Stand with me, I’ll show you there’s no reason to hide
a love greater than words to express—regrets, broken dreams rest
crumpled and cast aside rusting in saline-tinged tears, bona fide
truths written down on parchment unveil emotional arrest
feelings… numbness, detesting a life grotesque and yet
the Mystic’s brew of equal parts diligence and passion entwine
forging a serpent-like mania, lusting for innocence to abet
depravity. One foot on the line, bite down and taste the oily brine
of cruelty. Life’s masquerade.
But love, real love can never be averted
The difficulties of speaking pure make for chance serenade.
Conundrum and provocation; mere follies inserted
in our short Existence. The truth is a question that still remains:
How can I convey precisely how much I am in love?
I love you like a desert traveler desires water,
I love you as a poor man desires a loaf of bread.
Your name tasted sweet on my tongue
and it melted in my mouth as a candle.
Albert Camus; philosopher, journalist, and author. Pure genius. Currently trying to acquire all of his books and read them at the same time.
Call It Fate, Call It Karma
Call It Fate, Call It Karma - The Strokes
Nothing is working out and everything has gone to shit. 2014 is sucking major donkey dick.
All I want in life right now is to be friends with Emma Thompson. And if that’s not feasible, she should push Mr. Fallon off his thrown and run the tonight show.
Maya: Like I said. I'm not a spring chicken anymore.
Me: Then what kind of chicken are you?
Maya: I'm a winter chicken.
'Damn!' I yelled into the wind, and I had another shot, and by now I was feeling pretty good. Every shot was wiped away by the rushing wind of the open truck, wiped away of its bad effects, and the good effect sank in my stomach.
I think I’ve found the essence of Kerouac’s thrill seeking road adventures right here with this little gem. The open highway, desolate and dark, and a fifth of whiskey being passed around. Yessir, you gotta love that good ol’ hobo style Americana!
fluorescent pixels dance,
making my eyes dry.
Today I made a fascinating discovery. I came across the Mayakalisaurus, her origins are unknown—some say Brasil others say San Jose, Cali.. The only known dinosaur alive today, Maya proves to be a very rare specimen. She enjoys sleeping, reading (yes, you heard right!), eating Mexican food, and drinking craft/imported beer. However, many more details are uncertain at this point, she will be living with me in the meantime. Her progress will continue to be documented.
Booty warmer, you know I got it!
Excerpt from Devil Sent a Mistress by HANNAH GUENTHER
My origins are muddled by our nation’s ugly history. My roots are deep in blues and the songs of cottonpickers. The scars on my back are from oppression’s heavy lashes. The hands that raised me, the color of succulent chestnut, golden brown like cocoa. My kin is slave music. My mother tongue speaks that of suffering.
The Atlantic, black velvet enveloping wooden ships—colossal, bodies naked, bodies staked, black on black, shackles, stolen—body and soul, broken, Jim Crow, red noose—strange fruit… History.
I am resounding and unyielding.
I was raised in Belgium in 1846 under the watchful eye of Adolphe Sax, who sheltered me from people who criticized my ‘unnatural’ physique. I spent many years in Paris wandering world fairs from one conservatory to the next. I’ve been through the whole gamut. Had a brief stint in the French military until I managed to sail west, finally reaching the shores of New York. I was greeted by tall erections that scraped at the sky and penetrated clouds, their shadows overseeing the mechanical rhythms of people racing toward no end. And the lights! Lively and blaring on huge marquees saturated with glitz: Live music! Dance!
And Harlem on the cusp of resurrection, inhaling the rich elixir of liberation and expressionism, thriving off the essence of Langston Hughes. A breeding ground for culture where art and music collided. Jazz, the esteemed lovechild of this movement, residing at the nucleus of the avant-garde… before Man Ray, Warhol, Ginsburg, and Frank Gehry, there was us—the Coltranes and Davis’. Pioneers of the new wave, kind-of-blue cool. Descendants of the Van Gelder clique populating the streets, the lineage of Blue Note expanding faster than the royalty of yore.
And we had our nightclubs—large, lavish architecture that beaconed my relatives. The Cotton Club with Duke, Minton’s at the Cecil Hotel, and the Savoy—Home of Happy Feet off Lenox Ave. stretching across an entire city block. That’s where I first heard Ella sing. Her voice sounding like that of ancient goddesses—full of beauty and fertility, wholesome like an apple. Like butter spread on fresh baked bread. Ella was the epitome of soul and swing with hips to bear the spawn of future kin—melodic and volatile. Her voice struck a chord with me as we shared the same language. Her, scatting and me, singing improvised notes. But I had yet to embark on my prodigal journey.
I had my first debut at the Roseland Ballroom. That’s when Fletcher Henderson introduced me to a tenor saxophonist named Coleman Hawkins. A virtuoso when it came to romancing and wooing the likes of me. Brief was our affair, but soft and gentle was his touch. My first love, a gentleman. This I’ll always remember. …