Daniel

Every so often something small blows you away so immensely, that few word can do justice. I don’t know if this should be followed in any particular order, but my experience went as follows:

1) http://wfmu.org/listen.ram?show=18526&archive=26545

from 1:00:43 to 2:03:12

2) http://www.pitchforkmedia.com/features/weekly/06-03-27-daniel-johnston.shtml

3) http://www.hihowareyou.com/

4) http://www.salon.com/ent/movies/review/2006/03/31/johnston/index.html

5) http://www.nypress.com/19/13/film/MattZollerSeitz.cfm

That’s it. You're completely on your own here. Obscure, obtuse, and insane.

Spring

Pregnant robin defiant
At 5:50 a.m.
Standing in the street

Suburban moms jogging
Like an LL Bean catalog come to life
If only for a couple of weeks

Five

1) Spring Time

Winter’s optimism becomes spring time's dread
Mud season of the soul; like quicksand – engulfing

Transitions are like this though
Veritable carousels of weather and human disposition

Like riding on a vast cosmic
Mood swing (here now)

Without segue, how devastating
A word – a thought – a hastily blurted notion can be

I suppose when it comes to the important things
One is always alone

It must be the manner, style, and panache
in which we manage our absolute aloneness
that allows us to grow up – or get to know ourselves

Living by being “in relation to” others and things
But there are always thresholds

2) The Hierarchy of Genius

Grace and instinct
Myth making lives
Turning woe and work
into insight and meaning

Disciplining our real talents
To best utilize our wild
Irrational daily fluctuations
If only to keep from falling
on our asses – or our faces

Radical acceptance of what really enriches our lives
Our orgasms will come not as an end
Like a clever trick
But as a spiritual, celebratory event

Still under the philosophical underpinnings of
You can have it any way you want it

3) What Lights My House?

Ego and alter ego
The troubles with purgatory indeed
Of masks and roles and expectations

Get a sense of humor
I never knew why
I do what I do why I do it

For all the generosity
There is equal and balancing selfishness
Because for the seemingly playful
And lighthearted interactions

The frighteningly lonely reality
Of my life paralyzes from within

But so what?

So few people do I even care to know
Far outweighed by the number of those curious
About me – so few will ever come close
To ever knowing (never more than will
ever be counted on one thumbless hand)

So even with the curtains drawn
And the messy drawers and closets closed
My house is lighted from within by…

…my devotion and dedication to a life’s
body of art and experiences with friends

4) Untitled

No major differences
Between one day and another

As I enter this stage in my life
Richer in new and even more accurate
Perceptions and predictions –

And a renewed wherewithal to express
As I please without any great
Need for acceptance –

I am confronted with the paradox of
Easing burden and crushing responsibility

But who will mourn my death
Or celebrate the end of my
very human torment and chaos and joy?
Finally at home with my inner self

A radical kind of shift
Is in the air

5) Of Humans and the Gods

I have to admit that I
Have not begun to understand
What is the price of perfection

I don’t care what they say
Just be still and know
I love you…I got to

Living in clusters of being
Being above it all or
Being within the fray

The past is certified
As a finished product
Yesterday is always the past

I am less concerned with
Your need for me to be a particular person
Than my need to be said particular person
Ahh, the necessity of suffering

Is It Me?

Okay, is it me or is John Ashcroft playing the role of Viktor Yanukovychh? Maybe it's me.

Ty is my Copilot

Three

1) Of Niggers, Kids, and the Poor

As humans, we’ve clearly proven
How contagious hate can be,
I mean, really, it’s addictive, like crack or oil

Running hot straight through
A daylong sprint from A to Z
And everybody knows for sure it’s me

Grossly absorbed in the mundane
Activities of the pedestrians
At a dangerous pace indeed

I’m not accustomed to this reality
Preferring my myth and legend instead
When did I become so much like everyone else?

But shit yeah, I’m almost there
The end of the motherfucking line
If only it didn’t smell so rank in hell

2) Castles of Woe

Again, I’ve rediscovered the most sacred of zones
All these corners connected perfectly, intentionally
To me and all of my people
For influence and inspiration – for art and experimentation

Of tea and high places
My return to the wombs of various births
To proclaim, “Be one of us!”
As welcomed as feared as misunderstood

Charming magical magnetic bonds
Youth wasted on ignorance of our culture
Your expressions tell it all to me –
So over my own stories of sob and pity

Hands and ass – skin and bones
Each new lie as fascinating as the first truth
I see you as you see yourself
Through yourself and your mythical castles of woe

3) Add Ten Years

Add ten years and the differences
Are stark and subtle

Rhinestone skull and crossbones
Dudes fishing with the same old bait

But now both those creepy old predators
And the faggotty fashion pirates
Yap away into middlespaces of mobile telephony
[maybe to each other]

To some this is home
And they know where to vacuum the cars

Others visit blindly yet daily
Passing through to destinations

For a few this is all brand new
And is awe inspiring or just awful

But to even fewer this is a huge stage to perform
Not the honed and polished acts copied
From celebrity magazines and cable television

But fucking publicly performed real and dedicated art
No rehearsals – no guilt – no re-takes

Add ten years and the differences
Are minute and irrelevant

Abortion - or Whatever, ask Bill

Ask Bill Napoli:

Those numbers still worked last I checked. Only ask if you're a woman though. Guys have it all together.

Dude (in haiku)

Like a dude so raw
Caring for only wrong things
Because life is short

Record Review Roundup

Okay, I like music pretty much. In fact, I probably love music. In fact fact, I probably - in many ways - cold live for and because of music. I've made and continue to make music (or hodgepodges of sound). In many ways, music, it's my thang, Right? Me and music go way back to small times, like, we grew up together.

There are tons of records that I enjoy too; a diverse collection of stuff from Little Stevie Wonder to Busdriver to MC 900 Foot Jesus to Nirvana. Then there is another category that really get me going. The good shit; the stuff that makes me stand up and move or the stuff that breaks the neck off. Then, there's that exclusive category called, "fuck! why didn't I make that record?!" <-- and="" be="" can="" couldn="" didn="" for="" i="" sometimes="" strong="" substituted="" t.="" t="" the="" word="">couldn't have made "Blueberry Boat" or "Lexington Pacheco." The envious category; the top of the heap.

I had heard a little about Liars (or is it "The Liars" I don't really care). Yeah, another band. So what, I'm up to my shins in bands. But, somehow I caught wind of "Drum's Not Dead" maybe in Pitchfork or something.

Fuck! Why didn't I make this record?! Or, more specifically, in this case, why didn't Big Dave Wave and I (in that order) make this record? Sure, there's the Kingdom of Leisure and it's one- and two-offs; the knucklehead, small distribution stuff no one is supposed to "get." Shit's hella fucked-up too. But, "Drum's Not Dead?" Inspired. I even ordered the CD, didn't just download it or nothing. And it comes with a DVD that, if the music is any indication, is wicked nutty. Note: somebody remind me to watch the DVD because I'll forget all about it.

I know, I'm not telling you what the record sounds like - I'm not giving you the Depeche Mode meets Led Zeppelin in a Eurobeat-Ween-funk way. That's not my job. I'm hearing crickets, I don't know who this sounds like. My ears hurt and my brain is suffering. It just sounds hella (wicked) right. Raw! Good and fucked-up. Real! I have a lot of good and perfect and pretty music. But, "good and fucked-up" is high praise. I'm now thinking Jason L., Big Dave Wave and me with Rich dropping by for a weekend just to swirl his "Hello Johnson" around while we all laugh. Oh, and Marcus has to be there too, but only if he wears that silly-ass Letter Carrier hat. Who else? I don't know who else, maybe the B on her new guitar. But, the door'll be open to whomever wants to either bring food or other treats. If you stick around long enough, you can get in on a track or two.

Oh, wait! I have made this record? It's the same record I've been doing for the last 10 years. Well, that explains why it makes so much sense.

Alls I'm saying is...if you're going to spend your money, get some good headphones, kids. Damn!

File under: duh!

Perfect

"While homos and fashion editors battle every hour of aging like it’s an hour glass with a nuclear bomb at the end of it, some of us can’t wait to get older. Some of us can’t wait for that magical time when you give so little of a shit you wear a fanny pack because it’s practical, a Tupac shirt because you found it, and a matching rayon tracksuit top because, well, why the fuck not?"

Angel’s Next Magical Theory

Given the history and nature of truth
We now get to pick our own very favorite evils
And try to survive on the remnants of instinct and integrity
Or at least believe we are somehow surviving

Which is either an instantly simple task
Or – given the quantity of attractive and unhealthy choices –
May prove to be insanely impossible
In a post literate, post logic, post irony, post America sort of way

Do you really know who you are?
So many archetypes when everything is so fake now
Even if you’re stoned and kind of squint
Or lucidly pray, meditate, or crunch your numbers

All of our highly evolved wants are so unlikely
Perfection and happiness has become seemingly impossible
My conspiracist’s “magical thinking” aside
Paradox unconfined to our harsh inner realities

I guess what I’m evangelizing is
We need to be very careful in the way
We interpret our truths, words, and needs
Just knowing is enough sometimes

Jimi Day

This morning, iPod really liked Jimi Hendrix. Within an hour I heard the following:

"Foxey Lady" - Hendrix
"Wait Until Tomorrow" - John Mayer
"Little Wing" - Sting
"Hear My Train A Comin'" - Hendrix
"Little Miss Strange" - Hendrix (sorry, Noel Redding)
"Love Or Confusion" - Hendrix

WTF?

Birdy

Plugged: Become the Ruling Body, Dude

They booed Dylan when he first plugged in...

Rubble Corner

Love: Haiku

There is always love
For those few lucky enough
To feel and express

For me there is much
To feel fortunate about
Always wanting more

I love in hard ways
Needing so much in return
Grateful to just know

Curb

"Montgomery County Urban Design: Here's this perfectly manicured curb, brick paved, textured brick face wall, planned and planted street tree, contoured and formal transitions from public driving space to public pedestrian space, a pre-fab celebration of urban forms, and yet, despite all the make up, it's still a curb, a place to fall to, a place to get kicked to, a place to end up, abandoned, a public dumping ground.

You can take the city out of the trash, but you can't take the trash out of the city."

- RPW

The Offspring

So, the B has discovered a "magical" CD full of songs that she somehow loves. It's not the Wiggles nor is it other children's music.

At a mid-Pennsylvania truck stop I found a Cheap Trick greatest hits disc for, say, three bucks. I bought it. Well, I gave it away to a real Cheap Trick fan. The B was pissed! "Where Cheap Trick?!" So, the next time through we looked for another Cheap Trick disc, but none were available. So I told her, "Ahhh, here's one!" This was the SNL 25th Anniversary of music performances or some crap. Or, as B says, "Cheap Trick CD!"

Well, turns out she loves the live performances on this disc: Paul Simon (from the Graceland period), Sting (featuring, to my benefit Vinny Colaiuta). Okay, here's the kicker: we now have to listen to - instead of the Wiggles' "Point Your Fingers (and do the twist) - we listen to Lenny Kravitz "Are You Gonna Go My Way" over and over.

Okay, the kid can rock. What more can a dad ask for?

Lux

Libertarians

"What, Libertarians are like, what, Republicans who want to smoke pot."

-Tom Sharpling

My Patriotic Duty

"An unidentified relative mourns over the bodies of his family members, killed in U.S. raid, as they arrive in a hospital in Tikrit, 130 kilometers (80 miles) north of Baghdad, Iraq, Wednesday, March 15, 2006. Eleven people, most of them women and children were killed when a house was bombed during a U.S. raid north of Baghdad early Wednesday, police and relatives said. The U.S. military acknowledged four deaths in the raid that they said netted an insurgent suspect in the rural Isahaqi area, about 80 kilometers (50 miles) north of the capital. " (AP)

[I stand without comment]

Maybe it Was Floyd?

Claude Allen has an identical twin brother.

This scheme didn't even work on The Brady Bunch.

Three Links...

...because I'm too lazy to have original thoughts today (oh, and it's suddenly spring out my window):

1) Maybe the neocons are blindingly brilliant: "Newsflash" Rants & Cigarettes

2) New A-pos-tro-phe

3) Dang, this is slummin': Mike Davis' new book

Thanks Claude Allen; Thanks a Lot

Open letter to the people of the city of Gaithersburg, Maryland (my city of residence), the Gaithersburg Police Department, the Montgomery County Police Department, Target Stores, Hects, and people who hold stereotypes against black people everywhere.

Hi, I am not Claude Allen. Sure, we shop at (and in his case allegedly commit fraud against) the same Target store in Gaithersburg. We are both what you call "light skinned, articulate Negroes," and we both live in affluent communities and shop with credit cards, but I am not Claude Allen.

On Claude Allen

Montgomery County Police Press Release

We are vastly different: I am not a republican. I am not conservative. I believe we have a responsibility to teach our kids how to not make themselves pregnant. I have no problem with what you call "the queers" or "the radical feminists." I've never been a member of the Bush II White House. I've never served as W's chief domestic policy advisor nor have I worked as an aide to Jesse Helms. I'm just a regular workin' guy.

I'm pretty happy, personally, that you didn't get seated on the 4th Circuit Court of Appeals though. But brothaman, I am pretty surprised you had to give it all up and embarrass the hell out of all of us coloreds all at the same time with some (allegations of) petty shit like retail fraud. Dude, what were you thinking?

Dang! Now, when I shop at our Target, I have to feel the presence of security and hear the whirring of pivoting cameras because of you - since we basically fit the same profile. I don't like being followed around when I shop, it makes me feel uneasy and unequal and kind of second class. But, thanks to your little situation, I fear my upper-middle class cred is shredded. My bootstraps are all in knots (over these allegations, of course).

So to everyone everywhere, hi, I'm not Claude Allen. It's just me, Ty. Please trust me not to steal or try to defraud you. I'm just shoppin', man! I'm guessing that Claude either cannot, by order, go back to that Target or have been advised to not go there, so I hope that when I show up to buy some underwear or floss nobody mistakes us. It would pain me horribly to be confused with someone accused of committing a crime.

Evolution From A Common Culture: “Manifesto Lite”

Here I am! Or, am I here? Is this that precious period of “rapid stylistic evolution” of the self as artist I’ve read so much about in the haughtier publications? Will I spend the rest of my life struggling in vain to rival the achievements of my youth; or is this precisely what I’m doing now, looking backwards at the dreams that have already realized?

Of course the term “artist” is as weighty as it is garbage. Everybody is an artist (I say this sincerely and cynically). And when the critics and writers take ownership of the A-word as it reflects your life’s labor, the pigeonholing begins. Terms of definition like “self-taught” artist emerge and stick like glue. And, “self-taught” is weighted with as much loathing and disdain as is “folk art,” “outsider art,” “urban art,” “black art,” and perhaps the worst, “raw art.” And, anyone calling me or my work “African-American” loses all access. It ain’t that, y’all.

Self-taught, huh? I guess I missed the workshop on who was supposed to teach me to believe, to see, and to execute? Isn’t it enough to be influenced by a higher, personal, inner aesthetic? Isn’t it enough to react to other art, and the beauty and pain in the world around us? Isn’t it just enough to find the time and space to even be able to do a tiny fraction of the shit that’s in my head? Isn’t it enough to find muses kind enough to spare a portion of their own miserable lives just being patient and indulgent of such self-indulgent bullshit? Isn’t it enough?

Yes, we’re all making the “radical departures from the more convention approaches of our commercially minded peers.” Yeah, I know. I know! We’re breaking with the clichés of the day, having little in common with what is being created around us and what has been created before us. Yes, I fucking know. Oh, and we’re all “expanding the possibilities of art hybrids” too, you know, where medium X meets medium Y for some sort of “unique” creation that God put us here to share. We’ve become so goddamn virtuoso. Yep. I know. I just hope I’m not actually saying that crap too often, if ever. So help me.

But, if I can remain as allusive and increasingly cryptic within my own self-imposed rules of discipline, then I believe I can survive. Success? What is success? How is success a definable aspiration? For me ideas, execution and survival prevent me from becoming fat, drunk and stupid. It’s just that easy.

Three Things

1) Weather: Do I have to write this every quarter? I'm not really interested in discussing the weather. It's there, sometimes it's interesting, but I'm not going to substitute comments about the obvious as any sort of meaningful conversation. I don't care. Now, you are welcome to engage me on a myriad of topics: music, politics, nanobiobots, ethics, religion, anything <-- and these are easy topics (except for nanobiobots). But, the weather, don't depress me with your lowly banter; I can see the sun and my brain has processed that it's hot.

2) Democrats: Where to start? Where do I line up to quit in shame and humiliation with shit all over my shoes? With everything the current administration is doing, how on earth is it the democrats have absolutely no traction toward making meaningful change? I'm sure dems don't "hate America" but they sure forgot what the hell America is. I'm fairly sure the Three Stooges were democrats (at least they played democrats on the TeeVee. In real life, they were probably savvy enough to form cogent thoughts and develop strategies - as is evident of their successful entertainment enterprise). And they're calling me for more money? For what? What the hell did you do with the money I gave you? I want a receipt. Until the democrats can dial up 1-800-Get-A-Spine (maybe I'll send them a pre-paid calling card), I'm sticking with: I don't care. Sure I am fully opposed to the philosophies and practices of republicans, but at least they COMPETE and WIN. Me? I'm stuck with suckers and losers.

3) NCAA Tourny: Strike three: sorry, I don't care. Don't ask me about any silly ass brackets. See weather.

Joy

 

 

 ...convinced her that a TIGER bike was about a thousand times cooler than a pink bike with white tires and BUTTERFLIES. "Butterflies don't roar" and white tires "get really dirty."

Joy is a child's first "real" bike.

Joy is a parent with cool kid.

Torn, Part 13 (coda)

Torn, Part 12 (end)

Knowing

Sometimes it’s enough to melt one’s brain
down to its lizard foundation

But every so often something prevents critical mass
and it's, repeatedly, always at the very last of moments

It could be understated:
A nod, a look, a knowing well-coded aside

Or resolute:
A jab, a touch, a kiss

And, shit, everything is back in sync – reset
all “Kool and the Gang” style – for precious periods

Sit or stand
Or even kneel
Just never bend over
For faith, fear, or
fatherland

Smile and grin
And often agree
With truths impossible
Nodding with eye contact
shows you understand

When the disposition, the attitude simply
heads down hill uncontrollably

Just missing thresholds where
return is not plausible, possible, or advisable

Then it’s time (again) to
trust the path; ride it out

These are the attractive whirlpools of insanity
the very same of recurring visions

Story: Part 10 (obligatory coda)

You Hate Spring?

Here’s the Deal with Spring

Sure, they wake you up really damn early
After a night drinking, smoking, flirting in sidewalk cafes
But the singing birds remind us
Of the vitality of life returning (so shut the fuck up!)

As artificial and unnatural as it may look
That too light green of primary growth
And the grasses sprouting among garbage in sidewalk cracks
That’s spring too

Being able to wear so little clothing that
Not only do you feel 20 pounds lighter
You can actually feel the breezes
On your bare white skin

The sun in your face and knowing
Just how fucking cool you look
In your new sunglasses as you
Eat your lunch outside with hot married men

Passing on sharing a cab because
“I can walk from here, no it’s really okay”
and soaking-up sounds un-muffled and smells (like ass)
That’s spring too

And, fuck, just knowing that you
Are still alive after all the psychotic cave bear
Behaviors of winter…year after painful year…
Goddamn spring is a blissfully potent tonic

Lucky to be alive
Happy to have the privilege of feeling
So fucking sour over life’s slights
That’s spring too

Torn, Part 11

Story: Part 9 (end)

I Threw This in the Trash - or - Freshman Debate 101

Of our many human frailties: choices
Like the decision to live (or not) as part of a society
Effervescent with childhood heroes and aspirations
And all the potential evil(s)

We muddle and meander thoughtlessly
Banging off of pillar and bollard - in
Fantastically competitive micro-environments
Throwing the others under the busses

Constraints obviously artificial
But universally recognized we believe
statistically speaking and "in theory"
Happily living in my shoes and skins though

Story: Part 8

Bliss: A Haiku

Full title: I don't really give a fuck, just get me out of here before I go crazy, give me some motherfucking bliss: a Haiku

A shot of Nyquil
And a couple of Benzos
Followed by a beer

Torn, Part 10

Torn, Part 9

Torn, Part 8

But Fear Itself

With superpositioning coming to a close
And the horrifying relief of clarity in queue
I am stripped bare save truths enduring

Of course, the more conundrums solved
The more questions arise, naturally
Is the cat alive or is the cat dead -- or both?

Snobbery and exclusivity combine
Our podium rising for elucidation
“Listen here for enlightenment!”

Too little cherished
Too much assumed
Too little living
Too much consumed

Tremendous success may be gained through
Courses of safe, thoughtful decision-making
With gambling left as our cake’s icing

I choose however to venture first and foremost
And ask questions later – or at least
Offer up overly analyzed explanations for debate

Real, imagined or dislike of condition
Fear is as a useless of an emotion
As it is a warning of consequences ahead

Story: Part 7

Food for Over-Thought

"Of course, it's conceivable I've over-thought this. I've been known to do that in the past."

- Malcolm Gladwell

Torn, Part 7

Torn, Part 6

Oh!

Oh, two of the little white pills and a fist full of sake.

Now, I'm there.

Everything is so creative here.

Welcome.

Torn, Part 5

Torn, Part 4

Torn, Part 3

Sharing Is Caring (and a side note)

Today, I shared some tea:

"Thank you. The leaves have become huge, like swaying forests of kelp at the bottom of my mug."


[side note: today the iPod prefered Guns N' Roses for some reason]

Goddamn Internet(s)!

Step 1: Stare bleakly at table with depressing "celebratory" Safeway turkey, Christian Brothers brandy, and plastic spork. [No-doz nowhere to be found]

Step 2: Realize that your life has fallen so far that this constitutes celebration, brandy-sporking included.

Step 3: Self-inflicted gunshot wound.

Untitled Haiku

That guy who loves me
Is right around the corner
Always there and mine

California Hebro

I Just Don't Know

I really wanted to pen some words
To describe what I'm feeling right now
Because sometimes it's a little easier to write
Than find the time – the moments to
Adequately convey all the things in my head

But fatigue, confusion, and circumstance
prevents me from focusing intently on
"flowering lotuses" and "warm spring winds" and
Things symbolic of love, connection, and optimism
I seem never confident enough to transmit these feelings

Most significantly I suppose is this, as you know:
Often I just want to sit next to you; near to you
and listen to you, to smell you and occasionally just
reach over to touch you with purpose and care
To know you are there and with me, in ways…

Because I now understand that
If I were blind your voice would guide
If I were deaf your eyes would enlighten
If I were dying your spirit would calm
If…only fucking if…we were free

But, I am too tired for lexis now
Nor, I cannot find respite directly
So, I take great comfort however
in being with you so closely and intensely
Even if sometimes only in my mind