I remember this movie being a lot better. And with more suspensful timings. And less thatch-roof cottages. Wait.

Seriously, wait. What has even been happening? I am all out on a limb. A long, swangy limb that’s about to finally snap off. I’ve been immersed in avoidance I think on some level. Reality evasion. I sit, and cry and ask myself, “Why does my reality still require evasion?” Lord, you quantify my reality. You make it worth living.

But seriously. My head is all muffins. Fast times in East Texas. Days into days. I lost all sense of time. I was slapped in the face and kissed on the lips. I was blown back by a consuming fire. Overtaken. The bomb squad member that couldn’t run fast enough. I fly away. They use the same yell in every movie.

A voice cried out in the wilderness and said, “Revival?” But nobody heard. Nobody saw, because it was totally out of their league. The voice became a howl. A wolf silhouettes the moon. Eclipses the Son. But only for a minute. Everybody get mixed up about revival. Go on, freak out. Dance wildly. I see revival in the faces of the innocent. Tiny hands grip cups running over. Spilling blood upon the landscape. C’mon, take a bath.

What is Revival, really? Certainly not something to be planned. Let’s erect a structure to house it. Let’s call it down when the time is right. Certainly God has other plans. Better ones. In reality it’s movement. A spiritual nuke blast. We suckle the fallout like jerky. Manna from Heaven, three distinct flavors. Miracles with tiny eyes. Little pools of life.

I met a new favorite. I wonder what that means.

I’ve been writing like demon child asbestos-breath. Or not. Maybe more like an angular druid-wraith-metallicized skyscraping atom-smasher. —-

Famous last words: “I’m not drunk, I’m only bleeding.” My pen is leaking where the cat hit it. I saw my cat’s nictitating membranes lazily sheathing his emerald marble-eyes earlier. They looked like little cloudy earths set deep in the milky way passage of his coat. Deep, but giant, like the self-important guesses of a pre-scientific artisan. I’m not weird, I’m just bleeding.

People’s minds are pretty much theirs. They do largely what you want them to do, and sometimes we allow things to become scrambled because it works out better for us that way in the meantime. No big deal, just a healthy paradigm change waiting around the corner. Sometimes I think I write because I love the English language. Sometimes I think it’s because I hate it. Language is the bastard doppleganger of the pure idea. Writ is its unseemly and simple cousin who hangs out by the water fountain.

Tell Shaq to give me my precious vitamins back. Hahaha. Seriously, I’m having trouble synthesizing the proper aminos and junk.

I pray I am given an opportunity to use the word “wenchzest” in every day conversation sometime in the near future.

I remember camp days, but I’m not stuck there. I remember mud dabbers carousing in corners, alighting menacingly on lunch bags. Sweat and bug juice. Hurry and get out of the water, Tommy saw a snake.

Like like like like Hey – God is great and God is good, let’s burn down the neighborhood. Metaphoricalically.

Sometimes I feel like writing but I spout nonsense. It makes sense to me, at the time. A thought-attack caused by mingled connections between the interweaving strings of my brains. Like so many soft explosions firing in all directions, a battlefield at dusk, seen from space. If you talk like that, the girls won’t get it. Well, _____ the girls. That’s what the goal is anyway, right? Let’s really liberate the post-modern female. How about you get off your high-horse and off your knees. We told you to wear make-up so you wore make-up. Now we don’t care, but you still wear it. Why? Because if you don’t, someone other female will and that could be you. Should be you. Must be you. We’ve helped breed an insidious thing, competition without prize.

Pictures and ideals suck you dry like an old sponge. A women’s revolution took her from one slave-gig to another. The hidden truth isn’t gender-specific; it’s life specific. Revolute inside. Let Christ extract you to the no-zone. Freedom comes on the wings of His saving knowledge and curious infinite Grace. Thank you Jesus.

God made me. He set my brainz aflame. He set my heart abuzz. He put oceanz in mine eyez. He said, “Thou shalt not LOL but laugh aloud.” So I did, you know?

Get sacked. Move mountains. Confess with your mouth. You wanna bless others? Invest in their dreams. Dream-empathy is the key to Love.

Then, unlock your box and purrrrrr.

Texas style. Big, crunchy toast.

I had a dream the other night that I joined the Kristin Leigh Project as their new drummer (which is ironic, since their drummer was the one who liked our band so much), and then tried to date Kristin Leigh, but she ended up being a huge JAP, and I think she was cheating on me. I don’t know why, I’ve only seen her that one time. At least I’m not having dreams about Eisley anymore. I think the dream was spawned by me trying to get into Imogen Heap, because I for some reason (though they’re really NOT that similar) closely associate Kristin Leigh’s music with that of Imogen Heap.

Another probable dream experience: TOTAL DEJA VU! Tonight I got the “final” (will there ever really be one?) “Don’t Pawn…” mix from Mark, but noticed upon first listen (to check for the minor changes we asked for) that it was missing almost all of the string parts and a good portion of the horn parts. The irony there struck me as severely funny, I wasn’t mad at about it at all, but I did experience hella deja vu right after getting off the phone with him which always trips me out. He obviously just forgot he had them muted when mixing down. I’m getting the song from him tomorrow morning (with the orchestra back!) and we’re going to mix in the orchestral drums we recorded the other day, normalize it, raise the volume a bit, bounce it down and put it out. FINALLY. Lordy, we really dragged our asses on that one, but not entirely on purpose. We’ve all been hit with some difficult stuff lately, I’m really glad we’ve been blessed recently and are going to be able to get bac on track in May. TONS of stuff to track still, but we’ve revamped our schedule a bit to try and combine sessions and limit ourselves on time.

I was reading this article about REM recording their amazing new record Accelerate (my only beef here being that upon reading a certain review I realized just HOW similar the title track sounds to Sonic Youth’s song “Incinerate”, a little hackish, but at least they’re drawing inspiration from another amazing band – it’s not like we don’t do the same thing all the time…) in which they stated that most probably one of the biggest factors in making this record what it was, was that they severely limited themselves time-wise in the studio. Considering their last great album (of many) in my opinion was another “quickly” and disjointedly tracked record (New Adventures in Hi-Fi) I think this works as pretty good philosophy. According to REM, because they forced themselves to get things done and not tinker with a bunch of extraneous sounds, instruments, nitpicky outboard effects, cut/paste, etc. they were able to NOT STRESS out nearly as much and cut a clean and powerful record containing just what they wanted, THAT DIDN’T SOUND MONSTROUSLY OVERTHOUGHT. If you think about it, it makes sense. Hence the schedule change on our end. The last couple months’ stagnancy has been due in large part to us overthinking things and spending too much time “tinkering” with song structures and textures rather than putting ourselves out there and just tracking the darn things. The other day I was talking to Jason who mentioned to me that one of the songs we’re working on sounded stale, and bland, and I thought – it’s because we cut and pasted it together and didn’t just track it right there when our gut was into it. I’ve always been an advocate of writing and tracking simultaneously, I find it always yields the freshest and best results. It’s also eons more quick. So, we’re switching it up a bit.

We also very probably have found our dream mastering engineer, Alan Douches. I must admit, I’m pretty scared about attempting to pronounce his last name, I’m going to have to research it more before I call his office. He’s got it all, though – a sweet catalog of amazing records (Danielson’s Ships, Midlake’s The Trials of Van Occupanther, Pedro the Lion, Ester Drang, The Dismemberment Plan – the list goes ON…) and an affordable price tag, considering our other front runner, Stuart Hawkes, deals in pounds sterling which are worth twice as much as dollars right now… I figure I’ll give Alan a call when we’re about done with the second record this year and just have him master the both at the same time. Lucky for us, we’re all pretty well agreed on taking Kramer up on his offer to mix and produce it. What a nice guy, and what an amazing opportunity! I hope someone ends up liking our music, because we’re sparing no expense and being SERIOUSLY blessed with opportunities to work with GREAT PEOPLE. Next step: blogs and labels. Brandy says she’s going to help come up with solid PR/marketing plan at least for the NYC area. I think she was really excited by our national coverage in Redefine Magazine. I’m just glad we finally have something like that to show her. I love Brandy a lot, and if the opportunity is there for us to be successful, I want her to have a part in that success. We are VERY fortunate to have good, rewarding personal relationships with pretty much everyone we work with, music-wise and business-wise. And I’ll take this time to officially welcome Kim on cello.

This is turning into a novel. I’ve been riding my bike A LOT. I’ve broken the wall and decided that, hey, even though I don’t have a car at this moment in time I still have a responsibility to be independent – at least as independent as possible. And I really deeply enjoy riding a bicycle. Just the sheer fact that it doesn’t use gasoline makes me feel extra good inside. I’m pretty slim still, but my legs are getting buffed out. I can now make the ride between my house and church, and really all over most of Plano in less than an hour and with minimal strain and sweat. Tonight I rode to church to play drums for a women’s conference, then to Marshal’s, then home, then Scott’s, then home, then Scott’s – and I’m not totally bushed. I’ve found that even though it’s tougher, being in a more difficult gear is worth it bang-for-your-buck-wise. I’ll be heading down to my new job at American Apparel via bike, bus, and train.

I’ve decided to give a queue of your favorites another go. I never didn’t like what you played for me, I just don’t think I heard enough of it, especially since now I’m really getting into some of it. I have mixed opinions on The Format, particularly Dog Problems but overall it’s a pretty well-arranged and uber-creative record. Particularly the strings/woodwinds during “I’m Actual”. Freaking amazing and totally unexpected, and yes, a little cheesy and over the top, but that’s the point! Copeland is turning out to be even better. I got Eat, Sleep, Repeat and have been super impressed so far. I love their use of mallet percussion! Very Aloha-ish. Makes me wonder what the hell happened to Macha. Note: get some Macha. Copeland’s drummer is pretty awesome, and isn’t afraid to get syncopated and throw some jazz elements into the mix, which is refreshing for a post-emo-pop band. I’m kind of surprised you like it so much based on that, but I still haven’t heard their whole catalog and I’m not sure which records you do and don’t have. Shiny Toy Guns kind of sounds like a hacked off version of Ladytron, but in the spirit of things did make me bust out my New Order and Human League records. I’ve been on a little bit of an electro-clash kick lately, Chicks on Speed’s 99 Cents and the My Dance EP by Lolita Strap regularly populating my Winamp playlist. Apparently the LS EP is super rare, which kind of sucks, and also means I should probably own it on vinyl. Ultimately, for the kind of stuff you like, which is VERY much your generation in a way, you like a decent slice of the cream of the crop. Or surprising diamonds in the rough.

You know me, though, I’ll eternally wish the lyrical content was less present and more ambiguous, heady, and more of a visual patchwork than a literal story line. It’s the same way I like my poetry; I’ll cash in the pentameter for some free-flowing beat or abstract musings.

When did I become the mass of body parts a lying on the ground?
When did I become the tangle wire in the yard. I’m all rusty these days. Too much rain. prain. pain. Right?

Look out over the horizon, come on and use your hand to make a visor. The land is spreading out like a stain in all directions. Didn’t I once say that before? I forgot. My mind is crumbling away like smartly blown dust from your outstretch hand. Dainty-like. Wafting like leetle meteors to the. What? Where is it going? Nowhere, I guess.

Remember what it like to be a celestial body? Like a comet, we flew through the stars. Exploding. Reappearing as something else. Time marches on. The lone general in the field of carnage. Someone survey the smoking remains. The embers are snuffed out one by one. Can we get some more air in here please? My lungs are filling up.

I am assaulted by images of the perfect house, attached to a mountain, somewhere in Colorado. When I was too young to appreciate it I was shown a vast three-story mansion in construction. It had big trees in the living room. A shaft with a hot tub at the bottom vaulted upward to the stars. The launching pad. My wiry sinews strangle you. Conflict makes for good song-speech.

Come on, get it together. You’re not telling me, I’m telling myself. In a darkened room, breath on the cracking mirror. I tear at my face. My skin is like silly putty. Can I morph and shape it? I’ll unhinge my chest and place this little light inside. And close it up. Big and strong. Foolish and cackling with spittle flying in all directions. I’ll drink the serum you gave me. And forget the meteor crash that woke me up from my thousand year sleep at the bottom of the harbor in Tokyo.

There will be wild accordians and lillies and fields once again. I will move away and leave it all behind. Grey smog poisons me no more. I am in these hills and I breath and eat them because God walks with me. He guides me even when I am a blackened pile of excrement upon the waste bin. I am maggot-filled sometimes. He makes me new, and white, and glowing. His eternity is my reality.

My only major flaws are the following: I have very little faith. I often mistake the lies for truth. I often assume I’m already shit.

When I master these three things I won’t need stars. I won’t need meteors. I’ll only need Him. I only need Him. And so do you. You think reality is real? You think there are necessary stops on the path to destiny? You can have it all if you give it all up. Burn it in the fire, find the gold inside. Pitch it on the ground. Stomp it to death. Beat it like you mean it. And I’m done saying things I’m not at all qualified to say to you.

Take the good that has come your way, not the good you’re placing bets on. All gamblers eventually lose. Watch me take my own advice.

There is an art to letting go. I’ve mastered it.
It’s like vomiting in a way. Painful, and yet, satisfying.
My limbs have been flailing and my brain dead. You can’t live like this. You can’t get anything done.

It’s all about, like, coping. It’s all about, like, not me.
I mean, who am I and why do I think I deserve anything at all? What? Am I entitled to some kind of fantasy/reality after all these years? Certainly not. Reality is what it is, and I am what I am – a bad poet and a lover that loves too much. It’s not wrong to want to be a source of a deep, new love to someone else. It’s wrong to let that desire consume you.

I wish a lot that I am a pool. A well-spring for dipping. A spring just gives. It gives life, in a sense. It has no desires for itself. “Wouldn’t it be nice?”, I think. To be like the quiet, humble spring.

What else can I be besides infinitely thankful?

I am done now.

Check this new book action by acclaimed upstart Jerome Corsi:

A provocative and informed take on the NAFTA superhighway, SPP, and the dreade formation of the North American super-state. Yet another I told you so from us. The album will explain everything. Anyway, get read. Here’s more on the book.
(more…)

I feel like I’m a soft, glowing light. A night light nestled in a quiet corner or a candle flickering next to window revealing silent rain. An undeniable hum of peace spreads throughout the corridors of my heart. Deep, dark, terrible places touched by the orange edge of the glow. The glow. It’s not so bad being alone with myself anymore. It’s getting easier to tap comfort. It’s getting easier to connect with God. Let Him be praised.

My scales are continually falling away in Him. My bad habits are all but drying up and breathing away. Thunder is rumbling in the distance. A future lies there. Just over the horizon. Just around the bend. Change thickens the air. Fall is coming. My mighty oak will shed its leaves and begin again.

I am remembering slowly that there are delicate things in life. Tiny things, beautiful things. Fragile dioramas. Sssssh. Silent snowflakes are descending all around us. Each one holds a spectrum – a kaliedoscope of wonder for us to know love by. A heart mends itself in a secret place. A place of peace and rest, a garden of soft green things where ivy tendrils dangle still.

Sometimes I remember a house with white lace curtains. The light is fresh yellow gray. The curtains billow in the breeze. The music rustles at the piano. Black and shimmering. I can see the dust floating softly in sudden rays of light. The smell of the season tickles my nostrils. I can see pictures of loved ones I’ve never met. I can hear distant laughter. Peace lives here. I recline in it.

Life is never what you want for yourself. Give it up. It’s always so much better. Praise God.

I’m a moonlit pool now. Come and dip your fingers. I’m waiting.

Hey kids, let’s ooze into the forest floor.

Apparently serious vegetarians are all supposed to fast between the hours of 2pm and 5pm says every freaking vegan restaurant in the known area.

Today was an interesting and on some levels deeply disturbing day. I’m not phased, as I get older these are more and more often the kind of days I can rely on. Accidentally watched a very well directed, edited, dare I say “crafted” yet absolutely terrible Rob Zombie movie. Ventured to have lunch with an incredibly attractive young lady. Mexican mini-mall for no reason other than, “They had sweet deals on boots.” Somewhat surreal, not at all contrived, but again – not phased. What’s the deal?

Where was God in all this, I wonder? There, wondering why I wasted my time, spiritually speaking. Quote of the day, “I don’t NOT love Jesus.” Sigh. Bludgeon me, even Chris’ got a girlfriend. And I don’t mean George.

It’s all about having a car, isn’t it? Financing here I come.

Anybody who talks trash about HSA plans can take it outside with me.