Drafting Process Depicted in Steps

I find some humor in these writing mishaps

I.  Guns of the Trees pounds the skull of the viewer with violin and instensity – mechanical depictions of absurdity through camera shots of coney island junkyards and dead machines in piles all seen by the camera – the camera becoming hyperfractured self in the realization of maddness.   Ginsberg’s poetry takes us there in the cognitive – that where that we reached via senses from violins or again the images of the machines, the sorrrow across the Brunette’s face.  As she asks, “What do you believe in?”.  And the camera watches her, but then move

II.  Guns of the Trees takes us with the actors in their “boats” down to the scrapyards and industrial docks of New York City even as Ginsberg reads out “Sunflower Sutra” – they are taking us to the “Tincan Banna Docks” where we see something of America having trampeled itself?

III. Abernathy Farm Interior

IV.             Guns of the Trees and Pull My Daisy both aspire to beat culture – gospels of improvisation, glorification of Jazz culture – the persistant themes of annui, anti-capitalism and of course Allan Ginsberg.  Guns of the Trees features a potent scene in a junlkyard; while charecters engage in setting and in each other, Ginsberg reads from “Sunflower Sutra” and an old man talks about how free he was when he was a merchant marine.  The film adapts GInsberg’s poem as per Bazin’s “Cinema as Digest”, Benjamin’s “Task of the Translator” & so weiter – aber what strikes me is this one scene in the junk yard and the confrontations of the individuals with the utter destruction and destitution of post modernity.  “Dark Night of the SOul” as it were, or as Kaufman wrote “never was a night that ended or began”  or simply just the terror on the Brunette’s face.

V.  Guns of the Trees and Pull My Daisy both aspire to beat culture – gospels of improvisation, glorification of Jazz culture – the persistant themes of annui, anti-capitalism and of course Allan Ginsberg.  Guns of the Trees features a potent scene in a junlkyard; while charecters engage in setting and in each other, Ginsberg reads from “Sunflower Sutra” and an old man talks about how free he was when he was a merchant marine.      Thus and by these means – of violins and of painful depictions of desperation – the frustration and fragmentation of charecterscomes to be in insane interludes – Guns of the Trees performs and adaptation of Ginsberg’s poem from text to film.  So too stands Pull My Daisy as an interaction of film and Ginsberg; this time with with the poet on screen while Keroauc speaks the party for the party from off screen,

VI.  Guns of the Trees and Pull My Daisy both aspire to beat culture – gospels of improvisation, glorification of Jazz culture – the persistent themes of annui, anti-capitalism and of course Allan Ginsberg.  Guns of the Trees features a potent scene in a junkyard; while characters engage in setting and in each other, Ginsberg reads from “Sunflower Sutra” and an old man talks about how free he was when he was a merchant marine.   Thus and by these means – of violins and of painful depictions of desperation – the frustration and fragmentation of characters comes to be in insane interludes – Guns of the Trees performs and adaptation of Ginsberg’s poem from text to film.  So too stands Pull My Daisy as an interaction of film and Ginsberg; this time with with the poet on screen while Kerouac speaks the party for the party from off screen,      In particular I focus upon the events that happen during the “Is baseball holy?” sequence at the house party in the apartment – in this moment we cross diogesis into dissolve cuts that take us backwards in time.  This affords us the spectacle of accidentally self mocking Prosthelytizers standing before impassioned masses (perhaps yearning for some greater freedom). Both of these moments explore the profound disillusionment and alienation that the subject experiences in post modernism – yet they also explore the genre of improvisation and play with the role of the camera on screen.

VII.  Guns of the Trees and Pull My Daisy both aspire to beat culture – gospels of improvisation [“first thought, best thought” (Kerouac 3)], glorification of Jazz culture – the persistent themes of annui, anti-capitalism and of course Allan Ginsberg.  Guns of the Trees features a potent scene in a junkyard; while characters engage in setting and in each other, Ginsberg reads from “Sunflower Sutra” and an old man talks about how free he was when he was a merchant marine.  Thus and by these means – of violins and of painful depictions of desperation – the frustration and fragmentation of actors comes to be in insane interludes – Guns of the Trees performs and adaptation of Ginsberg’s poem from text to film.  So too stands Pull My Daisy as an interaction of film and Ginsberg; this time with with the poet on screen while Kerouac speaks the party for the party from off screen, In particular I focus upon the events that happen during the “Is baseball holy?” sequence at the house party in the apartment – in this moment we cross diogesis into dissolve cuts that take us backwards in time.  This affords us the spectacle of accidentally self mocking Prosthelytizers standing before impassioned masses (perhaps yearning for some greater freedom) – the American Flag is seen to obscure a Bishop.

Both of these moments explore the profound disillusionment and alienation that the subject experiences in post modernism – yet they also explore the genre of improvisation and play with the role of the camera on screen.  Namely the exploration and interaction of actors with the camera; direct address is a factor in each films case, but there is more at work as well.  The camera travels into actors memories and perceptions.  In Guns of the Trees the camera can see the ghouls of capitalism traversing a cabbage patch landscape evocative of biopolitical depictions of the individual as proceesed and packaged for the perpetuation of that self same act.  At times the Ghouls speak with the most derranged of our charecters, the camera see’s this when other actors cannot.  Meanwhile in Pull my Daisy we have thise “holy baseball” scene where the camera hears this question that pauses both diogetic conversation (the actors simply stare out with vacant faces, some direct address) as well as the Kerouac non-diegetic narration.  In the stark silence the camera travels with the reverie of the Bishop / Wife / Bishop’s Crew – they go to a memory we mentioned earlier.

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When “Catalina Fight Song” Sticks in Your Head

pushing petals to the weekend

keep something sweet and free

pushing petals for the weekend

so you can smile at me

 

die every minute

don’t discuss peace

they’re high in the bathroom

their hope is out of reach

 

pushing petals for the weekend

so you can fly with me

I’m dying in the evening

sweating in summer heat

 

pushing petals to the weekend

Gonna get our kicks for free

Elect Trump and I Jump

I’ve often thought about killing myself

but only for selfish reasons

only for selfish reasons

have I thought of killing myself

its never something noble

its never something noble

its not as if the human race would be

better

better

only for selfish reasons

its not as if the human race would be

better

for killing themselves

only for selfish reasons

would we build a fence

to keep ourselves in

would we build a fence

to become our own pets

to keep ourselves in

so no one else

could be selfish

only for selfish reasons

never to be better

better

only to kill ourselves

 

 

 

what am I going to eat 

like some turkey?  Some chicken?  Some beef?  

 

hahaha roast beer.  

not a solid choice

a thin ice sandwich

and no bacon burger

 

but really hungry nonetheless

down for some chicken, some macaroni

or like thai style stuff in curry

I’d eat that with an Oreo mcsnorio freeze 

 

and be all fat by the next sunrise

but whatever

 

and then thinking of breakfast….

 

mimosas say the least and

screwdrivers tell too much

this isn’t anything really here 

if your looking to eat. 

I used to bike all over the city

I used to bike all over the city
My aunt’s mountain bike would take me places
My friend and I we saw robots at Starbucks
And monsters outside of chase
Los Angeles is a crazy world

You can see anything really

We biked past scientologist strongholds that watched out over
Paltry comic shops and comedy clubs
I fear for the upright citizens brigade-
They are too close to the source
And without protection

The stronghold may snuff them out

You see comedians are like philosophers
they point out awkward truths
They show you the city is a mad place
A world of cyborgs and silicone saints
Yet beneath it all still remains

A clouded yet very real- very human place

In the streets- if they are so surreal
I lose myself in waking
As I am unable to
In sleep.

Sonnstag Traum Journal

I dreamed I was a pale, baroque thing with thin reaching limbs so long and fragile.  I was driving my truck, my bleeding, aging, pick-up truck with my long, pale limbs so thing and fragile.  And it was terrifying.  

 

My limbs were weak and my truck was fading.  It wasn’t long before I found the breaks were dead.  It was night and now I was just booming on, speeding ahead and then suddenly, smack, I was dead.  

 

When I woke up I found my lover next to me and her cat purring on my chest.  I took solace in this if not in dreams nor in waking thoughts during what people call reality.  

 

And strange to me, my dreams have darkness in them.  As if someone is trying to tug at the frayed threads on the fringes of my conscious, the places where strange things alone may take hold, the place where things are generally ignored.  It is as if a malignancy stalks me and haunts my dreams with its presence but that I am so much of love that I remain out of its reach.  Nevertheless, this dark circles me and pollutes my dreams.  

 

Perhaps I would find out what this means and then face what must be fought?

writing

writing these spells

I recognize

the dusk is fading

As I take wind & sea

forest and jungle tree

deep down into the orchid

abandoning the magik of death

as best I can

Death still like a swamp

a stinking smell

that lingers on

festering

perhaps I will wash it away

perhaps I will grow strong

Bloodstains and echoing footsteps in the doors of eternity

bloodstains and echoing footsteps in the doors of eternity

I am not known

nor ever seen

my words carry dead weight

my tongue speaks dead names

I call on the vampyers of olde to rise anon

and stryke free these chains

to starlight

dawnrise

sunset

and immortality

Every morning and then some

My friend dr. Nix used to have one waiting for him. Every morning when he woke up. Waiting.

Man he would think to himself, just -man and then he would think to himself, sort -what am I doing here? Oh yes I’m doing this- and then he would, because it would be right there and waiting for him.

Afterwards he would blow his nose, stand up and walk around. A rush of blood to the head and break feast served- he stared out the window of his color tv. Things were more beautiful in there and they were safer too. In there he was god and the coloured skies would bend to his pleasure. Outside the throne even was up for grabs.

Any way the days would go by and he kept doing things that way, he would do them his way. I saw him now and again. Once and a while I even went up to San Luis obisbo and saw him there. Busy and crazy with some girl. Holding a chemistry job and taking classes. His habit flew on fine with everything. It was a mad world anyway.