SLUTS
IT'S AUTUMN
EVERYTHING IS DYING
TIS THE SEASON I PRETEND TO BE A CATHOLICK
BY DRINKING A LOT OF WINE

IMMA TEAR UP THE PROLAPSED ANUS OF THIS TOWN
AND OMG, GONNA RECLAIM THE SOUL
AS AN OBJECT OF STUDY
NO GODS NO RULERS
STILL SWIMMIN IN THE DIVINE

PIERCE MY HEART WITH THE PINPRICK OF THE WILLIS TOWER
I
WILL
BE
GOOOOOOOOOOOOD

The Smudge

I want to start a band called The Smudge. It makes a good movie title too, but I don't like art house flicks as much as some people. I think The Smudge has a good ring to it. I can see it now - it's a foursome of mixups who just barely get along. One has spiky hair, one has a minor facial tic, they would all be pretty pretty if they'd just smile more. Their armory includes a 7-string bass, assorted horns, jazz drums, theremin, lots of kazoos. They play a mix between klezmer-punk and downbeat post-club (heavy on the bass effects there), with the occasional third-wave ska break throne in for shiggles. They're so different, an early critic writes:

It isn't the manic energy that makes The Smudge stand out; not the way they tip closer and closer to disaster and then pull back with a grin; it isn't the moment they switch out of a long, banging, bowel-shaking paean to some ancient devil and into a rapid-fire celebratory horn solo that makes you wonder where you've been all this time, although that's closer - it's that they're just having too much fun, and they know that you know that we're all right there with them.

I'm ready to get this show on the road. In my fantasies The Smudge starts in the basement of the doxy lounge, practicing once or twice a month. It starts to take off when friends of the smudgelings keep coming to practice uninvited. leli p monster quits his day job and ditches his farming plans in favor of equipment, publicity, a van. These semi-humble beginning become part of the The Smudge's origin myth, later to become a rock-group biopic (think Stone). Reviews on the movie are mixed.

Eventually the group breaks up, moves on. They never sign a major record deal - they don't need to. Rather than rely on 10% of the profits off of millions of people, they run everything themselves, living off of shows and handmade merch and cds sold to thousands of trufans across the country. Later they sign with two different indie labels and tour Europe, but the ethic remains. About their strange brand of success one critic writes:

They were never a household name. Then again, the naughts and tens were the end of the era of household names. Sure, they had their adoring masses, but I'd say the best way to measure the success of The Smudge is in their influence. One out of every three people who saw The Smudge in those early days ended up a free thinker and a fool, in the best sense of the word.

I've been thinking about fools a lot, ever since a great conversation with teemz in the doxy kitchen. I hope that when I get invited to speak at some (hopefully worthwhile) event because of Smudge-related fame, I stand up and talk about what it means to be a fool in the modern age. Tmo said: "The fool stares into the void and laughs".

the chaos of a youthful fridge (its too many items packed in)
of almost two glasses of red wine
the pleasure of reading foucault
of the album that mentions your town (everyone is into it)
of sneaky cigs, sneaky spliffs
the kindness of giving each other timelines
the intimacy of casually influencing each other
this we nuzzle in
swim in
dance lazy hip circles in
accuse each other of being deliberately obtuse in
agree to disagree in
substance
lapping at the edges of grounding
accepting gravity
and in so doing
forgive it

you press your lips to my eye
pretending to be drunk
and our light, ever so light carefulness with each other
blooms suddenly
and we recall that we love each other
without speaking it
"I feel so damn slutty"
"I love your art"
"I woke up with a spill of my own blood between my legs"
in the quiet
we have no need to be cruel
and remake our family
until our parents are forgotten
and cousin means something so new
supes amazing
supes perf
perf perf
c u soon

***bliss*** reality

At burning man I had done contact improv in center camp with a robed and bearded young boy a couple of times, run into him round heebeegeebees and asked, "where are you from?"
"from everywhere."
turns out he's from here, for now at least. Back Home at the spontaneous rainbow gathering that's happening in the redwoods of mendocino county. I've found myself a new spot, a shakti-flow place where I live and work with a crew of travelers, artisans, musicians, healers, and gardeners. I'm milking goats twice a day and trying to mate Puja with Zeus (he chases after her with a painful-looking erection while she bleats and poops), clearing garden beds to plant garlic, kale, and cover crop, and getting into long psycho-spiritual discussions with Kris and Mateo where we drift through utopias and ram-dass style ruminations on breathing (all over sprouts and steamed squash). Yeah, I can see myself sticking around here for a while. Kris is all about ayuasca and soma, super-medicines from the Amazon and Himalayas that make your eyes sparkle and clear your mind. There's a make-shift temple for meditation and yoga, and all work is cosmic (no hours, no numbers). Stace sells djunn and cheesecake at different concerts in the area and seems to know everyone in mendocino.
I've been thinking about attachments- to my own desires, to friends/family, to goals of personal development-- in contrast with Mateo and Yanti's style of drifting around the earth. It's making me put to rest a lot of the questions and plans I had had floating around in my head in order to just be here until the next opportunity arises. In any case, Venus is in retrograde and it's going to be difficult to make big decisions until the last week of november. May retreat from communication for awhile.