bring your bat and your chopper,
and a first aid Kit,
and some antiseptic,
this could get hectic.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
nathan writes the next great american controversy.
feeling the lichens of her life crawl up her arms in a duplicitous fashion.feeling the lichens of her life crawl up her arms in a duplicitous fashion.feeling the lichens of her life crawl up her arms in a duplicitous fashion.feeling the lichens of her life crawl up her arms in a duplicitous fashion.feeling the lichens of her life crawl up her arms in a duplicitous fashion.feeling the lichens of her life crawl up her arms in a duplicitous fashion.feeling the lichens of her life crawl up her arms in a duplicitous fashion.
bring your bat and your chopper,
and a first aid Kit,
and some antiseptic,
this could get hectic.
bring your bat and your chopper,
and a first aid Kit,
and some antiseptic,
this could get hectic.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
houston, nathan has a problem: he's in space.
exhibit 15: correct me if i'm wrong, but that's incest. no wonder they were struck down.
renew jam: islands. it's too happy, and too good to not listen to.
focus on: bnr. yes. doing so. unimpressed. the only saving grace of such an album is the occasional heaviness of 2 brothers known as shadowdancer. soap is an epic track. housi is an epic track. the rest is fair at best.
enough of that.
CHANGE THE WORLD
CHANGE THE WORLD
CHANGE ERIC
and they still make girl bands? disappointing. do better.
it's not my musical douchebaggery, it's just i've heard them, and i've heard enough, and i don't like what i've heard. my assessment is as follows: }gender{ bands are so fourth grade. they pass in and out of culture and leave the same mark as the last, that is, if they make any mark at all. they perform like banana peels in the hands of a pubescent male: used for one function and thrown out.
maybe i just like indie shit. but let's be honest here: no matter how good the track is, the band isn't perfect. no band is perfect. i prove this point by saying that i believe radiohead (there i said it) is not a perfect band.
maybe it's generational, or worse, gender based. ugh. that would suck. and it probably isn't true. i mean, you know that cher and barbara are still billionaires because of two words: gay people. but i don't listen to them, and i know that the stereotype is just that: a stereotype.
and maybe i'm still bitter about getting my heart broken by a fan of these bands. it's like a freudian association or some shit like that. he was an asshole, not the people who made the music.
but their music still is not "good".
gasoline, saccharine
hotel, taco bell
"nathan, you sit there wishing for something to happen and you just need to get out there."
"it's no use. i'm banned from the club. they got my picture and shit."
"so? go punch out the guys with the picture. they know why they have the picture, but it doesn't tell them how hard you hit."
thank you dana
on that note, the albion community will be shocked at the party i'm throwing next year. the vinyl is in, and the equipment is set up.
next week: art is supposed to comment on culture... right? damn.
renew jam: islands. it's too happy, and too good to not listen to.
focus on: bnr. yes. doing so. unimpressed. the only saving grace of such an album is the occasional heaviness of 2 brothers known as shadowdancer. soap is an epic track. housi is an epic track. the rest is fair at best.
enough of that.
CHANGE THE WORLD
CHANGE THE WORLD
CHANGE ERIC
and they still make girl bands? disappointing. do better.
it's not my musical douchebaggery, it's just i've heard them, and i've heard enough, and i don't like what i've heard. my assessment is as follows: }gender{ bands are so fourth grade. they pass in and out of culture and leave the same mark as the last, that is, if they make any mark at all. they perform like banana peels in the hands of a pubescent male: used for one function and thrown out.
maybe i just like indie shit. but let's be honest here: no matter how good the track is, the band isn't perfect. no band is perfect. i prove this point by saying that i believe radiohead (there i said it) is not a perfect band.
maybe it's generational, or worse, gender based. ugh. that would suck. and it probably isn't true. i mean, you know that cher and barbara are still billionaires because of two words: gay people. but i don't listen to them, and i know that the stereotype is just that: a stereotype.
and maybe i'm still bitter about getting my heart broken by a fan of these bands. it's like a freudian association or some shit like that. he was an asshole, not the people who made the music.
but their music still is not "good".
gasoline, saccharine
hotel, taco bell
"nathan, you sit there wishing for something to happen and you just need to get out there."
"it's no use. i'm banned from the club. they got my picture and shit."
"so? go punch out the guys with the picture. they know why they have the picture, but it doesn't tell them how hard you hit."
thank you dana
on that note, the albion community will be shocked at the party i'm throwing next year. the vinyl is in, and the equipment is set up.
next week: art is supposed to comment on culture... right? damn.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
diana ross, are you cold?
because you about to get a blanket.
there were all the people talking and laughing and crying, and she was just standing there stroking his hair and choking out sobs as if he slept soundly. every convulsion seemed to shake her even more than the last, and i was nearing the front of the line. i saw his face and began to search for the door. i wanted to leave, i couldn't do it. this was all too much emotion in one spot. my mouth was dry and papery and i stood, looked at him, and looked to her.
"how are you?"
"i've been better."
"i'm sorry."
and at that moment i found the door.
this week has been some rough gem caught deep within the mines. it was beautiful, picturesque, and devilish.
until again.
there were all the people talking and laughing and crying, and she was just standing there stroking his hair and choking out sobs as if he slept soundly. every convulsion seemed to shake her even more than the last, and i was nearing the front of the line. i saw his face and began to search for the door. i wanted to leave, i couldn't do it. this was all too much emotion in one spot. my mouth was dry and papery and i stood, looked at him, and looked to her.
"how are you?"
"i've been better."
"i'm sorry."
and at that moment i found the door.
this week has been some rough gem caught deep within the mines. it was beautiful, picturesque, and devilish.
until again.
Friday, June 12, 2009
pillowy fresh.
"a truly wasted day is one without laughter"
e e cummings
exhibit 14. us.
in loneliness, we see ourselves for who we are; it gives us time to reflect, to think upon what makes us unique. we are finally objective with ourselves, and that's what makes people so cool, despite how awful they can be.
applying to be a bagel slinger tomorrow. hooray.
rene magrite. why are you so incredible?
i want to shake things up.
start a riot.
protest.
meet me in the streets; i'll be up 'til dawn.
e e cummings
exhibit 14. us.
in loneliness, we see ourselves for who we are; it gives us time to reflect, to think upon what makes us unique. we are finally objective with ourselves, and that's what makes people so cool, despite how awful they can be.
applying to be a bagel slinger tomorrow. hooray.
rene magrite. why are you so incredible?
i want to shake things up.
start a riot.
protest.
meet me in the streets; i'll be up 'til dawn.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
nathan does it because everyone else is.
i'm going mad.
exhibit 13.
they say that artists are supposed to comment on culture.
yes.
sometimes, we need to let people journey further and further into the land of preface.
exhibit 13.
they say that artists are supposed to comment on culture.
yes.
sometimes, we need to let people journey further and further into the land of preface.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
manuel's mouth.
oh yes.
oh yes.
oh yes.
oh yes.
oh no.
oh no.
oh no.
oh no.
mimi merlot, you're the most convincingly non-fictitious character that i know.
i sold a rhubarb crisp today. i was so happy. my feet briefly left the earth.
eric and i are making a tape series. buy them. details.
http://nathansquotationoftheday.blogspot.com/
"fuck closure. when you don't have closure, you create something beautiful. if there isn't any resolution, it doesn't have to be disaster. i mean, things may not come to a definite conclusion, but it may end up alright."
you shed your failures like a raincoat and wake up day after goddamn day as if nothing ever happened, and the world will be better, except it's not.
and you? you can't accept failure as a part of life.
oh yes.
oh yes.
oh yes.
oh no.
oh no.
oh no.
oh no.
mimi merlot, you're the most convincingly non-fictitious character that i know.
i sold a rhubarb crisp today. i was so happy. my feet briefly left the earth.
eric and i are making a tape series. buy them. details.
http://nathansquotationoftheday.blogspot.com/
"fuck closure. when you don't have closure, you create something beautiful. if there isn't any resolution, it doesn't have to be disaster. i mean, things may not come to a definite conclusion, but it may end up alright."
you shed your failures like a raincoat and wake up day after goddamn day as if nothing ever happened, and the world will be better, except it's not.
and you? you can't accept failure as a part of life.
Friday, June 5, 2009
pitter patter goes my heart.
The child yanks with malice at the mother’s blouse as she grinds away at the glass obelisk, the pungent juice flowing slowly down the sides. The toddler in arms is ignored with a militant blank stare into the mint colored plaster. She is taciturn, allowing her deep seated tears to fall down the recently haggard face that she acquisitioned from her husband. The grinding continues until it is nothing but pith. White flecks fall into the juice. They are bitter. She is quiet. She makes lemonade.
She dreams of widowing away in Spain as she squeezes the lemon with a faint sense of awareness. The life she had is but a vestige of reality, humorous at this point. She feels as though now the lichens of her life climb up her arms in a duplicitous fashion; she can live, but moving is a fantasy. She feels each molecule of the drops of moisture on her face, the salt ripping up her pores. The sobs have landed in the yellow fluid beneath her. They are made sourer by the salt, by the tears. They are quiet. They make lemonade.
The child now wails. Unnoticed, it begins to beat against the mother’s chest, the chest that feeds it. It does not see the tears. It does not see the grinding. It does not see the face. It, too, weeps, but out of need for the mother. The mother is busy. She needs the lemonade. The juicer is full of liquid now. She opens her arms and lets the child fall, its head hitting the counter. It is silent. It makes nothing.
She dreams of widowing away in Spain as she squeezes the lemon with a faint sense of awareness. The life she had is but a vestige of reality, humorous at this point. She feels as though now the lichens of her life climb up her arms in a duplicitous fashion; she can live, but moving is a fantasy. She feels each molecule of the drops of moisture on her face, the salt ripping up her pores. The sobs have landed in the yellow fluid beneath her. They are made sourer by the salt, by the tears. They are quiet. They make lemonade.
The child now wails. Unnoticed, it begins to beat against the mother’s chest, the chest that feeds it. It does not see the tears. It does not see the grinding. It does not see the face. It, too, weeps, but out of need for the mother. The mother is busy. She needs the lemonade. The juicer is full of liquid now. She opens her arms and lets the child fall, its head hitting the counter. It is silent. It makes nothing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
