Squeezing water from rocks.

Take this trip with me.
A road,
yellow
lines, black
asphalt racing towards the mountains.
Fifty, sixty miles an hour.
You say something about the shape of my head,
or my shirt, and I’m breathing this air.
In the distance goes,
fox, cactus, rabbit.
In about the span of three seconds we see it all.
Fox chases rabbit, around, three, four, five times.
Our head lights brighten the dessert grounds, sand, time, and bone.
We pass, and rabbit is gone, fox befuddled, lost in grit.
And sitting there the whole time,
belly now full,
is owl.

The Creepster Manifesto

If we can call this an age of reason, or at least an age of trying to make the most reasonable action to your overwhelmed, highly stimulated, hyper sensitive mind, where have our little lungs gone? Where have you taken this breath from? And will you ever have it back? We’re constantly sharing, and with each breath a little spell. How many times do you pull the little weeds from contaminating your little square of ground that holds your health? Or read the same sentence repeatedly till your eyes cross with the speed and weight of the words? Actively watch the holes in your pants grow till they’ve reached the appropriate size of constant prayer? You know exactly why you do these things. All rigorous and heart heavy things that leads to a clear result. With out each and every little deliberate action your entire sanctum will be lost. Diakoptics. People on other pedestals have coined and apply this phrases to their world of cables, wires, and machinations. It is a precise approach to the solution of large-scale interconnected life forms. The music has pulled you, and you move to the beat. No one told you how to do it, you know it’s time to move. Every note has awoke within you a spark, a fleeting universe of possibilities. Over a prolonged amount of time, you have stood up and danced, not for the people around you, but the person in you. You’ve responded to the agogic structure these carpals have crafted for you. Did you make out the words? Maybe we called your arms. And feel free to use them, they are nothing but aging extensions of your body. Can you sit there and actually tell me what the price is on your head? Ten bucks an hour? Fifteen? Why do you do these things? To afford your little luxuries. But we’re here to reopen your eyes. With all our constant concerns even a drop of dew on a single blade of grass is one of a new luxury, and that, in itself, is far more valuable than anything their money could buy. There was this man, who was blind his entire life, and in his thirty’s was told of a surgery, a new a wondrous thing, of implanting a root from a tooth into the posterior chamber of his eye. The plan was to stimulate the Zonual fibers around his Iris so his Ciliary Muscle could contract appropriately so he could see. He told us that when he woke up, he felt his new sight was a vexation. He could now see the hurt in man’s eyes. The graves and prisons of our incarceration, and he struggled with this world. As we all do, he adapted, and loves sight for what it is now, but even a boon can be a hard thing to swallow. We’re telling you cause we know it’s tough, for love as spontaneity is a gossamer thing that will slip through your finger tips. But tend your moss garden, friend. Find the door all your skeleton keys will open. We’re all in it now: creepsters, in over our heads. There’s whispers in the air, they’ve been heard on the Island of Vauatu, with hints of Arabic, seen in practice of the Victorian days of New Orleans. Agogi: the overwhelming word that makes us take ampoules of love potion. An old Creole spell of sorts to create love. Kopto, in greek, means cut or tear, prefaced with dia, through. Diakopi, the flip side of the chicken bone, the spells to ruin love. So illuminate, you are here now. Where has the life in you gone? When and where did you burry it? Talk to us, for our ears are your ears.
Agogi/Diakopi

Shooting a Game of Darts.

Shooting a game of darts. This is the one indulgence of bravado I attribute to myself. From your eyes to your finger tips, this is an immeasurable distance. It lives with the likes of glass to lips, flame to stick. Instantaneous and infinite. It is just the form this little journey takes, none of them are epic or life altering but just a little victory for yourself. Grasped between a thumb and a forefinger you can control the air. It’s with this quixotic view I look at life and all around. Find that trajectory and give her hell, accuracy pails in comparison to swagger. The air is palpable and even the quarks and neutrons have something to prove. Maybe the space you encompass knows just what to call you now. Your best odds are to play the game of beginners luck. The worst you can do succeed in knowing what to do with numbers. As imposing as you want to make it, it’s simple symbols looking back at you. Can you best a twenty? Can a three tell you what to do? It’s simple to take these back and have them work for you. Eight hours in this day, fifteen bucks for the next round. Last it out, take the hit, and you still have one left. One in three. What has this been named? Beginners luck, simple. Two eyes to close, one mouth for breath, ten fingers to cross and sleep. What have we wrought? Beginners luck, easy. Two yellows and a green, your little cocktail for the time being. Aesthetics babe, aesthetics. Make ‘em count, and count they will with a line up like that. Despite size it’s not bad to feel like you fit in. Their weight added to yours and you hit the mark your looking for. Bull’s-eye ; a completion, balanced and full.

Math

I am not these cells dividing. I am not the sum of my fathers parts. I am I am not you by you by you, any times. I am math, and math is power, but power doesn't equate success. This I have learned in all the books, and all the rooms, and all the halls.No, come on, come on, come on,Learn it, live it, love it, fight it.And your all invited to sit down at my multiplication table.Two by four, and six is more, if you haven't learned it yet, fear not be tall. And ten on down are years to be desired. If ten on up are years to be decided. And five three times is fifteen, to the streets. And eight two times is six-teen, when you just take the streets. But if not careful some of those eights can become some zero's. But 18,19,20 friends. It's ok, we all made it anyways. You can get to 21 by seven, or 22 by eleven, but here I stand 23, prime and invincible.

Soft Handed Snide Examination.

She was born on Mother’s Day. It had to be some kind of sign, it had to be. The one day, where among others, that should take the most important person in your life and turn her into exactly what she should be: a god, a infallible, monument of a woman. Uterine walls contracting, life expelling, beautiful miracle creating women, and she was born on this day. But I probably shouldn’t have told her all this on the first date, not even on the first date, while on the way across the park where we were going to catch a show. A light and breezy play, on a light and breezy summer afternoon with out much investment for either person, and I let this, and mind you is an abridged version of what actually fell out of my mouth, enter the situation. But still she let me call her again. More than that she eventually let me put my penis in her. This isn’t a story about that. It’s not really a story about anything more than an afternoon. An escape. Off Jackson lives this little park, verdant and fresh. When the kids aren’t out playing. It’s not so much as the kids ruin the park, the park ruins them. I’m not talking about the nature of kids vs. park I’m just saying it’s where they’ll take their first illegal substance, it’s where they rub their first erections against each other. Ruination really isn’t the right word, but when you need a park, you need one devoid of kids. It’s common physics, objects in motion stay in motion, and with two objects hurdling through this space, this commotion couldn’t be messed with. Oh yeah, my name’s Ester, not a common name these days, but I wear it well. So there I am, in this park off Jackson, living my life, breathing my air and I knew, I KNEW, this is where I was going to make the escape. Was it the newly blooming flowers, fuck what they’re called, they’re yellow and beautiful. No. Was it soft hills that brought this feeling in me? Probably not, they just make me lazy. It was just, just… the need for motion, it’s the same thing as standing in a doorway, pushing with all your might on the door jam, and when you release your arms, they just, they just move. It’s not even fair to call them your arms at that point, you put up the ‘good fight,’ but the doorway wins. Every time. So I’m wearing this silly little hat, sitting on the grass, Jelly Bean style: Knees pulled up, clutched by my still singing limbs and I see her enter the park from across the street and start heading towards me. I then decided to take this moment to roll a cigarette, I hate getting caught unprepared. Well, I’m rolling this smoke as she sits down, silently besides me. This is why I try to be constantly ready: this awkwardness is hers. I try to scrunch my face up, make it look like I’m trying real hard to roll it, trying to get some of my composure back but no dice. “Hey there two shoes, how goes it?” I grunt an answer, but knowing it was a mistake to behave this way I tremble, then clumsily trip over my own words, ‘great, awesome, nice to see you.’ It seems to net a laugh, and clearly I’ve been over thinking this entire situation. I rolled the smoke too hard, and the paper ripped, and I was at this point in my life where I couldn’t even spare a paper. That felt meaningful for a second, and it was something I tried to remember, but I just rolled a new one instead. That was at least fifty a hundred feet ago, we are now currently under this tree. It’s shade is nice, a great gift so I offered it some of my juice and thought about cannibalism. ‘Do you know my name? ’ ‘No,’ I say with out hesitation, no pause, not a single lash batting. ‘But it doesn’t really matter, we’re currently working on each others identities and in the end we’ll figure out what to call each other.’ “But I know your name,” ‘That doesn’t matter,’ I cut her off, I don’t know if there was more coming but that doesn’t really matter either. ‘Your missing the point, we’re forming realities here. Tearing down initial constructs and making our own. This is where you take the initiative to be who ever you want. You ever lied to some one you just met, about your job, your marital status or what not, and to that person that’s your reality.’ Hit that juice, and continue, but about a quarter missed my mouth and is currently rolling down my chin to meet with my shirt, and I can ignore it. ‘You know my name, and I know your birthday. Can we just start here and get to there?’ I made this cute little shrugging gesture, and a coy face, I’m great at these. I know it sounds a little scripted, but when it’s animated it’s all for fun. I still haven’t seen her eyes, we sat side by side for the first while, and I have this problem meeting peoples gaze. Fuck the ‘window to the soul’ shit,’ I feel when you look in someone’s eyes it’s like a promise, or a period, or an ultimatum. Eyes will get you. She also has that Nico thing going on, and I thought once, about trying to meet her eyes, or have hers meet mine but I was just introduced to dark blonde hair. Hopefully soon enough I can sweep it away from her eyes, that’s really romantic right? Sweeping someone’s hair from there eyes? Or do I just really want to touch her hair? I’m still really undecided on this one. From the edge of my consciousness comes a question, and I feel myself answer, but I couldn’t tell you what I said, cause I enraptured wondering if I was really creepy, or a true Don Juan, strike that, I hate Don Juan, a true blue I guess. “That’s so cool your into genetics, but I don’t really approve of your take on end chain telomere’s,” she says as her voice starts raising in pitch and I feel her start to switch into high gear. I thought we we’re going to be talking about fractals and chaos theory, but I roll with it. ‘No, no, you miss understood me, I’m just trying not to get wrapped up in end of life and death, just it all.’ “But I like it all,” shifting weight to the other foot, I’ve finally come to a solution: just do it, push her hair to the side, see her eyes. “We’re predisposed to have this set life, your DNA is constantly cutting off the useless bits of information, every time it replicates, till it hits something vital, can’t copy, we get old and die. That’s my life cycle, and I’m glad to have it.” The acting of moving her hair and looking into her eyes didn’t have the exact effect I wanted, she had just eaten these books and wanted it to get out as hard and fast as possible. But I did see their hazel color, and the little flecks of green that live inside. Little villages on the savannah, forks on the table, mice in the field. They were beautiful, and in turn, so was I. “ Do you want to actively increase your life span? Don’t reproduce until your old. That’s how it’s done. You pass on what keeps you healthy to your children. Even if your supposed to stay healthy late into life, that doesn’t get passed on. Your body will pass on the information needed to fight diseases and effectively beat natural selection. If you’ve stayed healthy into your seventies, then you pass on that information, your amazing little child will have all that stored knowledge in their gene’s. During the Industrial Revolution farming daughters we’re told to start having babies as soon as possible, what was life span then? Sixty, tops. I know hard lives and harder times weighs into that, but can you see what I’m saying? It’s aged controlled eugenics, simply wonderful.” I did a quick hard halt, a left turn and went in for the attack. ‘Why would I want to do that? There’s simply to many people in the world all ready.’ I leaned in an kissed her. We banged out teeth together some, but in was still a great kiss, only about 3 seconds. I licked her lip a little, the inside, the fleshy part right past the red part and took off running. She was shocked and stunned and maybe peeved or maybe in love, but none of that stopped me from running. I tossed my used orange juice container in the recycling and over my shoulder called, ‘you are Ester too.’

Does any one have a three sided coin?

How do you make a choice of great shows? This long and involved thought process always befuddles me, the complex equation of weighing all factors is an interesting one. What’s the crowd going to be like? House or Club? Openers? Cost? Hype? Company? All this comes to mind when forming the excel spreadsheet to accomplish this. This night in question was Mt. Eerie and Why? V. Daniel Johnston V. The Dirty Projectors. Allow yourself to take this trip with me: The Vera project is way downtown, and walking through a sketchy neighborhood late at night, plus Why? causes some(lame) people to flip their shit, nix; Daniel Johnston is so dissociative in his old age, and without some one at my hip prob won’t be the best, nix; Dave Longstreth has endearing rock moves, the three part harmonies are spot on in the record, do they translate live and I can kick it by meself, bam, winner. As I approached Chop Suey, which I am slowly growing to hate, I came across Will, a new friend. Asking him about how he battled such crushing weight of the shows his only reply was, “I’m Fanaticsaurus-Rex,” and to this I lift my hat and a reply with, ‘in the late Jamtastic Period.’ It’s the only way to behave, really. Rafter opens the show, a sweet little band that promises to make this a cute little indie show. They came from San Diego, and are signed on Asthmatic Kitty, so there is some power behind them and with some culling they’ll get their own tour. They are a five piece, playing intelligent, throw back rock. Some soul, some soft talk from the side of the moth, some Unicorn’s likeness, some smooth cuts. Solid set, nice and easy to get the night going, and the kid side of the venue loved it. Me, on the other hand, didn’t love it. More retro white kid rock to eat up the air-waves. I didn’t hate it, could have gone worse, but I definitely didn’t love it. Eye gouging cuteness, plethora of passed around instruments with awkward interactions, all commonplace. But the crowd was good, and the place was filling up despite hearing the reports of Why? selling out and DJ selling tons ‘Hi! How are you?’ re-issued tee’s, soon to be witnessed all over the hill. No Kids, a three piece joining this tour from our great northern cousins, Vancouver, took the stage next. No Kids just had a huge write up in The Stranger in defense of indie rock being to white. http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/Content?oid=557629&ms The article was awash with comparisons to R&B and the Stevie Wonder references of them and Hot Chip. As ego boosting as it is to be talked about with the likes of Hot Chip, your not going to discredit the whiteness of the genre like that. Yes, I can hear the roots R&B of them both, and I like the new juxtaposed take on the style of music. But, no, your not gaining any creditability in the fact that your not going to turn the world upside down with a hit radio, tin-ey chains and snare beat, and some, snide, tongue in cheek, 60’s and 70’s R&B popsters references. I’m not trying to open this can of worms into a full blown race debate of packaged and sellable music, but I’m just mentioning the fact that even the fuckin’ glow polished band Vampire Weekend has a little bit of credit for incorporating African beats and such then bringing it to the mainstream. Let alone bands closer to some of these aesthetics like Dengue Fever or even the DP‘s, which I might get into latter. But for now, here we are, on No Kids. Wearing the uniform: tight, black and white, checkered, button up, Nick Krgovich played his synth with style, invoking Tay Zonday, by throwing his head to the side to grab some air, before releasing it with out the deep bass of Tay, but breathy, sing-songyness of white inde rock, yup. So before I catch more flack for being too judgmental, I want to note that I do like No Kids, they’re just not the champions they are being quite made out to be. I loved the performance of ‘For Halloween,’ great connection to the crowd with dreamy eye contact, and cooing out the “oooo’s.” Nick knows how to put on a show. Equally Julia Chirka is a great compliment and the dueling keys is fun to watch, she may not have the bravado showmanship of Nick, but knows how to fill the in-betweens, while he does his little five to eight note flourishes. Well played, No Kids, but it always sucks when the hype machine gets ahead of you and implements ideas without any of your input. Here though, is what I’ve been eagerly waiting for, to watch Dave, Amber Coffman, and Angle Deradoorian hit those notes. I’m still totally in awe that a ‘conventional’ band has captivated me, and continues to do so. By conventional I mean a two guitar, bass, and drum outfit, but the way this has been arranged is nothing close to conventional. I’m really impressed with the vocal talent of these two little ladies, sporting a blaze orange stocking cap and fantastic retro dress respectively, Angel and Amber are just as GPS accurate with their voices live as on all the albums. I wasn’t privy to see Dave’s semi-famous guitar jerk-off’s, but he did Raptor, making his predatory, larger than life, character even more impressive. His doodling is relentless, but to make a entirely new universe for Damaged to live in, it’s entirely necessary. They played album worthy versions, song after song, of ‘Spray Paint(The Ceiling),’ ‘Six Pack,’ and ‘Depression.’ What else could I have expected, really, they are artists for gods sake, of course it was going to spot on. The total immersion of all different styles to reinvent once envisioned works on so many levels. Just having the advanced knowledge of Imbal is enough to turn heads, let alone putting it in fair sight of neophytes? Spectacular. Keying in on two angelic harmonies, with one vibrato driven voice, that on it’s own would barely be noticeable as anything other than an art-rocker? Hitherto, never in anything as ambitious. I know people I will talk to in the future might question the choice of which show I went to, but I believe that as good as either of the other choices might have been, neither of them would have provided me with so much to think about, and such incendiary topic matter. Why? might have made me wonder more into the nature and future of indie hip-hop, and Daniel Johnston may have proved that a comet doesn’t end an era, but I made my bed, bitches. And I am more than happy to sleep in it, wrapped up in dreams of Dinosaurs, Blacksplotation, and teeth shockingly sweet candy hills.

I Put the Ass in Compassion

Give me some love, do it yourself attitude of the underground rock scene! Let’s hear you raise your voice, lo-fi indie rock! Leave all your reservations at the door, kids hungry for a nice little house show! Here we have it, all of it, a tiny, cramped, studio apartment converted for this show. On a byway off I-5 The Tree House was ready, to find it you have to pay attention and read the aptly placed signs asking you to bang on the window. That’s the first sign of a good show, hidden in plain view and a passerby is always invited. The bed had been flipped up against the wall and as everyone got acquainted as we sat around the room munching on fantastic burritos and a raw pumpkin seed, cashew, raisin trail mix. The sun was setting, and we were only obstentially aware as Jesie announced the show was starting. ‘You mean get off the stage?’ Johnny D asked, as we removed ourselves from two ‘seventies, poly-vinyl, tan-mustard, flower print chairs. I traded my green tea in for beer as World History handed out the peripheral instrument that denote a D.I.T. show. Neal T Campau and Jesie E Menzel have a great take on ‘lover’s in arms’ minimal indie sound-scape while Neal plays and sing his songs and Jessie wailes on the chair legs and any guitar case in her reach. After the first couple songs she realized it wasn’t their guitar case, but that adds more to this feel, even other guitar case souls are not free of feeling it all. Next up, he put down the guitar for the auto-harp and she picked up the flute to play some jams that are common for the Massachusetts lo-fi scene, but new to the Seattle area. As we all rattled our tambourine pieces and egg’ed our egg shakers, we bonded, all of us, we might have well drunk the Kool-aid right then and there, cause we’re all on this ride together. It was a great way to kick off a show, and they ended on a rousing Paula Abdul cover that left us all talking about pop-up video, the necessary nostalgia reference of the night. Only Johnny D of Tin Tree Factory was able to make it, but as a trouper he engaged, mono-y-solo. He set up his full, beat inducing tambourine on the ground, and played us a storyteller, country, finger-picking flare heavy set of his songs. A song about a pen-pal friend who makes the best vegan buckwheat pancakes and how they got kicked out of a bar for being to smelly. You can relate right? You know the rule, to be vegan, you have to be smelly, it’s in the handbook. Trust me. A song about waiting around to go on tour, prompted by an article about musicians waiting. A requested, BA, jam ‘Goddamn Condo’s,’ and some others and he played a good set in a white thermal marked with dinosaurs. I went outside to smoke some cig’s and walked right in on Insomniac Folklore, Tyler Hentschel’s project coming at us from California, or did he say Oregon? But his myspace now say Washington? Is he working up to Alaska? Or is he just going to call ’er quits in Vancouver? I’m not here to answer these questions, I’m here to talk about the songs. So, so far it’s been an acoustic only show, and that’s cool, cause I’m a sucker, but these were not quite full songs, they we’re four chords, with The Crash Test Dummies on top. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking the guy, he’s trying, but the place he played did nothing to help. He’s a very awkward individual, and he did a show and tell section that he even noted was a little to long, and most definitely separated the show into two separate entities. He decided to try to get us back, by ending his show with a couple proclaimed ‘silly’ songs. The final being a nice little sing along called, ‘It’s Only Folk Music if the Folk’s Sing Along.’ Right? Yeah. Close, but a little more time friend, it’ll get there. There was a lot of ‘O’ shaped mouth ‘ohhhh’s’ and stomping, but it will get there, as soon as he adopts his home. One of the guys we all took a shine too as he talked about volunteering at a book fair, was Spencer Sult. He scored a sweet copy of Kelsey Grammer’s memoirs, ‘He pretended he was from Seattle, so it’s gotta’ be a good read.’ He played under his Generifus moniker, a set he pontificated with a ‘I feel bad, following a lighthearted set with songs about the human condition,’ and such, but he wasn’t kidding. He played with sparse strumming of his drop D guitar, some banging on the body, and just some well thought out cuts from a young kid. A kid with promise, highlighted by the fact that he’s opening up the Why? and Mt Eerrie show latter this week. His songs lived in the soft rock of one of the people he looks up too, Phil Elvrum, with the quaking, wavering vocals of Chris Simpson or any Kinsella act. At his young age he’s clearly uncomfortable in his own skin, but as his songs continued he was gaining his steam, and loosening up to show us he knows how to put together some songs. We all had to take some time after his set, but it was mainly to let Eli Damm set up for some electrics. Gazelle was the last act of the night, and well worth the wait. “I’ve been really interested in shoe-gazers, as of recently, and I think this set will highlight that,” Eli was telling me before the show ever got started, I didn’t know if he meant more soft drone of the early double-ots , or basement art-core that Mr. Moore spooges over. Boy, was I in for a shock, Gazelle’s shoe-gazing antics is all London, the M83 vein, but Eli’s incredible mouth talents made this work. I don’t mean vocal’s, but real human beat boxing, and this made it some form of tunes I have never seen before. The really cold, epic, ominous space rock coupled with grounding, grating, miraculous, beat-boxing. It always begs the questions: “how does he think so fast?” “Can he keep that up for a whole set?” “Why am I falling in love with this man?” Answers are as follows: Stoic concentration, yes, and cause he just rocked your world. He played some songs with an old friend, Ross from Beestings, and finished up the set with David Byrne gone shoe-gaze, screamey sing along. You try to stay sober after that; Jesi, Neal, some other attendees and I had to get some wxy on top of all this. Let it all sink in with some good mash. A drink with it’s own direction, for a night that took us everywhere.