Truth

SXSW 2012

Let the record reflect that we are an official showcasing artist at South By Southwest this year. I can't even believe to believe it. Wow.

The Tender Gratified

That was a graceful bow-out if I ever had one. You only get that chance once. It's really something to keep yourself contained in the middle of chaos. I learned that from my old man. Grace under fire...for damn sure. Someone once stuck a shotgun in his face (another story), and he didn't flinch. The power goes out in the entire corridor and people start scrambling, but I did not. I got through the barricades and found my way to my bed. Shook the right hands and gave the right hugs. A table only stands strong when all of the legs hold their weight. No matter what's on top of it. That's the way it should be.

Evil

I feel evil. Anger has a hold of me. I feel like Ty Cobb.

Slider

There's something I've been putting off for way too long that I need face and bring to action. I should start punching in my own weight class. No more of this bush league shit.

California

GOLDEN STARS ON STREETS OF PISS
Ryan Adams

I knew Hollywood late. I saw it on television. Brightly lit and never-ending ease. Not an intellectual place at all. A place where radios played Tom Petty’s “Even the Losers” loud in convertibles and all those stories of hookers and trips to Las Vegas in the middle of the night. For me, Hollywood seemed scary as in nightmare-daytime scary, two trillion stories intersecting one block at a time. But I am a transplanted heart. Southern body created, but veins and skin all meant for the shadows of skyscrapers. Leaving the cocoon of New York for L.A. is painful. Even in winter. Because inevitably, you will meet someone, and they will want you to stay. Out there in the desert oasis that rides the beaches up the coast all the way to the valley, what they don’t tell you, and you have to find out for yourself, is “they’re all lonely as hell” and “it’s why they dream like that there.” The Big Time, they call it by postcard and letter. Ha. If only they knew what was what.

Hollywood is cruel with nightmarish sunshine on repeat and the “real beach” is where all the dreams and their victims wash up like salt-blasted whales on the Boulevard. For every chic boutique there are meth dealers, bad and easily accessible cocaine origami folders to snort below the counter, watering holes in any place you are at any time. If you make it in Hollywood, you get a golden mask and an entourage of paparazzi. In New York, if you make it, someone will still punch you in the mouth if you cross them the wrong way on the subway during rush hour. Hollywood is, in my mind anyway, the half-tourist, half-hideaway area that stretches from The Frolic Room, a dive bar to end all others, all the way up two blocks past The Roosevelt (where the original Oscars were held) which still has its elegant neon sign, slightly bent cursive letters, totally awesome and gross.

If you stay on the walk of stars ascend or descend (depending upon your mood) on either side of this stretch of road, there is a fork just before a small strip mall with an Italian joint that will lead you to Sunset Boulevard (a different and altogether more compounded fracture of this dream place), or, eventually, to the streets leading you up into those canyons of Ewok perfection, where the beautiful villas of Hollywood’s best-known and not-so-known and never-known residents live. Somewhere in the fuss is the sign. That sign, spaced and mounted on a burnt, corn-colored sand hill, spelling “H O L L Y W O O D” like on TV, just waiting for the sun to go supernova-orange behind it. No matter where you are when that happens, you might as well faint. It is exactly like all the images of it in the movies—Nick Nolte and Eddie Murphy are missing, but you sense them anyway. You can bet that 100 cameras go off in synchronicity as that massive sun trips and falls into the ocean once a day as it passes those huge letters. Where are the angels? They must be so busy keeping it from falling into the ocean. They must be getting their nails done. But you can’t order prayers from room service—and trust me, there is a dent in the wine supply from my twenties, and angry hotel staff to prove this.

Walking the stretch of stars, hurry past, because there are fallen dreamers everywhere still hungry for home (but not enough to leave). We lucky ones, if we are lucky at all, scurry off to our jobs or casting calls, “our appointments.” I am a traveling writer, of sorts. Always writing. Always listening with my one good ear. Out in California, luxury is a given. You pretend, if you are an industry type, to disown it, but if you have it, you keep it in the back rooms with the boxes from Barneys like it was nothing. It’s a thing. Plus cars—there are too many of them, and they change like you change your underwear. It’s awful in those things: riding up and down canyons, carsick, midday, the radio on, with DJs obviously brain-damaged by overexposure to light.

On that show Northern Exposure, they had an episode where in winter months you had to sit in front of a gamma light screen for 15 minutes a day, or else you would get too depressed to recover and work or even get out of bed. The show’s characters ended up addicted to the light—they were up for days, reading book after book, with incessant conversation flowing.
This is all California and certainly Hollywood. Even the dark sides. Even the late-night red-glow bars where lies and promises for movie roles go down in the triggered shots of words that fade like the floor does after one too many. And it’s an early town, kids. If you are a boozer, a late-nighter, hell, an insomniac (I am), Hollywood is a blessing and a curse. I wrote an entire book there at the Hollywood Roosevelt one summer when, after making an album, I forgot to check out … for four months. They provided the manual typewriter and paper and Sterling Vineyards wine (the ’97s are gone folks, as far as I know or had anything to do with it). Sometime after I was coaxed back into my rightful shiny New York, by way of the Chelsea (so cliché and another hotel, but no housing board or papers to fill out), I re-read what I wrote.

It was a suntan on bleached paper. Stained with wine. Littered with little fictional ideas that I had fallen in love with. My wings, if they were words, were made of less than wax but something flammable—and what a piece of shit it was. One hundred full single-spaced pages about how lonely I was and would “so and so” ever call me again. What a drag. I was a drinker then, far too young to know how much of one, and on my way to the cigarette store just outside the hotel, to get not just smokes but vodka and god knows what amount of aspirin, I would cross the star that bore the name of this kindred soul I had only met a few times. How odd that with all my own disgust at attaching to celebrity culture, or culture in general, there I was, misguided, waiting for the gods of Valhalla or California to come down and really “see me” for what half-assed drinking piece of work I was. “Seen” I was, unashamed and new, full of shit with bells on my shoes and a soul not so much for sale but for rent, as I wanted to milk the payback for as long as allowed.

Inevitably I left, and in a few pieces, but big enough to reassemble in one stiff walk through Manhattan.The things that stick with me the most are:

1. Hollywood and Cherokee. Late night, outside this amazing, dimly lit bar—so dim, so red, so seedy (there are chocolate-brown booths with green lights hanging above them), and so filled with common Hollywood proper residents and traveling stars, you can disappear completely into whatever conversation you need to have. And you see “real” stars (like they would be anything else) coming and going but you’d never be able to crane your neck from table to table to gawk or even hear anything … it’s so quiet in that place it’s loud.

2. Los Burritos on Hollywood Boulevard. It still has its Formica counter, free chips, salsa that will blow your head off and food displayed in a harshly photographed menu—but the meals are incredible. The television is always on a channel you won’t understand unless you speak Spanish and the place is equally filled with Mohawk punks, Goth kids, drunken wannabe celebs and musicians as well as a few in-the-know locals who like food that makes them sleep.

3. Hollywood Flats. I like the idea that you can get a tattoo at two in the morning and there is enough Elvis and Marilyn Monroe memorabilia to keep even the faintest of rock ’n’ roll fans way busy. Also, it’s nice to fit in and escape at the same time.

4. The Casting Office. It’s a perfect place to go when you are done, done, done and you have a name, a real name to cover you, so you can drown yourself if needed in that ocean which swallows only your ideas of what fame or fortune might be.

5. The Roosevelt. Not the shithole it once was, it became quite a spot for celebrities when they redid the pool. (Warning to future guests: Stay in the tower. If you stay in a cabana room, and it’s past seven, you will be manhandled by security like you were entering a hostile country, regardless of that hotel room key in your hand.) I used to hide my pot in the ventilator shaft for every time I returned with a few Xanax for coming down from the boozing. It was always there, as they never dusted the place. Not so anymore.

I miss the sunshine of California, but not the mask. Not the idea. I had Christmas there last year, celebrating with a burger and fries at the new, amazing all-night burger milkshake joint across from Mann’s Chinese Theater, with someone I loved very much. We crossed the street, hand in hand, and watched a movie. It was the best Christmas I ever had. In the back of my mind, as my feet walked over the golden stars that line the Hollywood Boulevard, filthy, horrid and bleak, littered with crumpled McDonald’s bags and streams of piss, I thought of home, my bed in my cavernous New York apartment, walls stacked with books like a shield from my own thoughts and the sounds outside. I thought of walking the empty streets alone and about how no matter how sad I or anyone else gets there, New York seems to prop a loner up on his side and up by the bootstraps we go, we loners. Our fair city is here to remind us that we are all alone together.

All the sunshine I really ever saw in Hollywood was in the eyes of a beautiful girl who saw that missing street in my posture and the faint ghostly constructs flickering the lights of a million windows in my eyes. This is how a person might know California for real. Through someone from there, through a fleeting holiday that forever changes your ideas of a place that is far too littered with other peoples’ dreams to ever call your own.

But it’s there; it’s the other side of that coin, and you can feel it as the plane dips and descends someplace just past Las Vegas. Your heart starts pumping in anticipation; you see the beach, or the brightest stars at night. They are all streetlights in an endless web of electric spider casings built to hold one million dreams a second in one million tiny apartments.

Oh No...

No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No I think I'm in love. No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No No Oh No.

Prize and Battlefield

"Belief is both prize and battlefield, within the mind and in the mind's mirror, the world. If we believe humanity is a ladder of tribes, a colosseum of confrontation, exploitation and bestiality, such a humanity is surely brought into being. You and I, the moneyed, the privileged, the fortunate, shall not fare so badly in this world, provided our luck holds. What of it if our consciences itch? Why undermine the dominance of our race, our gunships, our heritage, and our legacy? Why fight the "natural" (oh weaselly world!) order of things?

Why? Because of this: - one fine day, a purely predatory world shall consume itself. Yes, the Devil shall take the hindmost until the foremost is the hindmost. In an individual, selfishness uglifies the soul; for the human species, selfishness is extinction.

Is this the doom written within our nature?

If we believe that humanity may transcend tooth and claw, if we believe diverse races and creeds can share this world as peaceably as the orphans share their candlenut tree, if we believe leaders must be just, violence muzzled, power accountable and the riches of the Earth and it's oceans shared equitably, such a world will come to pass.

I am not deceived. It is the hardest of worlds to make real."

David Mitchell "Cloud Atlas"

Warm Ghost - Open The Wormhole In Your Heart

God's Awful Grace

I'm watching the ravens outside my window in the rain. They're overdressed in their black ties, scouring the ground for dinner time. They don't see the treasure chest inside my rib cage. But God does. I've been watching too many war documentaries. I woke up last night and thought I was in a German prison camp. I was lost. But I normally am. I've found this out about myself. I am an island. And not in the clever way. I am an island. More so than anyone else I know. Maybe it's turning into a problem. But maybe not. I am an island. I am an island of a man, and I can't seem to make the wanderlust be quiet. I've made an enemy of convention. It tastes sour on my tongue.

I see your manger. I see where you sleep. I know someday we'll meet. I self medicate, and I need rest. This is my letter to you. My self-styled hymnal. I constantly test the mettle of my heart. I poke it with a stick to see if it'll snap. I grow weary of the lack of purity in all things. Then I see the diametric opposition and the gray ground, and I just get confused. Shipwrecks on the jagged cliffs of the sea. I don't "just get by."

My seeking leads me to be sought. I feel that. I try to have patience too. I really try. I try to mean what I say, and say what I mean. I need rest.

Holy Shit

Indeed...

What Would Paul Newman Do...

I always ask myself, "What would Paul Newman do?"
It's not a bad guide...
Cause I'm that kind of guy.
You earn no respect when you don't fucking try.
You can be weak at night in the depths of your bed,
But there's no room to be weak in the depths of your head.
Like that hip-hop fool,
Popping words like they're truth.
Keep your thought inside that frame.
Be in tune to when and where they display.
Like the rounders in Manhattan,
Cigarettes, leather jackets, attitudes they patent.
Youthful energy, aged wisdom, a soldier you've known.
Utilize every ounce of testosterone.
Keep your muscles clinched, over the bones.
Be wild young man, and howl at the moon.
You are bear-like, explore and push right on through.
Take your risk, take your licks.
Then brush it off.
Don't buy into the idea that you can ever stop.
Life is a bonfire.
So burn the lights out.
Burn right on through the hesitation and doubt.
Pull hard on the reel and take the leviathan out.
Up from the depths of the deep dark water,
Quiet and steady like your hard-ass father.
Cinch up the rope and sit high in the saddle,
Always know there's nothing you can't handle.
I learned my entire life not to be of ordinary men.
It's the struggle between the ninth rep and the tenth.
On the corner of ideal and faith sits my residence.
That's the definition of confidence.

Silence, Experience Shows, is What Terrifies People Most

The hits just keep on comin'.

Predestined Arrangement

Predestined Arrangement by coryreinisch

I Love This Band

Yeah, I Don't Know About You Man...

...but, I've got to look myself in the mirror every night before I go to sleep.

I wonder to myself, "how many goddamn knives does he have?" It baffles me to no end. I can't possibly be more uneasy than I am at this very moment. It's that quiet feeling in the warm dark. The uncomfortable flush-warm feeling of evil as you can literally feel your blood moving through the pipes in your body. The dizzy nauseous feeling that settles in when your gag reflex triggers your stomach to vomit it's contents. He makes my fucking skin crawl. He fucking disgusts me.

Sometimes, when I look at him, his face morphs and shapes itself into a vermin-like specter. Something from the weasel family. He moves, no, he slinks around. His eyes have no color, just black marbles sunk back into his slender skull. Other times when I look at him, he glances away, like he's been staring at me for extended time. He studies me. He tells other people that "we're exactly alike." He creeps me out.

It's like he waits in the darkness, with a knife in his teeth...crouching...sweating with clammy skin, breathing heavily...probably touching himself...waiting for me to show my cards. With his pointed nose, and squinted eyes. An angular snout to poke into the tight uncomfortable, private spots of other people. The places you don't show anyone unless they are extended an invitation. He finds them anyways, with no invite. He only violates. He rapes trust.

Then he jumps out of the shadows and sinks a knife in my back. It's like I'm living a bad dream. I don't even like him...I never have. I don't know why it's understood that I do. I don't have the slightest fucking clue as to why there's any loyalty there at all. And her...she fell down the wrong rabbit hole. She can expect a twisted journey of ups and downs...talking through drugs and cheap sentiments. These moves are too calculated now. Every instance is a coincidence when it happens once.

It's strategy when it happens twice.

The Growlers - Feeling Good

Keep On Keepin' On

This band has been soundtracking my emotions for years. I love them as much, if not more, now than I ever have.

Delivery

One thing I've learned (and liked) about myself is that I don't sacrifice my dreams for security. This has presented some real and obvious challenges, and if anything is a certainty in this world, it's that nothing is guaranteed, but I don't see another way. At least, from where I sit.

Carver - Take Me Out

Wind In My Office

I used to dream of a farm.
Cattle by the mile; a tan on my arms.
The work would be biblical.
We are burdened by that great burden.
Somewhere, though, there is poetry,
In finding a task that we love.
You've got to be smart nowadays.
Strong of good mind.
Dexterous in thought and aptitude.
The city is troubling some times.
A wind blows through my office,
There's a computer in your eyes.

If...

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

- Rudyard Kipling

Teflon

That's right....

Your windshield (this morning) told you what the fuck I've been up to.
I made sure of that.
It was going to happen...I've had it planned for as long as I can remember.
A busy bee I've been.
I hope you looked at yourself in your rear-view mirror and caught your own glance.
I hope you got to see your own eyes.
Confused...
You used to write on my mirror.
In black marker.
Call me a cocky fuck if you want...
I learned from the best.
You always had a sword in your hand when you'd write your words...now I do.
It's easy to push the blade into a soft heart.
But your windshield told you what I am today.
Slides...oh yeah, it slides...I wish I would've seen your face.

You might wanna duck...
You're not going to like what you hear.
That's right.
In some circles, it's considered flattery.
I rarely have vindication in my quiver, but I was going to do that whether you asked for it or not.

This ship left the harbor a long time ago.
I can be that way too, when it's pulled out of me...
It feels good, doesn't it?

Ravenna

It's all in the follow through.
Forgive and repent.
I reckon damn so.
I walk among saints, and yeah, I sleep with those sinners.
They tug at my heart and they'll hurt you alright.
It's seeing your flaws and knowing you won't fix them.
Everything is burning around me.
Swallowing acres of people.
They scratch and claw and bite and rake and swing.
Effort bubbling under their nails.
There hasn't been a stranger year.
Lockjaw that won't sing, and songs that won't come.
People I love and also don't trust.
They don't write themselves, do they...
Why won't it rain?
I feel every feeling.
I want to tell you how I feel every feeling, and then I don't.
And then I do again.
And then I don't.
Mostly, I won't.
People don't know what to do with me.
I don't know what to do with my pride.
Peter and Paul spoke with their hearts.
I mostly want to be polite.
And then I don't.
Because,
I've got muscles to flex and tears to cry yet.
I was born under the moon in the sweet southern air.
I love everything.
I love everyone.
At once.
As much as I can.
As much as is allowed.
I clearly see the good in the world.
I want to be a great addition to it...woven into its fabric.
You and I see,
We're just made of carbon.
And it don't last.
It's the temperate silence of sweet serenity.
It's the sound in my head and the heat in my heart.
It's God's love.

"Honey, we all deserve to wear white..."

Ready, Rotten, Dead, Forgotten

I'm surrounded by capitalists.
Ghosts in people suits.

Digging, and digging, and digging.
For something that won't be there in the end.
Leaves faster than was found.
With no sound.
Under the ground.

Like some old Farmer's Almanac,
I feel a bit more wise.

But I don't know why it's taken so long to find my own voice.
My feet have carried me this far.

Pulling through the valley,
And hearing God's songs is like some vigilante,
At war's end.
It'll be nice to breathe.
To finally breathe.

It'll be really nice.
To feel that rain again.

I can't tell if my intentions get out in front of my mouth,
Or if it's the other way around.

You can see how that might stand in conflict with my better judgement.
But oh well.
My ears just ring,
So my eyes just close.
I know where I want to go.

If that's as close as I can get, that's as close as I'll take.
I expect it will be nice.

The Hottest Summer Ever and a Decade of Terror

There could not be a stranger year. There could not be a more backwards reflection. There could not be more paranoia or great divides in trust. People have gathered under my nails as I scratch and claw and rake through their minds trying to find their rationality. Bloody nails that hurt and burn and sting. Fires that billow and smoke that evaporates the sweet air from our lungs. Wine and beer and whiskey that only sings you to sleep until the next morning. Songs that won't come out and lockjaw that won't move. Everything is burning around here. Great fires that swallow acres of altruism. An armor is required for passage and flight. We all take the world upon our shoulders...as we must...and somewhere beneath that...under the fading carbon is the meaning of it all. It's the temperate silence of sweet serenity. It's God's love.

The Felice Brothers - Frankie's Gun from Laurent Rejto on Vimeo.

Very Much Yes

New Song

Threw her together tonight.

Bob Dylan's 78th Hangover

Bob Dylan's 78th Hangover by coryreinisch

Park Your Integrity Right Here

A good friend recently expounded on nothing less than the merits of integrity. Inspiration comes in all forms.

Sometimes I wonder if I have the good sense. The kind of sense it takes to paddle in between the shores of life's long river. I like to think that I do. I think through effective and purposed raising, some of this was branded on my hide. Even while I was squirming to get away.

But I also do that. I do get away with it sometimes. That's the rub. I could dive into the abyss here and wrestle with the different colors of moral conviction and the directive benefits and ruthless cage of guilt. However, I will not.

It's like I read on some wall somewhere. "When I was little, I wanted a bike really bad. So I thought I'd work really hard, pray for it, and then I'd deserve it. Then I realized that God doesn't work that way. So I stole it and asked for forgiveness."

I don't believe it's an inherent personality trait that's been decided for me, or anyone for that matter. In fact, I've found (to my own detriment) that my "politeness" has worked against me, in a counter-active way. Just as someone might find their ruthless intentions negatively influencing their environment. My friends often tell me I'm "too polite." That sounds awfully self-indulgent, but in some respects it's ridiculously fucking true.

I'm also not saying that you hand-pick where to apply your integrity. It should be held steadfast at all times (I do really believe this...I'm not trying to convince myself). I also know that we all stumble in this regard. Quite often, even when there is colossal effort. There are just certain times in our lives where we find a certain amount of gray area. That's why I think it's ultimately important to hold your integrity true to yourself. If you have an internal compass and place value on it's direction, you're never really lost.

Trust me...this is no high-championing of my virtuous existence. Cause God knows...

I've recently been afforded an opportunity to do something that I really genuinely want to do, but have refused to do so in order to spare someone's feelings. The same someone, who once presented with the same opportunity, did not spare mine.

It has nothing to do with holding moral high ground. It has everything to do with sleeping at night. Looking in the mirror and being able to look yourself in the eye, confident with what you're seeing.

Dammit.

Dealt a Good Hand

I don't normally show my cards in this regard, but a good friend put me on this awhile back and it holds tremendous water with me.

"I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want."

Philippians 4:12

It's good to feel what you know to be truth.

This Shit is the Jam

New Song I Wrote Tonight

I Killed Laura Palmer

I Killed Laura Palmer by coryreinisch

I Did It

I finally did it. I've been dreaming of it since I was 16. I finally did it.

Predestined Arrangement

I haven't written in awhile. Well, on here. Busy, busy, busy. Blogs are retarded.

You Should Start A Band by thefrontierbrothers

Brilliant

Oh, There's That Hummingbird

Oh,

There's

That

Hummingbird in a spring sunrise,
Should be no big surprise.
Flutter in a grand whiskey haze,
I'm fairly convinced it's just a vanity phase.
Everything happens by accidental grace.

And,

I

Suppose

I can't really ask for more,
When you draw me a roadmap to your front door.
Caitlin, you have my favourite name...
Pretty like violins and front porch swings.
I'm afraid you could drop me to my knees,
Like some Bible verse, or Sam Cooke song.
I'd be fine being perfectly wrong.

My

Eyes

Squint

While the morning strafes the ground.
I'll win you with a busted typewriter as sure as you breathe.
Nobody should underestimate me.
A threadbare lazy lean on the fence.
I'm spent.

See

How

Strong

All these winds are?
I won't be too far,
When you draw me a roadmap to your heart.

Cory, Do You Like Computers?

No.

The Sexiest Video I've Ever...

AND, I know her.

Hard Drinkin' Songs

This band is incredible. They are so much cooler than I could ever hope to be.

Everybody Must Give Something Back For Something They Get

This is so bad ass.

Yes, Please...

It's also for Reinisch, but c'mon man....we really need a bit of it.

Narrow Focus, Idea Generation

My left arm goes numb and tingles now.
I try to shake it out like some wiped-out pitcher in the bottom of the ninth.
I don't know if this is the first engine rattle as a sign of too many miles.
Nor would I pay much attention if it was.
It's probably nothing spiritual.

We used to be electric punks.
You and I.
A couple of idealists.
Carving out ideas.
In an ideal-less world.
I'd say anything if it sounded like it came from the inside of an incinerator.

But your purpose is easy to find when your needs aren't being met.
Don't you ever forget that.
In fact, you can quote me.

Somewhere I began to care what people thought about the things I'd say.
That's when you find yourself rounding the corners.
Using painter's tape.
So they don't see the errant swipes.
God...you might as well tell your corner to throw the towel.

I don't feel old, but I may sound it.
Where I used to pick up the sword and slash away,
I'm more inclined to diplomacy.
It's not fighting harder,
But fighting smarter.
Rather.

I used to pick up the sword and slash away.
Don't wager bets you can't pay.

Dedication to Roam

Yep...I Want You

The Shorter Story Usually Wins Out

Some people die in the service of others, and some people just die. Some people cry and some people don't take the time to feel anything that stabs them with a spear. Some people drop bombs. Some people are masters of war. Some people fasten all the triggers for the others to fire. Some people copy straight from the book. Some people light their own lamps and light the trails for those who can't see. Some people sit on the banks of the rivers with their fathers and throw hand-tied flies to raise the trout. Some sit behind desks. Some affect motion. Some run. Some stand their ground. Some motor through with no disregard, and some ruin them with humility. Some gut check themselves with simple questions. Some just make money. Some pass out forgiveness like a ticket to Heaven, and give-give-give, when all they do is take-take-take. Some just forgive. Some lower caskets. Some give birth. Some people are Judas. Some are Joan of Arc. Some are yellow, and some are black. Some are white, and some are red. Some are guilty. Some are beautiful. Some are looked-over. Some are talented, and some just try really hard. Some are what you see, and some are what you get. Some warm your heart. Some are never bruised. Some go through life with golden halos, while some can't win for losing. Some can't be alone. Some don't want you there. Some don't want anybody there. Some want to be lost on the mountain. Some just want you to be their date to the dance. Some want you to be the spouse you promised, and some just want to be mad about it. Some people love Jesus. Some think He's a myth. Some know it all. Some have no hope. Some live for today. Some resign to the fact that they never will. Some want to be men when they're only little boys. Some girls want grace. Some women have it. Some want children. Some won't ever have them. Some get them without trying. Some people are grumpy. Some are a blessing to be around. Some people only complain, and some people only count their blessings. Some people say they'll change. Some people actually do. Some people actually don't. Some people leave before it's over. Some people are here too long. Some people respond. Some people don't. Some people are too sensitive. Some people live in shells. Some people hate people. Some people know that the only life we have is this one. Some people wake to a brand new day, each and every day. Some people appreciate their soul. Some people reach out their hand.

Some people tell the truth, and some people lie.

Like a Well-Ironed Shirt

The Head And The Heart - Down In The Valley (not the video) from Sub Pop Records on Vimeo.

Literally, the Best Thing I've Ever Seen. Seriously.

Brunettes and whiskey. What drunk genius nailed down my two favourite things in the world into this real advertisement? It should have been me.

You Didn't Know The Words

I wrote this a long time ago...years ago. I haven't read it in as many. Maybe I didn't know what it meant to me then. Now, it reminds me of good love, and it reminds me of feeling right with the world, which I currently do...

YOU DIDN'T KNOW THE WORDS

The young man who keeps fortunes in a mason jar,
Tells himself growing old doesn't scare him.
He couldn't be more right.
Light bulbs in the darkest light.
The girl smells sweet next to him in the swing in the summer night.
Smooth white magnolia in her hair.
She flies under the radar, she flies everywhere.
He has plans and pennies, the courage and a view.
He sings a timeless tune.

Patrick Sweany - Corner Closet

Dressed All In White

Snow day in Austin. Don't get many of these around here...

What Would You Say to Bob Dylan?

Todd Snider On Bob Dylan (1/21/11)

it's hard to think of new ways to consider bob dylan and his work
he's probably the most debated and discussed singer to ever live.
but here's a question. especially for songwriters.
what are you going to do if you meet bob dylan?
have you thought about it? do you have a plan?
i've been working on a plan since i was about twenty years old
and still don't really have one.
is it presumptuous for someone to think they might meet bob dylan?
i don't think so.
from what i hear, he likes to stay on the poorer side of town.
and we know from the story about the cop who didn't recognize him
that he goes for walks.
i know a guy who thought he saw him on a street corner but wasn't sure
if he was bob dylan or a hobo that looked like him.
bob caught him staring and said "it's me"
my friend didn't say anything back.
i know a guy that was in a studio once with him and witnessed a situation
where somebody's booking agent gave bob a rambling speech about
the impact his music had on the world as he was sticking his hand out
to introduce himself.
my friend says bob just stood up without extending his own hand, walked
over to an exercise bike and got up on there
and started pedaling without saying a word.
in front of people no less.
what are you gonna do if you ever meet bob dylan?
i know another who was on a dylan session where they came back in
to listen to a track and after all the famous musicians got done with their two cents
bob asked the intern gopher kid what he thought and went with that.
i don't know what the hell i'd say if i was around bob dylan.
another buddy of mine had a band that played a festival in europe with him
and he said to get back to the hotels everybody had to take the same ferry
leaving the bands, bob included, exposed to the crowd.
my friend found a table with a chess board on it and sat down
and noticed bob dylan leaning against the rail and looking at the water.
at first nobody noticed him but eventually he started to get surrounded.
my friend got up and walked right up to him and said
"bob we got the chess board you wanted"
and bob saw his chance and took it. my buddy got to play silent chess with him
the whole trip and as long as bob seemed engaged people seemed to
leave him alone.
i don't know if i'd have had the courage to do that.
i also know a musician who got a call from bob dylan's manager
saying that bob wanted to ask him a few questions about a certain instrument.
my friend didn't know bob even knew who he was and was floored.
"of course" he yelled. "when?" ...
"how's today" the guy answered.
"fine with me" my friend said "what time"
"how bout now" the manager answered.
"sure . . . where do i go" my friend shot back
"well." the manager went on. "you seen that brown van out in front of your house?"
"yeah"
"bob's in there."
holy shit.
i got another buddy that said he was gonna audition for bob once
and the plan was for bob to come over to my friend's house.
my friend was supposed to have tuned guitars ready. he did.
bob came in with his dogs and kids. the kids started right in messing
with the guitar pegs and a dog shit. they never spoke of either thing.
then bob wanted to know if there was any other guitars and so my friend went out to the garage
to get a new one and somehow managed to get himself pinned under his own garage door.
so within a few minutes of meeting bob dylan my friend was screaming out to him for help.
i'm hoping if i ever meet bob dylan that i don't end up pinned under a garage door.
speaking of doors i heard another story from a studio in memphis where bob came in
to sing on somebody's record or something. they all say he didn't speak a word to anyone
the whole time. even when spoken to. and then, upon leaving he turned to the receptionist
and said "big doors huh."
no one remembers what she said back.
i have another buddy that worked with him once and made fun of his hooded sweatshirt
disguise. and bob brought him a hooded sweatshirt.
that seems like it worked
another buddy of mine auditioned at bob's house. he said he was kept waiting a while.
he said he told bob how great he thought he was. bob said nothing.
they picked a bit and bob got up and left.
ouch.
i have another buddy that was staying with a famous guy on an island.
one day putzing around on something to do street he sees bob dylan
and screws up the courage to walk over and say
"hey bob i'm so and so and i'm staying over at so and so's house,
i know he'd love to see you. you want to come with us."
he says bob just stared at him a minute and walked off.
i don't think i'd try to insinuate some mutual friend thing if i ever met bob dylan.
but what do you do. tell him you like his lyrics for fuck's sake.
or a particular song? are you kidding? a particular song?
no fucking way. or a period. can you imagine what he does here?
can you imagine how many people that never even consider once what
they would say if they met bob dylan get to.
and i'm standing around here like a schmuck.
and what do they say? they say shit like "my dad loves you"
or "my kid loves you" or "when are you going to do this or that again"
or "we loved you in the '60s"
you know i bet he gets as much of that as he gets the
"what did you mean by this" or "what made you say that"
or how bout the odd "were you talking about me"
fuck i've got that before. and i'm a folk singer from the '90s for fuck's sake.
they don't even really have those.
imagine how much crazy shit bob dylan hears?
especially all you traveling musicians who hear crazy shit yourself sometimes.
imagine how many of us have gushed him blue in the fucking face.
imagine how many superstars have just superlatived him sick in the fucking stomach.
should everybody just leave him alone? that doesn't seem right.
it seems like sometimes he should get to hear a "thanks bob"
which is essentially what all of it really is.
thank you. that's the only part of my plan that's been in there for a while.
i can't help myself from wanting to add.
"and not just for the songs and music either, but for the books and movies and interviews
and videos and photo shoots and concerts and the big dome house and the shades.
and all that shit. and speaking of the songs and the music. i love all of it.
every inch of it. every song, period, show, band, outtake, fucking all of it.
no favorites.
but you see here i go . . . now i'm starting to talk to the very bob dylan
the same way i talk to my nephew about bob dylan.
in that spastic way that remind me of an old far side cartoon
where the two gorillas are under a banana tree gorging on bananas
when one turns to the other and says
"you know man, i know we're supposed to like bananas. being gorillas and all
but i think its different for me. i mean, i really like them"
that's how most true bob dylan fans sound when they start trying to explain him.
that poor fucking bob dylan shouldn't have to meet anybody.
i wonder if he likes to sometimes. i wonder if there are compliments he likes.
anyway i better wrap this up. i'm heading over to my nephew's bar mitzvah.
god i hope bob dylan isn't there. i'm not ready damn it.
i'm just not ready.

I Still Love You

A lot.

Jenny Lewis with the Watson Twins - Rise Up With Fists! from Team Love on Vimeo.

Push Pin Reminders

I want to drive a convertible.


She & Him - Don't Look Back from Merge Records on Vimeo.

Redemption and a Prairie Fire

I've learned, if I've learned anything,
That "never" has no place in the main ring.
You can turn your lover from the inside out.
Irish whiskey in the cupboard, saved for the title bout.
Old memories and beleaguered years keep rising to the top of the cream.
I think just maybe you might have heard those muted screams.
Directed to a pillow.
In the midst of a dark midnight.
Nothing ever told me, "You don't have the right."
In fact, it's the exact opposite.
All this regard brings the wondering to the top of it.

To the top of everything, where we breathe sweet helium.
And a sad note only lasts a minute.
Forgiving a satisfied wound is a perfect tune.
You can only tell someone enough of what they want to hear.
And they can only tell you everything you might have to fear.
But I've heard it before.
And there's NO WAY I'll listen.
Especially when I know the score.

I compensate my English with a dark blood wit.
I could shudder to think, and throw the towel to quit.
But there's something in me that won't die,
And I damn sure won't lose on the back end.
When you're as blessed as I am, you're blind to the floor.
In a place where less is more.
I'll pretend.
The great secret is that I don't have to.
What you see is what you get.
And all the change that comes in between has already been spent.

I do use what I need,
And I'll be damned if there's a place for greed.
There is the relief in knowing that when I get to the bottom of this glass, I'll find rest.
I'll sleep on it and wake in the morning to something beautiful and refreshed.
It's with focus that I train my desire,
And I can make things work through redemption,
In the middle of a prairie fire.

When There's Nothing Left To Do...

Late night dust up...

Agree to Agree

This girl's got the sand...

Cary Ann Hearst & Michael Trent - The Thread from The Moving Picture Boys on Vimeo.

CHRISTMAS BELLS, THOSE CHRISTMAS BELLS!!!

We wrote a holiday song...

Your New Favourite Video

For this weekend anyways...

Being a Man

"COURAGE IS DOING WHAT YOU’RE AFRAID TO DO. THERE CAN BE NO COURAGE UNLESS YOU’RE SCARED."

— Eddie Rickenbacker

"Talking to God is Laurel Begging Hardy For a Gun..."

They say youth is wasted on the young...

They couldn't be more right.  When you get older you have to bend all the rules.  Every.  Damn.  One.  Of.  Them.  If the rules don't give you the bend you're expecting, then you owe it to yourself (in a form that calls on madness) to break them in half.  Break the holy shit out of them.  Let's call a spade a spade...there is a wick in every candle, and it's only so long.  When it burns out, you're just left with a mass of formless, empty residual.  I think that speaks volumes of the biology we've been so intrinsically tied to, and to some degree found prisoner to and (to an extent) our own little delicate psyches.

Growing old doesn't scare me.  Growing stale does.  That's why I want to burn bright.  Like that little ferocious birthday candle that won't give in to the wind.  I've never felt truly numb and I never want to.  In fact, I know that I won't.  It's just not going to happen to me.  However, the minute I do, the Good Lord has my invitation to take me home...no matter the age I find myself sitting in here...inside my own head.

It's funny...I've spent the better part of my life thinking that everything is going to click like a light bulb in the darkest night.  Like everything is going to be illuminated and tangible.  You can see it, you can pick it up, you can feel it's contours, hand it to your friend, show them how it works, heat burns their hand, looking at it through a magnifying glass, write instructions for playing with it, leave it on a shelf and be mobile without it...drop it on the floor and know it won't break.  If that does happen, I imagine it won't be that way.  It will be a little more intricate.  Or maybe it won't.  Maybe it is that simple.  Maybe it's that great simplicity that seems to be the problem...just flying under the radar of all our great complications and distractions, successes and victories.  Better said, maybe it's the undeniable ability to recognize the lives we live which is the problem, and maybe it's the hope for what they might turn into that's the blessing.

I was born at 10:10pm.  I was a lucky baby born on an unlucky day.

http://cults.bandcamp.com/track/go-outside?auto=mp3-320

California in the Morning Always Made Me Warm...

There's a giant western sunset, beyond this here horizon, pointing it's finger at me with invitations on the table. To everything there is a season and a time for every purpose under Heaven. I can already hear the surf break on the shoreline and feel the little hand I might be holding in mine. Hello love! I'm floating...

Sun Was High (So Was I) - Best Coast

Here's To The Day

This song is owning my mood right now...all warm and floating with eyes opened wide.

The Flood - Delta Spirit

You and I Have Unfinished Business

I want you to yell out loud if you need me...I'll be there if I can.  You be your woman.  I'll be your man.  

Damn Sam, I Love a Woman That Rains

And I will settle for nothing less.  I'll walk this world alone till I find the one that does.  I want her to be sweet.  I want her to be engaging.  I want her to be welcoming like the women in my family.  I want her to look me in the eye.  I want her to be clear as a silver bell.  I want her eyes to be blue...or whatever color they may come by.  I want her to have eyes, preferably.  I want her to be soft and smell good.  Like rose water, or bluebonnets.  I want her to be smart and speak with grace.  I want her to disarm me with a glance.  I want to glance off her ricochet.  I want to change her tires and cook her a country breakfast in the mornings.  I want the stupid pillow talk.  I want to slap her ass when she walks into my kitchen.  I want to put her name in my phone as "My Lover," disregarding her name.  I want her to laugh out loud with my sister, like she does.  Cackling at the moon and everything underneath.  I want to write her silly poems that I leave in envelopes, hidden in places she'll find before work.  In fact, everything I write is to her...before I even know her.  I am as sound as an old fucking engineer.  Ryan Adams is a Scorpio, just like me.  That means nothing (I'm listening to him).  I am at a point where I feel very blessed.  Age does that to you.  You count your eggs, and they mean so much...big, round, and full.  Hearty, as they are.  Full of sustenance.  Good things abound and I feel filled to the brim.  I have everything I need and then some.  This boy is full of blessings.  I wouldn't trade it for anything.  I do want a woman.  A woman that rains.  On me.  Damn Sam, I do fucking love a woman that rains.

Play This Song

"Undertow" by Warpaint

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=130693015

Saw these interesting kitties at ACL this year.  Despite falling in love with them on a totally non-music-related level, I fancy them because they can write a mean tune.  Rawr.

Let The Poets Cry Themselves To Sleep

You're the yellow bird that I've been waiting for.

Rare

I laughed, a belly laugh, at God tonight...or more accurately with.  Because of, in spite of, and in direct rebellion and welcome response to free will. Tears were streaming from my eyes during a bone-rattling laugh. I literally took a knee.

Why is there always a carrot in front of that damned old mule? What a torturous prank. Or is it?  God is a tricky cat. He'll toy with you till you learn the point and swallow the lesson. It will be learned. Carefully studied. Dangling in your face. Just beyond your reach.  He keeps watch over His flock by night.  As the vipers lay in the garden, sprawled amongst our ankles, to wit, armed against us.  

All you can really do is laugh.  Focus on one point and breathe.

I Sank My Teeth Into...

Things that should be felt and never heard.
The unbroken horizon on a blood-moon night.
Contradictions and alterations and silver coins that left no divot.
Fertile soil in a harvested row.
The face of youth while it flew all around.
All seething age as it comes crashing down.
A marked forehead with an ash-cross burn.

An anthemic route for a voice to be heard.
The bone, where the marrow lays bare.
The scars on my chest, and the wounds beyond there.

Worldly pursuits like meat on a stove.

Sanctity and benevolence and purity and love.

Mountains of fear and oceans of doubt.

Modernity and all the filth it spews out.

The halo on her head and the crest in her wings.

The vindictive instability the other one brings.

The Scorpio's good form.

The Aries' burning ire.

The Taurus' quick tongue.

The Libra's desire.

An antiseptic of spiritual redoubt.

A deception of will that poisoned my mouth.

An unbearable heretic conflagration.

The words of my iconic heroes, steeped in admiration.

A powder keg of sentimentality.

My ancestral heart for the courage and the nerve.

Things that should be felt and never heard.

As an Aside...

There is currently an infestation of lady-bugs in my apartment. At any one time, I will find 10-15 on the ceiling and along the walls. I thought about calling the exterminators to rid of the invaders, but decided against it in remembering that lady-bugs are good luck. Considering the innumerable and less desirable unwelcome guests from the insect world, I figured we'd live and let live here. This, after all, is a house of welcome, a house of respite, and who am I to decide who is worthy of that or not...just short of poisonous or winged attachments. Add that to the fact that I've had hallucinatory medicine-head for the past four days (attacking this vicious cold), on top of the fever dreaming, one in which a car horn outside actually kept the beat to the "Green Acres" theme song playing in my dream.

I've read paradigm-shifting quotes from Marcel Proust and delivered a personal "Waterloo" of sorts all within the past three days. This is a real watershed moment for me. Weird changes are happening in my head and around my life.

Some people write to make a living; others to share their insights or raise questions that will haunt their readers; others yet to understand their very souls. None of these will last. That distinction belongs to those who write only because if they did not write they would burst... These writers give expression to the divine — no matter what they write about.
 
--anthony de mello

The Clever Men of Manor Farm

Don't listen to the voice you're hearing,
In the halls of strong conviction now.
It might make sense somehow.

But can you hear the horns?
They’re singing.
Out loud for the mighty men you know.
But they don’t know,
That it’s a long way to fall.
And they’re not really men at all…

Riot of discontent on the horizon.
Where foreign winds take you.
Turning into arcing storms on this incendiary night.
Where discordant words aren’t true.

Mistaken sides,
Pour into the night to save their lives.

Oh, you know I’m dangerous to you...

Delightfully Anachronistic

My old soul will save me one day. It wrestles and grapples in awkward vengeance with the modern world. It doesn't really know the current methods or violent systems. It finds itself lost and confused in the swell of uninspiring convention. It takes unruly missteps. But it will find a soft landing place at some point. I know it will. Maybe it will bring her home to me someday, too. Maybe she'll put her key in her pocket and bring it with her so she can unlock this deadbolt buried in my heart that I've hid from everyone but her. Maybe we won't try to break each other in half this time, because time has gracefully aged our old souls. Eloquent and poetic. Old souls are tender at heart. The harlots and hyenas running around us in frenzied chaos won't be wasted on either of us anymore. Maybe I'll write a few sentences that change your life. Maybe I'll write a few that change my own. Old souls thirst for these things.

Disarming the Null and Void

My heart is a pounding war drum.
My eyes are long blue telescopes scanning the horizon.
Affixed and darting like the fireflies in my periphery throughout the heavy green vines, sweating fluorescence in the summer's sweltering choke.
My ears are deciphering sonnets and whispers charted in code.
The breeze lifts them into the air, and like radar I'm privy to what is heading this way,
So I can greet as friend or foe.
Whiskey is my petrol and my stomach burns like a combustion engine,
Shooting fuel into my amber-soaked brain...
The throttle is open.
It always is.

I've fired the first salvo,
But I've been lashed with a shiner hovering over my eye.
My aim was true.
True as my intentions.
Self-favoring is their vision and deceptive regret is the monologue.
I will raise no white flag on this hazy evening for I am a madman.
Mad as hell with a head full of bubbles and a tongue like a fuse.
I run with the moon and howl like the wild creatures stalking the cut in the middle of the night.
With blood in the nostrils I can feel kerosene pumping through my ventricles, and straining through my capillaries.
I hold no hostages, and I pour salt in wounds.
My favourite nerves hold tight and secure.
I clench my jaw and shake.

Painfully hungry, but no seat at the table.
I've got a plan, but some problems arise.
I've no more to give than what was already there.
Roads in black and skies in gray, sitting above your home...
You just gotta try harder, or feel alone.
Tell me something I don't know.
I'm angling for peace, and I do it standing up.
You're exhausted while the lights are on,
And I just want something graceful.

These are diamond-tipped offerings from the heart of a wanderer.
Everything means something.
A professional bleeding heart.
Everything you can see matters.
A poker face aimed at God and the devil keeps them guessing.
A ransom on the auction block for my soul.
It will take a strong arm.
It could be the great return of the wandering boy.
Tying cuts of ribbon to the trees he's passed so he can find his way back.
If only the storms hadn't untied and carried them off into the firmament.
I would lead you, but it's too absolute.
First I yelled.
Then I knelt.
Then I healed.

Everything you can see matters.

I Bid You Farewell

In light of the truth we stand before you...
Loose cannons with shaky hands.
Sober by morning through our self loathing,
Because the prodigal youth lament their sins.

Some say moral conscience has evaporated,
I’m afraid we don’t see it that way.
In the late night hours we stagger forward
Looking out and up for a better place.

The steps we take away from you,
Aren’t with our feet, they’re with our heads.
We’re naked, dirty, and too far gone.
They said we’d end up this way.
And they say we’re all insane.

If you venture this way, come expecting a mess
Cause every fool has a song
This makeshift virtue is truly painful
Judged for all the things we've done wrong.

This lost generation can’t live forever.
Marked by doubt and fears unlaced.
With dust in our teeth and whiskey in our eyes
We have no idea where our limits lay.
They say we’re all insane.

That’s why they say, we’re all insane…

Ruin Me

Just do it. I want you to. You're the highly-evolved zenith I've been stumbling around all these years. Long-winded diatribes be damned. I've no time for that tonight...probably didn't any other time anyways. A man to a little boy when you're around. Fumbling words, like nothing makes any kinda damn sense. Head spinnin' around dizzy as a damn fool. I'm afraid my love and lust buttons would sync up all too terrifyingly compatible with you. You are poisonous, and I want to inject you directly into my veins intravenously. I want you to do it. I want you to. I want you. Good Lord, I want you. Yes ma'am, I want you.

The Dust Settles A-Okay

Most everything hinges on fundamentals. There are certain absolute truths that I've experienced in my time, and I must admit they move like concrete...which is to say, little to none at all. One of those truths is that life, when given the opportunity, will check you at the plate with a high-rising fastball to the chin, or tell you to have a fucking seat at any moment. I guess I always have, but I'm starting to see the beauty in this. It's good for the soul. It really is.

Nothing is guaranteed. I've seen failures and successes of all shapes and sizes...my own and those of my acquaintances. Failure and setback give you two distinct paths to choose. And it's not even failure or setback...failure is a whole different animal right now. I guess "adversity" is what I'm currently facing. I've got a big white whale in front of me and I need to find a razor sharp harpoon with some expediency. There's no doubt that life has been extremely blessed for me lately, but there's one 800-lb gorilla in the room that needs a talkin' to.

Lucas Jackson had it right when told to "stay down" after being beaten to a pulp within an inch of his life.

His reply, "You're gonna have to kill me."

Carolyn

Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Carolyn, Caroyln, Carolyn, Carolyn...

Carolyn...

Yep

Fuck it. Fuckitty, fuck it. My thoughts, my paranoia, my enthusiasm, my writing. I'm fine with all of this. I am pretty sure I am fine with all of this.

Pay No Mind, I Have No Time

Pay no mind to the aberrations I create.
Only know that I do this because I'm haunted if I don't.
When every person is busy spinning, weaving, and climbing their webs,
I effort to make orderly little formations with the thoughts in my head.

Pithy observances,
So full of excitement and dread,
That I will readily drop once boredom arrives.
Mad little perceptions and curious inspirations.
All-colored threads, they weave through our lives.
I honestly don't know what I'm confined to do.

I can no longer pretend there is a moment coming,
A moment when I will come to know everything.
Everything there is to know about oneself.
I am constant and I am formless,
I am floating and I am fluid,
I am sinew and plasma.
I am translatable only by your tongue,
And I mean nothing for that which I meant.

Bouts of fiction against truth can only be told when they violently collide.
I do not censor my thoughts,
So I must not censor the way they find breath every morning.
The seedlings and the Master made a deal before time began.
You must grow the way you were designed, or forever be damned.

I Pay No Attention To Red Lights

Before I'm even done with my meal, I've decided we're going to pick a fight with one of Austin's favourite sons. Before I even finish my first glass of wine, I already have the melody in my head, and it's anthemic proclamation. They have no idea the tactical assault I'm sketching in the back of my mind, all quiet-like, while we smile and talk of jobs and inane shit; while they fork through their pork tenderloins and gazpacho. I am planning to launch this in the coming months. At worst, it will give me something to do; at best, it will cause some sort of rip in the fabric, no matter how small or insignificant...one that makes people (specific people) take notice. All the great one's need a foil. Marianne Faithful, Sedgwick, Simon, Nico, Joplin, etc. Someone benefited from the back and forth dynamic...the competition. Although, I will admit, the thought of this annoys me...I really don't want to give her the satisfaction. Any of them for that matter...non-deserving sponges of attention. There's no reason to claim reason, but there is a reason for everything, and as it stands, there is a reason for this.

Reason #1: My infinite and incomprehensible sentimentality. It springs from a well that knows no regulation or fears no exhaustion.

I would do this in front of everyone. I would be completely oblivious to their averted scoffs and silent judgements. I would defy all the sound reason that well-adjusted people carry in normal social circumstantial behavior. I would do it if they'd all jettison judgment and just know that I was half-kidding and half-serious, so when it worked or failed, I could conveniently fall to one side of the fence or the other and we could all go on about our normal course. I would do it if I knew I wouldn't be some social pariah because of an excessive show of overt-sentimentality. But I suppose that's a boring concept in some circles. I suppose it's much more riveting to talk about mind-numbing TV shows, temporary jobs, uninteresting movies, shopping, stores, drinks, apartments, houses, condos, parties, parties, parties, drinks, people who aren't here, dear God.

I would throw down my napkin, shuffle around the table, politely excusing myself for inconveniently walking around these boringly sensible people and their delicious meals, and I would put my hands on her face and say, "I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I FUCKING LOVE YOU." Then I would kiss her on the forehead, under her newly red-streaked hair. I would turn and look everyone in the eyes like a wild man from some mountain hut. I would light a cigarette (INSIDE...she hates smoking) and then I would turn and walk out of the door, off into the night, under a streetlamp like some character in a James Dean flick. They would wonder why I didn't pay my check, if I was going to need a ride home, or if I was going to catch a cab. They would wonder if I was simply mad, or just collectively decide that I had gone completely batshit insane. You know...all the things people would concern themselves with if someone actually did what I would do. I would do it without regret. I would do it in a way that only I alone could, and she would see me. Maybe even wonder what it means.

Reason #2: The tendency, I've found, is to push the issue even when it's a dead-end street, on a fruitless plain, underneath a rainless cloud, on a starless night. I should probably find a way to stop this.

Because there's something truly romantic about a tragic, insecure girl. She needs to be "saved," right?! They need to be saved from the dark side of the world and all it's pointed barbs and thievery. Stealing and coaxing them into the dimly-lit back rooms and alleyways of the world. Assholes. They use tempting lures like fame and fortune to get the attention of those who need attention. Crave attention. Need it like oxygen in the lungs. It's amazing. And I need them in the same manner. Or at least I've partly convinced myself of that. Because I am the antithesis. I am the flashlight in the alley, waving my hand, "come this way...we'll get you into the light." I am the antiseptic that pours over the toxic scrape of the viper's fangs. I am the gigantic fucking hug in the middle of the thunderstorm like that uber-gay jewelry commercial. I am the roof over the head. I am the defibrillator in the middle of cardiac arrest. I am the rain in the middle of the desert. Or at least I've partly convinced myself of that.

Oh, of course I can psycho-analyze myself all the way through to the other side of myself. I know what would be said about it. I'm just trying to embrace it. The most important part though, is to keep what you really know about yourself inside. There's always someone willing to take, take, take. There's always someone there to call you crazy. So you're picky about what you show. Because in the end, it's yours. I'll have an outburst of sentimentality, and then withdraw in horror when I realize what I've done. I think people confuse it for being "emotional" or even "melancholy," but I don't think that's entirely accurate either. Everybody has those elements on some level or another. I think maybe it's more of an observational thing...and some are more in tune to it than others. I think it's something akin to how animals can pick up certain scents that we can't. Some of us are just programmed with more sets of sensitivity to certain stimuli than others.

When he's around, he always wins. That's why I'm picking a fight. When he's around, I'm invisible. It's no mystery.

Wankers

Posting political quotes on your Facebook account that you copy and paste off of Google, while at work, does not make you socially-conscious. I don't care how many of your retard friends reinforce your "wisdom" with their comments. Even if they do get into the double-digits. It's about as cool as being the best tracer in third grade.

Everyone That Mattered Went To Bed

And so it is. South By Southwest is LITERALLY efforting (in countless ways) to end me. There's only 15 ways to end a day. I chose one and did it. Yet I still stand, bloody, bruised, dizzy, and supremely happy!!

Walt Whitman, You Are a Friend of Mine

Bad Grammar Kills

It kills deader than dead. Errant and reckless, unchecked and negligent, indolent and hasty...it wrecks sentences. Complete sentences. These are not of my LOT! Fundamental exchanges ruined by shoddy workmanship, like a rusty knife might distribute. It's hard to prove a point with sloppy indignation.

I goddamn drank a whiskey, in genuine and sincere homage, inside the exact bar where Dylan Thomas drank his liver green and died shortly thereafter, because of my superlative reverance for the English language in it's correct and competent form!!!!!



I...........AM A FAN OF PROPER GRAMMAR.




**And apparently tequila, tonight.

One Was Texas Medicine, The Other Was Just Railroad Gin

I've been exhibiting some rather comfortingly incidental behavior as of late. I've made myself a friend of risk. Like a real man should. I've abandoned certain lines of thought in an effort to find grace. I was told I was a "catch" tonight, and simultaneously told why I haven't been "caught." The people who have it all figured out are those I remain leery of. Speculation makes me laugh in the most secretive of ways. Everybody has an agenda.

Black and White and Read All Over

This isn't a subject I've ever really given credence to on this...thing, but since this is the first real incarnation of any press we've received, I think I'll concede and at least give it notice.

THE DAILY TEXAN

By Mary Lingwall
Daily Texan Staff
Published: Thursday, February 11, 2010
Updated: Thursday, February 11, 2010

Usually, it takes a few years for a local band to get notoriety in Austin. However, only about seven months after its first jam session and a few weeks away from recording its debut EP, Guns of Navarone is quickly gaining an enthusiastic, eclectic fan base.

When Guns of Navarone played at The Parlor on North Loop Boulevard a few Fridays ago, I was struck by the diversity of fans at the show. Amid the plaid-clad regulars of the Austin music scene, I also ran into two college students in cowboy boots and quite a few fresh-faced college-aged women.

When Guns of Navarone started playing, I realized why the band’s fan base not only packed The Parlor to capacity, but also drew from diverse music subcultures. By mixing alternative-country aesthetics with detailed and upbeat guitar riffs, and bass lines of a Southern rock flavor with the songwriting and vocal stylings of Americana and folk traditions, Guns of Navarone’s sound fills a unique — and largely vacant — musical niche in Austin.

Guns of Navarone’s sound is the natural product of a collaborative process between Seth Grueneberg on lead guitar, Cory R3inisch on vocals and guitar, Richard Knox on drums and Dustin Meyer on bass guitar. Longtime friends and former roommates, R3inisch and Knox have played music together since college.

“We did mostly covers,” R3inisch said before starting to laugh. “Well, that was a lie, it was all covers. [And] we have been talking ever since we graduated that this was something we wanted to continue and do our own original stuff.”

Oddly enough, R3inisch’s aesthetic — born out of a lifelong attraction to bands like Wilco, Whiskeytown and Uncle Tupelo — caught the attention of Grueneberg, local musician and former guitarist for local punk outfit Consider the Source. After meeting at a happy hour, R3inisch and Grueneberg began talks about putting a band together.

“Seth kind of lit [the] fire under my ass,” said R3inisch. “I thought he was just bullshitting me, honestly. Until he showed up at my house.”

Even though Grueneberg’s musical background is more in tune with more roguish styles of rock, he has actually become the spearhead of the band’s folksier edge. Guns of Navarone’s occasional mandolin-playing comes straight from Grueneberg’s affinity for the instrument.

“Seth is just such a naturally good musician that he picked [my mandolin] up and started writing these amazing parts with it,” R3inisch said. “When we bring a song in and we feel like it needs something added, we just do whatever feels natural.”

On their way into the studio to cut their first EP later this month, the bandmates are humbly aware of their freshness in such a music-saturated scene.

“Seth has been there with Consider the Source [for all those years],” R3inisch said. “And he has seen bands go up and have their falling. [We know that we] are still so young and new and in the infancy stages.”

But veteran knowledge and green ambitions haven’t given Guns of Navarone a sense of entitlement.

“I just want to play something [like] this,” Grueneberg said matter-of-factly.

“And we’ve got a great guy in our corner with James [Taylor, of Giant Steps Productions],” R3inisch said. “He’s been helping us with shows. And without him, I think that this would have been a much more strenuous process.”

With a full set of songs under its belt, the band is already preparing for a full-length recording this summer. But big plans and growing attention hasn’t changed what these guys really are — a group of friends down for just about anything, from talking about music to offering dating advice.

“You’ll wake up someday, and it will all make sense,” R3inisch said.

But, for some reason, I think his advice is more apt for his story than mine. After toying with his guitar almost his entire life, I think R3inisch is finally onto something.






Rebecca Miller/The Daily Texan

(link to article)