You might call it a chronicle of the past few months. It didn’t turn out anything like I’d hoped. I’ve come to terms with it. I hope it might be well received.

But, what can I do? I couldn’t spread myself out, even if I wanted to. It’s a race and I can’t keep up. The movements are too fast and every move I make seems to be in error. I can’t get over my own hang-ups. I’m sorry. I hang on every word.

a fall so hard to make these old bones split
i don’t know if i can get up, these limbs are useless now
yeah you put me on your gurney, yeah you play a sick joke
surgically severing limbs, while methodically matching all of the nerves
and romantically reattaching again, these movements are no longer my own

Thanks two thousand nine. You’ve been a terrible year. I hope we never run into each other again. If we pass on the street, please, pretend you’re oh ten.

The past is a landlord’s luxury.

Where shall I keep mine? You don’t put your past in your pocket; you have to have a house. I have only my body: a man entirely alone, with his lonely body, cannot indulge in memories; they pass through him. I should not complain: all I wanted was to be free.

Jean-Paul Sartre.

Thank you thrift store. I like my new pedal board.

Now, who wants to jam?

I realize the things I say are hardly new. They’re more reenactments of earlier vague sentiments. Don’t pay attention to any of this. There is no meaning. Meaning is blurry, subjective, changing every day. It all depends on where you’re standing, where I’m standing. Altogether useless.

At any rate…

It’s a sort of paralysis I haven’t experienced in a while. (2004): pounding my fists against the steering wheel. The sky was dark and hazy and her door had been shut and locked for a few minutes. Those fucking shaky words, stupid hands. And yet, the feeling returned and movement spoke: an awkward stumble, and a whisper between mouths, a contradictory contortion I seem to have learned nothing from. The whole event makes me cringe.

But, now, I wonder.

Words can get clouded by mistaken sentiments, misread attitudes. Too often, contexts appear as apparitions. Are they real? The words that prop them up, what is behind them? It’s hard to say.

How can we be certain of the what is said, what is meant? Is it simply perception? Or confidence? What if confidence is misplaced? People lie to themselves every day. How does one sift out the lies from the reality?

These ghosts are close to driving me out of town. Maybe that’s a good thing. Well, breathe deep.

I have to apply first. It’s a shitload of money and my earlier performance might end up holding me back. I wonder how much money I can suck out of Uncle Sam’s teat. If he’s feeling generous, it may mean new studies, research, new people, new opportunities… and an excuse for that road-trip.

Let’s hope this paralysis doesn’t follow me along the way.

http://www.myspace.com/kingearth

They’re hard to ignore. They lead to cognitions which color the sentiment and reinforce the distractions. It’s a sick sort of cyclical thought progression. Rational ideas blur and decay leaving context to fill in the gaps.

Context is more important than you think.

Thought changes and behavior shifts, despite initial intentions. One must remain vigilant, perhaps to an obsessive degree, in order to avoid repetition. Context, setting, scenery, they control us, dictate our actions.

Be wary, fight back.

So, we’re going to start some experiments using one of these dealies. But, imagine your standard lab goggles, two webcams (one of which is hacked to death), and plenty of duct tape.

That aside: surveillance, change detection, and color harmony. See you Tuesday.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f3N4TjAZWdc