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You dropped every letter from the alphabet and made soup
Let the letters form, "mles", and you became you
Next was, "tq", you thought... "Well, me too".
And wore that thought until the day I met you
"m", for Motivation, Mantras, A wicked soul in Queue
But that day you decided you were your greatest, and knew
Your full potential in this bowl of alphabet soup
If you believe in it, who says what you know isn't true?
----------------
But driving you... what your soul was hiding through
This fear, resentment, somehow in this soup it grew
There was a "f", your head spoke "Failure." "Forgotten"
"ttd" "Time to Die", "The True Devil", "r" for "Rotten"
It was dark as you peered to hear what your head was saying
And looked above, maybe I'll forget what it said and start praying
So you looked above, and said grace before the meal
If I created these thoughts, then I can declare them "Not Real."
----------------
You devoured the bad letters, with rhythm and style
Left only the good in the soup, and you smiled..
But this is only soup & these letters, we made
To fulfill a connection to someone else, we create!
& you looked up, and noticed not a single soul
Near, far, close, if there's nothing to share... where's the hope?
Where's the smoke? Where's the mirror? Where's reality?!
Where there was once a man, now stands a Man against Gravity!
----------------
But what we leave behind is what we shared
If you can't take the bad, then the good was never there
You will never finish your meal and look up at the bowl
To see it was only white, that ever changing feeling of full
What we avoid, we can never hear
If you can't take what's wrong, how can what's right come clear?
Life in a well, is easy. Words are what we made them to be
But happiness doesn't start with "z"

- Second Hand King

 ... all our Radioheads.

A novel about personal responsibility in a corrupt society.

Virtual Assassin is a tense thriller with powerful political and moral implications from new author Simon Kearns. It tracks the story of successful young graphic designer, Lee Coller, sickened with the Iraq war and the no-regrets position of Tony Blair. When he hears a VIP is about to visit his office, he obsesses it might be Blair and chalks out a plan of revenge. But will Blair visit after all? And will Lee do the unthinkable? Can one act of violence make up for so many others?

All details & more - click here

Warning: this book may contain traces of satire

“... a pacy read ... indicative of the shallow heyday of New Labour.”

- Time Out

“The book is genuinely subversive ...”

Booksquawk.com

 No-Where Of Importance

    Pretending that here is actually no-where.

...everything all the time; God and Eternity...

 The rain turned the sun into a bright coloured smile that stretched across the face of the sky.

I met a Boy in a Twenty-Seven Year Olds body-

blue eyes; like a child-

skin and bone; like amalnutrition child

 in those

commercials that wrench your soul into

making a donation-

dirty fingernails

like the person who's too been looking/

For lost Treasure.

Stained brown Teeth;Like a person too poor

to afford a toothbrush.

 Andrew shook my hand,

 and bowed his head in humility

when we became properly Introduced,

 i felt ashamed.

I told him not to thank me- 

 i asked him why his parents are not worried for him.

I told him that i wished i could take him home with me and take care of him.

I don't know why I cannot, but he knows, and does not ask any more from me but that I buy him some bread, peanut butter, and jam so that he may be able to make himself some sandwiches.
Andrew has not eaten since yesterday morning.

I want to take him out to dinner, but the clock strikes seven and he has to make it in time to the shelter at the church he is staying at.

I see Daniel. In Andrew, i see Daniel.

 Everywhere...

Riding the skytrain from Gas Town to Commercial I pray for Andrew- that God Protects him.

I choke back tears at the thought of harm falliing upon the innocent;

Andrew; Like Daniel, Onley God

Can Save, Only God Knows

the Lonely Soul. There are souls to be

Worried for more than Andrews. I feel

As though God is already closer to a

Person like Andrew more than half the
People concerned about the Hockey Game

Then Again, Who am I to judge?

Concerned, I Am, Mainly with Myself.

and

then only rarely moved to compassion

when confronted with human tragedy.

 what i feel all the time

reality is the canvas

for my emotions

 to be painted upon

How tragically romantic 

is a  human being

Soul Cannot be Painted,

 or Penned,

 or even

Sung

 to do it Justice.

What am i doing here? I"m at jj bean on commercial-and it doesnt matter at all because here is as good as being anywhere. i'm waiting, it always seems i am waiting although I hardly know for that which will fill the void- can anyone share this life of mine?

I suppose i've wished to escape myself today and finding that impossible, submitting to the present moment.

Right now it does not seem to matter if I"m here or anywhere else. I cannot get rid of this feeling of being spaced out. A feeling that time has shifted, the planets and the earth moved slightly out of orbit to the way they once were...?

 I've changed somehow... and yet, i have remained the same.

There is nothing Profound about " This" Moment acxcept that " it is" , Mine. 
Mine? No actually, not even this is mine. It's all passing. To whom it belongs to, I still do not Know.

except Nothing.

The Nudity of my own human form, my Own frailty and my form waiting to dissolve back into one.

Wondreing agian and again why i am here? what is it all for? ....

it's all for love alone.

it is this lack of love, or lack of a place to put ones love that causes this loneliness and anxiety.

I feel like no matter what i do i'm just wasting my time

i am lost and wandering, without purpose or cause.

I don't know why, but i don't want to go home- i don't want to go or be anywhere.

I feel detatched from myself and this place, and this page is the only thing that keeps me connected

 like a chord pulling me down,

 the anchor to my ship roaming,

 lost at sea.

         take rest, breath, try not to be so hard on yourself. I tell myself these things, but it never helps release the preasure. thoughts keep coming with no-where to put them properly. it helps to know that i'm not alone,

even when i feel lonely.

we are all in this together.

We Are all In this World Wondering "Why" for different reasons, that are the same.

Break all the differences down, and it's all the same.

All One.

Через два с половиной года мне снова приснились радиоголовы. И хорошо, что не видела среди них Тома, поскольку в последний раз это закончилось не совсем хорошо. Точнее, совсем нехорошо. Но не будем о грустном.

Итак, я устраивала концерт группы в неком заведении наподобии, ха-ха, ЖЭКа. Но чистенько так там, светло, помещение очень небольшое. почему-то украсила я его новогодними дождиками, ватой какой-то блестящей. Вроде ж не новый год, но уж как украсила, так украсила. Публика была степенная и совсем не молодежь. еще до концерта мне удалось как-то клонировать Джонни, в итоге его было очень много и он встал сам с собой парами, как в игре "Ручеек". Только руки не поднял. И какой-то неживой был, словно большая фотография вырезана. Да бог с ним, но Серафиме бы понравилось.

Концерт тоже особо не помню, но играли совершенно не типичную для себя музыку. Аа, вот почему не помню - я ж за кулисами была, да. Мелодии тихие, мелодичные, успокаивающие. Играли минут сорок, не больше.  Захотелось их поблагодарить за то, что приехали и выступили. И после того, как публика ушла,  я бросилась к Колину, но он, как истинный англичанин, умеющий скрывать эмоции и удивляющийся, почему этого не могут сделать другие (ты, блин, Колин, вот так же, как мы тут, подожди, чтоб любимая твоя группа десятилетиями не приезжала, а потом уже эмоции сдерживай!), с улыбкой отстранился от меня, выставил вперед руки, мол, дама, не приближайтесь близко, и уселся на жэковский диван. Из белой кожи, между прочим. Я ему что-то пролепетала: мол, очень вас с сыном любим, группу и музыку... Ага, ага, - покивал вежливо.

Оглянулась - сзади был Эд. Вот он меня понял и даже не дернулся, когда я бросилась к нему с объятиями. Он большой, тёплый и очень добрый. Так хорошо обнять хорошего доброго человека и немного вот так вот постоять. Клонированного Джонни не было видно. Его, наверно, растащили бабушки-зрительницы.

И Фила я не видела :(

My dear, I am a fan of silence. It is a blessing and a punishment. We are blessed by humbling our spirits and we realize that we realize that we are not omnipotent. Standing on a mountain peak, watching the world you know carry on its meagre and futile existence helps a person to realize there is something more. Pausing to catch your breath at the top of the world, you feel differently than you have before. As you look off the cliff face into the face of death, you realize that life is not infinite. We must all face the end alone. The dark mountain tells us this, we foresee what is to come and we are not afraid. When you realize there is not a sound to be heard, the world seems to fall away. You are miles from any other human being, any computer, any technology and mundane daily activity. All you have to trust is your rucksack on your back and your own two feet.  You realize that you need not be afraid of what you cannot foresee and this is the best moment of your life.

At the base, you look up. You cannot see your destination, all you can see is a seemingly insurmountable rock face. The black stone reflects a fear you have felt ever since you laid eyes on the mountain. A pessimist would never do something like this. Why should he if he can simply stay home and watch a television programme about this. Beauty, you realize, is something real. It cannot be recreated or copied. You cannot experience beauty by staring at a screen. It is tactile, my dear, the wind in your hair as you begin the ascent is beauty. The weight of your bag on your back is beauty. The mountain is like an ancient ironwood’s improbable blossom. As you climb higher and higher, there is less and less noise from other people. The rock absorbs all otherworldly sounds and leaves only the silent truth of the mountain. This truth is something you do not yet understand, but with time you will grow to learn it. The summit is foreseen, yet unimaginable.  There may have been pictures taken, stories told about it, but, my dear, nothing compares to the real experience.

A pessimist, burying his head in a pile of anti-depressant only has fear. He has fear that nothing will go correctly, he has fear that his house will fall down around him, and he has fear that he will never reach the summit. He cannot foresee the benefits of risk, of living without fear. If he does not risk anything going correctly, then nothing will. If he fears his house will fall down, he will simply wait to let it happen. A pessimist will never reach the summit and experience true beauty because he does not have the foresight to believe in it. All he knows is what he is used to and is afraid to challenge the status quo. He does not realize that “the gods… have been known to bless/as well as punish”.  The mountain is no different. It blesses and punishes as much as any other god.  It is a silent advocate, judging us, but helping us along the way. We must respect the mountain, my dear, because it has the power to change your life for the better, and to take life away.  Like any life changing experience, our foresight of the outcome does not guarantee it.  Climbing the mountain is a way of resisting the “abject despair” felt by the pessimist. We must rid ourselves of pessimism and fear and climb up the unforgiving cold mass of stone, for at the top we know is a silent beauty, waiting for us to join her.

During the last minutes of your ascent, you are most in your prime. You can see your destination and you know you have achieved what you set out to do.  Stepping on the highest point of land in sight, you stop and breathe. Step up to the edge my dear, you need not be afraid. You cannot fall off a mountain.  Your long triumphant yell of “HOO!” echoes out forever. Now you sit and listen. Without a single other human in sight, for once you can truly listen to the silence. Even though silence is the absence of sound, it is very loud. It reverberates in your ears, almost crushing you, but gently. The mountain speaks to you, saying it is a reminder that you are small. Do not try to be bigger than you are, my dear. “Your house will fall down, for sure/followed… by the sky itself”, but the mountain will constantly remain. After all the deeds have been done, wars have been won it will persevere. It will wait until we are ready.  Now you have made a choice. This choice is probably the most important of your life, it is to not give into fear of what you cannot foresee, because life is too insignificant for that.

Beauty is real, my dear, and you have time to experience it. Why not make the most out of your time and experience all you can, instead of waiting for your house to fall down? My dear, you have been given a chance to face your fear of what you cannot foresee and experience beauty beyond anything visible on a screen. I suggest taking advantage of that chance. When you do not respect the mountain, it will punish you. When you do respect it, you can face the end and come out with your head held high. The mountain is like any god “when they act at all, {they} have been known to bless, as well as punish”.

A quote of one comment on YouTube (the video was "Street Spirit (Fade Out) live @ Glastonbery 2003" and I lost the link). Honestly, I'm crying my heart out listening to this song (figuratively, yeah)

Actually, according to him, this is what he feels while playing THIS SONG, in front of "a crowd" :

"It drains me, and it shakes me, and hurts like hell everytime I play it, looking out at thousands of people cheering and smiling, oblivious to the tragedy of it's meaning, like when you're going to have your dog put down and it's wagging it's tail on the way there. That's what they all look like, and it breaks my heart."

An old man walked out to me today. He said “where you stayin son?” I replied that I was sleeping in a creek bed up the way. He just smiled. He told me he used to be that way, back when he was young. His old face had a thousand stories written on it. It was like a well-loved leather bound book. I wanted to stay in his small town and learn his stories, learn his way of life and the lessons he offered, but I had to get back to my camp. I had a paper bag full of groceries that would get me through the night and onto the next town I had to lay my head. I had my own stories to write, my own lessons to learn and teach when I grow old. I will never forget that old man.

Life seems so much simpler in a small town. But god knows that it is just the same as everywhere else. There is no escaping it. It seems like you will always have problems. Money does not solve them like people think it does. Nobody is ever truly happy in their perfect pretty little lives if they have money. Unless people learn to live and enjoy themselves, rather than worry about every little god damned thing we would have a much happier world. What good is life without happiness? it seems like that is the ultimate goal of society when all is said and done, so why don’t we pursue it overtly?

I feel a need to get out of my comfort zone. This adolescent urge is so strong that I must fulfill it. Is it immature that I feel the need to drive myself crazy in the wild as Dostoyevsky drove himself crazy in the underground? I must do this. “The raw beauty is too good to miss.” Always living with a new horizon, living on the cheap, free from false idols and needs. This is what I want to do with this next life. What good is life if you don’t enjoy it? Comfort zones have made people cautious. Everyone has his or her place and if you fuck with the system, you are cast out as a bum, alky or junkie. Either you fit in with the way you are told to, or you stand out and are not wanted. Artists, vagabonds and drifters all screw with the status quo, so they are forced to live on the fringes of our society. 

I saw a man on the street by a sign, which ironically said “respect.” This man had obviously received very little respect; he was a reject of society. Drunk in public rambling on about nothing in particular. He is but one of many of these rejects who are forced out by the man and are made to live outside the boundaries of society. These rejects pick cigarettes out of trashcans; walk barefoot and unclean by the waterfront with their dogs, backpacks and vulgar tongues. Is it ironic that these “outcasts”, these “wayward sons” often live better happier lives than “responsible” people? They take the train from Montana to Seattle then keep moving. Never looking back even when a loved one meets their end or is injured along the way. They never hesitate even for a second. They are on a spiritual journey to swim with the soul in the ocean, to wash away the false person on the outside and be all that is left. To them, finding the truth, achieving nirvana

(Or heaven), the Dharma, Bhikkuing around the world and being enlightened is the only way of life. They know that they have all the time in the world, and money cannot hold them back. They are free.

I would like to be a writer to make my living, but not as a career. I will not have a career. Writing will fund my lifestyle, but it won’t become a lifestyle on its own. That is the problem with careers. People get caught up in them and don’t get a chance to become what they’ve always wanted to be. They worry too much about their careerism and reputations that they miss the entire point of having a job. The point is to be happy with this life. I don’t want to be a writer; I do not want the label. I want to write. I do not want to be a musician. I want to create music. These labels people put on themselves become more important than what they do. A person who wants to create art must be a “artist” they cannot just do what they do for the good feeling it gives them, they must do it for the prestige and the glory of having the label “artist”. I want to stick to being a human first and a “writer” second. Life is simple, we do not need to categorize and complicate it so much. It is easy to live. It is much harder to be a member of society.

click here for promo video on Youtube

click for iTunes link:

http://itunes.apple.com/us/album/reckoner-single/id440575787#

thanks for reading and watching

Build it new old again

Build it old new again

first person out of third person

:

As my eyes greeted new dawn, the morning after the solution to my greatest Problem became clear, I reached my arm over to her side of the bed, which was cold and uninhabited.  As I twisted my head to the right, my sight reinforced what my touch first communicated to me:  She was not there.  I grasped the opposite side of the bed and pulled as my body slid across the open land of the mattress until my head broke the plane and I was peering at the floor.  I noticed the white carpet below me looked darker, sort of dirty, stained perhaps.  I slowly lowered my right index finger until it made contact with the now gray carpet.

            The white shag carpet was cold and as my finger kept pushing, moisture encompassed it.  I found this quite odd, unsettling.  I worked my hands around the bed and pulled until I was overlooking the foot of the bed.  There on the floor was a very clear definitive line of moisture that intersected perpendicularly with the bed, halving it at my side and hers, my side dry her side wet.  This interested me greatly.  I pulled myself back to her side of the bed and flopped my feet on the wet carpet.  I stood in the center of the soaking wet carpet and stared down at my feet, which were growing wetter and colder.  I bounced a little so that the water squirted out under the sides of my feet.  I stared at the carpet.  There were no other footprints to be found.  I was reminded, quite unexpectedly of a story I heard years ago.  Apparently there was this odd damp spot on the floor when Vivien Leigh died, which had always puzzled me.  I thought it seemed strange to be having that thought at this moment.  Until I remembered that people often compared me to Laurence Olivier, looks wise at least, and then, then it all seemed clear (as mud).

THANK YOU AGAIN AMAZING ED FOR THE NICE POST ON  DAS!

I LOVE YOUR POSTS, ALWAYS ON DAS!

WELL, I'D LIKE TO RECEIVE ONE THIS BOOK FROM YOU, ED!

THANK YOU FOR THE NOTE!

April

WILD

в Шанхае на одного человека приходится 1,9 кв.м. леса.

интересно, какая ситуация в Москве, например?

хотя нас (слава богу) не так много.

M.T. mods really need to get a grip on reality, they are the most crappy mods ever, all of them are on a power trip, pity their lives.