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[20 Nov 2009 · 7:16pm] |
-What do you think about the Beat Generation?
-I don't think it's anything. I don't think it exists. There's no such thing as the Beat Generation.
-You don't consider yourself beat?
-Hell no! I don't consider myself beat, or beatified.
-What are you if not beat?
-An individual, nothing.
-They say to be beat is to be nothing.
-I don't care what they say, there's no Beat Generation.
-Don't you care about the existence of the beat?
-Hell no! man!
-Don't you love your fellow men?
-No I don't love my fellow man in fact I dislike them very much, except the individual if I get to know him; I don't want to govern or be governed.
-But you are governed by laws of society.
-But I'm trying to avoid that.
-Ah, by avoiding society you become separate from society and being separate from society is being BEAT.
-Oh, yeah?
-Yeah.
-I don't understand. I don't want to be in the society at all, I want to be outside it.
-Face it, man, you're beat.
-I am not! It's not even a conscious desire on my part, it's just the way I am, I am what I am.
-Man, you're so beat you don't know.
-Oh, yeah?
-Yeah.
-Crazy, man.
Gregory Corso from Variations on a Generation (1959).
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[19 Nov 2009 · 6:44pm] |
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music: |
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karen o & the kids |
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some pictures from sal's party (and then just some pictures from whatever). the theme was "offensive."
( BE OFFENSIVE! B-E OFFENSIVE! )
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[14 Nov 2009 · 12:53pm] |
Always be drunk.
That’s it!
The great imperative!
In order not to feel
Time’s horrid fardel
bruise your shoulders,
grinding you into the earth,
Get drunk and stay that way.
On what?
On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.
But get drunk.
And if you sometimes happen to wake up
on the porches of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the dismal loneliness of your own room,
your drunkenness gone or disappearing,
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
ask everything that flees,
everything that groans
or rolls
or sings,
everything that speaks,
ask what time it is;
and the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock
will answer you:
“Time to get drunk!
Don’t be martyred slaves of Time,
Get drunk!
Stay drunk!
On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!
—“Get Drunk” by Charles Baudelaire
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[09 Nov 2009 · 10:51pm] |
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music: |
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andrew jackson jihad - "deep dark basement (spacejam dub)" |
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hm. i don't know what to say really. my life is looking up i guess. or should i say, i have a more optimistic outlook on life lately. things are still shitty. i'm still cleaning up messes i've made. still trying desperately to get myself out of the hole i let myself fall into. ya know, it's been the same way for years. i just wish i had gotten it straight in my head before i let it get this way. but that's life isn't it? you make the same mistakes until you learn the lesson. or something like that. i don't know really. i just wanted to post these pictures. friday steve took me to the woods by the house he used to live in when he lived in northport. afterwards we got pizza at little vincent's in huntington, skateboarded around town and got more pizza cause we just live on pizza i guess. we smoked some bowls and watched "down by law" but i passed out about half way through. saturday night we went to a party at sal's and i had such a good time even though i was so nervous before hand and i was pretty sure it was going to suck and i was just going to feel awkward the entire time. i have some pictures but they aren't very good so i don't know if i'll bother to post them. i'm about to go to steve's now and we're going to skate around his area. 
( best day ) |
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[08 Oct 2009 · 9:06pm] |
i want a wife who gives hurricane blowjobs.
i want a husband with a vibrating tongue.
i want a volcano i can swallow.
i want an alarm clock that forgives me.
i want to step out of my life like an airplane.
i want to rip off my face like a monkey suit.
i want a new hair follicles.
i want out of my contract.
i want to shut down the factory of mistakes, otherwise
known as my big fat mouth.
i want to pee champagne.
i want to shit out perfectly-wrapped hershey kisses.
i want to gather up raindrops and return them to the clouds.
i want to die in the arms of a revolutionary idea.
i want to be buried in a gown of snowflakes.
i want the worms that devour me to savor my taste.
-- the want ads by jeffrey mcdaniel
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[11 Sep 2009 · 4:59pm] |
“I am an excitable person who only understands life lyrically, musically, in whom feelings are much stronger as reason. I am so thirsty for the marvelous that only the marvelous has power over me. Anything I can not transform into something marvelous, I let go. Reality doesn’t impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when ordinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another. No more walls.” — Anaïs Nin |
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[28 Aug 2009 · 11:15pm] |
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music: |
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slightly stoopid - "don't fuck'n look" |
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Letters To A Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke
Letter One
Paris
February 17, 1903
Dear Sir,
Your letter arrived just a few days ago. I want to thank you for the great confidence you have placed in me. That is all I can do. I cannot discuss your verses; for any attempt at criticism would be foreign to me. Nothing touches a work of art so little as words of criticism : they always result in more or less fortunate misunderstandings. Things aren't all so tangible and sayable as people would usually have us believe; most experiences are unsayable, they happen in a space that no word has ever entered, and more unsayable than all other things are works of art, those mysterious existences, whose life endures beside our own small, transitory life.
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[23 Aug 2009 · 1:29am] |
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i'm pretty sure my head is going to explode. everything feels awful. my guts are all twisted up inside.
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[26 Jul 2009 · 8:54pm] |
life
hahaha
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| child in red by rainer maria rilke |
[21 Jul 2009 · 9:17pm] |
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music: |
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explosions in the sky |
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Sometimes she walks through the village in her
little red dress
all absorbed in restraining herself,
and yet, despite herself, she seems to move
according to the rhythm of her life to come.
She runs a bit, hesitates, stops,
half-turns around...
and, all while dreaming, shakes her head
for or against.
Then she dances a few steps
that she invents and forgets,
no doubt finding out that life
moves on too fast.
It's not so much that she steps out
of the small body enclosing her,
but that all she carries in herself
frolics and ferments.
It's this dress that she'll remember
later in a sweet surrender;
when her whole life is full of risks,
the little red dress will always seem right.
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[21 Jul 2009 · 6:23pm] |
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