| 22penguin | I am the Clock Maker

Mayan Dreamspell for my Birthday

2007-12-12T06:54:03Z

Adventure

2007-02-11T10:53:39Z

There is probably a lot of folks out there saying, “Man, I’m never going to have me a rush like that; Earth’s a parking lot and outer space is just too pricey.”

—Chris in the morning

Elle-Phont

2007-02-11T09:52:54Z

sa sueur a goûté comme le saddness

2007-02-11T04:17:17Z

One in sadness,

January is a time for new beginnings, a new year, another phase of the moon. I've thought this, and this year was no exception to my thoughts, wanderings, and hopes. But, February does ring with the brutality of repetition; dear God the repeating of days, works and relationships. I soared, yes I did through January, but now such despair.

I keep wondering as to my mood, like yours I assure you. Do I not have everything I need? I do, and by the paunch of my belly, the lack of thirst, and the comforts of home this is true. My tool kit is full, my car new, my friends to call are stocked, my artistic tools are cutting sharp and my wallet carries enough to get by. It is absolutely true, but maybe that is where my problems begin.

The first years here were hard, but intrinsically, in my soul it was so easy. You see, it was necessity that fueled my adrenaline. I needed a roof, and worked toward it. I needed food, and stored it as it came. I needed sex, and learned how to hunt. I learned many things, and eventually they came through hard work, through lack of sleep, through stress, and other forms of sweat that make a life. It all came, in modest yet substantial abundance.

I think about kings, in their castles, a great feast before them. Wives, lovers, and other fantasies to fill their beds, their minds of war and conquest. They sit, high, alive, and stroking gold like cats on their laps. You never heard of a king who was content, who desired nothing? I am that king and I sit with the very real fear that desire will not fade. I know I'll never be happy—oh, sure, there will be moments of conquest, moments of fullness, a carcass before me and my hand on someone soft. But, I will never be happy.

It’s funny to say that out loud. "I will never be happy " Notice I didn't include any punctuation? What is the correct punctuation for that sentence? Do you end if with a question mark, as if you don't know? Do you end it with a period, because that is how it is? Do you end it with a comma, as though something else is coming, coming to save you?

Maybe you could answer that for me? How would you end it? Where do you find that something more, that something you need? I know I could keep running, keep typing this letter for hours and shake out every ending. But lets make it simple. A period, a comma, or a question mark? What do you think?

Jaromil

I've got 'coons!

2007-01-23T07:55:48Z

Our young Jaromil practices the craft of creative writing.

2007-01-18T23:00:33Z

Any suggestions as to what I am typing?

The excited leaf outside my door

2007-01-05T22:40:28Z

How does one type "hope?"

2007-01-03T07:09:58Z

J,

My understanding is clumsy and awkward, but you have to wonder if it is rather beautiful? Perhaps that is a good place to start.

Please, don't get me wrong: I'm not grading myself down, as has been requested by many a love; I have too much respect for my shimmery wordiness to really get into such dour request. You see, I can be surprisingly inventive with my tripping-fingers, like dancing you might even believe. I can rip it up, start again, spin and you might even see me as coordinated. I wonder if you find this pleasant, this convulsing of keys?

Forever on a muse hunt, not so much for the appreciation, but for the inspiration. I can live without feedback, well the vocal kind; as for distortion and poorly placed mics, I find it an honor to be in their presence. Straddling a world that is noise and perfect spelling, I ride it with no desire for a change to my technique. Of course, there is always room for growth. Growth, mirroring a larger shift, in the universe, away from anything singular and to two.

I heard a melody in my head today, which resolved itself in an unexpected way. Skipping ahead it went, like a dream fading too quickly for a pen. There is such nauseam in forgetting, a bliss I can ill afford. Every melody so important as to just die, die for that last note.

Every true legend remembers every note, right? They sure get the sound correctly beautiful. I wonder about this. Was Miles a genius because he remembered "everything" or a genius because he remembered more than most? What makes a genius, perfection, or just being more? I hope it is the later, or I'll fall short. I barely remember my lunch, and it was physical in form and rather slow moving.

Somewhere on a street corner, someone is aspiring to be everything that I do. For you, for art, for anything whatsoever I've bothered to ever think of or desire. I do not find this comforting. I want no twin, preferring the only-child existence I've been so rudely denied. The people that invade my personal space, the simple drones programmed to strike at me the second and fourth heartbeat of every inspiration. Their watery effects of drowning and filled lungs, they flood and cry. Noise, yes, but not distortion, falling far short of that particular beauty.

I wander this hermetic splattering of words, unafraid and without a light. My path is a considerable strength and a mapped out weakness. It is a journey that prays for an end. Not to the keystrokes mind you, but to a lack of guidance, a point. It is the efforts of a lone man, sitting in a sterile world, longing for a collaborative effort between text and touch. It is academic excess, obscuring all physical. It is a sham or a shame of lovely words. I'm not too ashamed of it. Not really.

Some might perceive me as devoid of character or identity; I do suffer dramatically. There is no memorable hook to come, or intriguing melody to write down. I like this poetic despair, a Hemingway and his drink, but it is not true. I live with hope, dissipated by days, yet never expended. It is predictable, yes, but to get back to where we started, rather beautiful.
—RAH

A Meadow

2007-01-03T05:43:51Z

In a perfect meadow, somewhere under an alpine sky, I tag my acquaintance with terms such as 'lovely,' 'dreamy,' and 'gorgeous.' This seems like the thing to do, being a perfect meadow and all.

I feel a huge buzz coming on that rustles my skin the more you blow in my ear. I don't disagree. I don't push away, being a perfect meadow and all. You are prolific in your touches. You have an uncanny knack for making each gentle finger tip the best yet. Of course, these are only a glimpse of your vast catalogue of expressions, learned from the drift of lovers you've had. Each time your touch lands, I'm happy to recede into your pages of experience; the others seem pointless. I like you. Each glance is another first-look revelation—I hide from your eyes, having learned to lower my head from a childhood of shy. The most noticeable effect, my lack of words, deployed in pulsating breaths, and tripped-up syllables. Few discernible thoughts make clear of my sighs, relaxed and happy. My skin, goosed and bumped, shaking in tidal rhythms. Perceptions of time, marked by drifting clouds as I look up. Unaware of any response to explain how your hair feels across my face. A slow sonic curve, as your chest pushes up and down. Your leading kiss, almost as long as both our lives combined. You lick silence like a weapon, your lips loaded. From the sun, I hide under you, a willing victim. Highlights include my pounding chest. Highlights include my eyes, blurred and wet. And your lips...

White moves out for grey, and the rain begins. Some lost energy has lead to sensibility—we take shelter under an awning. It rains hard. I can't think of anything to say—your mood shifts. "I'm only a sunny birdie when there is no rain," you say.

This scares me. Taken in small does, this venom, I wouldn't feel sick to my stomach. You build with a delicate whisper. You brood with obsessive meticulousness, creating a tight, rhythmic growl. So opposite to the randomness of movements that spell us across the grass. Each action planned; we are now where we are. Your words entwine me, drill me, foul precision.

It's just quiet now, back in the hotel. Whether you find me a connection or a fool, I sit. Nothing about this moment is electrifying, or sedative, or much of anything but a temperament dispelled—some thoughts and feelings on previous moments and amplifications. My words, messy, and least satisfying, like intentionally making a mess of something pure—fall on the comforter with your limp hair, wet and staining patterns around the stitches. You speak up in a library quiet, a few words about "above you" and about "down with you," magnifying your hypnotic qualities, for better or worse.

So, morning, and my foul-weather bird is perched precariously on the side of the bed. I am happy it is morning.

The rain still falls, and I fix my eyes for the day, an offer of pancakes and a hint of a smile when you find your favorite skirt. "I still remember, you cold, shivering when we ran in the rain I say." You glance sternly.

"You fly toward hot bread and sugar," I quietly think to myself.

We walk toward a fountain of syrup and I keep murmuring, "surrender my love, surrender my love." You ignore me.

I know you want some bacon—too proud to order. I don't look you in the eyes when I place it across your plate. You ignore it for a while, but eventually eat.

Your temper is a stylistic embellishment by now, and this suits me fine. Your hand found mine and it was all I really needed. You see, we were still in a perfect meadow, grown wet with new rain. Behind the clouds was an alpine sky, and I still tagged my acquaintance with terms such as 'lovely,' and 'dreamy,' and 'gorgeous' and well...

I could say "love," but it is a perfect meadow.

pups

2007-01-02T00:57:54Z

life.

2007-01-01T11:15:37Z

Now it happened. I like this phrase a lot. I think about it a lot. There is a simplicity and beauty to it. "Now," an immediacy, a happening. "It" that which happened. "Happened," a word which represents everything. I can think of no better phrase to describe my perfect beginning to a year, and no better phrase to describe how I wish it to be remembered.

It fits into the plan for the year, immediacy in my interactions and days. I've been edging toward this, growing. Possibly it is confidence—that which lets one embrace life and enjoy it for what it is—possibly I've just given into dreaming as a way of life. Whatever, it is beautiful way to be.

I awoke to this in the morning, my first thought of the day was, "now it happens." I thought about it, laying in my cozy bed. "Now what happens?" I kept thinking about a word. Just one word. "Life," now life happens. I felt that this was a tremendously great way to wake, a thought to ride, as if a wave bound to crash beautiful in spray and light. I was never afraid of the crash, never once in my life—but I have always been afraid to ride that wave. Not today.

"Life," but it needed something. A finality. So I added a period, an immediacy. Once this was decided, I dressed and left my house. It needed to be written. I went and tattooed it on my back. "life." That is it, beautiful, simple, and finite. This will be a different year, born with a needle, and the pain which I enjoyed every second of. Not afraid to crash and definitely not afraid to ride. "Life."

So, bloody and pumped with endorphins I set to work. Working is the easy part for me. I can drown in task. I am free in toil. Why? Because there is no need to be real in work—it is only action. I am a machine, not interacting with others, only with art, contacting. I love this state, but it can be damaging. It is too simple. I need more.

I put myself out there, taking a chance. I came across this ad.

***
It's Just a New Year's Eve Date w/benefits. - 34
Open to a date at the Skylark Cafe in West Seattle, just off the bridge, for New Years. No cover, but they want people to dress up some. I'm cute, thin, sexy, look good in a skirt/dress, and I will probably kiss you on New Years if you are cool. No agenda, no strings. Not looking for a boyfriend, although that would be cool in the end someday. Sometimes a date is just a date. Sometimes a date is just the beginning. Sometimes dates suck. I hope you don't. Or if you do, it's appropriate.

***

I liked the simplicity of it and answered immediately with a little information and a few well-formed sentences. The ad felt a little leading, but tongue in check. Good.

I'm not sure why I felt such an urgency this year to have a New Year's date. Maybe it is aging, maybe it is a need to take a step past my last terrible relationship. None-the-less there was a need. I had been trying all week. There were two first dates, a one-night-stand, but little magic. Mostly it was clumsy attempts at finding poetry, valiant and a waste of time. I had given up the night before, but strangely, this week, for the first time in years I found the ability to sleep again. To really sleep—that deep dream sleep, of REM and peace. I don't know where it went, but God I'm glad it is back. My nights have been magic, my dreams have been livid, my mornings I've felt new. Sleep is the prerequisite to all happiness, don't ever forget it.

So I woke new, tattooed myself to remember and found "life." in a matter of hours. So let me write about it. Indulge me.

She was obviously life-weary, but a dreamer and therefore beautiful. A few moments on the phone put the picture in place. The rapport was smooth, easy, and instantly comfortable. Sometimes all someone wants is a good memory for an event marked, and she and I were on the same page. We laughed at other's clumsy responses and talked a little film. She understood why "Punch Drunk Love" is a masterpiece—what more could I ask for?

So it was set. We were to meet at ten, and Shauna would be wearing a leopard coat, which she only brings out on New Years. I drove relaxed, perfectly on time and riding the wave.

The club, a bit retro and wonderfully not too loud. Years of playing music have made it confusing to be in loud environments, conversation difficult to follow—a situation which leaves me disorientated and uncomfortable.

The first minutes were confusion, for another leopard coat lay across a chair with no owner. I scanned the room trying to figure out my date's person—when suddenly a second leopard coat appeared from the door with S inside. I was stunned, her picture was lame and did her no justice whatsoever. I awkwardly introduced myself.

The first fifteen-minutes was standard fair for me. I sink into the wave, falling, drowning, and without grace. We were at a table with her friends. I'm glad they were there. They were friendly and eased it into a group atmosphere. I thanked her for having the foresight to plan that. We slowly gelled as a group and talked. S was attentive to me which eased my natural introverted self. She often looked at me, pulled me in and touched me lightly here and there.

The hour approached; we touched more. I was completely at ease. And when midnight struck, the promised kiss came, warm, soft and unlike any other. It never ceases to amaze me how no two people kiss the same. How one could be so much better than another? The kiss was long and warm, as she fulfilled her promise. I could babble a bunch of adjectives to describe it, but why bother, everything was beautiful. Enough said.

The night blurred into this and that revelry. S drank like a fish, lose and charming. I noticed that anything which touched her: a statement, a laugh, friendship, or humor; she lowered her head with each action. Her eyes would close, and she would smile, her head bowing. I found it so graceful; a sign of appreciation wired into her nature.

She danced wildly, engorged with the 80's music. Flock of Seagulls made her wiggle, and she dragged me out to for a sing-a-long, dance-a-long romp of "Don't you want me baby." It was a gas, I felt so good not to be my reserved self. We sang, I danced with locked hips, which she charmed to move. She was just lovely in the moment.

Toasts were made, and everyone left. The night deteriorated into a standard drunk-girl-pushing-off-perceived-advances when I offered her a ride. I knew I should just leave, but I stayed ten minutes too long. She grew annoyed but had the grace to end the night with a kiss. I really had no intentions but to get her home safely, but the world long since poisoned good intentions. She made a funny "off with you" hand gesture and I left. I did not look back.

So, 2007 is here. What now? I'm not much concerned. If you want me I'll be riding, smiling beautiful and honestly open to life. Everything will work out exactly as it should. Why worry? Why care? Just go. Yeah, life.

GWEI.org

2006-09-05T20:06:08Z

“By establishing this model we deconstruct the new global advertisment mechanisms by rendering them into a surreal click-based economic model.“

It's good when you win the GF a snakeyyyyyyyyyy at the carnival

2006-09-05T07:01:55Z

The eyes of the snakeyyyyyyyyy

2006-09-05T04:52:20Z

??>>,,ÒÔÔ-NN

2006-09-02T04:45:41Z

When civilization began human thought was the only available resource for processing information. Today information processing capacity is a trillion times greater with almost all of the increase being electronic. These electronic circuits do not need the smoothly varying data that human minds prefer - for them the jagged terrain of the real world is as absorbable as the artificial sphere of the geometer or the torus of the analyst. Utilizing the new evolutionary intermaths they have the ability to go where thought alone cannot.

NN

2006-09-02T04:30:31Z

the precise construction/restructuring of noise in an environment inhabited by representation, relativization and allusion enables the analysis of the constant barrage of generated noise interpolated with abstract and vocal social commentary. If the decisive level of social analysis is in language then this is highly indicative of the move of the higher societies toward digitization. A collapse of unification through multiplicity, [it] is an exponent of opposing ideals, of postmodern artistic and political thought...
- The science of noise

jaromil @ 2006-09-01T12:33:00

2006-09-01T19:33:31Z

Monday Night Song Writing Club-Part 1

2006-08-23T06:19:18Z

I had this idea while watching a horrible episode of Wife Swap on a Monday night, spurred on by an incredible amount of disgust at myself for viewing such an insidious show rather than doing something productive.I should start a song writing club that meets on Monday nights (very similar to the club that ended up writing and making the first Sheryl Crow album, Tuesday Night Music Club). So I posted this ad:

Monday Night Song Writing Club
Advanced Bass Player/intermediate acoustic player with lots of riffs and piles of good lyrics (professional in the publishing buisness) looking for a singer, singer/songwriter or possible other musicians to meet once a week and write songs in an acoustic format that we could all take and use in other projects. A few beers, lots of laughs and encouragment and hopefully some good art will result. I have recording equipment. Anyone interested?

I was surprised how many people actually responded. About 20 in all. I sorta narrowed it down by who sounded cool, who could sing, and who had some talents as displayed on their MySpace account, not to mention who actually kept responding to emails. I finally cut it down to three, who surprisingly enough everyone showed up and seemed to get along.

I ended up with the following people:
____________________________________________

Megan: i'm a singer/songwriter and that sounds fun to get together to write and jam. i've been looking for a bassist anyway. check me out at www.myspace/meagind or www.meagindonovan.com. i write all my songs. i also play bass and acoustic guitar.
____________________________________________

Greg: I am interested in your ad. I am a guitar acoustic/electric player occasionally using some harmonica in songs I write and sing. Always looking to get better and work with other people on songs. Let me know your thoughts when you get time. I also play trumpet and occasionally play at open mics. The guitar not the trumpet. Have a great day.
____________________________________________

Chris: I'm into it. I'm a singer/songwriter/guitarist (one of about six thousand on my block, but that's beside the point). I'd be interested in talking further... I take it you've already got a side project or two going on. I'm currently bandless, but looking to change that, and in the meantime do more writing. I've played in a couple bands around town over the past few years, but been playing guitar for about 20 years or so. You can find some of my older stuff online if that matters to you: www.myspace.com/staticfugue
____________________________________________

The point of the night is to write, play and record an original song from scratch in under three hours. I asked that nobody bring anything in, to keep it spontaneous and not a “finishing” school for everyones own personal songs (people get way too attached to their own material and end up being to stubborn about changes or criticism).

We only had about three hours after meeting at a local pub, and I was hampered by trying to figure out how to record it at the same time, but we managed to get something down on disk, though not very tight, its a song. Everyone seemed to have a good time and would like to come back. So, so far so good...

http://www.22penguin.com/mp3/MNSW_D3_Wandering.mp3

Lazy Fox

2006-08-18T21:12:11Z

So much trouble

2006-08-18T20:56:55Z

A Shiny Prince

2006-08-06T21:14:21Z

And so they say

2006-08-04T18:49:00Z

"An old photographer's adage says, 'If you want a prettier picture, bring me a prettier face,'"

Pic---------->Looks

2006-08-03T03:32:28Z

Jaromilisms

2006-03-09T09:11:42Z

All the fighters trying to spawn upstream deserve the clench of bear teeth, i'd rather go out to sea...

Light the rattlers, watch them say "Hello"

2006-02-24T23:30:31Z

Tess,

It makes for a strange, often unsettling noise, but one no less exciting; to be pinged on the wires by a stranger such as yourself. All sorts of assumptions can be made by such a burst of electronic noise, carrying forth across an expanse of wires and radio signals as though a disorientated “hello” had materialized into the expanse I refer to as my laptop. There, on screen, blocking up the normal solitude of my LCD landscape—a request, from your fingers to my eyes. Interesting.

Never missing the opportunity for ridiculous pontification of the importance of such an event—I’d like to take a moment and discuss the intangible consciousness of this greeting.

So much in life we devalue the initial as though unimportant and merely a step on a long flight of stairs—which lead to a roof-top, a view and some sort of expanse that will enlighten or allow us to step off. Myself, I prefer to value the first step upon which all other things are built; for nothing is as pure as that initial energy. I may very well grow to despise you or likewise (and exactly the same) love you, but at no moment will your interaction with me be more pure than this.

Throughout my life, the wires have jumped as such to bring me many presents and personas that defy words. Each of course has left their particular brand of markings, both that of a seed, growing up to the warmth and that of the sword, cutting deep as only steel sinks wet. For each I am thankful; little bursts that create one idea on an other; each a spark for my next fire. In me, energy is always cumilative, one more way for me to burn.

So the wires twist out, a pile of biting snakes, their venom another spark. My friend, I am kindling with a bad desire—do you have a light?

Jaromil