1988

March 15, 2011

she came back and my heart sank.  she didn’t have glasses anymore, was wearing a leather skirt.  the news exploded like a population of rabbits, i could hear the chirping and smell the burning fur and knew that it was over.  my heart sank.  my shy collection of thoughts revolving spiraling into the black hole of assurance my soul sunk at the center of this well of thoughts.  she was back and as if seperated from me like a sheet of plexiglass, like i was a bear at the zoo and she walked outside licking cotton candy from her fingers as i slept and maybe saw her eyes but she walked away nonetheless sadder for my apathy.  she was back and i could see her as an adult and me too, lawyers somewhere around a table, built of words and numbers but the fact of her remaining i can change into this i can get away from anything i am a butterfly and you don’t even have a name

it became me in the dim yellow hallway, it passed over and through me and held my face noted that i was sad but didn’t have an idea the painless cannot look at the pained for too long

morning blackness then pinprick of awareness

pulls through walls

bones move to spark the flesh

breath breathe and air enters head

stretch of 15 days ahead

see same flat drive to sad place singing

coalblack dreams subsist against frozen plastic cans

food and teeth flourescent salmon yellow bacteria silver green

men came jobs loading wooden crates into english marches

morning driving home to sunlit bath wake for an hour

sit there among strings and cords

sit there papers up to waist

then filled word to key against boundary packed in styrofoam

seeing shapes everywhere shapes of everything everywhere repeated

seeing  everywhere shapes repeating everything

pulled grey from walls to lungs to fill

deep farmer greyed tending

the crop of stillness

puddle grey metal brown from shapes flat hedge of directions

way to find a way left maps of recursion

once through this grey left smeared like an oil sheet stretching out

fingers took the floor

for feeling of the cold in the dark

seeing space expand and contract

once space will contract again and leave this place

once the space taken out will expand again

late late

March 17, 2009

we laugh and the night flashesi think i could see  dark and lurks behind cars more things to create impermanence  in my life.  wonderful in the shadows, holding in straight lines drafted to create a curved contour our voices crumbled from the flat glassy plane of the air and also in memory of the water, black with a hollow scoop of depth from the sky to a hundred and fifty feet below the wooden planks but when we talked about personal strength and fate next to the brackish water somewhere under us lies the grey city water cold and salt moon light shards glinting a pattern at the edge of the shore remove it for later and think when you have found the person to understand and the understanding will be something you can’t believe yet she grabs my hand she grabs it anyway even though i have been sweating poison out shining through my skin glistening red and says ‘i can’t make it’ this is like playing the end dying in midstride, we laugh and she breathes in suddenly her pupils are dilating around me coming down floating through time and decaying into a fine cloud of beginning threads limply drawn upwards like dust from a impermeable mass to an infinite gable  remove again the meaning, endurance, temperance, forgiveness; for the time being we are peaking in our lives into a smaller state a pedestal from which we make our lives will decline be lived we are planning this out to the fraction like playing chess on water droplets


scott bruzenak

December 20, 2008

this is the official start of the personality cult of me.  beyond this point back in time, i was a collection of random vectors.  going forward, i am an idea about me, replaced constantly by an ever-increasing sense of me-ness which will be cultivated like a garden of stone.  the workmen come at night and leave no trace-comrades dissapear like those of stalin in revisionist portraits, and we get an ever shinier and more resolute person standing, facing the internet and the physical world.

mindshare in this courageous world will be granted by consensus.  the market bears mushroom clouds of words; they rain black radiation of glowing praise and tins of pressed meat that will remain floating in the ocean of our commons for centuries.  or, at least until the infrastructure grows hollow and is exploded for a deer-run along wilshire.  today’s civilization is tomorrow’s landscape.  today’s problems are tomorrow’s mythologies.  what were these people?  what was scott bruzenak?  was he a collection of generated words?  an origami of demographics folded with the paper of dna?  who controlled his statistics?  where are his bones? 

in the time before my idea, there was only a common collection of people.  after me, the world was sorted and mulched for a seedplan, the rows orderly and placated into a golden torus.  we became more than a sum of qualities. 

the simple truth is a complicated lie.

so, weekly, we meet hidden, underground, to commune with a beam focused in the middle of downtown LA, we are left there with our bottles of plastic water and electrical conduits.  we love to hold our faith in limbo waiting for the word.

los angeles bus

December 14, 2008

it’s an easy walk to the 750 at dawn.  we are falling through a tidal pool of roses; we grab radiant the arc of light here in a pale silver leaf.  our ears mercury to the touch, they are found again in tires, in reverberation out along a marbled conscience thick with sleep and fracturing dreams.  explosions of neurons react; a chemical information manual with leaves, sidewalk and sky.  we are pouring ourselves into this twisting world, we thrust ourselves into its jaws, our quivering city.

the light changes to green and i walk across woodman.  several cars pull up with their lights on.  the meter in my head recedes into a million unanswered questions, rent, job, love, peace, fear, peace, peace.  so the bus comes right on time, there’s an led flickering red that makes sure of that, and i get on.  the bus is warm.

off into the metro is like walking into the most comfortable, boring purgatory we can make ourselves.  i walk down and see a few, all moving in agreed convenience for the anarchy of speed.   metal and the silent, mostly just waiting and more waiting.  i feel the wind on my face being pushed by the train 1/2 mile away.  it speeds up and i hear a beautiful ratio from a motor maybe of a bit shy of 5/4, and then the door chimes closed with a true 5/4 close to 100 cents flat.  it sounds like stravinsky and i wish he could have run the trains somehow.

i know these people.  they wait like me and file themselves into their daily function.  we are left together in this place, abandoned and inhaled into the lungs of the day.

reality tv of the future pt1

November 29, 2008

reality tv is perhaps the most perfect entertainment that could ever be devised.  the plots approach shakespeare in their terrible momentum.  alcohol greases the bearings of these shuddering human engines, swinging like pendulum from surly drunk to remorseful hangover.  the chemical cocktail of hormones, seratonin, and booze boils over in the vein, finding enemy upon enemy in the closest surroundings.  violence and sex are a thin sod over the fiery mantle of pure human will that lies beneath.  these people would eat each other and rape the others with their sun-bleached bones.  you and i would, too.

poverty becomes the perfect feast for the insatiable pack of starved wolverines that is the ideal reality tv audience.  promises of wardrobe, free alcohol, fame, and suprisingly small amounts of money nonwithstanding, these shows are simply offering a place to live and be yourself to the willing.  more than these understandable physiological and psychological needs, they offer something that used to be achievable only through years of internal reflection and painfully slow stages of self-awareness. they offer nothing less than becoming totally self-actualized.  you show up joe dipshit and exit joe2.0, joe-for-the-future.  joe-as-seen-on-motherfucking-tv-motherfucker.  you will drink and fuck for free for the rest of your life.  you will be famous.  you will be adored.

eventually, poverty will be seen as the crime it truly is, and the impoverished will be gathered and screened for their inherent entertainability.  the best ones will be set upon each other naked in a beautiful house with oversized beanbags and neon exclamation points, with a billion dollars of alcohol, cocaine, protein, and meth. the naked drunkards will be branded and tagged, attached to one another with leg irons like a modern chain gang, and carted around from bar to concert in hummer limos.  they will be exempt from every law, given weapons, sterilized and given full constitutional rights to rape, eat, and murder anyone they want.  perhaps one of these scandalous bitches ‘accidentally’ catches an axe to the face from another member of the crew.  no problem, the other members will simply have to drag the rotting corpse from red carpet to car show in penitence for their shame.  a real moral to the story.

these shows will have names like ‘darwin’s posse’ and ‘da gizzang’.

the angry constant eye of my tv already feels lonely for the future.  it remembers the recent, dismal past of talk show and documentary.  it looks at the pathetic shadow of the present- where normal folk drink and date, maybe pull each other’s hair a little and scream.  it drools on its haunches for a time when people will pull the spanish tiles up out of their multi-million dollar network-supplied bathroom suites to brain their chain-mate for using their mascara without asking.  i wait with it.  i’m working on picking out the right 5 dollar california shiraz to drink over a meal of strip-steak and murder.

i’m moving to hollywood.  it won’t be a big move, since i already live in sherman oaks.

america america america america

90′s hair.  smoothed out edges.  deep saturated colors muted.  OHAI sfx lettuce facepunch.  jangle guitars and dynamic dialogue edits.  cuba gooding jr. screaming and more screaming.

tom cruise can sell and spit these lines.  as much of a cliche as this must have seemed, the reality following was much more extreme.  cuba would be wearing a platinum chain with his face carved in it these days.  well, maybe 2 years ago.

so this is the kindling for 96, the long acceleration of the bull market.  renee zellweger looks like a human being.  this feels like the segue from the dour early 90s irony into the pop explosions of the high dollar late 90s.  it starts early 90s and ends late 90s.  WERE ALL GONNA GET RICH AND LAID!! HAHA.

this kid.  wow they had to edit the crap out of that to make it seem like tom and him had some kind of connection. 

tom cruise makes a sad john cusack.  cameron crowe makes these serious white middle class movies where the middle class extends its ease all the way from the lowliest single mom with seven jobs to the corporation owner.  they are all middle class.  we are all americans and we all shop at jcrew.  the sunglasses and cellphones are just our cover.  we are one.  united.

always a scene of making a fool of oneself in the road.  ironic music.

say anything was probably the first 90s movie.

this style has no place now.  the editing is too slow, the colors are too muted, the funny isn’t screaming hilarious enough and the poignant isn’t brutal enough.  nobody dies.  nobody is a pedophile.  nobody loses their condo and sleeps in the trash.  everyone wears ll bean.

how would this have felt in 1996?  not for me-i was in an unreachable state.  i would have stabbed someone in the heart for suggesting a trip to this movie.

deep within the clinton years.  nafta and the embargos against iraq.  simmering conflicts that erupted into shootings and bombings to assert our viability as a military world power.

now tom is showing how good he is with the kid.  slow pan in on renee’s face as the eno-ish music swells up.  she can sell this moment a billion times.  brava.  ah it’s a bruce springsteen song.

i don’t know how much more of this i can take.  one hour to go.

big american kiss in front of suburban doorway.  soft back lighting so they glow like la pieta.  laugh laugh.  the restraint of tom cruise.  he always looks like he’s gonna punch someone in the face.  the music, ten years later this would be a band ‘found’ by alex patsavas but i gather it’s score here.  this scene is as bad as watching a slow motion cumshot with big greasy close-up genitals.  thank god that’s over.

tom cruise might be the most awkward person in the world.  do that many women want to have sex with a gay man?  while mingus plays in the background?  yeah tom, better turn it off.

more jcrew.  more flannel.  flannel was where the middle class regains its working class union soul.  it’s pure 90s soul. 

i cant take it any more.  im gonna start saying these lines in pithy situations “SHOW ME THE MONEYS” and “help me… help me…help you”.   just so everyone knows i’m a fucking dickhead.

40 minutes to go.

the guy always talking about jazz was supposed to be me.  That’s me written into this movie.  a little browner and greyer than the others, maybe he’s stoned, always a quote about coltrane.  that’s my archtype in the 90s.  someone’s mother would have seen that movie and said to me “You’re like that guy in jerry macguire! the one who gives jerry the jazz tape!”  yep, that’s me, and thanks for noticing that i represented a subculture that could become a running joke in a hit movie.

i really can’t stand another minute.  but i must soldier through for the sake of my blog.  editing…too…slow…

ok i started playing flash games online.  sorry.  back to work.  how many minutes left…30 FUCK.  i can’t deal.

can’t take it.  can’t take the heat.  now they’ve powdered the fuck out of renee’s face.  the light is pale to reflect the sad dawning of reality.

i apologize for this blog.  this was a bad idea.  i need to take a bath and cry now.  23 minutes left.  can i do it?  will i be in the proud majority of 32 year old white middle class people who have seen this movie?  what constitutes ‘seeing’ a movie, statistically?  does it require fully watching it from start to finish?  can i duck out?

UPPIN THE ANTE with this injury.  19 minutes left.  they did it!  they threw the hail mary!  WHAT ARE THE CHANCES OF SOMETHING SO HEARTWARMING HAPPENING?  15 minutes left.  14 minutes left.  13

i have no insights left.  never had any.  i am walking through a desert. 

here’s the big tearful finale.  “YOU COMPLETE ME”  “YOU HAD ME AT HELLO”  ok i had to climb the tree to grab those coconuts.  had to do it.   9 minutes left.  home stretch.  cue the bob dylan and head off into the grassy fields of yore.

i’ve done my time

lust and sugar

November 28, 2008

we tear off the remains of what hang out there and bring it in here. 

we bake it and pour butter on top of it and theorize about roller coasters and what we must do to make the gravity work in our favor.  downward spirals, saddle loops, centerfuges.  we throw sugar carmelizing like steel workers, we weave forms like mathemetician spiders.  we capture our fly and draw cuts on him and wrap him up.  he dies.

there is a space wider than the ocean, than the stars, made of dark strands of butter through the oily sugar.  it looks like neurons, like connective tissue, holding an arm to a shoulder and through the breast to a beating black heart pumping spikes of cotton candy out at the speed of light for a billion miles.  we have written ourselves into our eyes watching the universe, and the universe has responded by making fractal our senses.  we split a photon, a vibration, a molecule into irreducible qualities.   we taste and vomit nebulae.

my universe is completed and voided in a pomegranate, and made mundane by the time the peel glistens in the sun.  it’s no big deal that the infinite world has made this shape that has infinite permutive resonance throughout every other shape.  those seeds are toxic waste, they feed naught but a virus that flickers through life for an instant and then is subsumed unto the greater pattern.

proteins write this blog, they pull the letters out of my fingers and through my synapses.  this blog writes my personality and roots-out builds me from dendrite to skin.  you are reading me, creating me with every second, the words resonating in your head have created this blog, this photon, this friend, this person.  you are creating this day and the apple you will eat.

you are light, you are lust, you are obliterated and sent behind another version of yourself and eclipsed and made penumbra and rainbow.  you are a web of sugar spoken to in a different language with only verbs and nouns.  you are tendrils of carmel dripping from the branches of reality, rotted into alcohol and evolved into a society of bark and blade.  you are growing out of yourself.  you are growing out of and into me.  we percieve only each other, only ourselves. 

we are a recursive mirror echoing off into a terminal state where initial deviation leads to negation of initial form.  and an end has finally been reached.

red wine and chocolate chips

November 28, 2008

dry red wine and plain ol chocolate chips.  it’s amazing.  the flavors do not complement each other, rather acting as a pallete cleanser to one another.  each mouthful of chips tastes like the first time you’ve had them, and the red wine obliterates the sugary taste off of your tounge.  the after taste is warm, complex, and severely, wonderfully hollow and imbalanced, much like liquor fudge.   you don’t need any goddamn expensive wine, either.  any 5 dollar bottle will do.

the trick is this-you have to strictly alternate.  take two handfuls of chocolate chips in a row, or two sips of wine, and your mouth wonders wtf you are doing to it, because you’re veering away from the aftertaste too far in the same direction.  two sips of wine tastes vile, chemical, and two chomps of chocolate tastes narcotic, decadent, like you can feel your teeth rotting.  one after another is like a well-executed fourth species counterpoint, where each flavor makes a suspension into the next harmonic area, which is then resolved as another suspension is being set up.

the hollow musical harmony of these two tastes is like an open chord voice, like a stack of a root and lower fifth, with a tenth and some set of exotic extentions another octave above.  i guess a perfumer would say it has two heavy ‘top notes’, the dark sweetness and the deep fruit alcohol. 

if you don’t drink wine, you can do the same thing with fruit, especially oranges and grapes.

the slumberer awakes from the underwater city!

a billion rejoicing new cases of psychosis turn their tinfoil helmets to the north.  is it HAARP?  is it the aliens? 

bill o’r’lyeh combs back his face tentacles and puts on his calvin coolidge mask for another episode.  the human gristle is loaded into the gaping orifice of the networks for one more peripatetic chug which births factories as it accelerates across the seas, floating factories where chemical engineers are busy at massive vats.  the chambers are sealed with twins and quadruplets seperated in a round with aging eugeneticists and their genetic intellectual kin.  a hole opens up in the tiled ceiling and a holographic plate drops through with perforated holes in its cylindrical perimeter.

the holographs whir into life, as a colorless gas emits from the baseplates.  a shape forms on the oblong mirror whirling faster than sight.  a tiny woman of eurasian descent, begins screaming about “HATERS” and “HATERATERS” and “LET YOUR HATERS BE YOUR MOTIVATORS” as she hazily outlines a cult of personality defining herself.

this young woman, of course, is being beamed in from her test tube in santa monica, california, where she has been audience tested.  the new method includes strapping electrodes to the prostate glands of heterosexual men in addition to measuring the saliva production and pupilary dilation of prepubescent girls.  it’s a foolproof method.  the only side effects are that it gradually reduces the viewer to an infantile state.  these side effects are welcome.

cthulhu began directly influencing the billionaire media congolmerates through dreams and toxins that he excreted into the pacific ocean.  untestable because they are unknown quantities of exotic proteins, they work their way into the human biomass through sushi.  soon after this started happening, there was a revolution in focus groups.  the masters began hypothesizing that they could predict the infantile state and create a test audience in a test tube, and then feed the subjects to each other when they got too old.

those are the twins and quadruplets.  their brains become soiled and too easy from being barraged with this information, so they are only good for a few minutes of unadulterated viewing.  the average american tv watcher is soiled beyond repair.  you give them the right cues, and they will buy guns to shoot their mothers.  this would be quite handy, except that capital always needs NEW markets, new ways to persuade the last heating, rent, and food money out of the consumer.  the husk of humanity with its terrible dreams of wealth and love is then discarded.

so we switch course, switch tack, take a new approach.  drugs are added to the water supply, stars insipid beyond a retarded lemur are chewed up, spit onto reality shows, and then retired to communities where they can drink and eventually start car dealerships or kill themselves. 

cthulhu has recently begun union organizing these enclaves of discarded celebutantes.  he has been making them dream of fires and burning men in suits and labcoats.  his wrath is perfect and poetic.   the political commentators who notice these trends are also fed to the masses as specials on meat at costco.  they holler and whip their constituents into a frenzy, which logically leads to their own consumption.  every commentator knows this, and has sidled up to the dread lord of insanity hoping for a seat at the throne.