Light pierces glass reflects off a face becomes something else a distorted trajectory on the path

1)   Memorize the words that you are writing in this sentence with your fingers pressing letters down and down.  Pull your bed away from the corner of the painted white walls.  Stick your hand into the gnawed hole without using a flashlight.  Pull out the box with a lid on it.  Carry the box with a lid to a level surface, open it and take out the yellow papers.  (Before you burn them, when they are mixed up yet all together in the fireplace, pick out one sheet at random.  Read it for inspiration’s sake.)

2)  Take every picture of yourself to the backyard.  Find all of your drawings, too.  Add them.  Go through every cabinet drawer, closet shelf, lidded jar.  Collect everything that you’ve ever made or has been made about you.  Find those plates with your miniature handprints on them.  Form all of these objects into a pyramid.  Try to make the pyramid as symmetrical as possible.  Make sure the pyramid obstructs a few sprinklers.  Write on a sheet of paper:

PLAQUE

“The official monument of mine.  Monument Me.”

Tape the paper to the base of the pyramid after writing on the back in very small print, “You did what you thought was right.”

3)  Dig up the pornography near the shed that you stole from your father.  Do your best to clean off the mess.  Organize a neat stack by date.  Tie a string around the magazines.  Replace the package back to your father’s original hiding place in the attic.

4)  Sell the clothes that fit best and hide the money around the kitchen.

5)  Go to a tattoo parlor you’ve never heard of.  Pay for the initials you once carved on your shoulder to be tattooed.  Frame the initials with a symmetrical heart.

“What does it mean,”

(you ask the concept of “paint”)

“to be raking leaves in a forest while wearing tan overalls?”

answer:

“I’ll answer with a question,”

what is a pond,

skimmed surface and chloronated?

Here _ is the Crux of mass and over production

The moss farted.

White guys bled the ocean.

Social problems = “This is the way society is.”
Through the eyes of an outcast narrator in a story, either the world is a problem or the narrator’s way of seeing things is a problem.
(What does it mean if the way of thinking that makes the narrator an outcast has been developed as an attempt to adapt to the society in the first place?  Certain individuals will inevitably be disconnected?)
Society as an untouchable superpower.
The same people who create it are somehow powerless to change it.
Society: anything constructed by a group of humans that cannot be changed by a single human.
*    *    *    *    *
The narrator’s word is the only word.  The narrator is the God of its own story.  Yet this God is imperfect and unaware of its implicit patterns and contradictions.  The reader is aware of the God’s imperfections and takes pleasure in realizing all of its hidden patterns.  The reader is on par with God and therefore becomes a God herself.
*    *    *    *    *
It seems that we are collectively annoyed by advertisements.  After years of repetition, the increase in advertising has numbed our ability to analyze or even verbalize our annoyance.
The billboards; shall we tear them down?
Perhaps a sarcastic drum circle will suffice.
*    *    *    *    *
The suburbs are demonstrated by hilariously artificial boundaries.  Low wooden fences and narrow tracts of flowerbeds signify the self-compartmentalized division of lives and properties.
Nature is also sequestered and molested at whim.  Grass is kept separate from the ivy.  Trees are neatly framed by cement set rings of red brick.  Suburban areas where plants are allowed to grow free should be approached with a sinking feeling of distrust.
*    *    *    *    *
A thin, faceless man films himself with a camera connected to his computer.  He threatens to cut off his right arm, live on the internet, if his favorite celebrity won’t have a face-to-face conversation with him.
The video is picked up by blogs and eventually the mainstream media airs his story.  Word comes from the celebrity’s agent that there will be no meeting.
Stunned, the man chokes when he hears the news.  He decides to back out and stops updating his website.  A few weeks pass and the man actively tries to forget about the whole incident.
During those few weeks a group of angry forum users discuss the incident and decide to force the man to keep his promise.  The forum users find the man’s address by hacking into his personal accounts.  They arrive at the man’s house as a mob.  The man is punched in the face by the first one through the door.  For the next three minutes, the man begs for his life.  The mob destroys his couch and leaves.

We left New Hampshire after showering and feeding.  I was ready for a big city. The tourist town could be seen at the bottom of the hill in Colorado, but behind us there was a path where no one else hiked in an echoless, empty forest.  We were cut off from the city in our teepee.  Now it was time to walk on streets between buildings at night.
In Boston, we stayed at a hostel near downtown for two days.  I spent $300 on food, gas, shelter and, most of all, bars.  My first encounter with the east coast made me think of these words: abrupt, vowels, friendly, go.  The bars we went to in Boston were nice if you were a person who sweats heavily.  Everything with sweat glands was truly moist.
Besides the humidity and filleted wallet, Boston was fun.
Things to remember about Boston:
–    A bald man wearing a drenched red collared shirt singing karaoke to Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run”.  He ran through the aisles, pumping the microphone with one arm and going for unrequited high fives with the other.
–    A bartender convincing me to try a drink he invented called the “three wise men.” The bartender confessing that he forgot what type of alcohol was in the drink.  The bartender admitting he never invented aforementioned “three wise men” drink.
–    A street performer jumping onto a narrow pole sticking up from the sidewalk, hip-thrusting in the direction of tourists and onlookers and completing a series of impressive cartwheels.
–    Ditching the annoying Australian guy with a Mohawk after observing his self-centered choices of conversation.

After the long, hot drive through the mountains and an impromptu photo session with Andrew and Jon in a burnt-out car that we spotted on the side of the road, we arrived in Humboldt county sweaty and tired.  We flipped a coin to see if we would stay in Humboldt and drink our guts out or pay for a beach camp site.  Andrew said, “tails is bad, so if I flip tails we’ll get drunk and sleep in the car.”  He flipped tails but we decided to find a campsite anyways.  I felt guilty for taking the easy way out even though the sidewalks that would have been our parking places were occupied by throngs of bums and other sketchy characters.

We decided to drive north on the 101 until we found a camp spot.  After crossing Oregon’s border and passing camp sites with “full” signs in front until 11:00 p.m. we pulled over on the side of the road to sleep.  Everything was black except for the occasional pair of passing headlights.  When I opened my eyes and coaxed my neck into bending again in the morning, I saw a wide, flat beach darkened by tree shadows and a hint of fog.

We started driving at sunrise on a section of highway that looked down from a cliff over a series of cove towns.  These small beach villages, barely above the level of the sea, stretched out into the ocean on jutting strips of brittle rock and dark brown sand.  There were houses and docks built right up to the edge of the Pacific.  It looked like a single powerful wave could have demolished the whole town, yet the cluster of huts with faded red roofs and the skinny dirt pathways that connected them seemed harmonious with their surroundings.

At lunch, Jon wanted to talk about the objectives concerning our trip.  Was it to meet people?  Meet ourselves?  Record conversations?  To experience without recording and reflect later?  What is the point?

Too many questions was our only answer.  I have this book, a camera, a yet-to-be-used tape recorder…time will tell what we produce.

That night we stopped at a KOA, showered and got drunk.  We walked a few miles from our camp site around a small lake that cradled cabins and fishing docks, only to get tired and urinate as a group on the outside of a porta potty.  A friendly middle-aged couple with an R.V. chatted with us about our travels.  They let me use their outlet to charge my cell phone.  By the time I came back to get it, I was drunk and well aware of it.  I kept repeating “thank you” and tried not to trip over their pic-nic table on my way back to our shared green tent.

After eating a KOA cooked “miner’s breakfast”, a heaping styrofoam tray of biscuits and gravy, we drove out to the Lincoln City Skatepark.  The way Oregon is run pleases me.  No taxes AND intelligently constructed, skater-designed, free, behemoths of cement skateparks.  Beautiful.

Now we are in the car driving to Portland.  Andrew got mad at Jon for reserving us a $25 per-person hostel.  Jon is quiet.  He drank one and a half bottles of cheap red wine last night.  He said “I want to talk about my feelings…It’s frustrating being this attractive.”  I fell at the skatepark and then skated well.  A dog came up and licked the cut on my knee.

The Art Still Thrives
The concept of reinterpreting, transforming, and utilizing our surroundings is as old as art itself.   Not only is this process a healthy creative exercise, it’s also a sure way of heightening consciousness and awareness of our everyday surroundings.  The goal of street skateboarding is to find hidden potential within the physical space around us, areas of cities outside the comfort of our homes that are too easily written off as useless—or worse—labeled wasteful eyesores.  What was once a forgotten staircase behind a boarded-up building, an abandoned refrigerator in a parking lot choked with weeds, or an uneven bump in a cracked sidewalk, attributes typically associated with the fallouts of urban decay, can be imagined into a sparkling blank canvas through the act of street skateboarding.
Open Your Eyes
When I first picked up a skateboard as a ten-year-old kid, my goal was to amass a laundry list of “cool tricks.”  I wanted to possess complete dominance over my board, with the ability to flip it, spin it, and manipulate it in any way I pleased, not unlike the performance ability of a professional yo-yo master.  It was only after years of experience meeting older skateboarders, traveling to spots in San Francisco and abandoning my dream of becoming a pro skater when my perspective began to change.  My reason to skateboard became less about my coolness and more about this community of artists trying something new, a revolutionary creative union between physical and environmental worlds.
The Realization
My focus now turned to finding “spots.”  Before, on my way to work or school, I would look out the window of my car as the master over my surroundings.  Cities existed on their own terms and I was a passive observer with no identifiable relationship with the places around me.  Yet, after my realization of street skateboarding’s true nature, I was utterly dependent on the environment.  If every surface capable of allowing a skateboard to roll on it was truly a blank canvas, the surge of creative possibility was then overwhelming.  Every odd architectural mistake could be fully utilized and reinterpreted as a success: gaps in walkways could be ollied, benches too low or too high for sitting could be slid, curved roofs could be used as half pipes, slanted walls could be ridden, crooked poles could be grinded.  The irregularities of cities suddenly metamorphosed into gifts offered to my imagination from the universe.
Life Where no Life Exists
Putting street skateboarding’s potential into action fostered a new type of creativity within me.  Skateboarding forced me to reevaluate the elements of cities that I had always taken for granted.  Since there are no rules in skateboarding, the ways I could interact with something as simple as an empty trashcan or an old fire hydrant were almost endless.  In the same vain of artists who scour dumps searching out found objects for sculptures or street artists who paint murals on the walls of outhouses, street skateboarding breathes life into areas of perceived uselessness.  What was once a disposable object is now transformed into an essential partner in a relationship with the artist’s (a.k.a. the skater’s) imagination.

Masters Of War

Come you masters of war
You that build all the guns
You that build the death planes
You that build the big bombs
You that hide behind walls
You that hide behind desks
I just want you to know
I can see through your masks

You that never done nothin’
But build to destroy
You play with my world
Like it’s your little toy
You put a gun in my hand
And you hide from my eyes
And you turn and run farther
When the fast bullets fly

Like Judas of old
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won
You want me to believe
But I see through your eyes
And I see through your brain
Like I see through the water
That runs down my drain

You fasten the triggers
For the others to fire
Then you set back and watch
When the death count gets higher
You hide in your mansion
As young people’s blood
Flows out of their bodies
And is buried in the mud

You’ve thrown the worst fear
That can ever be hurled
Fear to bring children
Into the world
For threatening my baby
Unborn and unnamed
You ain’t worth the blood
That runs in your veins

How much do I know
To talk out of turn
You might say that I’m young
You might say I’m unlearned
But there’s one thing I know
Though I’m younger than you
Even Jesus would never
Forgive what you do

Let me ask you one question
Is your money that good
Will it buy you forgiveness
Do you think that it could
I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul

And I hope that you die
And your death’ll come soon
I will follow your casket
In the pale afternoon
And I’ll watch while you’re lowered
Down to your deathbed
And I’ll stand o’er your grave
‘Til I’m sure that you’re dead

Copyright ©1963

You untethered blimp of potential, flitting to hallway’s corners, areas unshakable by earthquake, ingesting weighty objects of association of feelings, a lone choice, the solace of your meshy, anchor-free, swung wide, self-classified condition.  There, above the underside of a reeking, pity-inducing crevice, with only your self’s servitude simmering socratic symbolism, you find the time never to sleep.  And what is piece to you, if not, upon gaging, a stair above the spotted linoleum floor’s foundation, argument, sexless twin sister of rivalry, shuffler of power, satisfaction’s lonely effigy.   But, whether abstracting, undulating above the cement bed on inaction, pursuing an enclosed offer to no one but alone, sea-sawing, generating submersibal patterns, concluding, marinating in potential of sandstorm, you can’t manage, while managing, the right, the pill of nature, to shed old skin.  Unfathoming countless pencil tics, the me factory gone upwards, those potentials may be stamped into quantification.  Rightfully, with sly mobility of, nonetheless wincing, pergatory’s cartoon agent, reruns, the white noise of dull hum, static defense system, sensory clogs of colored variety, bar genuine query, children’s society.  The conflict, long running, something of a classic breeding, purposes not depth of height, discovery catalogs, elemental, omnipotent, emphathy, but, forthrightly, low waves of safety’s frequencies, emitted habit enforcement, trust dumbers, remembered imagined potential, fizzles and burps a steady win.

I walk by the camp’s infirmary, standing gray walls that don’t seem to be promoting health, and feel a combination of anger, homesickness, and guilt, all at once, knowing that a little girl inside is suffering for a belief that was forced upon her at birth.  My steps are continually wobbly because I’m five years old, my shoes are untied, remaining that way because I don’t want to attract attention from the older girls who already seem annoyed by my unchosen young age, and asking one of them to stop and help tie them would also stop the line’s momentum.
The gray infirmary becomes shrouded behind more and more trees as we continue walking, the girl inside, who the other girls say is close to death because of her crazy parents, lies in a bed behind a window with a curtain that is never open.  I walk slow, not just because of the laces, but also because a part of me wants to see her in person, envious of the girl.  Being cared for by a team of nurses in the room, on the verge of having no responsibilities, even for a kid, the whole camp silently offering their sympathies, no one expecting you to be the hero in complicated games you are to young to understand, I think her situation is, in a way, comforting.
My Mom sent me a letter, which made me happy, but now I don’t know what to do.  I want another letter, or cookies, like the other kids who don’t think about their parents until a counselor tells them they got a package.  I think about my parents, sitting at home, proud of their decision, which didn’t involve my opinion, to send me away for the summer.  Before I got the letter I thought I would never talk to either of them again, my new home the cramped and smelly cabin, forever sleeping among girls who remind me I am the youngest.  Camp’s atmosphere does not promote the flourishing of sensitive girls, with heavy wool blankets that make my exposed skin itchy and red, spiders crawling on the ceiling at night, and food that isn’t good enough on its own to taste good, with syrup, ketchup, and barbecue sauce coming with every meal.
The only real difference between the girls and me is that we get excited about different things.  I saw a massive squirrel running vertically up a tree a few days ago, my mouth formed into a smile without my control, it almost looked like my cat back home, and just as I was about to point it out to the girl standing next to me, she squealed in excitement as a boy lifeguard walked by in the distance.

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