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Post by David Werking on Jul 10, 2003 0:53:33 GMT -5
and=wold rather. editing editing...tsk tsk.
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Post by David Werking on Jul 10, 2003 0:54:50 GMT -5
oh look it heres something from an ethics class I tooK: According to the Bible, Jesus was not completely human. Jesus was the reaction of the forces that be implanting Mary with a child. Angels used to mate with humans, that’s how Goliath came about. The promised land God led Moses to was full of giants. So why wasn’t Jesus a giant? Because those were angels that mated with women, not God. After those angels fucked the earth women, they were cast out of heaven. So it’s not okay for angels, but okay for God. God’s seed was planted in Mary. An angel came and told her that she would be having the child of God and that she would name him Jesus. Did Mary have free will? Yes, she could have attempted abortion. She could have run herself off a cliff. When a man implants his seed in woman with force, that is what we call rape. Sometimes: “Yes” means “No”, especially when the woman’s life is in danger. Life is more important in the instant. Sometimes Stockholm Syndrome occurs, and it is up to one’s culture to erase that. Today we have psychology, in those days we had magic. But the make up of our brains hasn’t changed that much, has it—we’re still going on ten percent. Magic, as any practicing con man knows, needs faith. We suppress our knowledge that there’s something up the sleeve. Doubting Thomas couldn’t figure out the trick, that doesn’t mean there wasn’t one. Jesus could just be Penn Gilette, sure—okay. But let’s try to suspend our belief. If Jesus was not completely human, he could not have known the human experience. If he’s making miracles everywhere, that changes things. That says to me that when Jesus talks to God, God’s going to get the wrong idea. Jesus died for the sins of the world? Then he’s more than a man. (which is what flew the Catholics). Now Jesus flies down like a bird, says: “ooba joomba you guys take over” and splits. Oh but he’ll be back, because he could let all our sins be forgiven, but he can’t get rid of all the evil that brought about all those sins right then. Here’s a fault: why would I turn to a rapist when I wanted morality? Mary was not asked whether or not she wanted the child of God in her. She was just “chosen”. If God knows what’s in our minds already, he would have known she would have agreed to it. God said in the old testament that man has free will, even if it is his way or the highway. What negates this is that the question was never asked. How can it truly be free will, if God knows all of the possibilities? We are limited by the fact that we were created by him, like Gods and Goddesses of old, to be dependant on him, as much as God stresses self-reliance. God sets it up so he always wins, which is the gist of history. What does it say, if we cannot one day forget to worship idols (God is an idol), if we can’t forget our “special” mannerisms, if we have to live knowing we have a beginning and an end? Religion drove us into our heads and our emotions—away from the stone age where the only religion was survival on a desolate rock. Our ability to speak separates us from the ape. Religion came out of that survival and it’s hard for me to believe that with all that we know now about the way things actually exist that we must allow these things to exist along side an archaic and long outgrown tool. Earlier I mentioned forgetting our manners: please allow me to stress what I mean by this—by manners I mean the act of meditation known as prayer, the acceptance of “miracles”, the social unit that is the church, etc. We don’t need to have religion as law in order to act decent to each other anymore. We can just have law, taking into account justice and looking out for each other. All this time, it’s always had another name. Marx never went far enough. As I remember, Marx didn’t spend enough time on the subject—religious texts are thick and they say little, as the letters of the law.
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Post by David Werking on Jul 10, 2003 2:04:32 GMT -5
If anybodys wondering where this all ties into Xiu Xiu, this is where: Jamie: My dad at one point was a really famous record producer, and he told me that the only regret he ever had in music was not going over the top enough. He talked to me kind of long and hard about-- you know, not necessarily that we're doing this successfully, who the fuck knows, but he talked to me about-- any time you're doing something in music that makes you feel kind of uncomfortable, then something actual is happening. And sometimes it's successful, and people can get touched by it, and sometimes people are like, "Is it a joke?" But the times that it's successful never happen unless you go fucking balls-out on something and just rip yourself apart. Personally, too, any creative venture that's ever meant anything to me personally has been really over the top. I mean, shit like, most indie rock, I think, is some of the dumbest fucking music I've ever heard, because it's usually just, listless. Not even the same old stuff, but people being very subtle, and very guarded. I mean, fucking, why? Why?
Im not being gaurded. Im getting ready to fuck shit up...which all ends up in the art.
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Post by David Werking on Jul 10, 2003 2:16:02 GMT -5
Somebody out there is saying oh xiu xiu's fine...but that David Werking there now he's the real deal. If not now wait six months. Moving on: Here's a poorly edited copy (really it's hard to edit it just yet because Im still working on what the ending is. I've decided to challenge myself. Im still getting together vile details and the life experience to write Chapter 2 about the Weedeaters, a couple who live naked in dandelions on a muddy grass hill, with the ability to say the simplest thing in the most exact way, with lead in their blood leading up to their arms. The scene is this: a party for the unknown man (the ending) where everyone talks about what happened to him, (after applause) and then as he walks away they put their concealed weapons away into a basket at the front of the antechamber.) of the novel Im writing. I need feedback. Yes, Im experimenting with structure. A no-structure. Chapter 3 is a choose your own adventure chapter.
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Post by David Werking on Jul 10, 2003 2:20:00 GMT -5
He might be in a chair. It never was relaxed in chairs. Or the first chairs, stones on the ground for dust asses. She was thinking of a wall. “I was looking at the wall”, I couldn’t see it, the dark was blurry. Imagine theres a surface. A surface like a wave. Before the water there would be stucco below that drywall below that insulation with wiring in between, all sorts of wires maybe, if there exists light. Pipes would carry the wave back and forth inside the insulation. Behind that brick. Or stone. Like the floor felt. Aesthetically wood would have been a better choice. Unstained of course. Tile is plastic. Glass is cold no matter what you sit on it. Dirt is outside and outside is a casket. No that’s too melodramatic. Outside is inside. Gravity, the planet’s law, finds you. Or so you start thinking. Otherwise how would you know it was a planet? What would you call it…would you grunt like Pauly Shore or Tim Allen. Would you grunt like having a fart or sex. That’s the last thing from this being’s mind. Or so this being would rather you thunk. Why because the dark is so fuzzy it requires natural invention. When you were a child you remember looking at folds in a piece of paper. Who told you to draw whatever you thought that you saw in the fold? Buildings come up, buildings go down. Architects and Anthropologists each whittling a surface they can’t believe. Some dreams might exist, dream of the dark, inventing the dark inside your head if there's sense to add to it. The first chair in our lives as we are born is an arm, bending. Screams come from invention. Gods scream you are told is the word and that scream was God. Eureka. But if a scream falls in the woods and no ones around? Figure that contemplation out: Zen is being alone. The monk has always been an apprentice, except in those arms where shape existed. When we were in our wombs: surrounded by waves with no definition. In the womb the body invents. Birth is something also invented, applauding your self invention as you scream. Invention sound. Sound is invented listening to your body all that time. Sound mates the body to fuzzy darkness. All our stories, darkness is the robot of evolution, that’s how God knows just what we’ll do. Time sonar we know. Our character might be in a pain that becomes a pleasure from seeming to last too long. Pleasure is a little worm that enters your
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Post by David Werking on Jul 10, 2003 2:22:26 GMT -5
casket and begins to eat. Invention of digestion, that is to say, a hunger born that cannot be escaped. Or so the worms think. We know what they think because of the actions, the feeling of intuition as our heads are swallowed to become them. Them in the fuzzy darkness. Them without the history of chairs or sitting, to be used for their invention. They’re not worms. Worms is a crude misrepresentation of course, an escape from being forced to invent. Of what part of God, the fuzzy blackness that exists, is us is in instinct. Instinct is made up of what leads you if you accept it or the force of phobia by turns, that realization you are separated from the black. So we learn from others, so we learn from experience unshaped by outside instinct. Words of description don’t change a sound. Sound is concise, in that there exists one. Space after is eternal, a concession of sound makes. The food of instinct is the invisible teat: fuzz. All the food is in us forever in a forever. Time becomes measured throught: through the waves of thought. Heaven in nostalgia of the lessened urges in those thoughts. Thanking our great ability to avoid invention most of om. When om exists we silence/glitch and fractalize. The fishing wire that holds together the Rubix cube dissolves. It doesn’t matter if the colors line up the right way, the way they were originally, anymore. That’s what description does to noumena. You just have to end though someway. Let’s go back and say that the worms were beauty instead. Can you feel fed again: like you didn’t exist? And everything was right, with no deaf ignition? Then invention was all that this being did and invention made this being believe in invention and this being as an inventor. Improvements came like split ends and this invention was reason that things could be reasoned but this being had the last straw the last stretcher every single time or not at all absolutely because this being didn’t know how to invent anything other than this beings own conclusions. This being is making conclusions about whether there’s a chair whether it remembers its history enough to really be able to tell and other beings are having parties and laughing not at their own jokes like this being did but at jokes not concerning this being. That that didn’t even matter, because absoluteness abolishes true freedom, and this being had looked at it the other way and the other way also didn’t work that way because that’s what kept, searching for sound. Let’s try this being like that…now do you feel better? I didn’t think so. Deaf igniton was gotten from poetry. Poetry that’s like throwing a feast to remember a feast of sound but sometimes does
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Post by David Werking on Jul 10, 2003 2:25:13 GMT -5
match the invention: the nostalgic treasure. Everything came from somewhere. Zen, God, Rubix, Eureka, Pauly Shore, Tim Allen, glass, wood, insulation, wiring, drywall, stucco, brick. Thirteen things the etherisation of recent invention would form. Now get rid of those. If she knew it the first action she’d take would be for the door rather than the window. The “out” opposite, without the knowing what was out. She doesn’t know she’s moving around, she doesn’t know what she is. She can’t over analyze. If she could she’d wonder why you didn’t do the same thing, if she knew you, which I do. Because a hammer recognizes a screwdriver. But she’s not. Time can’t remember itself so well, although it does remember the different dark of the womb, against the dark of existence. Temperature. Wetness changing shape. Movement. Her physical flaw won’t let her do that. The act of falling asleep is the nightmare before that reaction begins. Sleep forces blood cells into your memory and dust into your eyes, like it’s leaking used cigarettes. Maybe the dark did it to this being, maybe the inventions did something. Maybe this existing sleep is finally at last: treasure. Blindness—or what the fuzzy dark sees? It’s hard enough thinking, which is the ease of true fabrication. The dark fuzzy resolution to maintain it’s advantage. A phrase my Dad used. You can’t lose what you don’t have. We look after ourselves, why couldn’t we believe that about inanimate aspects? Glasnost. It sounds like a smell or a taste or a touch or something maybe—you too have read that recogs this one being vs. eternity, rhetorically. So there's this guy in a room staring at the wall. Sitting in a chair. And he’s just moving his lips to all the descriptions out of a book one by one. There’s light coming through the window and it forms furniture and there’s a table for the book when he wants to put it down and there’s food and he knows from the book where exactly it is he can put it to feel better to be a being a being with some resemblance that can be seen and he climbs out of it and outside there’s the rain and he can see through the rain it’s not black like the word rain. There’s people who connect to him and keep to key concepts at every instant. Concepts they can’t remember where they got they think they’ve always had. He goes along and he keeps his mouth shut about what happened before they were all born about what was there because that’s their way to end it, and for right now that’s fine, although he knows it’ll never be
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Post by David Werking on Jul 10, 2003 2:27:35 GMT -5
completely free of him. He’ll work on dying the way they do and now he realizes: they cant force him away. Great, cept’s dangerous to sleep when there are no years. Ragational brass roots spokegeists saw UHAUL in half and bring everthing to a sandstill. You can’t put pantaloons on those pauses twice, the new groan standard forces those commas into edibility on the high nucleotide. Say back: “Is being pretty all you do?”. Hashforth: “Oh bile. Oh hooker on assassin. On Composite Moses in a mystical rut. Oh tired blood system, fulla impressionario speaktivist in greenhourne om. Om Lou Ellen Park N.J. consensi. Om honing nostalgia for former cusswords. Om future(s). Ode concussion discussed opportunely. Om ramp, odelooker, ohama. Om the nothing I care for your agreement. Om de plume, grafetto where the light does not move in crispy brilliance and neon to a throat cut with a key. Om natures way of not already having plans and not already making plans for not having them. On friendless deductability.” The decaying heat and the fuzzy darkness, a touch like the shifting of sand inside a stained glass window collapsing at a neutron pinpoint in the stretch of a mountain. So there was something else other than the long debate. Pinioned traps of current, breathing from one side of it’s catacomb horn. Tiny windows brute masked drops, and that thing in there, not wishing for the windows, windows that are doors. It’s breathing is pure robot, pure choice. Repitition of hair and fingers and bone and eye and feet and ear, just tiny dots on the brain. An eye blink of perception. The colors in the eye the smoothness of the darkness there, her masturbatory geometrics. Terrain is a sin. Terrain, the opposite of all it’s knowledge. The four corners of volume, dimension poured in, led by sound. Language and it’s still there. A mind ridden has no memory. The mind dances its psychic circle. Risk once, you’ll see how far away things are. You’ll believe in lines at night. The pressure is killing you, taking off. Your sinuses run. Want is renewed it is now. Each cell fears: two days or three. You’re trying to stand up and you’re white from the heat of your skin tone. Non-existence won’t check your pass. No…guilt doesn’t even enter the picture. You won’t wonder who you were all those years you’ll wonder why you weren’t them. Your flesh is the fad of terrain. Remember: the fuzzy blackness. Always count one more. Never decide on the number so it’ll come to. I always think of who died and will die in this space. Souls are dried away. Trees are brutal as the tool that
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Post by David Werking on Jul 10, 2003 2:29:06 GMT -5
cuts them. Nothing comes close that would cut like a feeling from a soul. Too bad, from a parent. And a teacher. And the girl who thinks Ani DiFranco is a poet. And a questioning glance. And a elevator ring. And a sigh. We don’t think about our good times when they aren’t many. The miserable situation of people coming into place every few steps a tractor steamship out of concrete. Too much wandering rotting flesh. One person one road. God is a telescope pointed in reverse. Fueled by exhaustion, heaven suddenly cares that we are civilized. Civilization means that any moment can rob you of your consciousness. Civilization is a swiftly tilting palette which flows home from nine to five and five to fine. Mother Of All Whores has nightmares of losing the power of persuasion we admire her acumen. No not acumen. Acumen is the wrong word. Acumen sounds so educated. Acumen was discovered when the sentence was first read: “I admire his business acumen.” Acumen is a word like the dark dark morning after the dark dark night that means the sickness is still there. Use it or `fuse it. God is memory, and memory, after due hemming and hawing, is all about one group: the list of things you forget. For every invention exists a planet, and humanity is very short. Id, Ego, Superego are God’s little patrol crawlers, preserved there by artificial means to steer our tiny brains to things that already exist. Of God, how like the throat that gives digestion of the sexes. A problem is: in the 21st century, these officers are controlled by unnatural means. For this being, fate could not be counted on as a paycheck—as if it were a detail. God is clique, and clique is good, says God. Clique is access, which invention is derivative of and subordinate to, drinking workahol amongst noxications, it tires you out turning the page/come yellow, your great ideas supplanted. Sure take his word for it and take it over with someone’s want. Mount the phrase: the Bacardi Limon ad: the four spark engine: Warriors of Virtue: Singles: van fucking Gogh: the T-shirt with the maze that ends at the oppressive point in which it starts: the Moon landing 1969: angry notes to the editor: angry notes to Charles Schultz: angry notes to Gore: psychotics—if you’d have them. A heuristic bouncing bathing rectoid, watercolor purple. A heuristic rectoid in black outline. Sparkling outline. Shaded volume turns yellow. Springtime freshness yellow, that sends off healing
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Post by David Werking on Jul 10, 2003 2:30:50 GMT -5
perfumes across a bog because it’s a dependable game it plays by choosing the hill it dies on. Red for remembrance of a color that comes unnaturally to us. How unnatural without brown. Resume/Presume. A heuristic bouncing baited rectoid, aware that outside presence revolves around it temporarily. Watercolor purple like the dilated pupils of a bruise, living in the eye of a tornado, watching the destruction, unaffected, unmoved…unable to find it’s affair to return. What polish tackles ones sharp corners? When you take a breath—do you know—it’s a breath—inside a vacuum—that gives you—it’s shape? And it’s bouncing off of nothing but bare Spartan space. You told me once you had seen a picture of that. Just as long as I’m getting to Hemmingway, in time, with nothing better in-between then and now, just popping in. Let’s away from the gray place, it’s not going anywhere, for now. There’s something I’d like you to meet, which might have something to say about our little situation in nuendo: Gold glasses. Size 16. Bought the frames in a magazine, a doctor’s office magazine. Welders Monthly. $459.95 paid by check by mail, one of a kind. One of many. The doctor’s name was Kurtard. Sounds like custard. First and initial: Jamie S. Parents were born in Bristol. 5-22-41 and 1-02-43. Social Security numbers 536-34-2535 and 258-771-1121. When he was thinking of custard he was thinking of Tapioca. The glasses weren’t real. She wasn’t in a book. She was just a tyke. She was grand and foolish. She thought in details. Bought Details retail. She has lots of parties. She has lots of partners. She smokes drinks and abuses all drugs. Her taste has been promoted. Oh she gets promotions, but she’s not like that. She’s had abortions from lesbian partners. She’s gotten enemas from martians. She can’t be up front because there's nothing there. Cruelty is old. Murder is murder and murder is meat. She’s come from a long line, big family. On the Mayflower. Lots of stories of struggle. Lots of made up stories. Her theatrics. She creates order out of organization. Everything has a place. She’s a pink slip. She controls the world. She’s not stupid, just stupid to get what she wants. And that’s a real shame, all the time. Like the dumb tattoo pixilated on her forehead that read: MYSTERY BABYLON THE GREAT THE MOTHER OF
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Post by David Werking on Jul 10, 2003 2:32:18 GMT -5
PROSTITUTES AND OF THE ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH No one reads it...they've simplified, simplified, and nothings to do; worth doing well--at all. What she will do: have the lies become truth. She likes that pause in between when it sits there. It never sits though—it dances, to them. People are pieces you can break. She broke half the world in a day. Then she got bored and started playing with it. She can’t let it be over. She has children and they do as they wish and they grow up to quickly and they seed what’s already been seeded marking it again and again: what God’ll banish as untrue. She does it anyway. No marks. No muss no fuss. Every more is orgasmal. Questions are cramping her style. Beauty doesn’t have to think. She relied on what she created. Oh yes, and she died, and she came back. She had to poison the saints from inside…that was her job they said, and she was so tired of it. She was tired of the fashionable cliques of hell. She was tired of herself, of her very ideas. That was a good thing but it didn’t change the fact that she was the mother of all whores and she was at this moment, exactly what this being needed. And this is going somewhere like a resolution? Don’t doubt that way. She teased existence too much. And our being teased it not at all. And it was her that moved existence away from our being. And it was that thing that didn’t know how to care. “Whatever” circa Beverly Hills 90210. What was matter: chaos. Chaos is just an unorganized predictable plan. So what, you felt your way through. Brute force, which existence is full of. Why should you like it when it’s all there is. When all your inventions remove you so far. If you only once knew the things you can stop. Feeling had stopped because of existences entry. Have you ever wondered: If time expands infinitely, why do things take so long? It’s the effect of the brain on the stomach. What else is there—well there’s dying. I can see it her way. Can you see it her way? One is too many people. But destruction won’t change the system, which is the truest anxiety that we can have. Existence had given up. It was left to us, Pandora’s Box stuck. Nailed from the inside that said “you don’t have to be abandoned, you can follow”. She’d follow you into the bathroom. She’d try to teach you away from people, that’s all she can do at this juncture. She killed her guardian angel the day that
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Post by David Werking on Jul 10, 2003 2:34:24 GMT -5
she was born. There are sins in the afterlife too: that one was planned poetry. And now she’s going out of the beings life: the being in the room with all the fuzzy darkness. Of course you remember. I must’ve forgot: oh yeah—she was in a car. What kind of car? I don’t know. Too fast. Wish you knew more about her? Too late. Try running. Lots of luck! As she leaves the air changes. You expected it all you and only you. Flowers arrange themselves into lines with the grass. Clouds go to squares. Trees stay still. This is the wake. Death, Pestilence, Famine, that shit. The world was written with riders. Too bad there weren’t any roads they could ride on, security systems shot to pieces. Belief and believability. A community watches television. All except for our friend and who knows whom else. They aren’t important. Do you see me trying to make this important? If things weren’t so unnatural, would it sound more important, because you’d be accustomed to that, and isn’t that what the purpose of this dialog is anyway? The last two pornos on earth: one of men and one of woman. Which is funny and not at all clever. Our being was now calling it dementia…the sound of a sneeze. Forming code in cough and wheeze. It’s mind was going faster than it had ever gone and he forgot things. He forgot it was a room and it was a chair and she forgot his bottom that was sitting in it when it was wet. It forgot about the dark and it took shape. He forgot it until it was a table like her body. Arms and legs and folding. She lost her own invention of impartiality towards the place, no the place didn’t collapse, it did open and it remained that way. There were other rooms but that was too much to lose right now. Right now it was good with just what was around. It was a skeevy birthday. One more party. We all know what parties are for…and we all know it’s with strangers. A birthday is a sarcastic stab at all the other days and cells of the body. Real numb joke. The door was open—she couldn’t stop beating it. She made windows in the door, in the air the door stood in. Couldn’t wrap all the advertisements into the hole where those windows used to be now they were forgot to. Where did it forget it to? More cars passed filled with characters that are not necessary to this story right now. It was less cars than had ever been forgotten on this road. Then some stuff happened. This really isn’t a story is it? This really can’t be put into words, the kind of things that it means. Shows what a story can do to language.
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Post by David Werking on Jul 10, 2003 2:35:47 GMT -5
Quickly: make the mouth. Had Gregor Samsa come back from the grave? To get a job? That’s a character, from a story, that I am comparing it to. Our being didn’t have any gender issues; that is a likely form of shock worthy criticism. He was a he and it wasn’t me, when he tried. You can take the best parts about me and make it seem like they could be changed on a dime, as they are simplified, but not into their common ingredients. There in its place is sludge with a knack for open-ended ness.
And what other ways could we end this? Maybe it's all in his head--a dream. Or an unused room, in his psyche. Maybe he's been drugged. What if it's a myth? What if this is suicide? Maybe he's there for a reason. A reason from the past, present or future. Is this a joke? Has life, starved of a good reception, returned to acting perfectly welcome to you? Could we follow it everywhere it goes and read into it psychobabble and still someday, let it surprise us, as it wears it's silent wire? Writers use themselves like great glass dumpsters, filling to the brim with vultures from Missouri and vultures from Cambridge. So tell me are the nude cops going to come--and will they be what we expect? Will they be when that guy in the dark learns to write, finding your interests/incests through what you know? Let it get you down, every time you get up again. Sugar and cinnamon stomach acid burn, and it don't bother at least a little? And the thoughts that we are wrong building under that doormat when do those recede? That is not the way;: not the way it is at all. Not the clean healthy responsible way so loathed by true romance, taking you like an elitist, like the extent of the next chapter. So far we’ve been taking notes, like the last day before homelessness, selling your necessary thoughts and taking what you can live with. Apologize for how it isolates you, but you can’t do that anymore. Close those fringe gaps between us and the rest of the world, in bed, feel the gratefulness that everyone else is doing twice the amount of work that you could ever put into a day. Choices you’ve already set in stone, because this is the way it’s going--this is what it amounts to: stolen. A twisted Dutch honey frosted bread: a girl on the bus giving you her phone number…did you ever touch her or notice how close she held onto you, her little kindness, since your death, did you ever do anything but imprint a sickly child on your muddied brow?
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Post by David Werking on Jul 11, 2003 2:41:22 GMT -5
here's an easy one:
askance for a pothers pot of patchworked people in bruise colorated tub you say you saw a "dagger joining the club" homes around town, fat eyes kneeled down. broke in with thieves-watching little tee-vee's (over their tongues flow trance bead strings) Zennytorporous Poseidon go out of their know wearing dirty shirts and making sad show lusting after love
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Post by David Werking on Jul 11, 2003 2:48:50 GMT -5
Mona with her twister eyelids never asked No, Mona with her shifty eyelids never asked where she was burned veins stood out like stained Cathedral glass
Jewfucking father beatin down th majority every time the house impregnated a 2nd story
Love walking' out nighttimes watchin' th' pound walls turn to sheets Cry walkin out nighttimes watchin walls turn into glass sheets saw my ghost in their reflection drivin a chariot with white ash wings
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