I had done, what I was feeling. It couldn't be true. It couldn't have happened but it was impossible to oppose the certainty of my now exposed nerve receptors.
I had never been so affected by pain before. The knife clattered to the floor and I rubbed by neck in shock and horror.

"Let me softly caress you with my sword." Is what I told him, in a British accent, as I held his father's sword to his throat. The fear and confusion in his eyes was intoxicating. I had him in my power completely. His love for me had given him a shield of disbelief and gave him the delusion that I was only kidding, that we were only playing around but that shield quickly melted into a tattered veil as I persisted. I wish I could have seen the wild madness in my eyes that he must have beheld to frighten him so. Perhaps that is why I seduced myself, why I sat in front of a mirror as the pocket knife found itself at my throat. I coaxed it out, this madness and insanity for a brief moment and though it unnerves me, makes me panic almost, it also intrigues me...

I don't want to be who you think I am. I did, but now... but now I'm only chilled, frightened like a child by lightening. When things are clear to me, I go away. I go away, I go away, I go away, I go away
Who the hell am I...

I'm Without You New Life

Yellow spider, yellow leaf
Yellow spider, yellow leaf
Confirms my deepest held beliefs

Orange spider, orange leaf
Orange spider, orange leaf
Confirms my deepest held beliefs

Brownish spider, brownish leaf
Brownish spider, brownish leaf
Confirms my deepest held beliefs

No more spider, no more leaf
No more spider, no more leaf
No more me, no more belief

My heart doesn't keep time like it used to.

I Went. I Went To See Our Dark Horse

I took some pictures with a disposable and green camera I found on a bus en route to Salt Lake City on Thursday. Some pictures I took, some pictures I didn't. They don't mean anything except that they mean anything.

Hell Is Chrome

And then I can hardly contain my excitement. My arms tingle and I get lost. I'm gone, I'm gone, I'm gone. I am on the brink of understanding, the coveted knowledge of ages is on the tip of my tongue but if I remember, but if I think, I fear it will be gone in an instant like a bubble in my in my peripherals that will pop if I look directly at it.
The world melts, becomes heavily texturized... a third dimension of a flat painting.
A ghost is born.

THE GHOST, THE GHOST, THE GHOST

One Second Bridge
Hannu
A Ghost Is Born
Also, best new music I've found since Boards: The Gentleman Losers

D.I.D.

October's done and so at last, I find I am myself again. For my week long commemoration of my favourite holiday, I suffered from an overtaking of multiple personalities:

Hopelessly Sanguine, Winter, The Swine, The Lost Horse Mistress and Jessie

1. I tell no one until the test is done.
2. I can break character only in my writings.
3. I can be each character as long as I feel is necessary.
4. I must write daily of my experience.

October the 24th
Early this morning, around 4 a.m., I started as Hopelessly Sanguine. It was a rather unexpected beginning, truth be told. As a happy optimistic, part of my character is rather bold in a shy way. She does things that I consider carefully because I am afraid to do them and she executes these things with ease and without thought. So when I found that I had been deliberating for at least an hour as to whether I should make contact with [5] (I was actually less afraid in this situation and more anxious that said contact and I would meet during my experimental week) Hopelessly Sanguine took over and told me that I wanted to do it and I shouldn't spend so much time worrying.
Besides that, nothing else worth noting. I find, except for the above incident, I am fairly similar to her. She is a bigger part of me than I want to admit. I've always assumed my optimism, but it is unsettling how comfortable I am in the skin of the annoyingly happy girl who smiles all the time because she is excited about life and is so happy to see you again! and when she says it, you feel like she means it...
I'm fairly certain that tomorrow I'll be changing.

October the 25th
Today today today. Today I am Winter. I really like this character so far. I feel important. She is cold and lovely, icily (ah that word looks so beautiful in writing) regarding her peers and knowing she is better. No body likes her very much.
Today in church Winter only went to sacrament meeting, saying, of course, that that is all she needs. She didn't speak to anyone, only curtly nodded her head to the poor chap who opened the door for her. Normally when I skip meetings I go upstairs with the excuse of using the bathroom on the tip of my tongue if by chance someone asks where I am going, and I go down another set of stairs and sneak out the side door. But not today! Winter haughtily walked straight out the front door, in plain view of anyone who cared to look.
I daresay I am quite capable of marvelous works when I put my mind to it.
Today I wore my white silk dress with a light blue cardigan. No makeup except for a pale pink stain on my lips. I must say that the winter look suits me marvelously well.

October the 26th
I decided that I was to change today. I was going to be Winter again but I think I only want to have an excuse to act as though I am better than everyone. It was deliciously evil but would have profited me nothing. So, today I am The Swine. I was very nervous to awaken this character... She is so many things that I don't want to be. All the other characters are part of my nature but I picked The Swine because I wanted to be someone that I absolutely am not. The Swine is loud, bossy though sometimes she is funny but only in fairly stupid ways.
Today I found The Swine laughing loudly at everything. I could barely stand it. In class today she talked to a girl I hadn't ever spoken to and was making up anecdotes and working hard to keep conversation in her power and on her terms. It was exhausting.
Maybe I am more quiet and more reserved than I like to think... I think this is a character I have to play again.

October the 27th
Last night I resolved to be The Swine again. That was before [5] decided it was time. In real life. Today.
Later
The first encounter wasn't terrible. The Swine laughed too often, too loud but otherwise she didn't act as bad as I feared. Round two wasn't I wasn't nearly as lucky. As was the case yesterday, The Swine did her best to completely take over conversation. And finally, The Swine brought all together and, as though knowing her time was almost over, everything culminated in a hideous show of exaggerated gestures, flapping jaw and half closed eyes in a cacophony of hyena laughter and snorts.
If I stay any longer with this character, I'm fairly certain I will, single-handedly, turn my life from a poorly written paperback to a hundred thousand shredded pieces of paper floating on the wind over the great abyss of lost loves.

October the 28th
Still recovering from the embarrassments of The Swine, I limped into my character of today: The Lost Horse Mistress. She is the epitome of my romanticism: beautiful, sad, highly intelligent and lonely. She lived in the 1890's in the English countryside, taking tea with her best friend Charles every Thursday. She loved horses almost as much as she loved literature and Chopin. As her love for Charles grew, his infatuation with another blossomed and The Horse Mistress found that the only time she could find peace was when she rode, when she rode wildly, passionately, blindly. She and the horse became a continuous fluid movement, the wind in her ears silencing thoughts of her only love, the continuity of motion dulling her tumultuous emotions.
But she could not ignore her passions forever. They started to eat at her, their fire consuming her from the inside out. She became sickly and feverish and her good-natured temperament soured. Last to deteriorate was her mind. At her death she did not remember where she was or who she was but she remembered that she had loved and she remembered that she had been happy and that she might be so again.

October the 29th
Persuaded by The Lost Horse Mistress, we went to Nosferatu, somewhat satiating our mutual desire for, well, desire. There is something beautifully sad about watching alone others lust for each other.
And to be beautifully sad is entirely what we wanted tonight.

October the 30th
I am sad to see The Lost Horse Mistress go, but I think that being her much longer would have taxed my emotions heavily. Though I would like to say a word on her style, which was impeccable, to say the least. Victorian shoes in leather and suede with gray trouser socks underneath cuffed trousers in a course greyish brown cotton with a vintage cream and ruffled shirt and a maroon sweater jacket. With her hair pulled in the late 19th century fashion and a feather decal for effect. Her makeup was a soft brown on the eyes with a deep blood red on the lips with a smudge of brown in the hollows of the cheeks.
Anyway...
Today I am going to be Jessie. She was my best friend and I look up to her even now. She was many things I was too afraid to be. Jessie is very witty, logical, sarcastic, and is different because she is not because she wants to be. She isn't exactly shy, but she doesn't like talking to people. She is somewhere between Margot Tennebaum and Daria. It is quite stunning how different I feel while being Jessie, who hasn't an ounce of romantics as compared to the whirlwind of passion with The Horse Mistress. I feel quietly confident today as I walked with my eyes on the pavement. Today was the only day I did any homework all week.
I wore jeans with a brown trenchcoat, white sneaker boots and black eyeliner reminiscent of junior high.

October the 31st
It has been an exhausting week. Today I am myself to be the antithesis of being someone else on this lovely holiday. I feel incredibly boring.
I should write something epic, something telling of everything I've learned, something clever about how I may be changed, something poignant of how I may have ruined a would-be good relation because of my experiments.
But I'm not going to.

Having one more day to sit in my own skin again, I will say that I have learned much about myself, much of which I didn't want to know. I have been other people and tried to come up with something meaningful because of it. I suppose I could end by saying something like, "Being me is the best." or "Nothing is as good as being yourself." or "I'm not afraid to be me!" or something similar that we have all heard from disillusioned adults and children's TV programs.
But it would be flagrantly untrue.
Because being satisfied completely with who I am means that I have given up.

Prince. Prince Vince

"Where do records go now? Where are they? Who buys them? And why do they buy them? Did they listen to them? The whole thing? Or just the song on the radio. And why don’t they listen to them anymore? People do a lot of shopping. Shopping to shop, shop shopping, shopping shop, shippidy shop shopping. I had a storefront on Elizabeth Street one time, for one month. As a conceptual joke I put some items in the window for sale. A one-legged pair of jeans, an empty Evian bottle, a box of dirt, a rotten banana, and an unused, but unwrapped, condom. The store was mobbed and everything sold."



http://www.vincentgallo.com/

The Lost Horse Mistress

But we are nothing without death. Our existence is vain without the promise of it's end. So to those of you who say that commemoration of our frailty and remembrance of our limited time on Earth is evil and unimportant, I say that our celebrations of death are just as important as our celebrations of life. I will study the macabre to understand more fully the beautiful. I will dress up as death to remember the wonder of life. I will dip into insanity to interpret reality.


And you will never stop me.

The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari

German expressionism, fully realized. I have never seen such an effective set in a live action film.

If ever I were in love with the dark and macabre, I would be in love with the beautifully grotesque somnambulist Cesare. In a graceful trance comparable to that of Vaslav Nijinsky, Cesare, as thin as a rod and as lithe as a snake, glides across the room and takes away life as though the action were set to music and as if he were but an actor in a sort of morbid play.

The full film, if interested

Ah... but what would horror be without Rob Zombie?

As A Harpy of Sorts

It is autumn and she is slowly dying, breathing shallowly. I clasp her cold hands and whisper, "This is the way I like you best."
Because I know she will be back next year in her tattered green dress.
But today she is in a cold sweat, a cold, cold sweat. I shiver and I am happy as she pleads that I remember her, that I remember the colours, remember moist earth, thin t shirts, skin on grass and skin on skin. That I remember more of the sun than the feeble, quivering light which will scarcely illuminate the dead months.
I only smile in answer to her petitions.

I close the white door softly and already I start to forget...


And this is the time when my transformation begins, subtly and so slowly I cannot even tell what is happening. I forget. I forget. Every year I forget... But how can I forget? How...
I fall into patterns. I slip into habits. I forget her and everything she has told me and I watch it all die without the slightest recollection of our conversation. My days become weeks and my hours crystallize resulting in sudden stops and tremendous leaps in the passing of time. My health deteriorates and I eat more than is necessary. My reason melts into greediness as instincts to survive overcome my human mind and I start a degeneration into madness... I soon exclusively focus on needs of the flesh while my speech deteriorates into grunts and gestures. My animal mind grows like a tumor, sending out poisonous shoots into my dying sanity. I begin to avoid human contact at all costs. My senses become phenomenally sharp and my human mind finds it nearly impossible eke out any thoughts. I forget. I forget. The animal mind has my poor humanity nearly strangled and only the very last dregs of pure human nature can be seen barely flickering in the depths of my eyes.
I am LADYHAWKE .
My only relief comes in the gracious dark of night. As the animal rests, my mind is free to expand, ever so slightly, and I am permitted my sanity for a few short hours. But when the animal wakes, I become a feverish creature yet again.
This curse can only be lifted by her coming. . .









Ladyhawke vs Ladyhawk

Skinny Love

Staring at the sink of blood and lost veneer.


Patient.

Fine.

Balanced.

Kind.

Who will fall far behind?

My Gallery of Tortured Loves

I am attracted to tortured geniuses. Those who fall victim to alcoholism and destructive lifestyles after giving the world so much of themselves that they become lost in it. They tend to be thin and pale, their energy and creativity sucking the life out of their bodies. With a cigarette in hand and long hair beautifully left undone they work feverishly, passionately, ignoring and impatiently brushing away anyone and anything that comes in their way.

I will have one for my own. One as my lover.
I will.



Also, please compare the photos of Elliott Smith and Chopin. Has Chopin come back to finish his musical career cut much too short by his untimely death?

The Tell Tale Poe

This year marks Edgar Allan Poe's 200th. Oh how I love the man! Unfortunately I missed his birthday, but as today marks the 2 week start of my Halloween celebration, I offer to you "The Tell Tale Heart" arguably my favorite work by Poe.
The character of Poe, at least the character that we most often attribute to Poe, I think has been adequately discussed in high school English classes and in sometimes rotten documentaries. I would invite that we perhaps look passed the haunted genius and maybe consider that this was a man who loved God more than monsters and spirituality more than the macabre.
In this light, I would direct to those who are not scared of a more dense work that requires an active attention from the reader to Eureka.
"The Tell Tale Heart" was the first piece of Poe's that I had exposure to at the tender age of 10. I can't say I understood exactly what was going on, but underneath my slight horror and morbid fascination, I knew that there was something important that was being expressed. After many readings over a period of nearly a decade I find that I still wonder at the profound analysis Poe makes of the human psyche. He beautifully characterizes the insane in denial and shows how the horrendous becomes justified to the guilty.
And now, a masterpiece to behold, "The Tell Tale Heart."

TRUE! nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why WILL you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How then am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily, how calmly, I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture -- a pale blue eye with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me my blood ran cold, and so by degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye for ever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded -- with what caution -- with what foresight, with what dissimulation, I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night about midnight I turned the latch of his door and opened it oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern all closed, closed so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly, very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this? And then when my head was well in the room I undid the lantern cautiously -- oh, so cautiously -- cautiously (for the hinges creaked), I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights, every night just at midnight, but I found the eye always closed, and so it was impossible to do the work, for it was not the old man who vexed me but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed , to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers, of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was opening the door little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea, and perhaps he heard me, for he moved on the bed suddenly as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back -- but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close fastened through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening , and the old man sprang up in the bed, crying out, "Who's there?"

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed, listening; just as I have done night after night hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently, I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief -- oh, no! It was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself, "It is nothing but the wind in the chimney, it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or, "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes he has been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions ; but he had found all in vain. ALL IN VAIN, because Death in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel, although he neither saw nor heard, to feel the presence of my head within the room.

When I had waited a long time very patiently without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little -- a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it -- you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily -- until at length a single dim ray like the thread of the spider shot out from the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye.

It was open, wide, wide open, and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness -- all a dull blue with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones, but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person, for I had directed the ray as if by instinct precisely upon the damned spot.

And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the senses? now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder, every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! -- do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me -- the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once -- once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But for many minutes the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence.

I took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly so cunningly, that no human eye -- not even his -- could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out -- no stain of any kind -- no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that.

When I had made an end of these labours, it was four o'clock -- still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, -- for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled, -- for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search -- search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My MANNER had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat, and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct : I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness -- until, at length, I found that the noise was NOT within my ears.

No doubt I now grew VERY pale; but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased -- and what could I do? It was A LOW, DULL, QUICK SOUND -- MUCH SUCH A SOUND AS A WATCH MAKES WHEN ENVELOPED IN COTTON. I gasped for breath, and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why WOULD they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men, but the noise steadily increased. O God! what COULD I do? I foamed -- I raved -- I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder -- louder -- louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly , and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! -- no, no? They heard! -- they suspected! -- they KNEW! -- they were making a mockery of my horror! -- this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! -- and now -- again -- hark! louder! louder! louder! LOUDER! --

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! -- tear up the planks! -- here, here! -- it is the beating of his hideous heart!"

On the iPod: Tomb of Liegia by Team Sleep

Erla's Waltz

One could say that this is the sum of my greatest joys, my deepest loves, my unrealized dreams and my half-forgotten self. They would not be far from the truth.
Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you a video so fantastically tailored to my sensibilities I can scarcely keep from tears.







Ólafur Arnalds

Limið

Of seasons and rhymes
Of growing dead bark
Of rain and of shine
Of wet yellow leaves

Of rotting the chair
Of tapping the green
Of cold between hairs
Of tears and damp jeans

All this while listening to Boy of Bark

At Bridal Veil Falls

Without a conscience, a hollow ring
Lost in a maze, and forgetting
Throwing firecrackers and dancing
Lost in a maze a hollow ring

A dereliction of duty
A pitiful display
Stamping the hollow earth
A pity
And throwing firecrackers
Hopelessly





Several lines, several lives




With a soul, a soul of stars
In a void of i's i's i's yous eyes.
Throwing glances and dancing
On the path of the frozen bride's veil.

A dance in darkness
An umgawa display
Stamping to a heart beat
A bond
And lighting sparklers
Hoping

The Hollow Earth

Inspired by Thom Yorke's new single, I embarked on a journey to find out what the theory of the hollow earth is. First, a video of "The Hollow Earth" is in order, I think.
Also, going with my graffiti artist theme of yestereve, I think it is pertinent to note that BANSKY collaborated with this video as can be seen throughout it's entirety.



And here we have a hollow earth diagram:


Those who believe in the hollow Earth theory say that there are advanced civilizations that live beneath us in perfect harmony and peace. There are suggestions that Atlantis, the Aztecs and other lost civilizations were somehow transported here. Openings in the South and North poles give entrance into this Utopian underworld. UFO sightings are said to be the manifestations of our wise brothers from below trying to keep our hazardous and hostile behavior in check.
There are brave expeditions that are planned for the exploration of this hidden Eden. Interestingly enough, I have found a website that may be of particular interest to those of the LDS faith and/or those living in Provo, Utah as an expedition is being planned by the residents of this fair city, the very city of which I claim residence!
Missionaries called to serve in Utopia.

Admiral Byrd has traveled to Inner Earth and recounts his fantastic experience:

FLIGHT LOG: BASE CAMP ARCTIC, 2/19/1947

0600 Hours- All preparations are complete for our flight north ward and we are airborne with full fuel tanks at 0610 Hours.

0620 Hours- fuel mixture on starboard engine seems too rich, adjustment made and Pratt Whittneys are running smoothly.

0730 Hours- Radio Check with base camp. All is well and radio reception is normal.

0740 Hours- Note slight oil leak in starboard engine, oil pres sure indicator seems normal, however.

0800 Hours- Slight turbulence noted from easterly direction at altitude of 2321 feet, correction to 1700 feet, no further turbu lence, but tail wind increases, slight adjustment in throttle controls, aircraft performing very well now.

0815 Hours- Radio Check with base camp, situation normal.

0830 Hours- Turbulence encountered again, increase altitude to 2900 feet, smooth flight conditions again.

0910 Hours- Vast Ice and snow below, note coloration of yellowish nature, and disperse in a linear pattern. Altering course foe a better examination of this color pattern below, note reddish or purple color also. Circle this area two full turns and return to assigned compass heading. Position check made again to base camp, and relay information concerning colorations in the Ice and snow below.

0910 Hours- Both Magnetic and Gyro compasses beginning to gyrate and wobble, we are unable to hold our heading by instrumentation. Take bearing with Sun compass, yet all seems well. The controls are seemingly slow to respond and have sluggish quality, but there is no indication of Icing!

0915 Hours- In the distance is what appears to be mountains.

0949 Hours- 29 minutes elapsed flight time from the first sight ing of the mountains, it is no illusion. They are mountains and consisting of a small range that I have never seen before!

0955 Hours- Altitude change to 2950 feet, encountering strong turbulence again.

1000 Hours- We are crossing over the small mountain range and still proceeding northward as best as can be ascertained. Beyond the mountain range is what appears to be a valley with a small river or stream running through the center portion. There should be no green valley below! Something is definitely wrong and abnormal here! We should be over Ice and Snow! To the portside are great forests growing on the mountain slopes. Our navigation Instruments are still spinning, the gyroscope is oscillating back and forth!

1005 Hours- I alter altitude to 1400 feet and execute a sharp left turn to better examine the valley below. It is green with either moss or a type of tight knit grass. The Light here seems different. I cannot see the Sun anymore. We make another left turn and we spot what seems to be a large animal of some kind below us. It appears to be an elephant! NO!!! It looks more like a mammoth! This is incredible! Yet, there it is! Decrease altitude to 1000 feet and take binoculars to better examine the animal. It is confirmed - it is definitely a mammoth-like animal! Report this to base camp.

1030 Hours- Encountering more rolling green hills now. The external temperature indicator reads 74 degrees Fahrenheit! Continuing on our heading now. Navigation instruments seem normal now. I am puzzled over their actions. Attempt to contact base camp. Radio is not functioning!

1130 Hours- Countryside below is more level and normal (if I may use that word). Ahead we spot what seems to be a city!!!! This is impossible! Aircraft seems light and oddly buoyant. The controls refuse to respond!! My GOD!!! Off our port and star board wings are a strange type of aircraft. They are closing rapidly alongside! They are disc-shaped and have a radiant quality to them. They are close enough now to see the markings on them. It is a type of Swastika!!! This is fantastic. Where are we! What has happened. I tug at the controls again. They will not respond!!!! We are caught in an invisible vice grip of some type!

1135 Hours- Our radio crackles and a voice comes through in English with what perhaps is a slight Nordic or Germanic accent! The message is: 'Welcome, Admiral, to our domain. We shall land you in exactly seven minutes! Relax, Admiral, you are in good hands.' I note the engines of our plane have stopped running! The aircraft is under some strange control and is now turning itself. The controls are useless.

1140 Hours- Another radio message received. We begin the landing process now, and in moments the plane shudders slightly, and begins a descent as though caught in some great unseen elevator! The downward motion is negligible, and we touch down with only a slight jolt!

1145 Hours- I am making a hasty last entry in the flight log. Several men are approaching on foot toward our aircraft. They are tall with blond hair. In the distance is a large shimmering city pulsating with rainbow hues of color. I do not know what is going to happen now, but I see no signs of weapons on those approaching. I hear now a voice ordering me by name to open the cargo door. I comply. END LOG

From this point I write all the following events here from memory. It defies the imagination and would seem all but madness if it had not happened.

The radioman and I are taken from the aircraft and we are received in a most cordial manner. We were then boarded on a small platform-like conveyance with no wheels! It moves us toward the glowing city with great swiftness. As we approach, the city seems to be made of a crystal material. Soon we arrive at a large building that is a type I have never seen before. It appears to be right out of the design board of Frank Lloyd Wright, or perhaps more correctly, out of a Buck Rogers setting!! We are given some type of warm beverage which tasted like nothing I have ever savored before. It is delicious. After about ten minutes, two of our wondrous appearing hosts come to our quarters and announce that I am to accompany them. I have no choice but to comply. I leave my radioman behind and we walk a short dis tance and enter into what seems to be an elevator. We descend downward for some moments, the machine stops, and the door lifts silently upward! We then proceed down a long hallway that is lit by a rose-colored light that seems to be emanating from the very walls themselves! One of the beings motions for us to stop before a great door. Over the door is an inscription that I cannot read. The great door slides noiselessly open and I am beckoned to enter. One of my hosts speaks. 'Have no fear, Admiral, you are to have an audience with the Master...'

I step inside and my eyes adjust to the beautiful coloration that seems to be filling the room completely. Then I begin to see my surroundings. What greeted my eyes is the most beautiful sight of my entire existence. It is in fact too beautiful and wondrous to describe. It is exquisite and delicate. I do not think there exists a human term that can describe it in any detail with justice! My thoughts are interrupted in a cordial manner by a warm rich voice of melodious quality, 'I bid you welcome to our domain, Admiral.' I see a man with delicate features and with the etching of years upon his face. He is seated at a long table. He motions me to sit down in one of the chairs. After I am seated, he places his fingertips together and smiles. He speaks softly again, and conveys the following.

'We have let you enter here because you are of noble character and well-known on the Surface World, Admiral.' Surface World, I half-gasp under my breath! 'Yes," the Master replies with a smile, 'you are in the domain of the Arianni, the Inner World of the Earth. We shall not long delay your mission, and you will be safely escorted back to the surface and for a distance beyond. But now, Admiral, I shall tell you why you have been summoned here. Our interest rightly begins just after your race exploded the first atomic bombs over Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan. It was at that alarm ing time we sent our flying machines, the "Flugelrads", to your surface world to investigate what your race had done. That is, of course, past history now, my dear Admiral, but I must continue on. You see, we have never interfered before in your race's wars, and barbarity, but now we must, for you have learned to tamper with a certain power that is not for man, namely, that of atomic energy. Our emissaries have already delivered messages to the powers of your world, and yet they do not heed. Now you have been chosen to be witness here that our world does exist. You see, our Culture and Science is many thousands of years beyond your race, Admiral.' I interrupted, 'But what does this have to do with me, Sir?'

The Master's eyes seemed to penetrate deeply into my mind, and after studying me for a few moments he replied, 'Your race has now reached the point of no return, for there are those among you who would destroy your very world rather than relinquish their power as they know it...' I nodded, and the Master continued, 'In 1945 and afterward, we tried to contact your race, but our efforts were met with hostility, our Flugelrads were fired upon. Yes, even pursued with malice and animosity by your fighter planes. So, now, I say to you, my son, there is a great storm gathering in your world, a black fury that will not spend itself for many years. There will be no answer in your arms, there will be no safety in your science. It may rage on until every flower of your culture is trampled, and all human things are leveled in vast chaos. Your recent war was only a prelude of what is yet to come for your race. We here see it more clearly with each hour..do you say I am mistaken?'

'No,' I answer, 'it happened once before, the dark ages came and they lasted for more than five hundred years.'

'Yes, my son,' replied the Master, 'the dark ages that will come now for your race will cover the Earth like a pall, but I believe that some of your race will live through the storm, beyond that, I cannot say. We see at a great distance a new world stirring from the ruins of your race, seeking its lost and legendary treasures, and they will be here, my son, safe in our keeping. When that time arrives, we shall come forward again to help revive your culture and your race. Perhaps, by then, you will have learned the futility of war and its strife...and after that time, certain of your culture and science will be returned for your race to begin anew. You, my son, are to return to the Surface World with this message.....'

With these closing words, our meeting seemed at an end. I stood for a moment as in a dream....but, yet, I knew this was reality, and for some strange reason I bowed slightly, either out of respect or humility, I do not know which.

Suddenly, I was again aware that the two beautiful hosts who had brought me here were again at my side. 'This way, Admiral,' motioned one. I turned once more before leaving and looked back toward the Master. A gentle smile was etched on his delicate and ancient face. 'Farewell, my son,' he spoke, then he gestured with a lovely, slender hand a motion of peace and our meeting was truly ended.

Quickly, we walked back through the great door of the Master's chamber and once again entered into the elevator. The door slid silently downward and we were at once going upward. One of my hosts spoke again, 'We must now make haste, Admiral, as the Master desires to delay you no longer on your scheduled timetable and you must return with his message to your race.'

I said nothing. All of this was almost beyond belief, and once again my thoughts were interrupted as we stopped. I entered the room and was again with my radioman. He had an anxious expres sion on his face. As I approached, I said, 'It is all right, Howie, it is all right.' The two beings motioned us toward the awaiting conveyance, we boarded, and soon arrived back at the aircraft. The engines were idling and we boarded immediately. The whole atmosphere seemed charged now with a certain air of urgency. After the cargo door was closed the aircraft was immediately lifted by that unseen force until we reached an altitude of 2700 feet. Two of the aircraft were alongside for some distance guiding us on our return way. I must state here, the airspeed indicator registered no reading, yet we were moving along at a very rapid rate.

215 Hours- A radio message comes through. 'We are leaving you now, Admiral, your controls are free. Auf Wiedersehen!!!!' We watched for a moment as the flugelrads disappeared into the pale blue sky.

The aircraft suddenly felt as though caught in a sharp downdraft for a moment. We quickly recovered her control. We do not speak for some time, each man has his thoughts....

ENTRY IN FLIGHT LOG CONTINUES:

220 Hours- We are again over vast areas of ice and snow, and approximately 27 minutes from base camp. We radio them, they respond. We report all conditions normal....normal. Base camp expresses relief at our re-established contact.

300 Hours- We land smoothly at base camp. I have a mission.....

END LOG ENTRIES.

More on Admiral Byrd

I prefer to think that the hollow Earth perhaps is analogous to our beloved Middle Earth which has, after the destruction of the One Ring, become a kind of paradise with all beings living in peace and harmony.

Here's radio show with Brooks Agnew about an expedition he will head to Middle, I mean Inner Earth in 2012.

Radio radio radio Show




Thom Yorke + Hollow Earth =

Stained Red at the Mouth

Miss Van presenting her work as LOVESTAIN this month.
As far as urban art is concerned, Miss Van has always been one of my favorites in the traditionally masculine movement of urban art.
Stolenspace Gallery, London, UK.

To See More:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/runtoline/3980181334/in/set-72157622387564203/

Concerto No. 24 in C Minor, K. 491

Round and round and round again.
"You are my joy. You are my joy."
We are in The Reindeer Section
Opened eyes I am Spiritualized so I return to the land where This Will Destroy me and Explosions fill the Sky to hear the call "oh whe oh whe" of Balmorhea.
Close to the ground I see the Group of Sian Alice.
I fall fall fall with them and remember my day.

_______________________________________

Under all the pristine and clean of mp3
I found the truth
unleashed by a needle
and
I cry.


Today a half hundred was spent on my favorite past time.
Into the Blue Again is into my heart again and I am reminded about lost loves, things I did I swore to do never again and how I never can't and always won't.

All of it
unleashed by a needle.
How fantastically and anxiously beautiful.

Pete

I steal all of my lines.

About Me's and boxes meant to be filled with text about myself make me feel terribly less of an enigma. So instead, I usually end up referencing strange music and books or art and quote things nobody understands. However, after considering for a time that an About Me section is meant for the enlightening of the cyberspace population as to who I am and what I want, I decided that I may as well alleviate the mystery of my About Me on this very blog.
This may or may not be the first and last time I ever do this.

Avoir.

Boughs

Today I went to the mountains and walked amongst the trees.

"The forest had a funeral quality.
Boughs should not be green, not when snow lay on the ground. It was as if they were dead but had preserved their color, their semblance of life: flowers at the graveside. And the silence! A green forest should be alive with trilling birds, scampering squirrels, the startled scuttling of a rabbit in the brush."



Music by Boughs