Archive for December 17, 2002

houses

Housing
What occurred to me the other day was the silence of my house. Not like the house I live in now, but the house I consider my house when I think back on being a kid and stuff, and well when I visit my parents and stuff like. My house then isn’t really like a singular house, it’s a collection of houses usually starting with the one on Goldsmith in Houston, but I can remember the one we rented when we first moved there. The Goldsmith house was a sign of constant frustration. My Dad and my Mom would argue all the time, you could hear them screaming in their bedroom. They always fought constantly and dinner was like sitting in a POW camp with russian roulette for who would make the first disgrace.
Once they broke up we moved into smaller houses. My Dad lived in a little rented place near my soon to be step-mom. It had a train track going through the backyard. Once I sat there and watched a lone car pace by, a construction of drift wood gilded to iron, this black guy sat in it peddling his way through the backs of cross country flummox. I have no idea if this train car was some discarded scrap donated to utility or the back bone of an underground railroad tailored for W.A.S.T.E. couriers.
The house was white if I remember correctly, had an uninspiring lawn, and was situated a block from my step-mother’s. I used to find snakes in her garden and keep them in a leaky terrarium in the garage. One of the snakes turned out to be a cotton mouth and had to be let go. Which reminds me of another story involving snakes, but I’m sticking with houses right now.
My dad’s house I can remember for a number of reasons. It was sparse, it felt new, and it had glass tables. I sat at the kitchen table once from about 7 a.m. to 9 p.m. because I wouldn’t eat my eggs. I was under orders to ingest them, but I got nauseous every time I got near them and pushed them to the center of the table. My Dad left for work and my brothers for school and I sat at the table killing myself by upholding my Dad’s dictate to such an absurd level. I pulled the the chairs together and laid down. I slept all day and when my brothers got back they fucked with me and pulled the chair apart etc. till my Dad got home and was pissed off. I don’t remember much after that. One other story (and I’m leaving out the time my Dad explained homosexuality to me after I watched some Matt. Broderick flick where’s he in the army and experiments) was watching that superman movie where the chick gets turned into a cyborg. I remember being scared shitless of that and imagining her in the bathroom while I bathed. The space of the house is what really stays with me, this house was the first time I had a distinct feeling, a mood for how my life went and it felt bad. Since then I’ve been cataloging these states, keeping track of how much better it feels to be alive as the years past. The way I can fill empty time with nothing now, because I’m aware of just how good it feels to be alive.
I’ll get back to ya on my mom’s house, my dad’s second house in Houston and all that other stuff some other time.

A

Today started with a call at 2:45 a.m. E.J.’s sister needs help.Talk.
Charley Patton’s Jim Lee’s Blues part 1 comes on and it’s beautiful. first time I’ve really connected with Patton in awhile. Looking at Peace Off web site
Emily’s car got side-swiped. Hard set of 24 hours for her, hope I helped. Also hope to catch Passe Rock in Miami with her, maybe see if Casey is down with heading there, or Sheshe. Finished Galatea 2.2. Like all books it has that kinda sad ending, but with a little hope. It’s an interesting book and for a few pages lays bare Power’s pessimism regarding humanity. Like all books I wanna give it to someone. Maybe A? Calling Keith later to see if he wants to sub-my-show and play some Metroid. Stuck at the ubder-pirate boss. The video games article I’ve been thinking about has given me pause for a new story. A little more sci-fi, a little more fun.

My mom’s House
My mother lived in Bellaire at the time a little less upscale than West U. Like U. it’s small 50s houses were being squashed by brick castles that seemed impossibly sterile. After the time that had given track housing a certain series of paths that implied history, these brick castles came and started smashing everything. Designed with anonymonity and the yuppie in mind, they popped up on every block. We were a few blocks from ground zero though and before we left Bellaire still felt like a small series of tracks housing and not the prosperity that West U. had. Very few memories of my mom’s house. The time she gave us Moonwalker for Genesis for Valentines. Watching the entirety of Vision of Escaflowne in one block and missing school. The time I fought my older brother and had the fucked kicked out of me. Drinking her old liquers when Kurt Cobain died (yeah admit it you did it too). Listening to the Velvet Underground on the stereo I still have. Stealing Victoria’s Secret catalogs (see I’m not that gay). Mostly I remember the time I beat my younger brother and not getting pissed off at video games. He’d throw the controller at the screen and scream and curse. I began to turn off this impulse and some could stand zen like through the most intense competition. This allowed me to consistently kick his ass at games. The time our dog bobby ripped the shirt of this punk rock kid who was related to my step-sister. Formerely middle school cool, he came sans Fear for Beer t-shirt and cried. I liked that guy. The feeling at mon mere’s wasn’t as neurtral as my Dad’s house. A slightly more warm feeling, kinda like home I guess. They asked us once to draw a picture of home, and mine was floating in space. That’s supposed to mean something about alienation.
Gotta Go,
A

December 17, 2002 at 4:55 pm Leave a comment

houses

Housing
What occurred to me the other day was the silence of my house. Not like the house I live in now, but the house I consider my house when I think back on being a kid and stuff, and well when I visit my parents and stuff like. My house then isn’t really like a singular house, it’s a collection of houses usually starting with the one on Goldsmith in Houston, but I can remember the one we rented when we first moved there. The Goldsmith house was a sign of constant frustration. My Dad and my Mom would argue all the time, you could hear them screaming in their bedroom. They always fought constantly and dinner was like sitting in a POW camp with russian roulette for who would make the first disgrace.
Once they broke up we moved into smaller houses. My Dad lived in a little rented place near my soon to be step-mom. It had a train track going through the backyard. Once I sat there and watched a lone car pace by, a construction of drift wood gilded to iron, this black guy sat in it peddling his way through the backs of cross country flummox. I have no idea if this train car was some discarded scrap donated to utility or the back bone of an underground railroad tailored for W.A.S.T.E. couriers.
The house was white if I remember correctly, had an uninspiring lawn, and was situated a block from my step-mother’s. I used to find snakes in her garden and keep them in a leaky terrarium in the garage. One of the snakes turned out to be a cotton mouth and had to be let go. Which reminds me of another story involving snakes, but I’m sticking with houses right now.
My dad’s house I can remember for a number of reasons. It was sparse, it felt new, and it had glass tables. I sat at the kitchen table once from about 7 a.m. to 9 p.m. because I wouldn’t eat my eggs. I was under orders to ingest them, but I got nauseous every time I got near them and pushed them to the center of the table. My Dad left for work and my brothers for school and I sat at the table killing myself by upholding my Dad’s dictate to such an absurd level. I pulled the the chairs together and laid down. I slept all day and when my brothers got back they fucked with me and pulled the chair apart etc. till my Dad got home and was pissed off. I don’t remember much after that. One other story (and I’m leaving out the time my Dad explained homosexuality to me after I watched some Matt. Broderick flick where’s he in the army and experiments) was watching that superman movie where the chick gets turned into a cyborg. I remember being scared shitless of that and imagining her in the bathroom while I bathed. The space of the house is what really stays with me, this house was the first time I had a distinct feeling, a mood for how my life went and it felt bad. Since then I’ve been cataloging these states, keeping track of how much better it feels to be alive as the years past. The way I can fill empty time with nothing now, because I’m aware of just how good it feels to be alive.
I’ll get back to ya on my mom’s house, my dad’s second house in Houston and all that other stuff some other time.

A

Today started with a call at 2:45 a.m. E.J.’s sister needs help.Talk.
Charley Patton’s Jim Lee’s Blues part 1 comes on and it’s beautiful. first time I’ve really connected with Patton in awhile. Looking at Peace Off web site
Emily’s car got side-swiped. Hard set of 24 hours for her, hope I helped. Also hope to catch Passe Rock in Miami with her, maybe see if Casey is down with heading there, or Sheshe. Finished Galatea 2.2. Like all books it has that kinda sad ending, but with a little hope. It’s an interesting book and for a few pages lays bare Power’s pessimism regarding humanity. Like all books I wanna give it to someone. Maybe A? Calling Keith later to see if he wants to sub-my-show and play some Metroid. Stuck at the ubder-pirate boss. The video games article I’ve been thinking about has given me pause for a new story. A little more sci-fi, a little more fun.

My mom’s House
My mother lived in Bellaire at the time a little less upscale than West U. Like U. it’s small 50s houses were being squashed by brick castles that seemed impossibly sterile. After the time that had given track housing a certain series of paths that implied history, these brick castles came and started smashing everything. Designed with anonymonity and the yuppie in mind, they popped up on every block. We were a few blocks from ground zero though and before we left Bellaire still felt like a small series of tracks housing and not the prosperity that West U. had. Very few memories of my mom’s house. The time she gave us Moonwalker for Genesis for Valentines. Watching the entirety of Vision of Escaflowne in one block and missing school. The time I fought my older brother and had the fucked kicked out of me. Drinking her old liquers when Kurt Cobain died (yeah admit it you did it too). Listening to the Velvet Underground on the stereo I still have. Stealing Victoria’s Secret catalogs (see I’m not that gay). Mostly I remember the time I beat my younger brother and not getting pissed off at video games. He’d throw the controller at the screen and scream and curse. I began to turn off this impulse and some could stand zen like through the most intense competition. This allowed me to consistently kick his ass at games. The time our dog bobby ripped the shirt of this punk rock kid who was related to my step-sister. Formerely middle school cool, he came sans Fear for Beer t-shirt and cried. I liked that guy. The feeling at mon mere’s wasn’t as neurtral as my Dad’s house. A slightly more warm feeling, kinda like home I guess. They asked us once to draw a picture of home, and mine was floating in space. That’s supposed to mean something about alienation.
Gotta Go,
A

December 17, 2002 at 4:55 pm Leave a comment

today

Today while sitting around my mind came to this new conception of what I’m doing. Instead of moving forward I move sideways. As an individual we can do what we want, instead I spread opportunity, get more people involved, and everything slows to a crawl. This isn’t a bad way to do things, the more people the more talents that will bring something to the fold, but still you have to be singular sometimes. Fashion your own narrative, your own story, your own talent. The Quabbalh teaches were all connected, that might work for Madonna, but not for me. If anything, the social structures we climb, and the shared opportunities for talent I’m frequently encountering end with a battle of egos. You have to have enough space for yourself to keep the social self satisfied.

On the story front for a second when I read Powers pronouncement I hate irony, I saw another world where irony is passe and my jokes more a hinderance than a charm. But irony is highly important. With out the reflexivity to realize something can exist impure, both worthless and valuable amongst other polemics of values, thought becomes parched and simple. An allegory showing only a side of a walk that’s all to real and physically imposing. The more I understand about the story I’m revising, the more I get that it’s been said before, that it’s cliched and that my surrealism is more the vaseline smeared on a noir lens to increase an atmosphere imparched with love. The other side of this is that to write is to do more than make a statement, but to touch an understanding that isn’t linked to words.

Speculation
The internet is a space and it’s boundaries are becoming set. Buy, buy, buy before the contractors slice up the server space and make us pay rent where we can now hold a home. How I think of the net know is that it’s like a looking glass we pay to get a sight of. We don our gas masks and other implements to take a swim in information’s atmosphere, chugging out change to ISPs parking meters. As the importance of the internet continues to grow, like the price of water it’s going to rise. We’re going to get fucked when having internet access is more important than having a phone or cable. The sad thing about it is if we made net access more accessible, more free for the world to take part in, then this could be a more prolific international forum. As it stands we drive cities of our own languages and avoid those districts where even German or Italian might hinder us. There won’t be international numbers in our future the ISPs tell us, but by that point having net access will be more essential than owning a car, and taxable by some jack asses. The fact that internet access is sold in a manor similar to a utility is it’s greatest problem. This is a library of the unconscious, how dare anyone try to charge for access to mostly worthless thoughts. The value of the internet in monetary terms is always going to be negative, a majority of it’s creations cost more money than they can provide. This a medium similar to the real world, were deficits grow bigger everyday. It is not a utility or a place to sell things, it’s access into someone’s backyard. A voyeur’s sport where eyes for guns, we shoot down our neighbor’s failures and take pleasure in the way they resemble our own. You can’t make money off this, unless you consider it some type of therapy.

I think I might have failed that test. Asked if I wanted to spend the night and I went home instead. But ya know life is elsewhere. Kelly’s new track fucking rocks.

A

December 17, 2002 at 1:50 am Leave a comment

today

Today while sitting around my mind came to this new conception of what I’m doing. Instead of moving forward I move sideways. As an individual we can do what we want, instead I spread opportunity, get more people involved, and everything slows to a crawl. This isn’t a bad way to do things, the more people the more talents that will bring something to the fold, but still you have to be singular sometimes. Fashion your own narrative, your own story, your own talent. The Quabbalh teaches were all connected, that might work for Madonna, but not for me. If anything, the social structures we climb, and the shared opportunities for talent I’m frequently encountering end with a battle of egos. You have to have enough space for yourself to keep the social self satisfied.

On the story front for a second when I read Powers pronouncement I hate irony, I saw another world where irony is passe and my jokes more a hinderance than a charm. But irony is highly important. With out the reflexivity to realize something can exist impure, both worthless and valuable amongst other polemics of values, thought becomes parched and simple. An allegory showing only a side of a walk that’s all to real and physically imposing. The more I understand about the story I’m revising, the more I get that it’s been said before, that it’s cliched and that my surrealism is more the vaseline smeared on a noir lens to increase an atmosphere imparched with love. The other side of this is that to write is to do more than make a statement, but to touch an understanding that isn’t linked to words.

Speculation
The internet is a space and it’s boundaries are becoming set. Buy, buy, buy before the contractors slice up the server space and make us pay rent where we can now hold a home. How I think of the net know is that it’s like a looking glass we pay to get a sight of. We don our gas masks and other implements to take a swim in information’s atmosphere, chugging out change to ISPs parking meters. As the importance of the internet continues to grow, like the price of water it’s going to rise. We’re going to get fucked when having internet access is more important than having a phone or cable. The sad thing about it is if we made net access more accessible, more free for the world to take part in, then this could be a more prolific international forum. As it stands we drive cities of our own languages and avoid those districts where even German or Italian might hinder us. There won’t be international numbers in our future the ISPs tell us, but by that point having net access will be more essential than owning a car, and taxable by some jack asses. The fact that internet access is sold in a manor similar to a utility is it’s greatest problem. This is a library of the unconscious, how dare anyone try to charge for access to mostly worthless thoughts. The value of the internet in monetary terms is always going to be negative, a majority of it’s creations cost more money than they can provide. This a medium similar to the real world, were deficits grow bigger everyday. It is not a utility or a place to sell things, it’s access into someone’s backyard. A voyeur’s sport where eyes for guns, we shoot down our neighbor’s failures and take pleasure in the way they resemble our own. You can’t make money off this, unless you consider it some type of therapy.

I think I might have failed that test. Asked if I wanted to spend the night and I went home instead. But ya know life is elsewhere. Kelly’s new track fucking rocks.

A

December 17, 2002 at 1:50 am Leave a comment


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