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the minstrel

Page history last edited by DWD 11 years, 5 months ago

NVM: Randomly came up with a new idea involving scissors and glue that I will try to get done this morning. I might be crazy and it's just me being stupid and not actually creating anything of value, but I think it'll be neat. Basically mixing in Yage Letters lines with lines from my stuff chosen at random and then reassembling at random via picking out of a hat then examining for meaning.

 

Zine update: Originally wanted to do an audio cut up but people borrowing recording equipment and other such thievery has kept me from being able to do it so I'm looking for other ideas. I have been writing a lot of dream narratives lately [with an example below], as I have been having some rather Burroughsian dreams lately. I'd be interested in including these if that'd be cool for the zine.

 


Dream Narrative #1:

 

I am in the jungle. The jungle is extreme small. About the size of a room. It just kind of ends. Like, there are walls, as if this is some sort of fake jungle for a zoo. But the walls are brick. Think of it this way: Imagine a rectangular room made up of squares of a decent size, let's say the room is 2 squares wide and 5 squares long (the squares are pretty big, but I have no sense of measurement to tell you how big). You would end up with something like this:

______________________________________________________________________________________

|                    ||                    ||                    ||                    ||                    |

|          1        ||         2          ||        3          ||        4          ||        5          |

|                    ||                    ||                    ||                    ||                    |

|________________||________________||________________||________________||________________|

_____________________________________________________________________________________

|                    ||                    ||                    ||                    ||                    |

|          6        ||          7        ||         8          ||        9          ||       10          |

|                    ||                    ||                    ||                    ||                    |

|________________||________________||________________||________________||________________|

 

So we've got ten boxes, how nice. They weren't numbed or even divided up like this in the dream. I'm just trying to make things clear, see? I'm designing a set. Detail is important. The story's in the details. Quentin Tarantino knew this and he told Randy Brooks to tell us, but we were probably too busy focusing on how everyone in that movie sounds like they've got pancakes in their mouths (which they sometimes do) and getting hungry and thanking God and Denny and Lazy Susan that breakfast is the easiest food to get at 3 AM.

 

The point is, boxes 1 through 9 would be jungle, if we were making a set, you see, but box 10 is like a little cement patio alcove type deal. That's where the dream begins. Not in the jungle, you're not supposed to go there, it's dangerous, we'll find out why.

 

So there I am on this patio with the woman I thought I loved and her little sister and an Australian chap checked out with the bent hat and all and he's probably played by Hugh Jackman since I am not in casting just in writing. He was a sort of guide or something but he didn't do shit the entire dream so fuck him, shitty guide.

 

Woman and girl make big mistake: they walk into the jungle. Hugh should have warned them but he was too busy watching his new Wolverine movie that just leaked onto the internet and he really wanted to see it so he got hooked up with the torrentz and totally has a copy but don't tell the boss man or he'll have his balls in a jar by the end of the week.

 

STICK TO THE POINT MISTER I HAVE PLACES TO BE

 

WELL GOD WHO SAID I WAS TALKING TO YOU

 

Anyway, my love and her sister been in the jungle a long time, I'm getting worried. I wander in and to my dismay they have been taken over in the MIND. It's mind control. Someone is controlling their motor fuctions, they've been brainwashed. They're going nuts. They're gnashing teeth. They're drooling, clawing at the air. It's more adorable than anything. There's an interesting symptom to their mind control that I note, however: Their bodies keep changing color. Not just the skin, even the hair, the clothing, the entire body, like you just printed out a black and white copy of them and decided to color it in. It's just not colors but patterns, get it right. It's like, first they'll be light blue with purple pinstripes, and then there's a buzz and they're purple with red polka-dots. But meanwhile my love's about to attack me so I best run out of the dangerous jungle boxes to the safety of my patio where Hugh Jackman is busy masturbating to the climax scene of Wolverine. YEAH BOI!

 

But what do you know, I look on the brick wall and there's a bunch of foam swords hung up on the wall. You've seen foam swords, they have them at McClanahan's or Wal-Mart or the Interzone. These are special though: they're all different colors and patterns. And, well, I picked up street smarts in the Lehigh Valley, there's no better place to pick them up. Suburban streets with arboreal names. So I come up with the idea of taking these swords (no idea how I carried them all, Hugh didn't help for sure) and smacking on the ladies with 'em. Of course, you can only hit her with the sword that corresponds to her current color. It's tricky, especially with so many, but it's like a video game of sorts. Video game controller...video game controlled her. Hmm.

 

So basically, I freed that lovely lady and her little sis, was a hero by any estimation, woke up feeling in control of the control, and she broke my heart. The end.


If I am underground

It is not because I don't have a shovel

If I am lying cold and white

It is not because my veins aren't filled with blood

If I am crying into the soil of the gardens the ancients so recommended

It is not because I lack a tissue or a sleeve

If I am burning alive

It is not because there is no water

It is not because there is no steam

It is not because there is no

I am just trying to see the cancer

                underneath

So I might fight it with the

Thousands soldiers with a

Thousand guns

I have marching for my name

It seems absurd?

This dead apartment

Will soon be nothing but hot black dust

Men were paid good money to drill nails into wood

In order to create this pile of dust.


And there shall be a miraculous death,

And there shall be wine and remembrance,

And there shall be a nameless stone,

And it shall say,

"THERE IS NOTHING LEFT OF ME.

  I AM BUT A MOTE OF DUST."

And the passersby shall agree.


I would likely to briefly discuss my life.

 

I love this class, but I am in two English classes I absolutely hate right now. It is sad. I had an in-class exam for the one before break, which I feel I did horribly on. Alas. I am actually to the point of hoping I got an F or a D on it so that I can justify late-dropping the course. If I get a B- or a C I will not be sure how to proceed. I really am against in-class English exams on principle, especially in 400-levels. In like the 200-level intro to Brit lit course they are excusable due to the sheer size of the classes and the fact that they are introductory and dealing with fairly basic and canonical texts. However, this 400-level having one, I really was not a fan. Just give me some goddamn papers. I found the time limit (1 hour 15 minutes) way too short two write two essays of any substance, especially since we're dealing with texts that are not really the most accessible and they questions were EXTREMELY vague. I mean, you basically have 30 minutes for each essay (since there was a matching section that ate up probably 10 minutes or so; also factoring in reading through the exam in the beginning and the time it takes to decide which questions to answer). I do not think 30 minutes is even very ample time in which to formulate a thesis about a single text, let alone 3+ and without the texts in front of you. I guess I am ranting and maybe the few other people in Burroughs who are also taking this class with me will read this and be like "Wow, he's an idiot," but I really hated the exam. I do not see how putting me under the crunch to pull two essays out of my ass in an hour is applicable to real life. Maybe I don't understand real life.

/rant.

 

Sorry about that, but it's really frustrated me over the past few weeks. Hopefully I will get the essay back tomorrow. If I decide to late drop the class I am not sure how to handle the situation since I have a group presentation with another guy a week from Thursday who has not responded to my contacts, but we'll see how it goes.

 

I guess I'm just burnt out? My social/romantic/artistic life is going great right now which usually means my academic life is doing terribly. They seem to have an inverse relationship. I guess I shouldn't use this thing like a journal, but regardless of my stupidity and/or lack of preparing for exams and/or whineyness, I still think the question of how an exam asking one to produce two text-analysing essays in approx. 30 minutes each is a fruitful exercise is one worth asking. Thoughts?


 

Johnson is finally in line, but the sky is no longer red. Shame.

 

...and finally the notebook is empty. I had to spill out the insanity. I don't know if anyone cares or if it in anyway benefits anyone, but my mind was reaching a boiling point. More actual useful superduper fun knowledge will come soon, I swear it. But first:

 

I need 15 minutes on Oppenheimer and 40 minutes on a gay fantasia. These are both true things.


johnny_damon_swings_low4775: http://biotelemetrica.pbwiki.com/the-minstrel

nothappyasaraccoonbutlovesthe69: what is this now?

johnny_damon_swings_low4775: for class

johnny_damon_swings_low4775: burroughs

nothappyasaraccoonbutlovesthe69: you must post things for class?

nothappyasaraccoonbutlovesthe69: are there specifics?

nothappyasaraccoonbutlovesthe69: am i being referred to as a funky raccoon without my knowledge

johnny_damon_swings_low4775: yes

nothappyasaraccoonbutlovesthe69: funkyraccoon6969

nothappyasaraccoonbutlovesthe69: a funky misspelled raccoon

nothappyasaraccoonbutlovesthe69: fabulous


Everybody's happy

To be an all-beef patty

But I've

Got something to prove


 

There's a Filipino man rooting for

the Coca-Cola Tigers, but

he's drinking

a Pepsi

 

The machine is broken.

By the gods, someone should've told us.


I want to expand

what all this means

to the little girls

and the little boys

and their giant toys

made of Chinese plastic

choking them to

death; They're dying!

 

Oh won't you give air

to their lungs,

Jesus?

Why have you forsaken us?

Was it the gays?

It was?!

I have resolve

 

Time to become a hurricane

And destroy Louisiana.

And then you will love me, Jesus.

Then you will love me...


Things worth knowing:

1) "The menu has 24 unique flavor combinations" - Sebastian, owner of Sebastian's, on Kitchen Nightmares

2) "Joe McCarthy is Alive and Living in Spiro Agnew" - Random political poster discovered somewhere in the Carolinas.

3) "Everybody Knows This Is Nowehrmacht" - anonymous [a.k.a. me]


Where is the hairbrush to make the horses happy while they enact the wishes of evil men?


The moon is made of cheese. This is a fact. Thoughts on this fact:

 

the moon is melting onto yr nachos

zomg its an eclipse dont wait for me

go back son son son son son of god

come back sun sun sun sun sun of god

 

dip your chips into the moon and salute the sun of god

 

everyone thinks the moon is made of cheese and they're right

but they forget that the earth is made of cheese as well

and that we don't need to go to the moon to satisfy our cravings


Am I not liked because of a major character flaw of which I am unconscious?


Am I liked in spite of a major character flaw of which I am unconscious?


 


funkyracoon6969: was that a poem

Bukowski4Lyffffe: everything is a poem

Bukowski4Lyffffe: but yes

Bukowski4Lyffffe: a page

Bukowski4Lyffffe: that only says “The world.”

Bukowski4Lyffffe: should definitely go into the collection

Bukowski4Lyffffe: and then this conversation should be on the next apge

Bukowski4Lyffffe: revealing the truth

Bukowski4Lyffffe: we aren’t interested in hiding anything

 

 


 

The world.

 

 


Should have mentioned that I'm writing a manifesto with some people to be part of a publication. Secret lives.

 

Poem about the manifesto before it was written

 

Did you read it?

Was it good?

Did it make you angry?

Did it make you uncomfortable?

Did it make you wonder what is wrong with me?

Did it make you cry?

Did it make you die?

Why are you dead?

WAKE UP!


For Manifesto: Language is alive.


I wish I was somewhere else.

I have treated this place like a human.

I have squandered all the resources given to me.

Squandered all that I could have had.

And now I am left with nothing.

Just a wasteland, but it didn't have to be this way.

It could have been beautiful, but I destroyed it.


I want to go to the circus.

Do you want to come?

I am sure no one else is up,

And the loneliness is

Bad for my bones. No?

 

You will make a grown man cry,

A grown man destroy himself

With fire.

 

You will make a baby cry as the flames burn her

Soft face to a new shade before

Unknown to unlearned eyes.

 

You will make a mother gasp in terror as

She knows deep down her daughter will

Never be the same again,

That this is the last day on Earth

Where we could have danced without music,

But now the music has stopped

And we didn't take the chance.

 

So instead we sit in uncomfortable chairs

Waiting for the DJ to arrive. If only

We had a pocket of change and an old diner, but

They were all plucked out of the ground and plopped into

Museums.

 

No more dinners,

No more breakfasts,

No more Chuck Berry

For a dime.

 

All of this is because of you.

 

I love you.


Everybody talks about the red night, but they all forget about the green knight. He had a good run until the 80s started being kiche and he was reduced to a t-shirt logo so his only company is Che Guevara who won't stop talking about the irony of his situation.


Reminder to self to form indie-folk band called The Mourning Doves [see Cities of the Red Night pg. 60]


I am a horrible person who gets overwhelmed and forgets responsibilty. In unrelated news, I am abandoning dates. Why? I don't know. I am tired of checking the calendar. It is not my master. YOU are not my master. My master is made of dollar bills and powdered wigs. You are made of post-it notes and dying dreams.


02/13/2009:

 

My bad on going so long without editing. I have lots of sketched out ideas by hand that I haven't gotten around to transcibing as the past few weeks of life have been very frustrating/hectic, etc. Expect a steady spurt of posts soon when I finally get around to posting several weeks' worth of ideas. In regards to the Zine, I have two main ideas I'm going to be working on:

 

1) I'm working on some sort of audio cut up project of Naked Lunch. First I need to do research into Burroughs' personal audio techniques which I will try to replicate to a certain degree, and then I will be doing something more modern/digital via microphones and laptop. I'm going to have several volunteers give dramatic readings of random passages and then cut this recording up.

 

2) I'm constantly struck by random lines in The Yage Letters and Naked Lunch which I am going to take as launching points for poetry and poetical exegesis. I might explore the possibility of using these in some sort of audio format also.

 

By the way, everyone should check out the album Howl, U.S.A. by Kronos Quartet (of Requiem for a Dream fame). It features, among other recordings, a Ginsberg reading of Howl set to music.

 

01/27/2009:

 

Don't underestimate Eisenhower. Just when you think he's gonna cash it in all quiet-like, he drops a bomb missle explosive morsel of great wisdom on you. Old guys know more than you think.

 

YouTube plugin error

 

- DWD

 


 

01/23/2009 [later]:

 

[thoughts on God, shots on goal, shots on God?]

 

The Earth Was Blue, But There Was No God

 

You're too late to be saved, and

Yes I've been called a favorite son.

Too bad it's also a fact

That I am the only one.

 

Babies born with blades in their backs?

Lends them an air of pretension,

But Russian fuel is running low

In the city made of salt and sorrow.

 

"Please...

    take me down

    take control

    take these hands of your brothers and march them on down the line."

 

Black electrical tape repairs

The giant metal chandelier.

The midnight ball must go on

With or without the masks of blood.

 

The chosen man enters his cage.

Will he sing to us like a bird?

Fly to the sun on rusty wings?

And cry, 'the Earth is finally blue again'?

 

"Please...

    take me down

    take control

    take these hands of your mother's and march them on down the line."

 

Hm?

     ?

     ?

     ?

     ?

     ?

     ?

     ? Shouldn't have drank from Lethe.

 


01/23/2009:

 

@ Dr. Benway/Colonial Trinkets (or is it colloquial?)

 

The concept of infinity is highly interesting to me. It is the most terrifying thing, the most undesireable, the most impossible to grasp, but at the same time it is what so many crave for [oft desperately], the ultimate wish, dream, hope. Change, transition, just not termination. Oh God, not nothingness. An infinite something-ness but never nothing. How long was science resistant to the idea of a vacuum? (I'm not a numbers guy, but a decent chunk of time) It's a scary thought: nothing in a jar. If you can put nothing in a jar, can you put me into nothing? Yikes.

 

This idea of an infinity kind of makes the head hurt. The mathematical concept of limits, with their habits of infinitely approach zero (or what not) without ever getting there, is often one of the hardest for young high school minds to grasp - if they ever grasp it at all. Not really grasping what we're saying (to do so might not even be possible), we pledge that we will love our freshman year girlfriends "forever" when we're lucky if we last until winter break. Bible-holding gents stand on the street cautioning us against the perils of sex lest we burn in hellfire for eternity. What a terrifying idea! It's hard enough to deal with the days following a moderate heartbreak (which seem to stretch indefinitely), but actual eternity? IN FLAMES???

 

Yet at the same time, the idea of nothingness scares us so much that we need religion in order to not be overcome with the dread of the human condition. Whether it is the eternal existance of the Christian heaven, the endless cycle of Buddhist reincarnation, or what have you, they are all attempts to escape the horridness of the zero. However, while this zero is so horrifying, to be honest, I find the infinite even more horrifying. The idea of a permanent existance? This thought weighs down my soul; existance is just too heavy to carry for eternity.

 

Hence the terrifying in the terrifyingly beautiful [sublime] infinity that Ludlow gazes at. This infinity is interpretted by us as akin to God, I do not think that any sort of religious knowledge is necessary for one to experience such a vision. Thus, Running-From-Bears might just as easily come across these thoughts: we all stay up at night. All night. Every night. I do not think it is that God is put in our minds by religious teaching and thus our contemplations of his infinite nature seep into our drugged (or not) visions. Rather, I think our contemplations of the nature of infinity, which any humans restling with his finite existance (especially if that existance is about to be destroyed by an acrobatic bear) experiences as he looks at the sky before a perhaps final sleep, are personified as God, with his infinite mass, infinite existance, infinite power, infinite knowledge, infinite presense, infinite forgiveness, infinite wrath.

 

However, while God may very well = ∞, I believe that, if not in place of it, at least in addition to it, another equation must be considered:

 

God = Zero

 

The concept of zero, of nothingness is perhaps the most sublime feeling of all. Impossible to describe, impossible to even comprehend (infinite is much easier to as least symbollically represent in a visual sense), both terrifying and somehow appealing. For if there can be nothing, then does that not make the somethings, the subjective infinities, all that more precious and beautiful?

 

It'll be ok, kid. Nothing isn't that bad. Things'll be alright. It's all going to zero, and zero isn't be that bad. At the very least, the path there should be interesting, no?

 

- DWD

 


 

01/17/2009 [even later]:

 

DWD reading Junky: LIVE!

 

reactions to prolouge:

  • I wonder to what extent this is autobiographical/memoir? Although that wonder probably comes out of the recent fasincation with the memoir in general (Eggers, Fry [or whatever that Oprah-hater was called])
  • his standards for being an addict seem odd to me, considering how we're told how heroin is pretty much instantly addictive. is he saying that he could have quit if he wanted to 3 months in? seems doubtful
  • I'm curious if any hard scientific research has ever been done into his "constant growing" theory

 

reactions to main text as I read it:

  • I'm very surprised by how direct the style is. I was expecting something inscrutable, incommensurable. The writing style is instead notably direct.
  • "'Well,' he began, 'you have to expect to take some chances when you're using junk. Besides, just because one person has a certain reaction doesn't necessarily mean that someone else wil react in the same way. you seemed so sure it was all right, I didn't want to beg you by bringing anything up.'" (22) - ding ding subjective experience?
  • "A junkie runs on junk time. When his junk is cut off, the clock runs down and stops. All he can do is hang on and wait for non-junk time to start. A sick junkie has no escape from external time, no place to go. He can only wait." (72) - The control society imposes external time on us, but we have our own subjective time experience. It seems, however, that the problem with junk is that, while it boosts the subjective experience, once the junk is cut off the addict is helpless prey for the control society. Perhaps words would be a more powerful way of achieving this, because relying on the junk to escape from external time actually traps the person in external time (quite the trick). The use of junk forces the person to play into the whole system of capitalism, exchange, law, order, punishment, etc. and thus they are not free.

 


 

01/17/2009 [later]:

 

As the famous minstrel once sang, as time fell apart around him:

 

<Dead Bird?>

 

church bells don't ring

as a

dead preacher sings

out his

postmodern thoughts

of a

possible | pendulum - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - our mothers cry

    |                                                             that their

    |                                                        sons doomed to die

    |                                             should at

    |                                                        least be invited

    |                                                                               to their

    |                                                        premature funerals

    |

    |

    |

    |

    |

    o

    ld fathers fail

    to see

    through the white veil

   veinly

    tries to protect her

    from the

    death of the Swing Era

 

But who said we'd want to be there?

Who says we'd have The Time?

  We're too busy

         scaling a

       shattering

    clocktower

  but we ain't high enough to exist.

 

But it happens on our way up we learned

[the walls too transparent to discern?]

that whitecollar was right/no cubicles to knight

You'll get weighed down if you wear it like a

        |

        |

        |

        |

        |

        |

        |

        |

        |

        |

        |

        | 

         <millstone>

 

 


 

01/17/2009:

 

All seconds are not created equal. As someone with the condition traditionally known as 'a poor sense of time', I find this idea very fascinating. It is a truth that Ludlow comes to know intimately. His use of hasheesh completely 'distorts' the supposed connection between the subjective experience of the universe and the objective system of linear time society has developed and thrust upon us. While Ludlow's experience allows him to hang around for the lifespan of the pyramids, I feel we all experience these lapses between subjective and objective time, with or without the use of drugs. Oddly, however, the reaction of society is not to recognize that its rigid system in which all seconds are created equal is far from universal (indeed, the arbitrariness of the amount of seconds in a year seems rather apparent when astronomers add a second [cheaters!] to keep things running smoothly). Instead, we brand ourselves with various diseases and syndromes to explain why we don't fit into linear time. Not fitting into an arbitrary, manmade system with no necessary connection to the universe means you are sick? Hmm. Well, at least we have plenty of drugs pharmaceuticals for you to in jest. I, for example, have pretty bad insomnia. However, I question whether there's actually something wrong with me or if it is just that I am not built to fit into the 24 hour 7 day cycle. Unfortunately, for me to be deemed acceptable to society I am forced to go through life constantly tired and/or constantly medicated. Alas!

 

As the Three 6 Mafia famously said, "ever since I can remember I been poppin' my collar" - who cares about the reality of the situation if it's all you can remember? The fact that Juicy J wasn't always poppin' his collar doesn't seem very relevant if his entire subjective reality forms around the impression of constant collar poppin'. While the approach of society is generally to enforce the seemingly full-proof objective reality on the subjective, why can we not allow the subjective to flourish? It's all we've got. 

 

 

" " " "Hurry up please, it's time"

 

- T. S. Eliot "

- William S. Burroughs "

- Richard Doyle "

- DWD

 


 

I always wanted to grow up to be a contributor to a magical collection of information musings characters. Will we achieve a greater understanding of eachother's essences or merely realize the essences aren't there?

 

Also, this is a test.

 

Haven't read piece yet (being distracted by a three-headed [1 - Spike Lee, 2 - Bill Simmons, 3 - Chuck Bass (hawt)] beast dancing all over the room. Will return with words once he tuckers out.

 

- DWD

Comments (2)

Zach Valenta said

at 9:00 am on Apr 4, 2009

In-class english exams are a pain in the ass, or rather, the hand. Goddamnit, we changed to movable type for a reason! How the hell am I supposed to crank out 10 pages in an hour with this strange quill-like object? Give me a typewriter at least. The only satisfaction I get from this silly exercise is the sadistic pleasure of imposing my chicken scratch hieroglyphics on whatever sad-sack professor has doled out the exam. I hope it is as painful for them to read as it was for me to write.
But, to confirm your own views, in class exams suck. I think the intention behind it is to gauge the students' ability to think on their feet with difficult theoretical content. However, professors always (at least in my case) seem to get hung up on issues that would seem to be more important in a final draft i.e. "proper" topic sentences (which, to be honest, are crucial, but wayyy to many profs are aligned with high school composition teachers in a rigid and formulaic application of them. grow the fuck up, not every paragraph every has to state its purpose in totality in the first sentence). One professor, regarding an essay in which he made no other notes of error, took off points for misspelling. Shit like that.

Zach Valenta said

at 9:02 am on Apr 4, 2009

In-class english exams are a pain in the ass, or rather, the hand. Goddamnit, we changed to movable type for a reason! How the hell am I supposed to crank out 10 pages in an hour with this strange quill-like object? Give me a typewriter at least. The only satisfaction I get from this silly exercise is the sadistic pleasure of imposing my chicken scratch hieroglyphics on whatever sad-sack professor has doled out the exam. I hope it is as painful for them to read as it was for me to write.
But, to confirm your own views, in class exams suck. I think the intention behind it is to gauge the students' ability to think on their feet with difficult theoretical content. However, professors always (at least in my case) seem to get hung up on issues that would seem to be more important in a final draft i.e. "proper" topic sentences (which, to be honest, are crucial, but wayyy to many profs are aligned with high school composition teachers in a rigid and formulaic application of them. grow the fuck up, not every paragraph every has to state its purpose in totality in the first sentence). One professor, regarding an essay in which he made no other notes of error, took off points for misspelling. Shit like that.

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