Bröckengespenst

I.
I have a new job washing dishes at a tiny restraunt across the street from my house. No one speaks english there except for this one girl who just moved here from Germany. The restraunt pays for everyone to have a round of drinks after their shifts. I think it's going to be awesome.

Deux.
New Shellac. It's interesting.



Shellac - Excellent Italian Greyhound

Sorry Steve Albini. I know you hate me for this, but people are just stoked about your band.

Fact may not be truth, and truth may not be factual.

I.
I finished reading the Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. I'm not sure if there is any need to say this, but I was amazed. Surrealism, or more accurately: Modern Surrealism, isn't something that i've explored too much in literature, save for the essential Kafka novels, and I don't know why not. There is so much depth in the ambiguous relationships between the images the novel evokes. I'm going to be having dreams about this one for awhile i'm sure. Looking forward to reading more into Murakami, and similarily, exploring surrealism more. He's sparked my intrest in what I have a feeling will be a beautiful friendship.

I've been thinking a lot about this concept of truth. What's "real" or what's "fact" may not be what is truth. Reading the Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, It seemed that it made that distinction between reality and truth really well.

I bought myself a new pack of cigarettes and a copy of Infinite Jest, I've got the next few days off, and plan on immersing myself in it.

II..
Two instances in the past week which I felt had a particular resonance of reality. An honest representation of human nature. These are the facts, and you are to find your own truth in them

Factual Retelling of an Instance Which Exemplifies an Aspect of Human Nature: A
Sitting at the park. Lit by a crescent moon and fountain lights. J., R. and myself are getting high when the sketchy park regulars, previously practising pink floyd covers on acoustic guitars, have now started yelling. We think they are tripping balls. Jean Jacket freaks out and threatens to smash a guitar on the pavement, this is all in french so everything wass lost in translation. The owner of the guitar is unknown, but Jean Jacket chips it pretty good swinging it around. It escalates when Jean Jacket is thrown into the fountain by T Shirt. In the midst of the confusion that ensues, Bandana takes off with the guitar and hides it in the adjacent bushes. Jean Jacket is soaked and angry, but he still refuses to fight, despite further instigation by T Shirt. Bandana disarms the situation. Poor Jean Jacket, bad trip. We never discerned what the fight was about. The crescent moon kept glowing. Later that evening Jack Black smashed his acoustic guitar on our television.

Factual Retelling of an Instance Which Exemplifies an Aspect of Human Nature: B
Sunday night. Korova. J., R. have left early but I wasn't ready to call it a night just yet, having been staying home for several nights previous. Became more aquainted to A. while, like a dream, more people than i've ever seen inside Korova show up. They are dancing. M. is dj'ing so it's pretty groovy. Once I get myself on the dancefloor the most beautiful girl in the world shows up, L. That kind of girl you have a crush on from afar because there's no way she'd be in your league. The kind you dream, albeit involuntarily, about. She's a dancer so she's dancing circles, quite literally around everyone. Then, much to my suprise, she's dancing with me. I felt scared and exited all at once, shaking knees and everyhthing. L. remembers me from a brief meeting a month prior. Her lips brush against mine and hands are against waists. She tells me she's going to the bathroom and to wait a minute. But when I turn around she's really into kissing this other guy. She's wearing his hat. I dismiss this as mere "getting wild" and things are cool. The whole process repeats itself, and now everyone is too drunk to give any weight or meaning to actions. I go home and am incapable of dreaming of anything else.

III.
Champagne straight out of the bottle. Ghost riding the whip. Hella Trees.



UGK - Ridin' Dirty

Note: Not to be confused with Chamillionaire's 2006 single of a similar nature.

Another Zine Preview.

The first thing that came to mind when we found the body was a terrible joke. It wasn't just that it was in bad taste considering the circumstances, although that attributed to it, the joke itself was inherently bad. The kind of joke that deadened rooms, and I knew it. It almost slipped out while my girlfriend, Mary, was still gaping in horror at the amount of blood. An older woman had jumped from her apartment balcony. We saw the body, limp and broken, before we heard the cries that it had been a suicide. It happened about a block away from Mary's apartment, where we were headed. The woman looked so old lying there on the pavement. About eighty? I looked at Mary, her mouth still gaping like an aquarium fish. What the hell. I decided to let the joke loose. "All she had to do was wait another couple hours and she would have died of natural causes."

"How many grapes can you fit in your mouth?" It was later in the afternoon, and she seemed calmer, almost docile. I plucked a handful of grapes from the bowl that lay at the exact midpoint between the places at which, graphed out by cold tile, we were sitting. It seemed absurd to me, to be sitting on the kitchen floor. But she just needed to sit down right where she was I guessed, so I moved the bowl of grapes from off the counter and sat down too. I hadn't ever seen her sit on the kitchen floor before, It was the first conversation we had there. I let it go because I realized it didn't actually matter where we sat. She didn't answer.

Mary gave me that look she has. One of those forcibly indifferent stares. like she was so above cramming grapes in her mouth. I was trying to get her to forget about the old woman. We didn't know her, and that was probably for the best. I've always been able to cram more grapes in my mouth than anyone I've met. Usually girls think it's funny. I was like a cute, silly chipmunk they'd tell me. But Mary was somone else. One of those "I'm eighteen but i'm soo old types". If I couldn't get her to cram grapes into her mouth maybe she'd at least let me try to toss them in. "Open up." I said. Teeth shining between chipmunk cheeks.

Surgery.

I.
This is a project by Secret Mommy comprised of three songs which sample sounds from a trip to the destists office. Crazy! Then remixes of each of said songs by Kit Clayton, Sun O.K. Papi KO, and Piers Whyte! Whoa!

ALSO, If you're someone who BUYS music, Secret Mommy's Plays, containing the song on which the title of this blog derives its name from, is now available on vinyl here.



Secret Mommy - The Wisdom EP.

Everything passes. Nobody gets anything for keeps. And that's how we've got to live.

I.
I went exploring today. Even though I'm still relatively new to Montreal, most of my stay here has been spent indoors, so everything seems new to me. From Deciduous rooflines to the tragedy laden steps of Dawson, determined wind pushed me to the alien end of St. Catherine. The only familiarity was the sound of traffic in the rain. It suddenly became apparent just how far away from home I was and I was overcome with this overwhemling feeling of transience. I've got three months left with these streets, I thought, and they're not warming up to me yet.

II.
This album sounds particularly great on headphones, but careful not to get them wet everybody. It's still raining.


Christian Fennesz & Ryuichi Sakamoto - Cendre

Mop head.

Monday morning glitch.



edIT - Crying over pros for no reason.

Is the mother turned out?

Turn that mother out!

Vivid and uninhibited.

I.
I'm currently reading The Wind-up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami. I'm finding it strangely captivating in its story and narrative, because I havn't really gotten far enough to grasp its larger themes and ideas. The protagonist is this submissive, apathetic type who, much like in the last epic I read: Thomas Pynchon's V., is searching for something he has lost. I don't know why i've been so attracted to books such as this lately, i've been thinking of tackling Infinite Jest sometime soon, so expect me to be talking about books a lot in here. This protagonist dreamily stumbles across, in psuedo-gumshoe style, an underworld of characters who, parallell to Montrealers, encapsulate all the aspects of the platonic vs. sexual relationship dynamic. In more recent chapters, I'm sensing a shift towards the surreal which i'm looking forward too. I'll make sure all you interested readers hear all my opinions about the wind-up bird chronicle in their most vivid and uninhibited.*

II.
The girls have all shed their extra layer of spring coats, legs and shoulders fully exposed but still in their winter skin. Summer cells will come quickly enough, but not before their ice cream cones melt over the sides. I'll be spending my days in the park (see: Prince Arthur;)) watching the girls through my shameless sunglasses, like some character in a Camus novel. Legs crossed in a way that i'm conviced makes me look cute, just Murakami and me. Sitting just to the right of me is the hope that one of these girls will talk to me. I am that open book in my lap, and for the first time in a couple months I have the energy to meet someone new.

III.
I just found this album on my roomate's computer and listened to it without prerequisite for doing so. I was sweetly suprised. My internet research has lead me to believe they are something of an enigma. If I were ever to use the adjective "lush" when describing electronic music, it would be when talking about Black Moth Super Rainbow. Download this.



Black Moth Super Rainbow - Dandelion Gum



*Sarcastic Tone

Dirty dirty bombs.

I'd just like to direct your attention to this news article. It's frightening.

A pint of beer and a new tattoo.

I.
I wish my life was like that song "Greetings to the New Brunette" by Billy Bragg, but really it's like i'm Igby Slocumb but minus the whole bourgeoise upbringing. That is to say, disillusioned and sophmoric in my angst. Fast-paced urban lifestyles are too intoxicating for the already confused, I'm afraid that everyone falling in and out of my company is noticing my growing sense of misanthropy. I don't know if i'm becoming more "modern" or if it's a regression into myself, but it feels like i'm watching my own life play out in front of me, rather than being in control of it. So I've been finding comfort in the written word again. Dipping my toes into the philosophy of Objectivism. An area which I've been skeptical of treading untill now, on account of its justification of laissez-faire economics and digression from existentialism, where i've been philosophically centered. Even if Ayn Rand is a fucking capitalist bigot, she understands this growing sense of objective reality, no matter how disillusioned i've become with it.

II.
I'm seeing Ted Leo tonight. Now, as exited as I am about it, It's not where I thought i'd be 2 months ago. There was a time when TL was the voice of everything positive in my life, he personified my idealism and made me want to dance. But on account of the growing sense of disattachment I mentioned earlier Im not jumping out of my seat. Ted Leo, since I first heard "Timorous Me" 3 or 4 years ago, has been on my list of musicians I HAVE to see. I have a feeling that once i'm there, up in the front row and he breaks out "Hearts Of Oak" I'll be caught up in it, pumping my fist and dancing like it was this time last year again. La Sala Rossa is the absolute perfect venue for this to go down in, I'm hoping it will be a night to be remembered.

III.
The skeleton of the second installment of my zine had been written, finally. It's about two lovers who come across a dead body one morning, and upon realizing that this death has no influence on their lives and the universe is orchestrated randomly, they are able to have sex that afternoon without guilt. There is also this whole thing about grapes and the catholic church and girls having their periods. I promise lots of sex, blood and reflective conciousness.