Passed Notes

duh-dance

Mon, 14 May 2012 17:56:59 -0400

is it something or

is it not something?

its the body on body

its the pelvis to hip

and the movement of these together

and against

as one

apart but working together to create that bump that grind, the friction that physics proves makes fire

initiate that spark that isnites as bay parts get closer than close because of the barrier,

the barrier of fabric that makes the rub,

and the dub socially acceptable

flourish that sexually

Fest. 2010.

Sun, 22 Apr 2012 00:53:57 -0400

Documentation: Is it the goal of photography or is it the bastardization of the need to see, to re-see, to remember and communicate. To share and to hide. Keep in secret in a drawer beside the bed. To always remember and never forget for a moment. But if a photograph is only a moment captured not in time or space but in silver gelatin, then how can we remember the experience. Its not a moment, its your entire life up to that, devoid of any future, though quick thoughts or drawn out daydreams hint to a semblance of one. After a long train of firsts that will be eventually shaken out into individual days, I start to wonder about my memories from that weekend. The pre-fest, being consumed with preparation and anticipation. Aching with the need to be there, not even there, but to be away from home. Away from the here and now that I’ve recently been re-plagued with. The drive. Cramped and hectic. Hurrying up to wait outside, inside the house and inside the car. It starts. A journey with Emma and three people I barely know, a sister and two brothers of people I know, one quite well, and the others not at all. We squish and squirm into position to get lost along the way, dragging out the sights flying past my window. Arrival. Anxiety, where to set up camp? Malcolm is in our tent? Settled. Registered. Surrounded by the thin plastic that holds up to all(most). Emma and I are tense. We worry too much, our friendship so old and new all at once in a cataclysmic collision of care. The thoughts from that night are gone, did I even do anything or was it just to be passed by until the next morning. Tired, wander into a massive tent with stickers. I meet a boy, I meet two boys. Boymen, caught in between and awaiting the decisive experience that will guide them through the final ring of fire. The names escape and I hop on a truck. The wind is brisk and refreshing, I’ll enjoy the speeding through the morning until I finally depart. Not quite confused, just moving through the motions breaking my neck from glancing left to right, trying to find someone suitable to mimic. The day is a blur of figuring out where my preteen memories matched up with the current observations. It’s awkward with Nathan. He seems to be unamused by whatever I try to amuse him with. Malcolm talks a lot. A bit pretentious. So many people skittering around. I’m afraid to let myself fall in between them because of the fear I’ll drop out the other side. Drink. Drink. Drink like a fish. Smoking because I can. I need to. I want to. Do I? The night ends, my body is awash with whatever I’m handed. I meet powerful women; Rita, initially loud and obnoxious, is sweet lovable and ample. Erica, cautious with her words and generous with her kindness. Nikki, I met her as a man and again as a woman. The last two taught me how to roll one afternoon on a cooler of yogurt and fruit. Don, the honcho, stops by. Warns us not to corrupt Michael. He’s 16. He’s sweet. A face like Henry’s, a smile too. He looks at me and I start to wonder. Emma and I spend a lot of time together. I meet Davey, his name cute and his eyes intense. He’s a promising person and I enjoy his banter. Davey and Emma seem quite close, maybe…hopefully…there’s a blonde girl on the truck, she seems lost and lazy, she has a cardboard box over her head and does nothing. She never returns. I find out later that she is obsessed with concoctions of drugs. I sit in reserved seating with my father. I see Davey, he joins us and I get to ask more questions and talk about photography. Then comes along two more to my left, Max Moon, the man with the premade name. A boy with pretty eyes to his left. A shake of the good ‘ole hands and they’re included in my idea for documentation. Holga, lame camera, cool effect. All the images in bright colors and blurred together, in and out of focus. Brilliance. But I don’t end up photographing the important parts, the drums, expert hands moving over them like hands on clay. The red cups that rid me of my flip-cup and beer pong virginity. The endless lighters being kept close at hand. The wet blankets (literal) and the wet blankets (metaphorical). Everyone is musical except me, a failed past in piano, flute and harmonica make me wary of joining in the jam sessions. The air is pregnant with laughter, the guitars fill in between the gaps of jarring guffaws. Drums. Oh the drums, they’re powerful and strong, but not forceful, its not oppressive, but rather all consuming, it makes the boil shake and tremble. Drum circles better named drum masses. They form on corners of ill lit, but stunningly bright paths, bright with sound and movement. Bodies thrust about in pattern less dance. They’re the talk of every night, everyone wants a drum mass. I’m told Thursday is a decent party night, but that Friday, and especially Saturday are wild. I can’t tell, each is unique and wildly new and familiar. The experiences, different from anything before but the people are the constant. The faces change from night to night, hour to hour, but they’re familiar. I know them, I knew them, I should know them. I desperately reach out for a name to fit these faces I think I know. None comes. I’ve never met them before, but maybe I’m supposed to. A sign for significant relationships. Bryan with a “Y”. Forrest. Others still remain nameless, they were just blurs in a crowd that I was supposed to find. We go on a trek, we walk and walk until the sun has faded behind the afternoon clouds and we four, Davey, Emma, Malcolm and I are stripped of clothing as we feel the need to jump in between sheets of water, the desire has faded. Its beyond cold, what I fantasized to be cool and refreshing is harsh and formidable. We bath with loaned soap and throw ourselves up the sheer cliff we skidded down. I don’t feel dirty, I feel uncomfortable, I feel myself longing for a huge comfy blanket to wrap myself in. Me and another. Someone to put their arms around me and to dream. To lay beside a fire, the heavy air, thick with music, making the flames dance. The thoughts and events of the day, the week, the year laying down on our eyes as we slip into each others imaginings. That doesn’t happen. I get hold of a blanket once or twice, but it doesn’t hold up. I feel the guilt seep in for not partying hard and long, to want to share body heat rather than dance moves. Caresses, but not kisses. I inhale the smoke and I become singular and universal within the same moments. I want to reach out and hold those sitting around in the never-ending circle. Instead I mumble. They are phenomenal musicians, they exchange instruments and are at ease with immersing themselves in their sound. Each is inaccurately named. They’re Freddie and Cook, but maybe I just wish they were. A pompadour and a hat, wife beater and scruff. He looks like Treasure, I only vaguely remember his iconic name. His voice raspy, most of the time I can’t see his face, let alone remember it. I can’t stop looking at him, part because I can’t stop and the other part to try ad figure out why I can’t. Simplicity almost, brown on brown on brown. Almost a disconnect, shouldn’t I be able to relate more to those eyes? Naturally it flows with Cook. A fifteen minute powernap and I dream of an alarm that sounds melodious and I don’t want it to stop, I want others to wake up, someone warm turning it off and miraculously my biological clock awakes me at 7am. It wasn’t a dream. And I’m glad. I enjoy the air forced into my lungs, I like the morning shift with the warm sun licking my limbs. It feels good and right, I could get used to this. How dangerous. We meet Joseph, his real name might be Brian, but I’ve forgotten. The boy from Willow Grove with a girlfriend and tie-dye shirts. He is sweet and I want to see him more. He says he’ll call me “Danger” as he rides off on the back of another white truck. I see my dad and its out of place, but so right. I missed him, my best friend, we fall into conversations to be continued and thoughts of home only to part and exist separately, vaguely aware of the other’s happenings. I hope my image isn’t marred in his eyes, he can’t be oblivious to the enticing qualities fest holds for the young, and all the others. I see Emma and I don’t see her. Sometimes I’m out to find her, but most usually not. She picks up when I call and I don a sparkly shirt to join her on a tarp somewhere. Dark masses a top it, I see Emma and Davey. They’re welcoming, as always and I feel a surge of wellness, at being so goddamn lucky. I sit and meet Forrest, Matt and Max. They all develop later, for now we just sit and sway to the words of the Saucy Lady and Taj Majal. Their dirty lyrics make my grin permanent. I giggle, move up down and around, inhaling, puffing and passing, sharing words and weed. I feel at peace, there’s an impenetrable space of well being around us that lasts even after the cuties leave and I wander off into the masses with new friends. We loose one and I’m comforted by “if it’s meant to be, it will be”. Mere seconds pass as it comes to pass and we are three once again. There’s a scuffle and I see a blunt-headed boy run up the hill, towards the hammocks and away from the pursuers, two women restrain him as he is reluctantly brought back towards where they were headed. Word spreads instantaneously, a fake wristband. We attempt hammocks and another stop for smoke. The same tent two nights in a row. The second is sweet. We wait in the tent but soon fall into sleep. Each covered by a sleeping bag and trying to breathe out a conversation, Cook and I are asleep before anyone returns. The morning is brisk, the biological clock times in at 7:30am, I shake hands with them and skedaddle, walking firmly out into the dew. A wimpy final goodbye, or a promise to see each other in the future? Who knows. A girl named rose who never knows but always goes. She’s sweet and airy. Don is loud, intimidating and sexual. Its all good. I shared a tent and a pillow with a boy who name I don’t know, or don’t want to. He promised to teach us how to play a game, instead he just calls out as I wander by alone. Should I? It doesn’t matter, I don’t. And for once I’m downright thrilled if not just content about being a lone entity with no physical ties, only experiential ones. He irks me, though pleasant. We hotbox a large tent, so many of us and I’m given tattoos, first an impossible (thought clearly possible) triangle. Then a puppy dog from Bryan with a “Y”. Treasure gives me “the Nitrous Mafia”, a dreaded man with balloons attached to all the ends. And a pot of gold. I get a swirly design and an oops from Mr. Y. There’s fire, hot against my cheek and distant in my eyes. A towering man pitches forward and back like a Somalian pirate ship, will he unload his cargo on us. He’s been here since seventeen, or eighteen, it’s hard to tell anymore, our memories mixed. He leaves and 7 more replace, a man swaying and singing, a tune familiar but from a far away, a time when we screamed as powerful women, letting that creep know exactly what he was. Now the song is sweet and low. I close my eyes to…to forget, for this is all I could find of my inspired ramblings from almost two years ago, the two years that have pretty much shaped everything.

How fitting that writing to fight forgetfulness gets forgotten in its entirety.

thepinesaredancing: Love this photograph. That smile.

Wed, 07 Dec 2011 02:05:47 -0500

thepinesaredancing:

Love this photograph.

That smile.

fuckyeahtattoos: My Keith Haring tattoo done 9.15.11 @ Three...

Mon, 19 Sep 2011 22:28:09 -0400

fuckyeahtattoos:

My Keith Haring tattoo done 9.15.11 @ Three Kings Tattoo in Brooklyn by Annie Lloyd. Turns out Annie’s girlfriend once lived in an apartment that Keith lived in. She paid $2,500/month for the two bedroom. Now the current owners, who also remodeled the apartment in true Haring style, pay about $12,000/month.

When I first saw this work by Keith I fell in love with it. It was a sculpture he decorated in 1983 (the year I was born) for Spain.

fuckyeahtattoos: Designed it myself based on the quote “I...

Tue, 10 May 2011 22:08:29 -0400

fuckyeahtattoos:

Designed it myself based on the quote “I always wonder why birds choose to stay in the same place when they can fly anywhere on the earth. Then I ask myself the same question.” It’ll remind me to take every opportunity to explore. Taken 2 days after I got it done by Kevin Riley at Studio One in Norwood PA
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 19.0px; font: 21.0px ‘Helvetica Neue’}

This is perfect.

Instead of an IB Exam

Tue, 10 May 2011 21:52:23 -0400

implore

I implore you

explore the concept of creative inspiration

be inspired to expire

your time away

BE GONE!

be present in today

by throwing it away

for the works of Who Knows Who

to lose yourself

in their flows of brain storming

thought provoking

and effective

shock the reader

you are shocked

charged by your revival

no striving for survival

blessed are the silent

out of outsourced word

making reconstructed turd

be aware of the power of their works

beware of your unworked power

in what ways and to what effects

do I not give a damn

for whom you try to write

the action unfolding in particular

limited spaces

I am limited in my sace

my lack

of space

to express

what you have caused with

the power of your works

within

directly or indirectly I am caused

to come into being

this very coming into being

unfamiliar and invoking

senses of

your sense of familiar

seeks not to represent

this is a present

of two(or more) realities

key to the dramatic life

of (m)any

a signifigance of dialogue

creates construction of character

outside of your “walls”

(un)constrained by

and by

the demands of plot

these aspects of a natural world

will destroy

demolition on the puddlewonderful world

all the world

for the duration

only for(your)ever

WHY DO MY NIGHTS END UP SO WELL they always start out slow and...

Sat, 11 Sep 2010 00:39:08 -0400

WHY DO MY NIGHTS END UP SO WELL

they always start out slow and meandering, the weave in and out of plans. so many promises to others that are so easily left on the wayside at the thought of something more appetizing. tonight’s menu consisted of scott pilgrim vs. the world. watching a movie alone. spending time with chittery chattery company of two. we leave, we caffeinate, we meet up with the beautiful boy with the mohawk and a mutual desire for man, the girl with the button nose and knowing eyes. so many people and a discussion about stealing a bottle of caramel sauce. delicious. home again home again only to leave for my-best-friend’s. a hilarious movie and a would-be awkward hangout. we thrust ourselves into crowds of concerned neighbors only to hide out in the dark stoop. we talk about sex and passion. we giggle and explain, lounging over the wooden steps and relaxing in the comfort of trust and thought. i text a boy that wants to hangout late late late tonight. i just want to curl up on my porch and talk into the night with these girls, bursting and sputtering with reaction and question all at once. we return home just to return to school. we scream our critic’s eyes view over popular chorus and let the wind cooly push aside our locks. skinny dipping and an old friend are mentioned. our depleting energy is replenished by back beats and auto-tune, we skid to a stop and stumble easily into a milling group of our peers. from the outside its seemingly awkward, but sugar highs from the creamy mounds of caramel sauce we lick off each other’s wrists ease any potential tension. a wave and it all flows, awkward is non-existent as i attempt to execute intricate and elusive handshakes with an Over, a Deny and a Potential. i undulate my tongue over veins as my teeth work off the residual stickiness. i get compliments and applause for talent and timing. its easy and we grin in unison at the lack of any previous connection or connotation, in that moment, and that moment alone, and man, that moment is good. skipping off arm around sloppy arm, we’re re-optimized only to fall so far at the sight of a friend fell to the floor, the daggers of accusation in our ears, its serious and until the porch steps i confess my secret, my shame and guilt. how can i solve a situation with no solution, one i didn’t even cause? racking my brain, desperately pulling at the edges to find so solace. none. brad pit and swat team, we listen to music and i finally check my phone. a call form that old friend, the one i haven’t thought about in years, the one that needed a ride and instead we make tentative but reassuring plans for the future, tomorrow? fate seems to be seeping in through the masses in my life. i need to open my eyes, i’m noticing, but barely. must read my cards and keep accounts of goings-on. someone’s trying to tell me something, when will i listen? all of everything is coming together, minor let downs are nothing in comparison to the weight attached to my being. is the universe trying to make it up to me by providing a sweet and innocent flirt, a trustworthy and caring possibility, a supportive and spontaneous companion as well as countless renewed and strengthened friendships, friends i have no doubt will stay with me (one drooling over my pillow in her favorite bed), intriguing new friends, unfortunately far away, but who i can’t help but wistfully plan to see? its all coming together in almost everyday, in everyday that counts, and i’m not complaining. its too late for tomorrow morning to come so soon, but i’m inspired by my faith in fate and curiosity for all of THIS. the THIS that is showing up every night. THIS that is wondrous.

Leon Vannais a.k.a. Poppy I miss you more than ever. I wish you...

Sun, 29 Aug 2010 22:29:39 -0400

Leon Vannais a.k.a. Poppy

I miss you more than ever. I wish you were the one to teach me to scan the horizon, how to hit the sweet spot over the hill. How to give away my forgiveness. What to say to people, how to win them over in seconds like you always did. I want to be your granddaughter, but how can I when you’ve been gone for too long.

jill scott gave me mah tude

Sun, 29 Aug 2010 17:27:07 -0400

jill scott gave me mah tude

daddy, i know we’re best friends, so i’m apologizing...

Sat, 28 Aug 2010 02:31:29 -0400

daddy, i know we’re best friends, so i’m apologizing for being silent. i have no control and i love you. i just can’t stand talking to anyone who cares as much and as easily as you do. i have no explanation for treating you horribly. i hate myself for it with every breath. but no other response surfaces, there aren’t any others that i’m in possession of.

Momma, oh momma. this week the inevitable of our age accursed my...

Sat, 28 Aug 2010 02:16:12 -0400

Momma, oh momma.

this week the inevitable of our age accursed my mother. now, within weeks of her own mother’s passing she rests in the same hospital ward that the late maxine passed away in. or maybe she wasn’t there, i can’t tell, the floor tiles are all the same and down is the only place i can bear to direct my eyes. it smells, of nothing really, but you know its in the air, “IT”, the blanket of inconvenience and stress that justifies the patients’ existence in there. we don’t actually know anything about anything yet, its all speculation and worry creasing our brows. it had no effect on me in the least. yet all of my priorities are re-oriented in the slightest of ways. i’m not even sure anymore.

she made that fish costume for halloween. once she even dressed me up as a couch potato and dory as a television, her bff was the remote. i was both henry the eighth and elizabeth the first.

everyone seems to have figured out, or are at least in the midst of figuring out something, whatever my mind is supposedly consumed with. thought, most likely. its too blank, as if the fiery emotions i’m usually consumed with evaporated. they weren’t sucked out slowly, nor did they self-combust in an explosion of indecision and confusion. maybe i simply don’t care. but do i really need to figure it out at all? what good would that do?

"The world bursts at the seams with people ready to tell you you’re not good enough. On..."

Sat, 28 Aug 2010 01:55:00 -0400

“The world bursts at the seams with people ready to tell you you’re not good enough. On occasion, some may be correct. But do not do their work for them. Seek any job; ask anyone out; pursue any goal. Don’t take it personally when they say “no”-they may not be smart enough to say “yes”.”

- Keith Olbermann

"No. No no no no. It is not easy. Things that matter are not easy. Feelings of happiness are easy...."

Sat, 28 Aug 2010 01:53:00 -0400

“No. No no no no. It is not easy. Things that matter are not easy. Feelings of happiness are easy. Happiness is not. Flirting is easy. Love is not. Saying you’re friends is easy. Being friends is not. I’ve started laughing at myself. For being so foolish. For not getting it.”

- NAOMI AND ELY’S NO KISS LIST
BY RACHEL COHN AND DAVID LEVITHAN

"Other bands, it’s about sex. Or pain. Or some fantasy. But The Beatles, they knew what they..."

Sat, 28 Aug 2010 01:51:48 -0400

“Other bands, it’s about sex. Or pain. Or some fantasy. But The Beatles, they knew what they were doing. You know the reason The Beatles made it so big?”
“What?”
” ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand.’ First single. Fucking brilliant. Perhaps the most fucking brilliant song ever written. Because they nailed it. That’s what everyone wants. Not 24-7 hot wet sex. Not a marriage that lasts a hundred years. Not a Porsche or a blow job or a million-dollar crib. No. They wanna hold your hand. They have such a feeling that they can’t hide. Every single successful love song of the past 50 years can be traced back to ‘I Wanna Hold Your Hand.’ And every single successful love story has those unbearable and unbearably exciting moments of hand-holding. Trust me. I’ve thought a lot about this.”

- Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist
BY RACHEL COHN AND DAVID LEVITHAN

"We’d walk home together in the foggy summer night and I’d tell her about sex; the good..."

Sat, 28 Aug 2010 01:49:55 -0400

“We’d walk home together in the foggy summer night and I’d tell her about sex; the good stuff, like how it could be warm and exciting—it took you away—and the not-so-good things, like, how once you showed someone that part of yourself, you had to trust them one thousand percent and anything could happen. Someone you thought you knew could change and suddenly not want you, suddenly decide you made a better story than a girlfriend. Or how sometimes you might think you wanted to do it and then halfway through or afterwards realize no, you just wanted the company, really; you wanted someone to choose you, and the sex part was just a trade-off, something you felt like you had to give to get the other part. I’d tell her all that and help her decide. I’d be a friend.”

- Story of a Girl

by Sara Zarr

other people’s art

Sat, 28 Aug 2010 00:20:25 -0400

other people’s art

IB HL Alternative Process Photo Final Project (or the beginnings...

Fri, 27 Aug 2010 23:56:13 -0400

IB HL Alternative Process Photo Final Project

(or the beginnings at least)

"on your dash"

Fri, 27 Aug 2010 23:30:22 -0400

I found this once when I was perusing though Ansel Adams images online, I’ve been drawn to it again and again ever since.

“12 days ago we stumbled across deserts made of concrete. My hands stunk of lamb oil you rubbed through the milky strands of your auburn hair. I loved how you loved me when you were nineteen. The devilish glare in my rear view mirror as we hit 120 somewhere between the ranch and the rest of the world.

You always wanted to die in a car crash. Lungs ruptured full of oil and exhaust. Strangled together by seatbelts, pythons winding between our hips and around our necks. My California license plate embedded deep in the back of your skull looks beautiful. The edge of an aluminum palm tree peeks out from under the rupture in your cerebellum. Some kind of white viscous fluid oozes across the number “4”

And for a moment my gaze falls jagged across your auburn hair and into your eyes and I remember days when we used to drive down desert roads made of concrete. The wind blurring the world into a sweet shudder. The way you used to laugh when I took my shoes off while somehow still managing to steer the car across the dusty desert road. The way the world fell into a deep grey blur. And when at 120, I suddenly hit a lamb in the middle of the road, blood sputtering from its throat where my chrome grill kissed it atop bright white yellow lines right before we flipped and turned and slid into the cool blue night…”

you, please

Fri, 27 Aug 2010 23:21:40 -0400

you, please

[photographs credit of David Graham] HERE COME FALL TIMES

Fri, 27 Aug 2010 23:17:29 -0400

[photographs credit of David Graham]

HERE COME FALL TIMES