Moved into the Mountains

Upper plateau of another's dream, with ladders made of veins. It's his dream. Not one in which he invented white-out or scotch tape. He's walking across the classic wind-blown grassy field, but it is somehow different. He realizes the grass is fake. Long plastic blades making rustling sounds. Convenience store black plastic bags are the foliage on squat trees. Their grey branches are slimy and refract weird colors in the sun light.

Higher up now. One significant level up; he keeps climbing. The earth's surface is now made of books. They're torn fat hardback books, coating the scene at odd angles. Pages fanned open to the horizon, wrinkled and puffy from rain and powerful drying heated gusts. Sand mixes in the pages and crevices. It's now in his eyes. He itches. His bare feet crunch across the books. Paper cuts in the webbing of his toes accumulate rapidly, each cut a surprise. They begin to itch. And sting. His eyes squint and he shambles in a pulsing burning darkness. The sand feels heavier and stings. Blood pumping in the darkness of his eyelids radiates and spells letters.

Down below, just a couple levels, there was a sense of comfort and familiarity. Boredom. He wasn't really doing this. He painted pictures from places he had not been. A scene in a many- times-told story from a friend: Adolescent angels sitting on a beach, talking to everything. Hitting on the seagulls as well as the seashells. Couch-potato angels in one cove. Television wires lead out into the ocean and tangle, forming webs that catch a sample of everything. The angels cackle and some of them energetic and beautiful, decide to surf, opening their veins in the water for the fun of drawing sharks. Winging out of reach as the gaping mouths breech.
An angel, a particularly cruel and spiteful one, cocky and talented at all the convenient things, uses a burning sword on one of the sharks. Puncturing the center of its head with a thrust and quickly removing, the shark sinks into the ocean, its body on fire inside, glowing as it descends.

Time sits around. Tree house walkie-talkie style communication across mountain tops. He's up there, with...a bunch of automotive mechanics arguing in front of an overhead projector. "No." That's all they can say. Pulling on half-baked theory, one of the auto mechanics tires and tries to break the din. He tries to explain why brake pads begin to squeal. And why they stop.
Silence grinds into his rotors up here. His means and intents worn thin. Barebones. Who he really is. Who he really is loses interest in the automotive scene and turns himself 180 degrees.
A thorough intricate path lined with careful angles, sharpened and jutting dirty needles and black scary fragments. Everything is black & white. Patience and breathing, as he exhales and walks the sharp objects recede. Colors blend in, and suddenly there it all is. Relaxed and lush living things. He feels a nice silence fill everything.

pretty much done

I'm doing a 30 day challenge. I have to do a class of Bikram Yoga every day for 30 days. I'm on day 8. It's the only place I leave the house for. That or work.
I think of how i used to say it was important for us locals, what with our ignant suthern ways anne all, to just be honest with each other. collaborate and feed from one another. as a way to find ourselves. Of course even that is idealistic. It would never happen for individuated reasons as much as those that happen to have a common denominator beneath that, one honestly treating it as a business. and that's fine. so now i feel the honesty factor is pointless. it doesnt make it more community and raw or down-to -earth, or kept real. this city just stinks. everything always has to have been better 10 years ago. right now, the stupid shit will be mythologized later as soooo hip then.
i think its curious how work that requires the association with the south, goes and makes trails off of the need to perpetuate that very same association. it is not making any point. and this isnt even addressing the commodification factor and how it precedes its head crowning. turtle head poking out. squishing its way through a gilded frame.
and of course theres all the latest acts and 'tudes, the banksy shite to the thoughts of hughes in the mona lisa curse, and the barnes horror story in art of the steal. for the love of whatever. it is no longer relevant. i feel the internet has leveled us with a kind of immediacy and ability to further imagine our individuation.
We seem like tape recorders, playing marco polo. it doesn't spiral out because the continuity of belief in any specific myth flavor or connotation, typifying and encapsulating. fuck, i dunno what im saying. i just dont feel like trying to share specifically with atlanta anymore.
whatever. idealism or not. something has to mean something to somebody. and i know it does. but crap, man.
im gonna go do this yoga. none of that crap i just wrote makes any sense. im just feeling curious. chapters have closed for me. i know its relative to me. my experience here. theres a limbo or lurch i dont think i wanna linger in. i wanna explore. most things seem in stasis anyways. it's like a giant down time. like the power went out and we've busted out candles and cards on the carpet. by the fire.

BIKRAM YOGA

I'M DOING BIKRAM YOGA AND WRITING ABOUT IT.30 days in a row. GO LOOK:
HAVE A GOOD DAY, JERKS. BUT NOT TOO GOOD.

http://bikramyogadecatur.com/


the picture is a of a friend of mine that got me into doing this stuff. there he is at an eyedrum art and music gallery opening doing Dandayamana-JanuShirasana. that's sanskrit for standing head to knee pose, bitches.
the graffiti behind him is directly inspired by a game called Metroid. I played the heck out of that game on nintendo when i was about 15.
hes doing the pose pretty good here. freakin jerk.

zSHARE - 001_A_026_eggtooth.mp3

zSHARE - 001_A_026_eggtooth.mp3

sounding eggtooths

continuous past presents immobilized future

represents^reports
embodies^narrates
transforms^indicates
knows only a continuous present^looks back on a past.


Represent the report, the ratio represents an exchange.
It submitted a report. The ratio indicates while
the Other
knows more of return on, or has - beyond present sights
but only continuous.

Display the exchange.
Which within, of course, the report ratio is displayed.
The embankment made the report.
Ratio, besides the fact that it is between it, it shows. Or rather, shows it.
Having known many of the returns, or exceeding them- its present "vision continuation" just has it.