Only to bark the words of so and so

Cigarette rollers, sleepy-time and every dream come true.

2006-07-18T21:11:31Z

There once was a baker who solely made bacon&eggs. He got fired cos "that's retarded" so he sued for discrimination purposes and was found drowned in a vat of pig-dust oil. Boy, did it stink in there, Sheriff Weiss said then ran for the Jewish pompadour hills at 813 in the a.m. when out came running Indians in droves all wearing blue jeans&Nikes.

I would have liked to have been there, the fourth Thursday morning, to search their pockets for gold as they lay strewn across the fields of Bollywood-esque Denver, their eyes brightly colored like molasses on speed, their horses chewing at their belt buckles and honkey tonk still playing on their walkmans.

Gotta love those lithium batteries.

wordsofsoandso @ 2006-04-22T11:38:00

2006-04-22T09:39:46Z

I MADE MY DREAMS COME TRUE.

What have YOU done today?

Suckers.

wordsofsoandso @ 2004-05-27T10:35:00

2004-05-27T14:53:10Z

If I were a month I would be: November.
If I were a day of the week I would be: Sunday.
If I were a time of day I would be: Dusk.
If I were a planet I would be: Venus.
If I were a sea animal I would be: Crane. Those do count.
If I were a direction I would be: East.
If I were a piece of furniture I would be: 17th century gilded canopy bed.
If I were a sin I would be: Pride.
If I were a historical figure I would be: The African equivalent of Helen.
If I were a liquid I would be: Licor 43.
If I were a tree I would be: One of the majestic, black, de-leafed winter trees I have been known to pen.
If I were a flower/plant I would be: The Ghost Orchid.
If I were a kind of weather I would be: Terrential rain storm in the middle of the day, where the sky gets dark as night and it lasts for a few minutes with a purple and red sky. It returns when least expected in all it's grandeur.
If I were a musical instrument I would be: Grand piano.
If I were an animal I would be: Crane.
If I were a color I would be: The marriage between vermillion and crimson.
If I were a vegetable I would be: Cactus. That does count.
If I were a sound I would be: Hail falling against the window pane.
If I were an element I would be: Fire.
If I were a car I would be: Late 1970s black Caprice Classic, red interior.
If I were a song I would be: "Amanecer en tus brazos" by Lola Flores.
If I were a movie I would be directed by: Darren Aronofsky.
If I were a book I would be written by: Federico García Lorca.
If I were a food I would be: Those fake cherries in the jar.
If I were an object I would be: Paintbrush.
If I were a font I would be: Porcelain.
If I were a place I would be: La calle Feria, 1931.
If I were a material I would be: Indian silk.
If I were a taste I would be: Licor 43.
If I were a scent I would be: The way I smell right now can't be beat.
If I were a word I would be: Equilicua.
If I were a body part I would be: Nape of the neck.
If I were a facial expression I would be: Sexy smirk.
If I were a cartoon character I would be: Bianca from Beverly Hills High.
If I were a shape I would be: Guitar-shape.
If I were a number I would be: 8, of course.

HEY PICASSO:

2004-05-25T15:15:51Z

I'm gonna get prostitutes for my best nude paintings, too.

SO THERE.

wordsofsoandso @ 2004-05-22T22:59:00

2004-05-23T03:02:21Z

I love good news. I love real Spanish seafood tapas and real Spanish red wine. I also love leaving the house after 11 pm to make an appearance at a friend's party. But most of all, after the dancing and smiling and flirting and laughing and sipping, instead of coming home and going to sleep, I love to throw on some rags and glide into my studio to create until the wee hours of the morning.

It's going to be a wonderful night.

wordsofsoandso @ 2004-05-21T20:52:00

2004-05-22T00:52:55Z

Long ago I left the heroics to the heroes. . .

It's true what they say about artists, ya know.

2004-05-17T04:55:20Z

1. Your name spelled backwards. I'm entirely too drunk and happy to take on that task.
2. Where were your parents born? Sevilla and Brooklyn.
3. What is the last thing you downloaded onto your computer? Elvis Crespo's "Hora Enamorada."
4. What's your favorite restaurant? Guapo's, but soon to be one of the many Spanish restaurants here.
5. Last time you swam in a pool? Close to 20 years ago.
6. Have you ever been in a school play? Yes.
7. How many kids do you want? Through labor? None.
8. Type of music you dislike most? Probably most of the shit you listen to.
9. Are you registered to vote? No, never will be.
10. Do you have a car? Yes!
11. Have you ever ridden on a moped? Not yet.
12. Ever prank call anybody? Millions of times in high school.
13. Ever get a parking ticket? Not yet.
14. Would you go bungee jumping or sky diving? Probably not.
15. Furthest place you ever traveled? West coast and Spain.
16. Do you have a garden? Unfortunately not.
17. What's the size of your bed? Full.
18. Do you really know all the words to your national anthem? Yes.
19. Bath or Shower, morning or night? Shower, afternoon before class, at least for the next week.
20. Best movie you've seen in the past 4 months? A short film entitled The Last Cigarette.
21. What's the next movie you want to see? One of the many free films available to me in the city.
22. Chips or popcorn? Neither.
23. Have you ever broken any hearts? Yes, gladly.
24. Premarital sex? It exists.
25. Are you a good cook? Excellent.
26. Orange or Apple juice? Pomegranate juice!
27. Who was the last person you went out to dinner with and where did you dine? Kristin, Guapo's.
28. Favorite type of drink? Fake peach tea, pomegranate juice, Licor 43, Cuba libre
29. Best thing in the world? Me.
30. Have you ever broken a bone? Broke my leg once.
31. Have you ever won a trophy? Never.
32. What is your favorite board game? Candyland.
33. What is your dream car? Late 1970s Caprice Classic and 1980s Caprice Wagon.
34. Ever order an article from an infomercial? Yes.
35. Coke or Pepsi? Pomegranate juice!
36. Have you ever had to wear a uniform to work? Never.
37. Last thing you bought at a pharmacy? I don't think I've actually done that.
38. Who are you going to marry? Whoever I want.
39. Who would you like to meet? Marc the playboy with the blue blazer and sportscar, and Bertín, too.
40. Do you believe in love at first sight? Of course.
41. What features do you find most attractive in the opposite sex? Dark hair, eyes, and eyebrows, accent, sense of style, innate talent/craft/something incredible.
42. Where would you go for a romantic evening? Where we are.
43. How many pairs of shoes do you own? Five, I think.
44. Last song stuck in your head? Rey Ruiz's "Creo en el amor."
45. Any pets? Nope.
46. What's your all time favorite Saturday Night Live Character? Probably a Will Farrell character.
47. What is one thing you would like to learn to do? Roller skate.
48. What do you do when you are bored? I'm seldom bored these days.
49. What one thing would you want someone to appreciate about you? My delectable taste and talent.
50. What is one thing you are grateful for today? Time and space.

I love Greece.

2004-05-15T23:20:48Z

Some piece of yuppie scum pissed me off in the parking garage of the Dupont Circle Whole Foods Market this afternoon and I scared him so much that he actually stood watch by his car until I drove out onto the street because he feared what I could do to his piece of yuppie scum car. It was fucking brilliant.

What isn't fucking brilliant is the amount of people that have no good knowledge of anything and are stuck in their sad sagging bubbles. People who can't carry on an intelligent conversation about anything, and prefer to stick with the mediocrities of life. People who don't understand that true elitists know their craft and aren't talking shit, it just sounds like they are. These people aren't worth your time, ladies and gentlemen.

But then again who am I to leave on such a sour note?

Scandanavian smoked salmon is a part of life you just cannot take for granted. Also, I'm sure no one noticed, but I'm definitely Lord Henry again. I intend on staying that way.

wordsofsoandso @ 2004-05-14T00:39:00

2004-05-14T04:45:34Z

Just think of it: High school glory, near-sighted children and everything else you're missing. It's almost as if the world is a basement and you just haven't been down there in a while, or ever, because of your fear of the dark or that your asthma might act up. A wine cellar and fifteen thousand massage therapists lined up in a row; creaking floorboards and thirteen hundred semi-automatic bullets hailing into the cinderblock. I think it's all a matter of how you look at it and what you do. Or maybe it's about the moonshine and the flame-thrower that was left there accidentally and how it's all going to blow up in twenty-five seconds flat. Magazine covers, rock collections, cracked plastic buckets and old clothes in seven million pieces strewn over the lawn with the rest of the house and you staring down at your exposed innards crawling away for dear life. Looking up and seeing exactly what you've always dreamt of in wondrous colors and textures and absolute damnum.

Think of the beauty; think of the stories they'll tell.

But seriously folks ...

2004-05-07T14:19:20Z

I'm in love again.

wordsofsoandso @ 2004-04-29T15:16:00

2004-04-29T19:26:23Z

Hands
by Sherwood Andersoon

from Winesburg, Ohio
1919

UPON the half decayed veranda of a small frame house that stood near the edge of a ravine near the town of Winesburg, Ohio, a fat little old man walked nervously up and down. Across a long field that had been seeded for clover but that had produced only a dense crop of yellow mustard weeds, he could see the public highway along which went a wagon filled with berry pickers returning from the fields. The berry pickers, youths and maidens, laughed and shouted boisterously. A boy clad in a blue shirt leaped from the wagon and attempted to drag after him one of the maidens, who screamed and protested shrilly. The feet of the boy in the road kicked up a cloud of dust that floated across the face of the departing sun. Over the long field came a thin girlish voice. "Oh, you Wing Biddlebaum, comb your hair, it's falling into your eyes," commanded the voice to the man, who was bald and whose nervous little hands fiddled about the bare white forehead as though arranging a mass of tangled locks.

Wing Biddlebaum, forever frightened and beset by a ghostly band of doubts, did not think of himself as in any way a part of the life of the town where he had lived for twenty years. Among all the people of Winesburg but one had come close to him. With George Willard, son of Tom Willard, the proprietor of the New Willard House, he had formed something like a friendship. George Willard was the reporter on the Winesburg Eagle and sometimes in the evenings he walked out along the highway to Wing Biddlebaum's house. Now as the old man walked up and down on the veranda, his hands moving nervously about, he was hoping that George Willard would come and spend the evening with him. After the wagon containing the berry pickers had passed, he went across the field through the tall mustard weeds and climbing a rail fence peered anxiously along the road to the town. For a moment he stood thus, rubbing his hands together and looking up and down the road, and then, fear overcoming him, ran back to walk again upon the porch on his own house.

In the presence of George Willard, Wing Biddlebaum, who for twenty years had been the town mystery, lost something of his timidity, and his shadowy personality, submerged in a sea of doubts, came forth to look at the world. With the young reporter at his side, he ventured in the light of day into Main Street or strode up and down on the rickety front porch of his own house, talking excitedly. The voice that had been low and trembling became shrill and loud. The bent figure straightened. With a kind of wriggle, like a fish returned to the brook by the fisherman, Biddlebaum the silent began to talk, striving to put into words the ideas that had been accumulated by his mind during long years of silence.

Wing Biddlebaum talked much with his hands. The slender expressive fingers, forever active, forever striving to conceal themselves in his pockets or behind his back, came forth and became the piston rods of his machinery of expression.

The story of Wing Biddlebaum is a story of hands. Their restless activity, like unto the beating of the wings of an imprisoned bird, had given him his name. Some obscure poet of the town had thought of it. The hands alarmed their owner. He wanted to keep them hidden away and looked with amazement at the quiet inexpressive hands of other men who worked beside him in the fields, or passed, driving sleepy teams on country roads.

When he talked to George Willard, Wing Biddlebaum closed his fists and beat with them upon a table or on the walls of his house. The action made him more comfortable. If the desire to talk came to him when the two were walking in the fields, he sought out a stump or the top board of a fence and with his hands pounding busily talked with renewed ease.

The story of Wing Biddlebaum's hands is worth a book in itself. Sympathetically set forth it would tap many strange, beautiful qualities in obscure men. It is a job for a poet. In Winesburg the hands had attracted attention merely because of their activity. With them Wing Biddlebaum had picked as high as a hundred and forty quarts of strawberries in a day. They became his distinguishing feature, the source of his fame. Also they made more grotesque an already grotesque and elusive individuality. Winesburg was proud of the hands of Wing Biddlebaum in the same spirit in which it was proud of Banker White's new stone house and Wesley Moyer's bay stallion, Tony Tip, that had won the two-fifteen trot at the fall races in Cleveland.

As for George Willard, he had many times wanted to ask about the hands. At times an almost overwhelming curiosity had taken hold of him. He felt that there must be a reason for their strange activity and their inclination to keep hidden away and only a growing respect for Wing Biddlebaum kept him from blurting out the questions that were often in his mind.

Once he had been on the point of asking. The two were walking in the fields on a summer afternoon and had stopped to sit upon a grassy bank. All afternoon Wing Biddlebaum had talked as one inspired. By a fence he had stopped and beating like a giant woodpecker upon the top board had shouted at George Willard, condemning his tendency to be too much influenced by the people about him. "You are destroying yourself," he cried. "You have the inclination to be alone and to dream and you are afraid of dreams. You want to be like others in town here. You hear them talk and you try to imitate them."

On the grassy bank Wing Biddlebaum had tried again to drive his point home. His voice became soft and reminiscent, and with a sigh of contentment he launched into a long rambling talk, speaking as one lost in a dream.

Out of the dream Wing Biddlebaum made a picture for George Willard. In the picture men lived again in a kind of pastoral golden age. Across a green open country came clean-limbed young men, some afoot, some mounted upon horses. In crowds the young men came to gather about the feet of an old man who sat beneath a tree in a tiny garden and who talked to them.

Wing Biddlebaum became wholly inspired. For once he forgot the hands. Slowly they stole forth and lay upon George Willard’s shoulders. Something new and bold came into the voice that talked. "You must try to forget all you have learned," said the old man. "You must begin to dream. From this time on you must shut your ears to the roaring of the voices."

Pausing in his speech, Wing Biddlebaum looked long and earnestly at George Willard. His eyes glowed. Again he raised the hands to caress the boy and then a look of horror swept over his face.

With a convulsive movement of his body, Wing Biddlebaum sprang to his feet and thrust his hands deep into his trousers pockets. Tears came to his eyes. "I must be getting along home. I can talk no more with you," he said nervously.

Without looking back, the old man had hurried down the hillside and across a meadow, leaving George Willard perplexed and frightened upon the grassy slope. With a shiver of dread the boy arose and went along the road toward town. "I'll not ask him about his hands," he thought, touched by the memory of the terror he had seen in the man’s eyes. "There's something wrong, but I don't want to know what it is. His hands have something to do with his fear of me and of everyone."

And George Willard was right. Let us look briefly into the story of the hands. Perhaps our talking of them will arouse the poet who will tell the hidden wonder story of the influence for which the hands were but fluttering pennants of promise.

In his youth Wing Biddlebaum had been a school teacher in a town in Pennsylvania. He was not then known as Wing Biddlebaum, but went by the less euphonic name of Adolph Myers. As Adolph Myers he was much loved by the boys of his school.

Adolph Myers was meant by nature to be a teacher of youth. He was one of those rare, little-understood men who rule by a power so gentle that it passes as a lovable weakness. In their feeling for the boys under their charge such men are not unlike the finer sort of women in their love of men.

And yet that is but crudely stated. It needs the poet there. With the boys of his school, Adolph Myers had walked in the evening or had sat talking until dusk upon the schoolhouse steps lost in a kind of dream. Here and there went his hands, caressing the shoulders of the boys, playing about the tousled heads. As he talked his voice became soft and musical. There was a caress in that also. In a way the voice and the hands, the stroking of the shoulders and the touching of the hair were a part of the schoolmaster’s effort to carry a dream into the young minds. By the caress that was in his fingers he expressed himself. He was one of those men in whom the force that creates life is diffused, not centralized. Under the caress of his hands doubt and disbelief went out of the minds of the boys and they began also to dream.

And then the tragedy. A half-witted boy of the school became enamored of the young master. In his bed at night he imagined unspeakable things and in the morning went forth to tell his dreams as facts. Strange, hideous accusations fell from his loose-hung lips. Through the Pennsylvania town went a shiver. Hidden, shadowy doubts that had been in men’s minds concerning Adolph Myers were galvanized into beliefs.

The tragedy did not linger. Trembling lads were jerked out of bed and questioned. "He put his arms about me," said one. "His fingers were always playing in my hair," said another.

One afternoon a man of the town, Henry Bradford, who kept a saloon, came to the schoolhouse door. Calling Adolph Myers into the school yard he began to beat him with his fists. As his hard knuckles beat down into the frightened face of the schoolmaster, his wrath became more and more terrible. Screaming with dismay, the children ran here and there like disturbed insects. "I'll teach you to put your hands on my boy, you beast," roared the saloon keeper, who, tired of beating the master, had begun to kick him about the yard.

Adolph Myers was driven from the Pennsylvania town in the night. With lanterns in their hands a dozen men came to the door of the house where he lived alone and commanded that he dress and come forth. It was raining and one of the men had a rope in his hands. They had intended to hang the schoolmaster, but something in his figure, so small, white, and pitiful, touched their hearts and they let him escape. As he ran away into the darkness they repented of their weakness and ran after him, swearing and throwing sticks and great balls of soft mud at the figure that screamed and ran faster and faster into the darkness.

For twenty years Adolph Myers had lived alone in Winesburg. He was but forty but looked sixty-five. The name of Biddlebaum he got from a box of goods seen at a freight station as he hurried through an eastern Ohio town. He had an aunt in Winesburg, a black-toothed old woman who raised chickens, and with her he lived until she died. He had been ill for a year after the experience in Pennsylvania, and after his recovery worked as a day laborer in the fields, going timidly about and striving to conceal his hands. Although he did not understand what had happened he felt that the hands must be to blame. Again and again the fathers of the boys had talked of the hands. "Keep your hands to yourself," the saloon keeper had roared, dancing, with fury in the schoolhouse yard.

Upon the veranda of his house by the ravine, Wing Biddlebaum continued to walk up and down until the sun had disappeared and the road beyond the field was lost in the grey shadows. Going into his house he cut slices of bread and spread honey upon them. When the rumble of the evening train that took away the express cars loaded with the day’s harvest of berries had passed and restored the silence of the summer night, he went again to walk upon the veranda. In the darkness he could not see the hands and they became quiet. Although he still hungered for the presence of the boy, who was the medium through which he expressed his love of man, the hunger became again a part of his loneliness and his waiting. Lighting a lamp, Wing Biddlebaum washed the few dishes soiled by his simple meal and, setting up a folding cot by the screen door that led to the porch, prepared to undress for the night. A few stray white bread crumbs lay on the cleanly washed floor by the table; putting the lamp upon a low stool he began to pick up the crumbs, carrying them to his mouth one by one with unbelievable rapidity. In the dense blotch of light beneath the table, the kneeling figure looked like a priest engaged in some service of his church. The nervous expressive fingers, flashing in and out of the light, might well have been mistaken for the fingers of the devotee going swiftly through decade after decade of his rosary.

And what a lovely morning it is.

2004-04-24T14:20:35Z

I'm absolutely head over heels for Brini Maxwell:

Fucking hilarious

2004-04-15T19:21:00Z

Cosmic Banditos
by A.C. Weisbecker

excerpt from pages 6-9

José and a couple of his cohorts went into Santa Marta last week (a long trip by donkey and Land Rover) and mugged a family of American tourists at the airport. Amongst their spoils were a camera and several books. José gave them to me, which was nice of him. So I've taken up photography (he didn't get any film, but I'm working on my composition nonetheless) and reading. José also gave me an assortment of their personal effects including unmailed postcards (he had peeled off the stamps) that were apparently written on the doomed travelers' flight from Aruba. Having little else to do, I took a somewhat Sherlock Holmesian interest in these artifacts of José's victims.

According to bits and pieces of ID, they're a family of four from Sausalito, California. A father, a mother and two teenage daughters. One of the daughters, Tina is her name, had written her boyfriend, Tom, informing him that Aruba is nice and that she hopes they will be able to get together when she gets back. She then claimed that she loves him and added about a thousand little X's all over the card, almost obscuring the address (also is Sausalito).

To tell you the truth, I think Tina is full of shit. The tramp had also written to some guy in San Francisco, Gary is his name, and dropped him a few innuendos that lef to believe that old Gary is going to see some serious action when Tina returns home. She also claimed that she loves him and did her little X's routine again. For my own amusement I counted the X's on both cards. Tom got the nod as far as numbers were concerned, but Gary's were neater and more symmetrically arranged. I am contemplating dropping both of these assholes a note to let them know their situation as far as this little slut is concerned. I spoke to José about it at some length, and he thinks I should do it--adding that if he'd known about the situation at teh time of the mugging, he would've knifed Tina on the spot. José was so pissed off that he threatened to go back to Santa Marta in order to avenge Tom and Gary's masculinity, but I doubt that he'll go through with it.

...Their personal effects didn't offer much to go on except to confirm my suspicions about Tina. The underage nymphomaniac had brought her diaphragm along on the trip. I knew it was hers because it was carefully concealed in the lining of a makeup case with her initials on it. Apparently the little pig didn't want some customs official whipping it out in front of her parents. She was obviously prepared to sexually terrorize whatever country her parents turned her loose in. I will not fail to mention this fact to Tom and Gary in my forthcoming notes.

I don't intend to say anything about the concealed diaphragm to José, however. He has a very short fuse and, when he is agitated, his behavior is unpredictable.

Amongst the family's reading material was a current issue of Seventeen magazine--Tina's, no doubt. I read it cover to cover and was completely disgusted by nearly every article. I haven't spent much time in the States lately (for reasons I will go into presently, I may never go back), and I ha no conception of how far downhill the moral fiber of America's young people had slid in my absence. As an exile, I feel I have a certain perspective that gives me the right to make a moral judgement on this matter. Based on Seventeen, I have come to the conclusion that America's pubescent females have completely run amok.

After reading the goddamn thing, however, my attitude towards Tina softened somewhat. She is obviously under incredible social pressure to subject her barely developed genitalia to copulatory or self-inflicted stimulation as often as possible.

I made the mistake of translating one of the articles for José. He went berserk, scaring the shit out of High Pockets, who bounded out the door and disappeared into the jungle.

A Very Biblical Casualty

2004-04-13T17:36:19Z

My heart needed a home, so I decided to set up a frame for it. I found an old frame that I had intended to use for my Jam piece, but wasn't the right size. I spray-painted it black and started to polish the glass front. During this process, I was severely wounded.

The glass was so subtle in tearing through my flesh that I only felt a scratch. I wondered why the edges of this glass plate seemed to be frayed, but thought nothing of it until my crimson blood dressed the paper towel with which I was drying with, and then the glass itself. I looked at my right index finger and saw fresh blood spouting out through my torn flesh. I felt a sting as I wiped it away, only to allow new blood to flow to the surface.

Knowing the laceration was not mortal, I searched for a band-aid with which to apply pressure to the lesion to attempt to stop the bleeding. I dressed the injury with a band-aid from my stash, and all seemed well, although I walked around the whole day looking like San Juan:

The next day, it appeared the slash healed because the blood had dried. I took the band-aid completely off and journeyed downstairs to start my day. As I was walked down the stairs I held onto the railing, like a lady is supposed to, and felt the flesh on my index finger part like the Red Sea:

I re-dressed my gash with a band-aid from downstairs and relaxed with green tea, a natural anti-oxidant, to relieve stress and stave off infection. Later (unfortunately very much later) I found out that the band-aid that I thought was protecting and helping to heal my injury in fact expired five years ago. It left my finger and contusion sticky, with lint all over it:

The mutilation now measures 5 mm, has been re-washed and dressed in a fresh band-aid. I am on the road to recovery, but such revelation and divinity has really worn me out. I hope to have a safe and short recovery period, God willing. I can rest knowing that my heart lies safely behind the frayed glass frame, and is resting properly as well.

wordsofsoandso @ 2004-04-10T14:40:00

2004-04-10T18:40:14Z

WARNING

Never leave me alone with coins and those delectable gumball machines.

Longing

2004-04-10T04:28:42Z

I long for narrow streets lined with orange trees and beautiful people, Sunday mass and black lace veils, true traditional patios and seas of soft black-curled cousins. I long for that Summer night I dreamt up four years ago while listening cautiously and carefully to Caracol in the warmth of a Spring evening, windows open and heart a-flutter, where wooden shutters would give way to the view of a dark Sevilla night and a companion just as stunning. I long for oil-stained stone floor studios a mile long and two miles wide, packed to the ceilings with my entrails stapled to canvas, eyes hanging, attached to burned-out lightbulbs from the night before (always the night before). I long for so much that is just out of my reach, everything that pertains to me by birth and by reason, everything trapped inside my heart scratching and bellowing beneath my surface.

Nights like these, alone and afraid, I wonder if I deserve any of that; I fear that where I am is actually where I belong, and if so my life is as non-existent as my previous will to stay.

Needless to say, I'll die trying if I have to.