Notes on Travel

Gray Sky here looks like gray sky back home

Look at me sitting here, same bedraggled look, my red beard grown out and weeping towards the floor

My eyes still red, little red fault lines splitting my eye into sections, seismograph jagged lines of my eye sing me the reasons for staying up until the birds chirp at 5 am

Look at me sitting here

I've reversed the American dream and headed east, over ocean, onto a little rock in the north sea,
With a figurehead queen on its pound notes, little monarchial line of kings and queens Blood line trailing down and loosing clout
Only to become pictures on the notes she now pays taxes with.

I like the pound note with Darwin on it.
Is it the fiver, or the tenner?
Evolution would never make its way onto American dollars, not if its In God We Trust.

Darwin on the dollar would let us know there's been some hang ups with ours and Gods relationship, little mishaps, inconsistencies with Gods whereabouts as of late.
And honestly,
He hasn't shown us, really shown us, any good signs that he still cares,
Oh God,
A hallmark card would be nice, just something to let me know you still
Want to hold me at night.

But there's nothing,
Jehovah lied and created us not equal
Rather struggling to crawl
From plasma riverbanks to fireside meat roasting sessions where we would acknowledge
Flavor through grunts and little more.

Little more then a grunt. Tiny communication, no syntax, no structure, just bleating and thumping chests, swinging crude tools shaped by stones strong enough and of the right mineral composition to sharpen other stones. Was this paleolithic or some other era named in hindsight.

It's unfair that era's are named in hindsight. Jurassic. Mesolithic. Paleolithic.
Why not age of The Green Fern, or the era of the Flint and Flame?
Something more romantic. Or even less.
Just a tiny grunt to pay homage to times
When communication was guttural and not digital
Not something sent through cell phone towers and wireless router hubs.

Look at me writing tired poetry burnt out and stripped of passion

But I must attempt attempt attempt
All I can do is attempt
I've done it my whole life and one day I even hope to make an attempt at death.
Not here in England but in some dell carved out of an American hillside.


I long for a west I've never seen.

Yesterday I was telling the British and Greeks about lumberjacks
Paul Bunyan and his axe,
His ox, and his towering stacks of pancakes.

They laughed as I told them the story, but I was serious. I told it like it was a true account.

The way one would talked of Puritan's burning witches at the stake. Or of slavery. Or of women stuck in the kitchen in 1945. Or some other tale that took place during the molding of my country.

They say Paul Bunyan is just an old folk story, old tired story passed down through the lines like monarchical destiny.
Little mouths spout strands of Paul Bunyan's life but then say he never really roamed the forests of the north.
That his boots never set tread-marks on the soft soil, soft rich amber soil of riverbanks.

I still say his axe cleaved the divide between the North and South
And when he lifted the flint head of that great axe
Wood chips and dust fell and took the form of Confederate and Union soldiers.
Thats my story and I'm sticking to it.

Look at me sitting here, slurring myths of Americana in my little flat in the United Kingdom and wishing I saw John Henry float by.

eNolcyc

click clack
drop your hearts
here comes the black burlap
and its 27 million cyborgasorbant fibres
sliding round the flanks
to seal off the sides
from the outside in side out
slide out fast and sly
the thought-dream communicade
a final and drying frontier
for cowboys and clowns
like you and her
closed for business
open casket

success!

all stable signs vital
no sizeable loss in signal
no shift in output or consistency
consistently productive
always progressive
stare in awe
at the massive twisting cloud of ones and zeros
spiraling up from planet hive
through the ozone hole
and out of sight
out of minds
a huge pixelated mock version
of the soul you sold
for how much?

We Carry On

At this very moment I am listening to the Portishead album Third and it's so amazing and I highly suggest everyone who's reading this to listen to it as well.

Good day sir!

Good god, I'm drunk again and yelling
My tonight has extended into the early hours of tomorrow
In four hours I'll wake up for work
And wonder, good god why did I drink that last glass?
Rum, coke, rum, coke, gin, tonic, rum, coke, gin, tonic
The rest of rum in my glass, the lime left over from the gin
My good god, I'd be an alcoholic if i weren't so self conscious

Today is now Friday.

Good night, good love, live long, and dream prospects of tomorrow


- kt

written in a drunken stupor with the noises of drunken stupidity as my soundtrack.

Dig Dis Digital Hash in a Digital Burn

some ones and zeroes i recently whipped up
for a new myspace layout

She Was Born Parched and She Will Die Thirsty

(this one is also raw, fresh off the bedsheet press this morning)

Nothing, not even diamonds,
will make her mouth water.

(It was all a dream:
The smell of cookouts and summer on Long Island, New York;
Daddy bringing his little princess on a chauffeured ride for a day of
business in "The City"; everyone was still so small
and seemingly innocent.)

It was so sad to see it all crumble.
The calendar days took their toll on her poor heart.
It was always pumped full of unnecessary things like love and hate.
She was born parched and she will die thirsty.

Untitled 18

(this is really raw, wrote it in bed this morning after not being able to fall back asleep)

The son never sleeps
and the pain drops start to
fall from the sky. And as the gray
creeps through the blinds,
keeping the two bodies of
the bedside lovers flush with cold air,
thoughts stir up about the next house
they'll live in.

A clouded mind creates the illusion of
if a hot air balloon and a human skull
were to have a bastard child.

Hot air rises
Hot air rises
Hot air rises but
there is no place for it here.
The son never weeps.

Election Day

I get way too drunk
and I stick my
finger down my
throat;

Then I look in the
mirror with
tears streaming
down my face.

Ideas, Rants, Raves, Shorts: Finally Something New From Jon Paul Rebello.

Looky looky, your favorite mother-fucker is back! It has been entirely too long but with that comes all sorts of news. I would like to begin this pseudo-essay by expressing how grateful I am for those who did what they did to prevent the extinction of this terrific blog. Without getting into too much detail, everyone pretty much has been hit by some wave of misery, exhaustion, frustration, etc. The great United States of America has been the biggest contributor to my existential angst but what else is new? This guy knows what I'm talking about! This guy definitely knows what I'm talking about! (Sorry, I've been on a Raaaaaaaandy binge). Back to business: As everyone assured me there would be, a light did come at the end of the tunnel in the hilariously ironic form of my first employment in months thanks to....drum rolllllll....Whole Foods! Yes, yes, it is true. Big ups to all the whole fooders who put in the good word for me.


Next up I wanted to see how anyone/everyone felt about me making an AOC account on twitter. I'm not even sure if many of you here use it but it's actually a pretty righteous social networking tool. I even won tickets to the Dew Tour in Boston just by tweeting fueltv an answer to a question about a Boston Local gone Pro Skateboarder. I was thinking it could serve as even more a reminder to check out new posts and perhaps it could be followed by fellow tweetie birds all over the world. It's just a thought so be sure to leave your thoughts, comments, concerns.


As most of you know, I was in Chicago about a month ago(holy shit, didn't even realize that until I typed it) for Pitchfork Music Festival. Firstly, if you haven't been to Chicago you've gotta go. I'm a fool for not taking advantage of my digital camera although I did get some good pictures out of two disposable cameras and a polaroid camera. Here are just a few of the many reasons one should visit Chicago, Illinois: The architecture is absolutely incredible all over the city. There's this almost surreal mirror in Downtown called "The Bean" that reflects the city and skyline and everything in between, depending on where you're standing. Next, our fine guide(Andrew Parece) escorted us back to his neighborhood where we came to notice his apartment was a mere 4 blocks from Wrigley Field. The day we flew in there was an Elton John/Billy Joel Show there!!

Pitchfork Day 1:
I'd write a descriptive account but I basically only made it in time to see the end of The Jesus Lizard's set and Built to Spill. We walked in the gates after a solid two blocks of the inevitable "Whoooo needsumm? Ticketzz, ticketzz here whoo needsum?" crews camped out trying to make a quick buck. After making a quick trip to the beer tent we made a nice spot in the grass and got our drink on while the old crust punks of TJL finished up their set. I say with an air of reluctance in my voice that they were decent. Next up: Built to Spill...which sounds awesome right?! You'd think so but in all of my years listening to BTS this had to be the most lackluster performance I have ever seen. There was the whole "Write the Night" thing going on and they played some gems. But as a whole, the set was very low energy with Doug Martsch only saying softly "Thanks" at the end of every single song. That was the most conversation they made, if any. Oh well, I'm over it.

(I realized I could write forever about this trip so I'm going to just post the highlights, blunders, etc.)

P4K Day Two:
Cymbals Eat Guitars sounded cd-quality live and I definitely suggest checking them out if you haven't already. They started the day with a killer set and it got me amped for the entire day so thanks guys! Next we checked out Plants And Animals(trippy), Fucked Up(Pink Eye is a funny dude and they ripped), The Pains of Being Pure At Heart(HORRIBLE LIVE, LOLZ), Bowerbirds(My first time, they were amazing), Final Fantasy(Dude is talented, he did like 4 violin loops then a piano loop then sang and played live violin), ahhh the highlight of my day: PONYTAIL. Check this band out if you were into Animal Collective's "Feels". I had to get it on vinyl(there was a humongous record fair! like 40+vendors) and came to find out it was limited all green! SCORE! Ate some vegan bbq wingz and drank some delicious 312 brews then went to check out WAVVES, which disappointed me twice but on seperate offenses. Offense 1: Nathan Williams is legitimately 5'4, no taller. No wonder his ego is so big! BURN! Offense 2: In true lo-fi punk fashion, Williams stepped on 3 different pedals whenever he wanted so most songs we so reverberated that you couldnt hear his voice. I guess they played some new songs but I wasn't into it much. We wrapped up the day with Doom(I think it was really him), Lindstrom(Dude got me amped with his jams), and Beirut. Fuck what you heard, Beirut is nice live. They killed it.

(Jealous yet? jkjkjk)

Day Three:
Got there around 3, got mad beers right away, listened and tripped out to the wonderful sounds of Women, snuck in a little puff, then made our way back the beer tent and the A Stage. The Thermals killed it playing old tracks the majority of their set and they even covered "Basket Case"!! We quickly made our way to the stage where The Walkmen were due up next and ran into Robin and his brother Daniel. Puffed another and there they were...I've been waiting my whole life....The Walkmen. They played not too many old ones so the majority of their set was pretty new. They did, however, play "The New Year" and "The Rat." Singalongs were done and good times were had. M83 was next and in typical fashion they had me gazing at madddd shoes. I was gazing my ass off and then BA BLAM! They bust out really old material that's very disco-tech and fast paced and great stuff to hear live. A run to the beer tent and got back just in time for Grizzly Bear. They played a cool rendition of "Knife" and I loved hearing "Two Weeks" live. Their new record rips. As my enery began to dwindle and my buzz began to buzz harder, I tried to remain as alert as possible for The Flaming Lips. Boy do I wish I ate some acid because their actual stage setup is trippy as fuck and they do all sorts of whacky lights and costumes and yeah they fucking killed it.

All in all it was an incredibly fun and worthwhile trip and it was really nice to say I was going to take and trip and put the plans into motion. Who's down to go next year?

It's been a lengthy post so I hope my words will be captivating enough to keep all of your attention. It feels good to be back around. Strange times are still among us but at least some of them have passed. What's more strange is how true the "When one door closes, another opens" proverb is. Life is straight up whack sometimes y'all...don't go taking it too serious.


barely legal and yours truly,
Jon Paul Rebello

Hello everyone,

I got some new music up thats worth checking out, so click the link below

http://www.myspace.com/cmacproductionzyall

-cmac

KEROUAC......

Lowell Celebrates Kerouac—2009
The 70th Anniversary of
Kerouac’s Graduation from
Lowell High School
The 50th Anniversary of
The Publication of
Doctor Sax


Thursday, October 1

5:30 p.m.: “Historic Kerouac Pubs Tour”
Led by Mike Wurm.
An interpretation of some of Kerouac’s favorite “watering holes” in Lowell. Begins at Lowell’s oldest pub, the Old Worthen Tavern on Worthen Street near City Hall and proceeds cross-town to Ricardo’s Café Trattoria (formerly Jack’s brother-in-law Nicky’s Bar) on Gorham Street; then to Major’s Bar on Jackson Street, finishing at Cappy’s Copper Kettle on Central St. Total estimated time: Two hours. Opportunities for volunteer readings at the pubs and en route.
Call Mike at 978-501-1021 for further information.

NOTE: A $5.00 tour donation is requested to help defray costs of the 2009 LCK Festival, and to help keep LCK alive for future years.
THIS IS OUR SUGGESTED DONATION FOR EACH OF THE LCK TOURS DURING THE WEEKEND.

7:30 p.m.: Music and Open Mike
Cappy’s Copper Kettle
Alan Crane, David Amram, and others. Emceed by John McDermott.
245 Center Street.
Friday, October 2

9:30 a.m.: Poetry Competition
Lowell High School.
The Little Theatre

1:30 p.m.: Jack Kerouac: Lowell High School Class of 1939
EssayContest winners will be announced
and awarded, and will read their essays.
Lowell High School.
The Little Theatre

4:30 p.m. Tour: The Merrimack:
Mighty Napo of New England
Meet at the top of Moody Street Feeder at the “Watermelon Man Bridge.” [AKA The University Avenue/Moody Street Bridge]
Led by Roger Brunelle.

7:00 p.m.: Remembering Jack
Some of Kerouac’s Classmates and Friends Offer Recollections of Jack Kerouac
[TENTATIVE: TO BE CONFIRMED]

Presentation and Tour
Cutting Classes: An Account of Jack Kerouac’s Connection to the Pollard Memorial Library During His High School Years.
Led by Roger Brunelle and Bill Walsh.

The two above events will be held in the Community Room of the
Pollard Memorial Library.
401 Merrimack Street.

9:30 p.m. After Hours Event
The Village Smokehouse with Tex MacNamara and His Bucking Broncos. [Suggested donation of $5.00 at the door.]
98 Middle Street.
Saturday, October 3

9:00 a.m. Tour
Mystic Jack: A Tour of the Sites in
“Visions of Gerard.” St. Louis de France Church, Corner of Boisvert and 6th Avenue.
Led by Roger Brunelle.

11:30 a.m. Commemorative
at the Commemorative
Readings from Doctor Sax, and an observance of the 40th Anniversary of the death of Jack Kerouac on October 21, 1969.
Kerouac Park, at the intersection of
French and Bridge Streets.

2:00 p.m. “The Revelation to Ti Jean”
A presentation by Dr. Benedict Giamo, Professor of American Studies at
Notre Dame University and author of Kerouac: The Word and the Way. In observance of the 50th anniversary of the publication of Doctor Sax. Presented in cooperation with the Parker Lecture Series.
Lowell National Historical Park Visitors Center, 246 Market Street.

4:00 p.m. Tour: The Kerouac Places of Downtown Lowell
Begin at the Lowell National
Historical Park Visitors Center.
Led by Roger Brunelle.

5:30 p.m.: Open Mike
Village Smokehouse.
Bring your favorite Kerouac reading or a Kerouac-inspired writing of your own.
98 Middle Street.


7:30—Concert: Jack and Sebastian: A Multi-Media Concert
David Amram
and the New England Orchestra
Eliot Presbyterian Church
273 Summer Street. Lowell, MA

9:30 p.m. Tour
Ghosts of the Pawtucketville Night
Meet in front of Cumnock Hall
North Campus, UML
One University Avenue
Led by Roger Brunelle.
Sunday, October 4

11:30 a.m. Screening of Brent Mason’s documentary
Grave Concerns—A Deadly Road Trip.
Filmed in Lowell during the
On the Road Scroll Exhibit.
Produced by Hemmings House Pictures
Café Paradiso
Palmer and Middle Streets.

1:00 p.m. Amram Jam
Café Paradiso
Open Mike readings with accompaniment
by David Amram
Palmer and Middle Streets

NOISE, SILENCE, AND SURVEILLANCE IN THE TELL TALE HEART!!!! WOOWWWY!

THIS IS A PAPER I WROTE FOR A CLASS ON LITERARY ACOUSTICS. MATT'S LAST POEM REMINDED ME OF IT SO I FIGURED I'D JUST TOSS IT ON HERE AND IF ANYONE IS DOWN FOR A SOMEWHAT LENGTHY READ THEN PLEASE DO.

Kyle Thacker
Eng 347
Professor Cappello
12/9/08

Poe’s “The Tell Tale Heart”: Symphony of Silence and Noise

“True!” This exclamation by the narrator of “The Tell Tale Heart” starts the story (as well as the reader) and immediately draws one into conversation with the text. It seems as though the reader is stepping into a conversation that has already begun, arriving late to the exchange and being meet with a discussion in progress. It is like a musical piece that starts out on an offbeat, unsettling at first but it soon falls into the measured rhythm of the song. There is a strong presence of musicality in ”The Tell Tale Heart.” Most often, it is found in the construction of the text itself, as opposed to the presence of songs or the playing of instruments. The presentation of altering silence and noise creates a space for music to be embedded within the story. In Jacques Attali’s book Noise: The Political Economy of Music, he claims that “music is inscribed between noise and silence, in the space of the social codification it reveals” However, it is more likely that music is situated on a scale next to silence and noise, not simply existing in the space between. But rather, as an entity unto itself. Though, it is not separate from the two, as noted by Attali, there is a strong relationship between the three. That relationship stems from noise, silence, and music having elements of all three within each single unit. Most evident is the presence of silence and noise within music. I would like to explore this topic through out this paper, focusing on the musicality of the text and how silence and noise relate to music, and in turn how these relations affect surveillance.
The aforementioned start of the story, on an offbeat, in mid-conversation, creates a feeling of intrusiveness that isolates and identifies the reader as a witness to the tale, and when the narrator addresses the reader, asking, “Why will you say that I am mad?” (384), it further puts the reader into the position of a viewer. The narrator constructs this relation of roles (observer and observed) by asking to be surveyed by the reader. It is this surveillance imposed by the narrator that situates the story. “The Tell-Tale Heart” is a story about surveillance, the careful watching and observing of a subject, and its relation to the interruption of this surveillance by the unexpected event, often times represented by an unexpected noise.
At the start of the story, the narrator asks the reader to “Hearken! and observe how healthily – how calmly I can tell you the whole story.” (384) This request is made in an effort to remove any questions one may have about the sanity of the narrator. The first paragraph brings to my mind the feeling of being part of a medical team asked to address the sanity of a potential patient for a mental health hospital. In just the first paragraph the narrator talks of a disease that has sharpened his senses, noting that “[a]bove all was the sense of hearing acute.” The request by the narrator to be observed by the witness creates a dual-surveillance that operates within the story. There is the surveillance by the reader of the narrator, and the surveillance by the narrator of the “old man” in the story, who is his master. There is, however, a distinct difference between the two roles of surveilling. First, the reader is at a disadvantage and is only privy to the information given by the narrator. Also, and perhaps more importantly, the reader cannot have communicate with those in the story. It is a passive observation that cannot be broken. There is a gap between the reader and the story that cannot be crossed through communication; in a sense, there is silence that exists between reader and story and the reader becomes a sort of dumb witness, where one cannot speak and has no voice of their own. The reader can only be attentive and watchful to draw significant insights from the text. The reader must be able to draw answers from the text without the ability to ask questions to it. This gives significant weight to what is presented in the text, and how the text itself is presented. The text itself is where the musicality of the story lies
Bernard P. Dauenhauer writes about the polyvalence of silence in his book Silence: The Phenomenon and Its Ontological Significance. Dauenhauer approaches the subject of silence in a deconstructive manner, breaking down silence to show that it is not a singular occurrence but one that has various states that can function and perform different actions. One of the distinct functions of a silence that Dauenhaur describes is called “intervening silence.” Intervening silence is described as “that occurrence or sequence of occurrences of silence which punctuates both the words and phrases of a spoken sentence and the string of sentences which fit together in discourse” (6).
Dauenhauer further delineates intervening silence by proposing that it is made up of two components, both of which can perform two different operations, Dauenhauer says, “the punctuatuing effected by intervening silence functions both ‘melodically’ and ‘rhythmically’” (6). The numerous dashes in Poe’s story seem to be functioning in this rhythmic fashion, initiating a pause and enforcing a silence between two words, or what Dauenhauer refers to as “sound phrases.” The dashes control the rhythm of the story, giving more weight to the words they highlight. Dauenhauer writes on the effect of this type of rhythmic intervening silence in literature and music, saying:

Attention to the rhythmic function of intervening silence, however, refines the view of this way in which silence appears. When a story or a musical composition or a painting is taken as a totality, one finds that the occurrences of silence do not merely punctuate the sound phrases. These occurrences of silence are just as essential to the rhythm of the totality as are any of the sound phrases which make up the utterance.

There are no references to music or instruments in “The Tell-Tale Heart” as there are in “The Fall of the House of Usher,” yet the text itself is musical. The presentation of a musical piece requires a certain type of performance and evident in this story is a performance put on by the narrator. He is in control of the telling of this story much as the conductor is in control of an orchestra playing a specific piece of music. The narrator’s frequent use of dashes to construct the pace of the story is similar to the function of measures in sheet music to signify the right amount of beats to play in order to stay in tune with the correct tempo of the song. The dashes also function as a way to isolate the phrases within them, to identify each phrase within a dash as something distinct and important that should be noted separately from the phrase that precedes it. Daunhauer notes that these dashes create silences and pauses that function rhythmically.
Although it is important to note that these distinctions usually work in tandem with one another in order to create an emphasized sense of the point the narrator is trying to make. “I proceeded –with what caution –with what foresight –with what dissimulation I went to work.” (384) This passage is a good example of the pacing set by the dashes as well as the isolating affect the dashes create. These separate statements, caution, foresight, dissimulation, are separately noted and shown importance by the dashes, yet they work together to relate the extreme vigilance that went into the performance of his actions. This is like the singular instruments of an orchestra that on their own play specific and separate notes, melodies, rhythms, yet they all work together to create a single song.
Another aspect of the musicality of the text is the presence of a repetition of the same word within a sentence, which is frequently used in the story and at first glance seems to have a similar function as the dash. The repetition of a word paces and controls the story as well as draws attention to the word. There is also a musical device that seems to be at play at these points of the story: refrain. The OED defines refrain as “a phrase or verse reoccurring at intervals.”
The narrator uses the term refrain to describe his own actions on two occasions within the story. The narrator says “But even yet I refrained and kept still,” then further down the page he reiterates, “I refrained and stood still” (387). These two quotes bookend the moments before the narrator murders the old man. In a sense these two phrases encapsulate those moments as a singular thing that stands out amongst the rest of the story.
The narrator does not take an active role during this passage but rather examines the situation and relates the tension, the feelings, and the emotion present in this moment. This passive role adopted by the narrator gives light to another definition for refraining, which seems to be the sense in which the narrator himself uses it. To refrain is to show restraint and to hold oneself back. In this passage the narrator refrains and “ke[eps] still.” He is motionless and takes no action and because of this he situates himself within the moment and stays there for a length of time. It can be said that the narrator is held by the moment. This ability to hold, and, to be held in and by a certain instance is the function found within the repetition of words in a sentence. The narrator illustrates this, “I moved it slowly –very, very slowly so that I might not disturb the old mans sleep” (385). These repetitions draw out the sentence so it literally takes longer to read through then it would without the repetition of words and the reader is forced to stay in the sentence for a longer duration, as well as examine the moment and the information relayed in the sentence more carefully. The sentence has the ability to hold and restrain the reader from moving on in the story. In this sense it is like the refrain of a song that extends the length of the song as well as creates a specific portion of the song, the refrain, also called a chorus, which deserves particular attention from the listener and is given significance as its own distinct part of the song.
Another point of the story reminiscent of a musical performance is towards the end of the story, when the pounding of the dead man’s heart grows increasingly louder, the narrator begins to panic slightly, “I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased” (389). The image presented here reminds me of an erratic orchestral conductor who has lost control of his symphony. The “violent gesticulations” like a graceful conductor suddenly crazed, flailing his arms and conducting baton above his head in order a regain control over a rogue orchestra playing there own selections.
The language of this sentence indicates music, identifying his voice as registering in a “high key.” The pitch of his voice here lends evidence to his nervous and increasingly agitated state. Even the word “trifle” has musical connotations as a “literary work, piece of music etc. light or trivial in style; a slight or facetious composition” (OED).
The world trifle also resembles the world trill when written out on the page. One could view the narrator as trilling in this instance, as trill is defined by the OED as “A tremulous high-pitched sound or succession of notes” the narrator is certainly putting on a performance of this sort in front of the police officers who came to question him.
This moment is also reminiscent of the scene in Annie Lanzillotto’s “How to Cook a Heart” where the trained singer is trilling to drown out the voice of the old woman singing in the market place to signify that she should leave. The narrator in this instance isn’t trying to drown out the sound of a worn voice but rather what he hears as the beating of the old mans heart. He is not attempting to usher out an old woman but rather the officers who have stayed longer then his dissimulation could endure.
These readings of music in the text of “The Tell-Tale Heart” would seem to indicate that music is not necessarily situated between silence and noise, but situated amongst it, as something that has elements of both occurrences within it. The silence of the dashes controls the rhythm and pace of the story, while the repetition of select words function like noise, unexpected and slightly obtrusive, the noise created by these repetitions arrests and holds the reader within the sentence, much like a loud noise would hold the hearer in the moment, making them suddenly hyper-conscious of their surroundings. How does this music function with surveillance? And how does silence and noise function with surveillance? In terms of the surveillance by the reader of the narrator it factors significantly. These musical elements are the factors that control and have the ability to manipulate or alter the actual telling of the tale by the narrator. They do not seem to necessarily distract the observer (reader) but the musical elements do have an ability to filter or corrupt the information being relayed to the reader. The surveillance here has been tampered with. But how do noise, silence and music effect the second surveillance being performed in the story, that by narrator of the old man?
As was mentioned before there are differences between the two performances of surveillance in this story. Another significant difference is the manner of surveillance. The reader was asked and encouraged to observe the narrator, however, the narrator is secretly performing his surveillance of the old man. This is a separate connotation for surveillance then the first. It is a connotation that performs the act of surveilling in order to silence. It is within this notion of surveillance that the presence of the word veil in surveillance and the pronunciation of veil (syllabically) when the word is spoken becomes a striking and important distinction. The narrator must perform this action stealthily, silently, and with out being detected. For the narrator it is just as important to not be heard as it is not to be seen. The narrator must stay concealed, to be veiled by his dissimilitude and patience.
In this sort of surveillance, silence is a necessity. Silence is a tool to be used, to be ever enveloped in silence, to be draped by it; the narrator is protected by silence. In Dauenhauer’s book he says that, “silence is itself an active performance. That is, silence is neither muteness nor mere absence of audible sound” (4). The narrator repeatedly conveys this notion, the active silence, as he chronicles how “stealthily” he would watch his master at night.

The narrator says
And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it –oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly –very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man’s sleep (385).
Through out the story there is a strong relationship between darkness and silence and noise and light. These relations underline the ability that silence has to conceal and noise has to reveal. The saying, “to keep something in the dark” is a way to say to keep something secret. To “shed some light” on a subject is to explain and explore it further. Silence in this story functions with surveillance as a way to keep the narrator hidden, so that the old man of the story does not know the deed that is desired to be done by the narrator. It is always the unexpected noise that corrupts and sheds this veil of silence. When the old man is startled from sleep it is the noise of the narrator’s thumb slipping on the tin fastener of the lantern (the source of light) that causes the old man to jump and call out “Who’s there?” (386). It is this moment of the story that emphasizes another ability of noise during surveillance, other then the ability noise has to reveal. The unexpected noise causes the roles of surveillance to be reversed. Once the old man notes a foreign presence, he becomes the one who is surveilling. The narrator now has to be even more cautious, as he is being watched and listened for. The reader can see how the roles of surveillance are switched in the time after the noise is made “I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; -just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the dead watches in the wall” (386). This moment also exhibits an almost uncanny action of listening for silence. The narrator is not so much listening for sounds to tell him the position or state of the old man, but rather he is listening for the lack of sounds to tell him it is safe and he has gone back to sleep.
The whole performance by the narrator of this story has the sense of a song to it. There is the slow build up of the music, introducing you to theme and all the facts of the song (key, tempo, mood), as the narrator gets closer and closer to his master the tension tightens until the narrator is almost revealed by the sound of his lantern. After this, there is a lull in the song of the tell-tale heart, the narrator sits quiet, its is the breakdown that proceeds the crescendo of action as the narrator jumps into the room, smothering his master. As I was reading it I could almost here a sound track of orchestral music running right along with the story, like the accompaniment to the tale of Peter Rabbit, only much more sinister and dark.
The pacing and telling of this tale creates an atmosphere of music that greatly affects the reader. The performance put on by the narrator as conductor controls this story. The noise and silence found in “The Tell Tale Heart” certainly argues for the importance of each and the roles that they can play within the surveillance of a subject. The cautiousness exhibited by the narrator during his surveillance of his master is crafted so delicately, that anything he gained could be lost in an instance. The sound of the heartbeat itself is musical, referred to as a “tattoo,” which is a military tune that is played, calling a soldier to bed. The pounding heart of the old man is also described as a military drumbeat that calls the narrator into action. It would be interesting to find out what type of musical beat the narrator finds his own pulse gives off, what does his own heart beat call him to do?
The use of silence and noise by Poe creates a musicality to the text, a rhythm and pace that is often off-beat, a syncopated telling of a story. The way the story leaves off it is like a song that ends with a dissonant chord, leaving the piece unresolved. The silence that is the final punctuation of the story leaves the reader wondering. What happened to the narrator? From where is he telling this story? Jail? An insane asylum? Poe does not give in and tell us, he lets his song end on the bang of drum and fall quickly into silence.

gone, street-sweeping

rushing water runs around
rustling leaves on city trees
in a deep velveteen symphony

a clanging pipe rarely tolls,
the soft struck bell of a lifeboat
searching for survivors
where none exist,
only the ever-present hum
of peach fluorescence;

60 whole hertz of pseudo silence
to send me running
through magnetic fields
leaping and bounding
like The Sound of Music 2k9

silence exists only in the mind,
and scarcely there

here,
there
is none

here,
we live like windmills;
our hearts at the center
bodies spinning round and round,
arms and legs out
at the wind's will

here,
we live like rusted segments
of a serpentine machine;
oft oiled but always thirsty
screeching arthritic
and billowing black clouds
to drown out the sunshine

"At least we are safe
from the damaging rays."

hideous snake
grind your bare belly
across the jagged stasis
and slither straight into the furnace
you are disposable.

We See It Now

Limp figure, disfigured, head resting in my palm like serving thoughts
On a platter, I watch popular opinion scroll across the bottom of my television screen
In neat font and the syllables are just sounds,
Sentences we can wrap ourselves in;
Fortune Cookie Patriotism, slogans and bringing back the dead
Old fears of socialism, communism, McCarthy is whistling in the grave

We see it now, Murrow, We see it now, Murrow, We see it now.

Run your tongue across the silver side of a blade and hold the blood in your mouth
Till it bubbles out, taste what it is to be alive
Now let that blood drip out, and fall from you in that hourglass logic
It passes and soon you will.

A scandal today is little more then a blowjob, a finger fuck, missionary, reverse cowgirl, and vacations to Argentina
Senators suck each other off on the senate floor while Bankers toss bills down on them,
Then recline on top of plush bailout euphoria

Escapism is that blade against your throat.
Revolting is that blade against their throat.

Hope was picked up by many hands but the weight must have been too much to bear
It dropped, shattered, and the shards of those speeches are now simply jagged talking points

And when you choke on those talking points
You’ll have no doctor to see, no insurance to cover, no lifeline to hold.

kt

upon tasting the horizon

post traumatic mess in order

cancel that call
destruction is imminent
the view is fantastic!

dirt bombs and pillows
piled high

spilt milk
split lip
cleft eye

crooked fingers
cold cooked dirt

worm soup
worn clothes

tribute to
the ever faithful

pray homage

collapse is construction

in death,
cleanliness

all in all
beginning and end
one in the same

Cool article

The Enigma of the of the 23 year-old baby

Travel Piece on a historic cemetery - pretty cool, or so I think.

A Dead Man’s Guide to Flag-Waving
As the 13th state established in the Union, Rhode Island offers history as readily as valets offer to park your car. Most historic sites however, don’t involve a tip or the threat of dented fenders and cracked headlights. This is a good thing. The chance of learning and in a sense, experiencing the history around you can lead to certain knowledge and an appreciation for what events have occurred to help form your current surroundings. The scholar-approved site Wikipedia, lists East Providence as proud owner of at least twenty-one historical sites. Not bad for the fifth largest city in the country’s smallest state. One of the listed sites is the Ancient Little Neck Cemetery. The designation of “Ancient” may be a little overzealous on the part of whoever named the cemetery, but people have been buried there for quite some time. The earliest settlers buried there were of the first Europeans to take up permanent residence in Uncle Sam’s neighborhood; I’m talking pilgrims. Bodies have been set here for decomposition since as early as 1662.
Ancient Little Neck Cemetery is nestled in a wooded and undulating area, tucked in against the shores of Bullock Cove. Oak trees and pines are scattered in dense clusters throughout Little Neck as they jut up from atop hills and peek up from dells of the sloped land. The foliage offers seasonal shelter to the headstones and grave markers. Their acorns and needles stud the ground with soft orange-brown, old embers faded atop the green mossy land, littered amongst the weather-beaten gray gravestones. Where Narragansett Bay meets land at the southern end of East Providence, it forms Bullocks Cove, and the cove wraps around three sides of the cemetery, forming a peninsula. Narragansett Bay was the life source for most in the area at the time the cemetery came into use. Shellfish populations came to dwindle as they were found to be a viable resource for food. It seems eerily fitting for those same waters to wash up against the shores of burial in the same pendulous rhythm in which they drew food and sustenance to the cove’s edge.
The cemetery itself isn’t very big, only 12.3 acres. Though, there has undoubtedly been landscaping and grooming done, it seems more like the maintaining of land as opposed to its alteration. The area emits a rogue and feral atmosphere; it’s hard to imagine it has changed much from its origins in 1655. Little Neck looks untamed and truly rural, as if the only human presence were the deceased. This is an unfortunate observation as it lends itself to the thought that perhaps the only way a human won’t destructively interact with a natural environment is if they’re already dead. It’s a morbid tradeoff, the decomposition of a body instead of the demolition of woodland. It’s unfortunate that this quality of unspoiled land seems to be anachronistic and unfamiliar, I find myself wondering why respect for the dead is a singular reason for the preservation of land, what of respect for the living? Why be bent on notions of preservation for the sake of the past, but feed the future’s environment to the proverbial wood chipper? I suppose I should just be happy to be able contemplate the treatment of life amongst the dead.
The edges of the cemetery are its lowest point, especially its eastern edge. The land slowly rises up to the center, where most of its graves are located, it’s highest point holds up the oldest of the graves. Perhaps community and family members had a logic of altitude in the geography of burial plots for loved ones, the higher up the closer to God and the shorter the ascent to heaven. The physical land offering up the human spirit to God.
From the tops of the hills the waters of Bullock’s Cove can be seen. These are the waters fished by the early settlers, as well as the Wampanoag American Indians who first culled the waters and left the earliest imprints on the land, well before those European Settlers even knew the land existed and realized it would be a nice area to settle down in and slowly destroy through urbanization. The Wampanoag’s were the original settlers on the land where the cemetery now sits, and they have an even more distinct connection to the cemetery.
The first person buried there was John Brown, Jr. The son of, (drum roll please), John Brown Sr.. The elder John Brown was the orchestrator of the deal with the Wampanoag Indians that established the land as being owned by Brown and the village of Rehoboth, the American Indians relinquished their land to the settlers with this deal, signed in 1645, and Wannamoisett became Rehoboth.
Other famous resident of Little Neck are Elizabeth Tilley Howland, a passenger on the Mayflower and original settler of the Plymouth, as well as Thomas Willet, who became first Governor of New York in 1665. In 1913 Willet had an interesting memorial placed at Little Neck in his honor. It is a rock. Well, not really a rock, more like a boulder. A plaque adorning the bottom of the boulder notes that it weighs 27, 500 lbs and that it took one boat, sixteen horses, and twenty men to get it to its, ahem, final resting spot. The large rock seems big enough for a statue to be carved out of and the fact that it was left in its original boulder form made me wonder how great a man Willet really was. Maybe Willet had crossed the sculptor at some point and upon realizing the work he was undertaking, the sculptor said, “to hell with his legacy” and left the boulder as is, forgoing the plans for an eloquent statue of the Guv’na. This is only scholarly speculation though.
One of the plots I found myself most interested in was a family plot. It was set on that “ancient” peak, sectioned off from the public by speckled black iron rods set on coarse stone posts, about waist high, placed there to deter eager tourists from touching the fragile and flaking slate headstones but not interfering with the observation or study of the stones themselves. The surname of the family buried was Medbery and the plot held six pairs of head and footstones. The footstones were another interesting feature of the aged graveyard. They marked where the coffins started and ended, the headstones were significantly shorter than the headstones, short enough that longer tufts of grass reached above them. There were no markings or engravings on the stones, they weren’t shaped evenly or sanded down to a smooth finish, rather, they were jagged, toothed slabs of stone, slightly curved in a misshapen and decrepit mimic of a headstone. Looking down from above, the heights signified by the placement of the stone sets seemed as if the Medbery’s were an extremely short family. To test it out, I lay next to the outermost grave, belonging to Hezekiah Medbury (this name change is not accidental), and it was almost a perfect match. Lying there, looking to my right at the grave stones, myself against the ground in a burial position, was strange and eerie, I was half expectant of arms grabbing me and dragging me to hell like some campy horror movie and half amazed that the ground I was on also housed what remained of person’s that lived through the Civil War. Not just the Civil War, but also the burial spot of fifteen soldiers who fought the Revolutionary War.
Amongst the parents, Hezekiah and Deborah, whose names were Medbury, were four of their children, whose surname had been changed to Medbery. Supposition on that is all I have, perhaps it was a change between the name the family had in England and the name or new identity desired in America. The thing that drew me to study these graves was the dates of death of the four children, all young, the eldest dying at the age of 10, and all passing on within the same four day span between February 26th and March 1st of 1833. The youngest child died at 1 year, 5 months, and 5 days old. The exact age of death, down to the day, was another feature of the older graves, one not seen today, or at least rarely seen. I wondered to myself what must have been the cause of death for all of these young children, surely some tragedy had struck, was it fire? Accident? Most likely it was disease or infection. In 1833 a common epidemic was Cholera and that seemed to be the most likely case. Unfortunately my research fell short and I couldn’t find out for sure the cause of death for the children, nor could any other information be found that would allow some insight into the kind of life the Medbery’s led. The only information that lent itself to any sort of understanding of their life was a small tidbit found concerning the father, Hezekiah, who was reported to have been a dedicated member of the local church, and held the denomination of Deacon. The graves of the Medbery’s were faded and worn. Their lengthy biblical passages mostly illegible, inscriptions reduced to slight imprints, smudged into the stone like ink trailing on wet paper.
Ancient Little Neck Cemetery isn’t an out of use cemetery. Though it’s most likely that the cemetery’s plots are full, there are newer graves, plots requested years earlier or family reserved plots; there are graves from as recent as February 2009. That grave may have been the creepiest to observe, as the new grass hadn’t yet grown, dirt and loose gravel still outlined the space where the hole had been dug. If it had been a windy day I’m sure dust from the plot would have been swirling above it in a mimic of paranormal activity. Accidentally stepping on the fresh grave I left an imprint of my shoe in the dirt but quickly brushed the Nike swoosh away as to avoid any accusations of blasphemy or disrespect for the dead. I also brushed the underside of my shoes off to avoid having to walk around with grave dirt on my sneakers all day.
After returning home from my cemetery excursions I thought I had seen all I needed to see in the graveyard. But through talking with my mom I found out that my great grandfather and great grandmother were buried there. I hadn’t had the chance to meet my great grandmother, she passed away in 1955, but there was an old yellowed Polaroid picture of myself as a young boy, a very young boy, being held by my great grandfather on my grandparent’s couch, he was cradling me. I always felt a connection to him through this picture, there was a love visible there, something that always caused me to think of him warmly, kindly, Ozzie, he was great-grandfather and he was buried here along with these historic figures. He was part of a distinct history himself, a veteran of the First World War.
My parents couldn’t recall where he was buried so it gave me the opportunity to speak to my grandfather, a native Rhode Islander now removed to Florida. Though having moved to Florida over ten years ago he was able to recall exactly where his father was buried, a steel trap memory, teeth set firmly into detail and specificity. With clarity and explicit acuteness he directed me to where the graves stood. They were set in the northeast corner, further away from the older graves and in flatter, grassy area. A great oak stood imposing to the west. It’s height wasn’t its greatest feature but rather the way the branches ran from the trunk, dispersing at several angles and looming across the graveyard as if the tree intended to stir the waters of the cove at the southern end and draw life from it as the fisherman had before. Clovers surrounded the grave of my great-grandfather, Osmond Harrington, who passed away in 1989, two years after I had been born. My dad recalled bagpipes being played at his funeral and I thought perhaps this is why the clovers had been called to life here, birthed from the shrill melodies played by the pipers, music said to be an aid for plant growth. Clovers in my mind were always a sentiment of Irish lore, four-leafed bearer of luck. The air of bagpipes in my mind is always pushed from Irish lungs, it made sense to me.
The sense of history I gathered from visiting Ancient Little Neck Cemetery stuck with me long after I left. It imposed a new view on me. The way I had first approached the preservation of this land, the unchanged and in turn undiminished quality of it, was originally cause for me to view the present day disregard for natural landscapes in a negative light. The scope of history held by this cemetery caused me to change my view. Little Neck contains a history which spans events that occupy whole sections of social studies and history books, events that helped shape and construct our country’s foundations and gave the insight necessary to write documents that our country now holds itself up against as a barometer of values, a history looked upon both in stoic reverence and patriotic ardor, eye witnesses of events all buried beneath the ground on which I had stood, accounts and testimonies buried with them, only to be told through the drawl of history teachers and sequenced in chapters of books, laid out with a known end, story book accounts of the mettle that brought this country through divisive times like the ones of today, where any sense of stability is held in shallow pockets, vulnerable to becoming jarred from them and lost if another bump is hit. The preservation of the cemetery became a source of pride for me; I looked at it as strength, an endurance and spirit that hadn’t been defeated. I am far from nationalistic or patriotic in the sense it has been used recently. Patriotism recently becoming a term perverted and used as a tool for political chastising and not as a source of pride and community, but this cemetery gave me a sense of pride for my country, more accurately, my countrymen. Oddly enough it was a burial ground that gave me this pride. It wasn't a pride for country or state, but a pride in the ability for the perseverance of people. The fact that it still stood unchanged after all these years was in my eyes, a testament to fortitude and strength, represented by the graves of those who had endured and took part in the shaping of this country.

VIA PREFIXMAG.COM.......

The Jimi Hendrix Experience: Roadie Reveals Hendrix Was Murdered

"James "Tappy" Wright is trying to shill a few copies of his book Rock Roadie by letting loose with one of the book's most choice tidbits off gossip: Michael Jeffrey, Hendrix's manager, made a drunken confession of murder approximately a year after the rock star's death. The idea behind the dastardly deed was a basic insurance scam. By staging Hendrix's "accidental" death with an overdose of barbituates and red wine, Jeffrey was able to collect an insurance policy on the artist and prevent him from seeking new management. Though the charges would seem to me mainly for publicity, particularly when considering their age, there have always been questions about Hendrix's untimely demise, ranging from a phantom 911 call to the questions of surgeons who tried to revive the guitarist. Whatever the cicumstances of Hendrix's death, however, one certainty is that exploiting it for profit at this point is ghoulish and a little sad."

PREFIX

DAILY MAG (FULL STORY HERE)

NONEFUCKS

-tony deen

It's been a long time

Dear Fellow Strugglers,


It has been a minute and I have a minute so here goes! Since my last post there have been a number of things contributing to my lack of input. However, I'm starting to feel good again and I hope with that comes ideas and progress. For all of you trying to expand you iTunes or hear a fresh new tune I'm going to try and compile a list of what I've been listening to and y'all can do as you please after that.


Deerhunter- Microcastle
Camera Obscura- My Maudlin Career
Cymbals Eat Guitars- Why There Are Mountains
Dan Deacon- Bromst
Phoenix- Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix
Bon Iver- Blood Bank
Mercury Rev- Deserter's Songs
Black Moth Super Rainbow- Drippers; and Lost,Picking Flowers In The Woods
M83- Before The Dawn Heals Us; and Dead Cities, Red Seas & Lost Ghosts
Passion Pit- Chunk of Change
Wavves- Wavvves
The Appleseed Cast- The End of The Ring Wars
Beach House- Beach House
The Field- From Here We Go Sublime; and Yesterday And Today
Nickel Eye- The Time of The Assassins
Grizzly Bear- Veckatimest
The Walkmen- You & Me


Those are just a few. The library has been growing each day due to hearing from friends in other places sending e-mails about up and comers around and country. Hope everyone else has a minute or two to post something, anything up. Also, check out dan's blog...it's pretty boss. Lots of cool stuff that get the brain and eyes feeling good. Don't let the rain get you down strugglers. The sun will shine a new light soon.

Best Wishes from Mt. Struggle,
Jon Paul Rebello

might interest some of you:
http://boston.craigslist.org/bmw/vol/1193603340.html

plz reeeed

http://nfxgvn.blogspot.com/

Valse

someone drop the curtain on these cats
all the way down to the ocean floor
drown out the dark
and flood the whole world with an iridescent flow
that the mechanical masses might awake
to a new dawn
and say in (almost) unison

   today we are free

not in any sense of the word
raped time and again
bent and twisted like hands on a clock
reaching backward to reclaim minutes old and stale
or forward to those not yet past

but in a sense of senses
keen to the surrounding currents of air
to the feeling of the earth,
soft and bare beneath shattered layers of
concrete crust
             cust
       cussed
 cursed
the worst
  the worth
   the want
  the scales and measures and
the very weight itself

but memories
blurred to the point of obscurity

 figures in fog

    dancing

ESAS <3

DOWNLOAD THE LATEST FROM ESAS RIGHT HURR.

Check Check it

It kinda looks like shit, but looks past the lines and stuff it had to be converted so that it could play online

Rubbernecking

I pull cover over, cull eclipse of dead skin I collect
Hand scratching at neck nervous tic
I forget touch of nail to skin
Could my self be caught?

Ratchet eyes twist to see the next moon floating across the sky curved
Oblige words disconnect and connect swoop pitch and crush
Tulips from nostrils, obstacle of forgetting, fragrance drift open
Vacant slits again you find your way in me.
Sick Bitch you gnaw at me bone and raw
I lean on you, pale, the cause
Myself in need
You turning me.

kt

sometimes I want to create things that are ugly ana uncomfortable and sometimes I want beauty. its balance. sometimes uglier things are beneficial, more beauty there actually, more beauty in becoming something its not.

Eyes on the Ground

Eyes On The Ground

My only spurt of energy spent by noon,
I sloth about in the dirt of what hopes to be a
Vegetable garden by late July,
In May it’s a barren womb,
(Though we call it the garden nevertheless)
The patch is studded with soft gray stones,
Their edges’ curve, slight and sloping
Their ends poke out of the ground like thumbs
Of hitchhiker corpses looking for a ride from
Here to There, I lounge among the appendages
Of dead tramps and dream of the growth to come
From a careful cultivation, elevation of culture
Raised on grain, God and a strong work ethic

In this garden, I only think about the way others think
I can be an expert on experts and know
Nothing of how to raise a seed or myself
I can reprimand hands of farmers who
Hold arms and pitchforks above their heads as they
Slip faded brown points of their shoes beneath
The dirt of plowed land to make you believe they’ve
Grown from the ground themselves,
I could write my own Thinker’s Almanac to predict
How reliance on the same old soil will leave a plot unfertile
As if salt pillars had crumbled and coated the earth
I would tell them not to plant seeds and waste water
On irrigating old ways of survival

I would do all of this but I really have no sense of anything at all.
It’s only within this allotted patch that I pluck leaves of certainty.


kt


(I like seeing these mini-Dillinger Escape Plans of creation from everyone's thought vaults....md,jp,pm....where the rest of ya'll at, still lockdown on msnbc?)

Soon, Blood

This materialized itself as some sort of foreboding prophetic plea to my supposedly Brooklyn-bound brother last night, while approaching my 41st sleepless hour. Maybe some of you will understand it more than I think he has yet to.

I usually don't like to pre-define meaning in any of my expressions, but feel it may be necessary in this case. To clarify the last stanza to most of you who did not grow up in Pawtucket; the word itself translates roughly to "place of rushing water". The city is regarded as the birthplace of the Industrial Revolution (to which we can all attribute our current state of existence as a number, where our only measure of value is that which is placed on our efficiency in production and consumption). The very first manifestation of this revolution was the construction of a dam across the Blackstone river at the place of rushing water; the dam which would provide the power to turn the gears of Samuel Slater's mill, and in effect, those of industry itself. Gears which today have finally begun to grind...
...........


Soon, Blood, it will be all too clear
where the True and Meaning
have chosen to lie their tired heads
and have their hand in fate and future,
while the throngs of feux-bots trip over eachother,
spinning round in awe and envy
at (once again) having missed the starting gun.

I sense the hammer,
cocked and leaning,
for I am the trigger

Flee the cutting edge of the blade for the trailing,
and slice not through the flesh and bone of stagnancy,
but merely hold on in desperation as the sword is swung.
In dust, real Revolution has begun again
and I am again at its very heart,
The Place of Rushing (thicker than) Water,
and this time will see the dam broken


MD
............

I feel very strongly, that there is something beginning to happen here (where we are). Greener pastures are neither existent, nor relevant. The time is now. The place is here. We all must become the trigger, and pull ourselves together.

As a sidenote, I posted the first completed piece of my solo efforts, featuring the talents of miss Raskin on Rhodes Piano.

CHECK IT OUT
............................

Rant #11874

(This rant was written the day after I fell on ice walking to meet all who went to seaweeds that cold night for I think it was andrew's birthday.)


My luck is shit. It's cold as hell out and I've been going mad quite some time now. My brain feels like mush and I can't remember anything and my memory is that of nursing home. I hate myself. Anyways, three days after the arrival of my new phone came a snow storm that left ice on the ground for weeks and weeks.

"Hey man, are you coming to Captain Seaweeds?"
"Yeah, I'm seconds away."


Lights of cars cast my shadow in front of me. Because of this wretched snow I was forced to walk on the main street and because of that I'm forced to fight for my life every time I hear a hole in a muffler or smell some burning oil. Just like that, a block from the bar where my lips could taste every ounce of liquid ready for consumption, I ate shit. (For those who are confused and think I'm some creep who gets off at the very thought of fecal matter, let me defend myself by giving a brief history on eating shit because, after all, everyone's creepy):

Example 1. Who:Grandma What:Eating shit on icy stairs
When:Around christmas time Where:First Floor, Union Street
How: Lack of salt + on/off rain sprinkles = Oblivious old person eating shit. (Sorry grandma)

Example 2. Who: Me What/How: Karma biting me in the ass when imitating how funny it would be if someone slipped backwards and fell on ice
When: Sometime Where: Some street

I have no history with anyone. I only have a history fighting myself, no one else gets credit. I'm trapped in this god damn house again.

Uknown Soldier

because I took a chance
the good news for everyone is
one pure thought:
a heavy ghost made in the dark.

strugglers,
I am laying flat on my back,
the concrete's cold,
my brain is falling back into place.
Night gets nasty and depressing,
like people. And the only thing left to shine
is the black under my eyes.



*This is just a topic/idea I've been toying with. Desperation, disconcert, things falling into/out of place, vulnerability, blind faith, lost wisdom. I'm trying to re-discover a tangible world, with tangible people, and pure thoughts. People risking reputations and not caring about the results. How it feels to go through a whirlwind to get where you are and have tons of ideas but still feeling aimless. How you come out of that fight with a black eye and sore ribs but a new outlook on how simple everything can be. Addressing the obvious but running with mysterious intentions, however good or bad they may really be.



thanks to all
jp rebello

Food for Thought

The Mix-Up

so i am going to re write this script and finish it, i would like to work in everybody some how(basically the original cast and the feature cast) as cast member with lines....right. it would be cool to collaborate with everyone and make a legit gang/heist/scheme/ridiculous comedy. so i am dead fucking serious about this, its going to happen and im filming it in the summer and if you want in....well...get...in....lol enjoy

embers

to tell you the truth,
there is none

only embers

orange and ascending
until they cease to glow
and begin their slow dance

home

gray to brown
brown to green

all is as it should be
(and none as it was)



md

GREATNESS ABOUNDS!!!

I'm sure most of you have heard by now, but Formal Action AND Roz Raskin and her fabulous Ricecakes have both managed to qualify for the
FINAL ROUND of WXIN's Rockhunt .

THIS TUESDAY at FIREHOUSE 13 in Providence.

First place gets somewhere around a G. (holler)
So yeah needless to say, COME ROCK THE FUCK OUT THIS TUESDAY AT THE FIREHOUSE!!!!


See ya there. Bring your dancing shoes.

and your drinking hat ;)

The Nile

"Neilos"

we are born with a chance,
and I'm gonna have my chance.

When the sun came up
the lights turned on
and when the glow burnt out
the shade covered all.
A contact high, rediscovered
only through losing it all.
(don't let them suffer)

Like a current of fresh air, bring
back the good times crowd.
Take off my old clothes and
float them downstream in a suitcase, and
run with light feet.
(don’t let them drown)

Send no search parties to the bottom,
they will rise above! Rise above!
Rise above my head and baptize what's buried inside!
Let the holy rain fall on skull and find my heavy shoulders,
And renew my legs, columns near crumbling.
(they've had enough)

It's a haunting fairy tale, the water;
that's as miraculous as it is unsettling.

-J. Rebel

en response

"thin in thick" !!!

are synapses of affliction not themselves the greatest of all Pleasantries?

the string tied round finger
to remind that you are alive
within the spider's web-
with arms and legs and heart
to push against the sticky strands

to struggle towards the edge
or toward the center,
or tear the strands apart?

FRESH OFF THE PRESS AND FRESHER THEN A NEW PERM

Morning of a Sun

Home again for the summer, I mimic the seasonal
Change; a warmer shift in temperament leaves

An extended lightness that allows me to be thin in
Thick, soaked sponge air of humid

Summers, myself in bed, past noon, Saturday
And I feel more free; my lack of responsibility

Sparks a lack of response, my sheets, sweat
Through with an indolent, abstinent dampness, I

Drawn awake, alarmed by buzzing of chainsaw
Cicadas; they serenade like melody of deforestation,

Beneath them, under a red maple, sways a
Compost drum, hung on wooden stakes to

Let the barrel shift, sift oxygen through leaves
And grass, allow air for decomposition, another

Name for the undoing of a poem, this black barrel
Raised on its hinges, points up; a cannon pleading

Neutrality or more likely aimed at the sky,
Timid attempt at shooting down satellites

In the kitchen below me, a kettle reaches
Readiness; its call is shrill and dry, antipode

To water drops that tear over the lip of
The kettle's mouth; sound of a fervent

Sad mother grief; mourning of a son, funny
How my mind sends back these pleasantries

As capsules of erosion.

kt

Im in a Film Festival so come and watch my movie

hey everyone so i entered my schools film festival with the movie i recently made The Mix-up so if you want to see my movie on a big screen come on down and give me some support there will be food and drinks and booze and drugs ...well maybe not the latter but afterward PARTY!!!!!....somewhere!!!!.......o yeah the audience gets to vote for a who they liked the best so vote for me lol
this Thursday April 16th at 7
Get OUT OF WORK and everything else u had planned
get there early cuz my movie is the second on the line up unfortunately but hit me up if you are going to go and ill tell you where it is and the rest of that jazz

peace and love,
p MED

and here it is...

Points of light filter in
breaking through
illuminating-
contemplating
just how long it will last.

The shape of the shadow flowing in the wind.
Like the wedding of an unlikely pair
proves more exists than can be seen.
A new day brings with it the unanswered.


Yeah, I woke up still drunk this morning and got some inspiration to write a poem. Never did that before. Anyways.... I'm probably heading back to RI at some point this weekend, anything happenin'?
-Lt

when don't I post a work in progress?

I think it was either Monday or Tuesday when the rain came. But for some odd reason it didn't make me sad, rather, it made me want to write a sad short something. My eyes glanced out the window and saw a sight similar to that of Taiwan during typhoon season. My ears heard the spit from the clouds tapping on the window like a stranger or beggar. Let me know what you all think because this is either close to being finished or it's just beginning. Big ups to all you critics.



"The Rain Left Nothing But Water To Drown In"

I raised the blinds in the small room only to see cold clouds and rainfall;
Hours of vacant streets, disgruntled errand runners and puddles.
After pacing through empty spaces that once held something, kind of like soft hands,
I sit in my room shivering and quiet, messing with ideas
of how things make me feel
of that loud crash at dawn
of the meal that came up.
The rain left nothing but water to drown in.


A ticking clock is the only thing in this house I can relate to.
An oven turned off for months is the only thing in this neighborhood I can relate to.
Noisy pipes bringing heat to hundreds are the only things in this state I can relate to.



-jp

p.s. SHOUT OUT TO SAM SMITH!! HAPPY BORN DAY SON!

midnight macabre

so this is that short story i told a few of you about, its pretty ridiculous. i wrote it in the middle of the night after waking up in sweat about 2 years ago, i dont really remember if it was a dream or if it jsut came to me. i think it just came to me after i woke up, my computer was on so i just decided to type. but, this isnt a work of art, or poetic or anything like that it's more jsut me writing freely for about 10 minutes in a really weird state of mind, with no real direction, it's kind of just unnecessarily violent, it just shows me how fucked up and far i can let my mind go .....enjoy

The Midnight Macabre

I get in to my car and pull the lights on. I follow the light into the woods, and what seems to be standing there is a tall creature, with shaggy dirty hair all over its body. It has red eyes and fangs; it stands like sasquatch looking down at the ground. It bends over to pick something up and I lean in against my steering wheel, captivated in fascination. To my surprise I leaned in just far enough to hear what seemed like an orchestra playing that loud, abrupt dissonant chord in a horror movie where the good guy is by himself and out of no where comes an axe to his scull, leaving the audience in utter shock and confusion…and a little damp in their seats. But, only this time it’s not a movie, this is real and I just beeped my horn at some demon-looking creature about 20-feet away while my headlights are piercing through the woods at 160,000,000 miles per second lighting him up like New York City on Christmas Eve.

So he immediately stands straight up and we make eye contact. Now I’m starring the son of a bitch straight in the eyes and the only thing I can think about is how he’s gonna fucking eat me alive. I can picture him darting straight for me and before I can even think he’s already through the windshield with my face caught between his teeth. Or maybe, I throw it in reverse, back out and haul ass down the road and the very moment I think I lost him and I start laughing: silly bastard, cant you cant out run a car”, I hear my window breaking and I can feel my face being shredded by his long thick claws like a rabid Grizzly Bear shredding a person who was just feeding its cubs. With my last breath I cut the wheel, smashing him in to a tree. I slam the brakes and just when I think “I gotta get to the hospital, but I cant see anything because my eyes dangling like Newton’s Balls out of my sockets”, He punches through my seat and my chest with my heart in his hand. He slowly crushes is it spraying my own blood on my mangled face killing me instantly( or maybe it would be slow and painful......). Or maybe I throw it into reverse and look behind me to back up and look back in front of me to see he’s gone, so I look behind me again to finish backing up and the bastards in the back seat. I fantasize it grabbing me by my head and pulling me out of the car, he holds me up by my right shoulder and ripping my left arm clean off and devouring it. Then he twists off my right arm while holding me down with his clawed hand in my rib cage ripping out each of my ribs one by one. He shoves two claws through my eyes, stepping in my mauled torso for leverage to pull my head off with my spine.

Then I snap out of it realizing that he’s gone and I panic throw it into reverse and kick the gas pedal like fucking Lu-Kang kicks shang tsung's ass in the mortal kombat movie, but the car isn’t moving and I don’t know why. Did I flood the engine with my super-karate kombat kick? Is there gas in the car? IS THE FUCKING BATTERY DEAD!? (which is always the case with me) How long was I daydreaming about the abominable yeti with a mean grille ripping me to pieces? Then it dawned on me like morning, I DIDN’T START MY CAR!!! So I start the damn thing and flew down my street. Never quite knowing if I ever really did see that Monster. Only knowing how sick and twisted my mind is.

Poem for a Workshop

“Shaped”

Shifted, I
Stand open, held
In a gust, a breath
Spitting rusted flakes
Of spotted trees bark

They find my eyes,
A swift dotting
Stings with surprise
And soon I tear,
My body washing itself

With flakes dripped out
I smile, knowing
I can take care
On my own
If I need

Turning outside myself,
For a moment, to trace

Snyder quoting Lu Ji, writing,
“"In making the handle
Of an axe
By cutting wood with an axe
The model is indeed near at hand."

So,
With helve coalesced
From cleaved hickory
I follow the cycle
Knowing I,
Cleft and stitch,
The selfsame.

Wrote this for my workshop class. I liked it so I figured I'd share it with you guys. If your schedules are anything like mine then I know you're all super busy now but I'd love to see what you all are working on. Peace.

kt

FORMAL ACTION ON THE RADIO!

Formal Action on wriu at 9 pm tonight (sunday, the 5th) If you don't have a radio in your house and rather not chill in your car to listen, you can stream it here. Check it out. And don't forget the wxin battle of the bands on Tuesday w/ Formal Action. Then Roz Raskin & the Rice Cakes the following week!!!

kt

New Painting.

Amphora

Sieve tight, I allow
Only the smallest
Part (s) I cle (ave)
From quarted
Sentences,
To be held
In oak vessels,
In hope
The (ir) dimensions
Splinter casks, obliging
Amarone words to puddle on the floor.


just a short piece. enjoi.

kt

jambalaya

haven't really posted in awhile here's some new stuff i been workin on
http://www.myspace.com/cmacproductionzyall

-cm

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v

"That's alright, the coffeehouse didn't need that roof anyway."

after party at our crib. see you there.

Division Bells

painted freshman year of college, acrylic.

peace

traci

Freewheeling Planet: Redux

This is a poem I may or may not have posted in its original form. A lot of you may have seen it before, and the first stanza, which is the same as the original draft, has been up here on the collabo piece jojo did for Andrew. Anyway, here's the latest version of the poem:

I’m a freewheeling planet –
Not at all concerned with the gravitational pull of the sun,
It’s just something I never wanted to get caught up in

A rogue needle on turntable -
Not content to follow the grooves pressed in wax,
A song I’d rather sing myself

The untamed tooth of a young child -
Fallen from razing motion of incisors and bicuspids,
Bent on being a tongue to taste, form language and love

A disinterested page –
Not cooperative with the pacing of a strained narrative
Hung on being a yarn spun of its own fibers

Though –

At times,

A lone course of discourse –
Set to be a thought curbed before conversation,
A comment better worn pinned to the vest



A trumpet’s soul-o –
Improvised with no accompaniment by quartet,
A rhythm that is all call and no response

A cable car struck aground –
Fixed into place, figured distinct, a lamp post
No hope for locomotion without conductor

A seed cast aside
Sown outside raised rows of farmer’s plot
Grown but no hope for harvest



Pluto.

Consider this a raw expression...

...just a blip on the radar of your perception

It's down to the wire,
a real nail-biter
we ash in pill bottles and paper cups

leave a trail behind,
'cause i can't find
the way back on my own

love is spacious and
wide ranging;
take you far away from home

Posted this a while back, made some subtle changes

"What A Life I Lead"


She said to me, “you’re a sweetheart.”
Such commentary brought to mind the epitome of my being:
an admittance of the name given to me at birth,
and the other quite fortunate characteristics
that make up my tissue and spirit.
A wandering mind, spine and sensory
housed in my head, blueprints never finished.
A man, a heart, and sometimes a voice—
what a miserable, fed-up excuse
for a twenty-two year old apparition.

What a life I lead in the breeze scrambled shade
What a life I lead in your eyes of no fire
What a life I lead in you car driving nowhere again
the conduit
the alleyway
the shadow
the path;

the bed,
the bench,
the grave.


Yet, nobody seems to recognize it—
It’s the misery that comes with being an earthbound ghost.
It’s the melancholy that comes with the blue pen touching blue paper.
I will still rummage around the rubbish
of a crooked world, upside down
for memories of a sinking ship.


-j rebs

A Blue Sea Stretched and Spanned

A blue sea stretched and spanned
And covered the lengths of just found
Green and brown rows
And thousands of coarse but newborn servants stood
Looking up in wonder at the sea

Their eyes were just cleared
And all was beauty that grew around them
All was bright and warm
And all felt their life was born

Neighbors traded greetings of small pinches
To one another’s hands
No one woke up
So all rejoiced

And one called out
With a voice that was weather-beaten
A hail-torn old barn
And it boomed with pride

So all listened
And heard for the first time
A voice that was strong and spilt wide
It filled the head
And thought was breed

Their legs tore from the ground
And took steps that molded the earth
Walking towards the homes
That housed their souls

They collected their debts
And called to a boat
Standing mute in the sea
With flames spilling out to cure
Their stomachs empty well

They slowly came to reason
Unlike ever before
And thought to believe
This vessel brought life to the seed
And in turn they pledged their life to thee

And then all manner changed
As brutal beings that fled from earth’s cage
Seeing all as one

Crashed sharp clanging rods
Against concrete drums
Which was their greeting of presence

The drums hung from the stomach
Of an overfed and
Terribly cold corroding statue
Who watched all the cowering servants
Fearing the march, with no god to pray

Then the sea was swept off
By velvet strokes of a humble and bent
Shopkeepers broom

Until peeking through the dust
Came beckoning eyes
They were unspoiled but slight
Peering like dawn through the knots and the holes
Of the battered old shell, of a hail-torn barn

And they draped the terribly cold statue
Like robes painted on
By velvet strokes of an earnest but poor
Mediterranean painter

And they thought it beautiful too

So sorrow was lifted and new spirits
Walked alongside the coarse but softening servants


Yeah so this was an attempt at a creation type poem that traci's story reminded me of so I though I would post it. The blue sea is supposed to be the sky and the poem is about a new people reckoning with day and night, loving the day then fearing the night and the reckoning the two. I'm only writing what its supposed to be about because I don't know if its too ambiguous and maybe ya'll could help point out to me where I could go with it to make that story more apparent in it.

KT

I Believe In Yelling At The Wind (WORK IN PROGRESS)

Oh undertaker! I just want to wake up tomorrow and feel okay.

One loose tooth and I begin to think about the noises in our ears.

There is a lump accompanied closely by a headache,

but there are no records that anyone even stumbled

into the ominous, bottomless well.

There is a cut followed by a cake-icing trail of blood,

but my birthday already passed and we’ll both be six feet under in due time.

If I could only follow that scent but

I can't feel my nose so I keep telling myself:

Bob said, you don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.

When I came around the bend, I was already dead but had the life in me to say:

Bob said, you don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.

He asked me to be a snake and live underground.

Look it over and pass your judgments, it won't happen again.

it won't happen again

it won’t happen twice,

it never happens twice,

it won’t happen again.

I believe in yelling at the wind.

Parade of lost eyes

write me from lost cities;

picture-postcard villages, (each) soul

searching for native soil.

Rows of well-trampled paths displaying bones of little-brothers,

fallen victim to big-brother’s mighty hand, ears, eyes and mouth

little by little disorientated

(panicky) like the grains of sugar, violently shaken in their paper home,

just to be poured into a morning’s cup of coffee,

swallowed whole, like sea captains with the most compelling stories to tell

but don’t ever make it home.

And the poignant secret will slowly be revealed.

-jon paul rebello

all things are delicately interconnected

so this is my recent class assignment where we had to take a "truism" written by Jenny Holzer (we had to pick from a list of like 200) I chose the post title, because i love stories where people and characters are connected in some way: Magnolia, slacker, waking life, snatch and lock, stock etc. Anyway, as far as critiquing goes feel free, just keep in mind that this was a class assignment and i did not put everything i could into it, seeing that i waited to the last minute to film it, but it came out decent, the story came across well but ...whatever i got an A and my teacher loved it

p.s. the script will be finished by sunday
p.s.s. its fucking ridiculous

summer plans

what's up everyone, i was reading the paper this week and found out that lollapalooza early bird tickets go on sale tuesday march 31. I think they're around $175, pretty steep but probably worth it, considering last year's headliners were Kanye West, Radiohead, RATM, Wilco, Iron&Wine, Black Keys, the list goes on. The lineup hasn't been announced yet, which is why they do the early bird tickets but I'm hoping it will be just as good. The date's are August 7th-9th. The show is in a huge park here in downtown Chicago but you can't camp out like most festivals. Seeing as how I'll be here in the summer to take some classes, I think it would be a cool idea if anyone wanted to road trip out here, see some good bands, have a place to stay, and just see something new. It's still pretty far away but if anyone thinks they might be interested in coming out here, let me know.

-peace

Andrew

Short Story From Sophomore Year O College

It was the first morning after the first night and the air was neither thick nor thin; it just was as everything else was for the very first time. Nothing opened its eyes and nothing stirred while everything was beginning every minute of every day since day one. Because everything began to begin things naturally began to end and then more things began still, much like morning and night, everyday. Cold turned warm and cold again while the ocean waved and sighed in the light from the moon and then the sun. There were sounds, there was light, there was sensation; and so everything widened its eyes to see but wondered nothing. There was beauty and simplicity but this was not enough. Boredom was born causing everything to move about; setting them apart. Animals saw people, people saw land, people saw each other, and some say God saw everything. Some saw God reciprocally and some did not, however, everyone saw things differently.

Things were given to some and from others taken but always in the end of everything there was nothing, to make things even. People witnessed this and so patterns emerged and consequences were drawn until ideas infected the cognition of everyone. Ideas were passed and preached down the line and soon they were everywhere. People began to think more and more; of each other, of themselves, of the world, of anything and nothing until their heads began to grow like everything else had on the first day for the very first time. As with the growth of everything, people became awed and enamored. By this new love people were blinded, in the light of the sun and then the moon. Some became limited and their eyes were manipulated by their brains to filter what they saw. Everybody was always right in this sense, though everyone secretly felt wrong; thus insecurities were born and given life. This new life followed on as all life had since the first. It grew wildly and a new array of needs emerged to appease such inclinations. People sought trust and understanding and ultimately their own bodies were not enough to keep themselves appeased. They began to need other people with other bodies and minds to create this happiness for them.

People laid together and created happiness until they could know nothing else. Such beauty and simplicity could not be enough and again they moved about, bumping and stumbling all night, and then all morning. Ultimately these other bodies were not sufficient and they were no longer pleased. Boredom bred restlessness and together they began creating stories and weaving webs. This kept them all very busy and time passed quickly in comparison. People grew complacent as they waved and sighed in the light of the sun and then the moon.

Complacency was passed from one to another and so on down the line until it infected the cognition of everybody. People became tired of what they knew and grew hungry; they hungered for what they did not know and could not know and began to despise their brains for manipulating them and making them limited. They gathered an array of poisons from the earth and like all new things, this, too, was passed on and on until everyone was infected. Their eyes grew wide and their filters weak until they could see everything in its beauty and simplicity as they had on the very first day after the very first night. There were sounds, there was light, there was sensation. Everyone, wide eyed, wondered nothing and basked in this until it ended as quickly as it had so begun. There was love and there were needs and always there were insecurities. This was not troublesome because there was no margin for boredom; they asked new questions, found new answers, and continued to lie together creating happiness. As they had depended upon the power of people, they depended upon the power of poisons; this kept them all very busy and they talked endlessly while time passed quickly in comparison.

Time had always passed in this way and like everything on the very first day it began to begin and end constantly. People witnessed how things came and went and consequences were drawn until they realized that they, too, were limited. They sought meaning and created it where none could easily be found. In their dependency they became indebted to one another. This bond took life and grew like all living things born since the beginning. This was also called love because it awed and enamored them. People nursed and pleased one another until this was not enough and so they made love tangible. Together they laid in coition creating pure happiness; beautiful and simple. People were appeased and distracted and so they were indebted, too, to the happiness they had manifested. They held it close and caressed it until they, like all things that would live after them, naturally began to end. Behind them they left their happiness to grow naturally and wildly, against the fate of every tomorrow.

It was the first morning after the last night and the air was neither thick nor thin; it just was, as everything else was for the very first time.