Maybe I don't want another me inside me. Maybe that's why it's so hard to sleep.
I have never felt more connected to a book in my life
I feel I have this whole other half to my life that I live out when I sleep but I'm not allowed to remember it. Like there's another me trapped in my skin, a me who gets to ride lions, have sex with celebrities, fly over my old high school, live for years in an hour.
Maybe I don't want another me inside me. Maybe that's why it's so hard to sleep.
I have never felt more connected to a book in my life
Maybe I don't want another me inside me. Maybe that's why it's so hard to sleep.
I have never felt more connected to a book in my life
search terms that can bring you here
Anal
Bondage&Domination
Dead&FootFetish
&WhoCoinedTheTermHeavyMetal(William.S.Burroughs)
Bondage&Domination
Dead&FootFetish
&WhoCoinedTheTermHeavyMetal(William.S.Burroughs)
I should not be allowed to have pens
We were always told as children not to draw on our skin because the ink will seep through and poison us. The bollocks to keep everyone empty. You find other surfaces to draw on.
I draw all over everything. Today, in class I begun to dot each of my freckles on my arms. I have a wonderful isosceles triangle near my left wrist. It has always been my favourite.
When I was in primary school, as a wonderful straight A's (not even kidding) student, I decided everyone needed to be confronted with my organs. So, again in class, i picked up a pen and began drawing a (slightly inaccurate) skeletal and organ system on my school dress. My mother was not impressed because I couldn't give her a concrete answer as to why I had done it.
It seems I have had this Möbius fascination for some time; to put what is inside outside, to reveal what is never seen. To have one surface that is neither the front nor the back but occupies this in-betweenness. My insides are trying to come out my fingers
I draw all over everything. Today, in class I begun to dot each of my freckles on my arms. I have a wonderful isosceles triangle near my left wrist. It has always been my favourite.
When I was in primary school, as a wonderful straight A's (not even kidding) student, I decided everyone needed to be confronted with my organs. So, again in class, i picked up a pen and began drawing a (slightly inaccurate) skeletal and organ system on my school dress. My mother was not impressed because I couldn't give her a concrete answer as to why I had done it.
It seems I have had this Möbius fascination for some time; to put what is inside outside, to reveal what is never seen. To have one surface that is neither the front nor the back but occupies this in-betweenness. My insides are trying to come out my fingers
Icebergs; oder, the night I only remembered the word beautiful
The following is a semi-review/semi-reflection(semi-erection?) of a gig I went to recently at Madame Claudes. Apparently Monday night is their experimental night. Needless to say, i'm going back. You know, I love drinking whiskey more alone than the dog.
J'HAN STYLES-KAUPHMANN
(listen)
This an an extraordinary delicacy which disgusts me. It's so discomforting but so beautiful that I want to vomit. I have been reading too much Flann O'Brien and it seems he is 50% his violin, and it is 50% him. The particles slowly rearrange themselves. The wood is breathing and he has strings in his throat.
He is made of play-dough.
His shadow is reflected upon the crate and it forms a face that is forever in a state of openness. It is breathing too.
It can't close while time is infinite. Eternity is sickening. And then a fat man comes and traps the shadow and time returns and I'm relieved, but I'm not.
All I want to do is vomit and cry and keep my silence to myself but it's been shared. These upturned bins on which we sit and my body jolts when someone bumps into it in the darkness.
Whiskey smells like plastic, or something.
A pink rests on the whole of the violin and half his face and a quarter of his suit and it only wrinkles once.
I fear the music is underneath my skin and rubbing on the inside of my dermals and the bow is slicing through my skin. All I can think of is vomit.
There was a time when I forgot what breathing was.
X-NAVI:ET
It is a möbius strip of orafices. He plays the limpet as both sexful and sexless and I can feel the vibrations both in my vagina and asshole.
His chains have a pulse and graze against the gaping cymbal (symbol?).
The first half ended (did it?) with what I imagine as heavy piss into a plastic bucket that I could believe was blue.
I can understand more than ever that music is about vibrations and is more tactile than audible.
You don't have to touch to be touching and you don't have to make music to make music.
In order to listen, you only have to listen with your stomach and to play you need only grasp at some thing.
And then I had a piss and a cheeseburger and it was perfect.
J'HAN STYLES-KAUPHMANN
(listen)
This an an extraordinary delicacy which disgusts me. It's so discomforting but so beautiful that I want to vomit. I have been reading too much Flann O'Brien and it seems he is 50% his violin, and it is 50% him. The particles slowly rearrange themselves. The wood is breathing and he has strings in his throat.
He is made of play-dough.
His shadow is reflected upon the crate and it forms a face that is forever in a state of openness. It is breathing too.
It can't close while time is infinite. Eternity is sickening. And then a fat man comes and traps the shadow and time returns and I'm relieved, but I'm not.
All I want to do is vomit and cry and keep my silence to myself but it's been shared. These upturned bins on which we sit and my body jolts when someone bumps into it in the darkness.
Whiskey smells like plastic, or something.
A pink rests on the whole of the violin and half his face and a quarter of his suit and it only wrinkles once.
I fear the music is underneath my skin and rubbing on the inside of my dermals and the bow is slicing through my skin. All I can think of is vomit.
There was a time when I forgot what breathing was.
X-NAVI:ET
It is a möbius strip of orafices. He plays the limpet as both sexful and sexless and I can feel the vibrations both in my vagina and asshole.
His chains have a pulse and graze against the gaping cymbal (symbol?).
The first half ended (did it?) with what I imagine as heavy piss into a plastic bucket that I could believe was blue.
I can understand more than ever that music is about vibrations and is more tactile than audible.
You don't have to touch to be touching and you don't have to make music to make music.
In order to listen, you only have to listen with your stomach and to play you need only grasp at some thing.
And then I had a piss and a cheeseburger and it was perfect.
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