noosha is from the f-f-f-future February 4, 2008

fox - s-s-s-single bed

i fear this video has triggered a paradigm shift into an alternative psychological universe of which i may regretfully never return from

hippity hoppity January 27, 2008

this one reminds me of my job, minus the blatant psychedelia.. but no less strange.

also, check out sun ra’s amazing version of this song, if you can find it.

son of abraham January 12, 2008

New York mornings come on slow. Edging their way into this alley and that bathroom window. They are meticulous, judgmental even. Shifts and circles. Relieving the cold endurance of a sleepless night, rousing the terror of day. Pennies, tacks, screws, pot seeds, bottle caps; whatever I can sacrifice for the joy of watching the scavenger rats scitter scatter as I drop these bombs from my window to the alley four stories below. I’ve never hit one of them rats, but I won’t be too disappointed with myself when I do. I’ll go to the kitchen and gaze into the empty freezer again. The burst of chilled air might chase me back into my bedroom and under my worn blanket, nearly translucent from cigarette burns and being dragged around from town to town. I am not a coward; I reach for the foil-covered sugar cubes hiding in the back. They are drenched in LSD and the rats are boring me.
If you haven’t tried eating a sugar cube since you were five years old, it’s best you don’t. They are vile and uncomfortable on the tongue. The fourth is most grotesque. I pick up a fleece pullover sweater my grandmother sent me for Christmas. It might be something a youth pastor would keep in his trunk in case it got breezy at Wednesday’s basketball night, certainly something I would never wear out with a straight head. But it should keep me warm for this adventure and it’s easy to put on. I lace up my canvas shoes, they always seem slightly damp, and open the front door. The air is crisp, but promising. It is 6 a.m., and like my head, Harlem is beginning to stir.
There is a market under the Westside Highway on Riverside. I keep my distance from the front entrance, well aware of its traps. Once inside, I should find myself marching laps around the perimeter of the store, darting in and out of aisles, paying no attention to the product so cleverly displayed. What will the bag girl think of me should I buy this here persimmon. Or maybe a brilliant red apple. She knows I don’t eat fruit, not at this wee hour of the morning with pupils you could dip your big toe into. She knows of my feeble attempts to be ironic, she knows of my condition. I decide to visit the market another day and head for higher ground.
The incline towards Broadway seems steeper today. I wonder what sort of impact a billion tons of steel piled onto the abscesses of it’s tunnels, lairs, and creep holes dug throughout this tiny island, once a swamp, has had on Manhattan over the past century. The man-induced fault lines are smoking hot, the tectonic plates pull and toil. The force is unbearable. I am weary, but Broadway is upon me. Regret has already surfaced, and wish I were asleep at home in California with a full pack of named-brand cigarettes on my nightstand, my long departed dog at the foot of my bed.
135th & Broadway embraces me with familiarity. Rotting fumes escaping the carniceria provoke shame for my carnivorous instincts. The bootleg CD vendor samples a collection of salsa mixes through a portable stereo. Its poor distorted quality seems to flood the entire location quite brilliantly. Rosa blends suitably into the storefront of the 99-cent joint. A mess of Dominican hair spilling from her fingers. She pulls and weaves and ties the curls of a young boy who seems privileged to accept such service. I’ve never had my hair braided, but have occasionally purchased hydroponic marijuana from Rosa. No codes or euphemisms are necessary. Be sure to tell Rosa exactly what you need. Follow her into the store. On the aisle furthest away from the cash register, under the school supplies, there is a pencil box. You may choose, but be quick. “Okay Papi?”
I smile at Rosa with a “hello, nice to see you, I don’t need anything” smile just as the bus pulls up. It has obviously dropped from the sky. Slightly warmed in its humid cloud of exhaust and Harlem dust, I contemplate boarding. I rarely take the bus, it’s routes and general ettiquette are foreign to me. There are few people who ride both bus and subway in the city. They are two very different and unique experiences. But I’ve not the stamina for dark tunnels and its sheer presence is far too enticing. I climb on without the slightest idea of where it may take me.
The rig pulled left onto 110th St near Tom’s Diner and I became very anxious as the chemicals in my spine became more and more present. I still knew where I was, but anything further than Amsterdam was a mystery to me. A mystery I was not prepared for. The bus pulled another left at Amsterdam and begin to lurch back uptown. I’d had enough of its tricks, I pulled the chord much harder than I needed to and got off at the front steps at the Church of St. John the Divine.
This was the oldest cathedral in the states and the largest in the world. I had admired it several times speeding by in the back of a taxi, in a substance haze, trying to get home before the sun did. The time had come to return to my lord.
The sun had cleared enough of the brownstones and found it’s way to my head. Glorious. Crowned with warmth, guidance. I had emerged. Broke free of the clichés and silliness of the day. I climbed the stairs to the gallery of tall bronze doors. Should I knock? The door furthest away glided open with great majesty and I rushed to catch it ajar. I stood just inside the doorway for a moment, scoping my next point of interest. Thunderclouds were forming across the nave of the sanctuary, filtering stained light beams that waltzed upon the smooth marble floor. Divine indeed. It had been many years since I’d stepped into a religious institute of any sort; I prepared to be struck down in judgment.
I unearthed some coins from the depths of my pocket, dropped them into the box, and submerged my entire hand into the holy water. Catholicism has always been a mysterious matter, the smoke, candles, and robes seemed flamboyant and theatrical. I laid a few wet fingers on my forehead, my sixth chakra began to twitch and throb with curiosity. My hand slid down the bridge of my nose and onto my chapped lips. Stale dusty liquid found it’s way to my tongue and I was afraid to swallow its holiness.
I dried my hand on the front of my fleece sweater thing and let out a nasty little cough that fired straight down the center aisle and broke off in every which direction. It was absorbed by each little recess in the cathedral, and then rounded up, only to return as a great flood of harsh sounds. It nearly floored me. I did a quick scan to see if there were any survivors. Of the few in the church, I saw no one that threatened to keep me from reconciliation with my lord, and I moved towards the center alter as though a I were leading a sacred procession of thousands.
The alter, in any setting, always reminds me of Isaac. Son of Abraham. Of all the horrific tales learnt in Sunday school, this was the most demented. I should praise its effective uses of minimalist techniques and Freudian scare tactics. Such a wickedly simple story, so easy to place yourself in Moriah. That slab of stone under hazy Mediterranean skys. It would be innocent enough if Abraham learned the lesson, as suggested. A parable of a father’s faith, love, and courage. And should I ever become a father, I may reconsider.  But until then, I still find myself naked, tied to a rock, looking past the rusty blade and into my father’s murderous eyes. Blinded by his love for some all-knowing apparition in the sky, emotionally crippled with guilt. And once again, God casts himself as the hero. An angel swooping down with that ‘just kidding’ smirk behind its nappy, grotesque beard. But is Abraham left unfed? Of course not. A lamb should quench his blood thirst, as long as it is butchered for his God. Things must have been pretty tense at Abraham’s dinner table that night. Quick glances and heavy sighs.
There are several small chapels nestled into the perimeter of the cathedral, each representing a different origin country of the first New Yorkers.  France seems to be the richest in color and design, but I am prohibited by a sign at the entrance reading “THIS CHAPEL IS RESERVED FOR PRAYER AND MEDITATION”. Fearing the expectations of any onlookers who would wait for me to cross myself, I depart.
Shuffling around the great alter, peering into each chapel with dreadful ignorance, I find a small gift shop on the north side. It is clearly undergoing some sort of renovation, it’s skeleton gruesomely exposed. The sweetest potion of old bibles and sawdust draws me in. A menagerie of small ceramic children painted in soft pastels reading bibles and engaging in bedside prayer welcomes the consumer at the entrance. An unforeseen selection of new age and mystic reading material are found about the shelves. Where could I locate a horse’s whip? I shall tear up this unsanctified marketplace, turning over tables, freeing the small ceramic captives into the streets of the upper west side. 100 lashes for each of the little old ladies counting their silver behind the register and stocking wooden shelves with unholy words. Fie! I am a curse. I am. Your sinful ways shall not be rewarded. Lay down your sheep, throw away your pennies, seek forgiveness today my children. We thrive for mere minutes. In stormy cathedrals, in orange bathrooms, in off-track betting halls sticky and sound. Go forth. Go to your mothers and grandmothers and uncles and take back what is yours. Go to your teachers, demonstrate your foolishness, reveal your fears, they are to blame. Go to the women who spill souls into street corners and listen, listen with all of your ears. Go the wrong way, just like you always wanted to. Just like the funny people in make-up and the troubadour and the broken dogs and the boys on bikes. Go towards the nauseating glow of jealousy, it is your guide.

Go outside.

Enchanting oaks shade the grounds south of the cathedral. The narrow cobblestone paths through the garden of biblical herbs and burning bushes lead to the most frightening statue I have ever encountered. Michael the Archangel. Satan. In a tangle of seven giraffe necks. I try to decipher the engraved plaques that dilute the stark reality of the situation with a lot of fairytale symbolism. But the towering figures are far too distracting. Wings of Michael, tongues of giraffe, legs of crab begin to liquefy into earthly breath, black blood spills down the pedestal, clouding the mote. Michael’s wings reach full span, expanding his chest and arching his back. A brief gaze into the New York sky and whoosh, wings come crashing down. Michael’s face stressed from the updraft resistance. A wind, much like a midtown canyon wind that assaults you from around the corner, much like a hurricane. Only heated, like Santa Ana. There is a small Asian boy cooing at the apparition. “Coo coooo”. He stands too close.
“You ass! Does God’s personal assistant have time to peck seed from your snotty little paws?” Did he hear that?
“Cooooo”. I guess not. Someone should do something.
“Coooo coooo”. This is no place for children. I am overwhelmed. I back slowly into an iron bench and collapse into a consecrated spell.
Come to with pen in hand and mangled paper at my feet. It is not necessary to attempt translating these scribbles now. I stuff the paper into my back pocket. The children have gone, and Michael has solidified back into his sculptor’s perverse nightmare. Hard and still. The cold iron has seeped through my jeans and left me chilled, my fortitude has been completely saturated and holds no room for any more awakenings. I desire warmth and music and orange juice.

-

There is no way to quietly sneak back into the apartment. The front door lock requires much coaxing and manipulation before breaking it’s solid grasp on the jam. My efforts are rewarded with the click. All the energy I have left is sent through the door, nearly taking out Tanya on her way to her morning shower. She’s wearing her ‘Grumpy’ nightshirt. Yes, the dwarf. Once meant as a joke, but has evolved into definite warning. She’s seems bewildered by my mid-morning arrival, but does not look at me. Adam is in the kitchen hitting the gravity bong while he waits for the tea water to whistle. The first words I’ve said in nearly a day scratch their way from my uvula and fall onto the gummy kitchen floor. “The sun’s out”.
“Good”, suspiciously. Adam is always suspicious. He begins to fight with the heap of dirty dishes spilling out of the sink, probably needs a spoon. It’s all slightly amusing, but his hostility is severe and the slimy dishes are revolting. I’ve intruded on his morning ritual long enough.
Before entering the living room, I stop to gaze at the image hanging in the hallway as I’ve done a hundred times before. It is a holographic painting of Jesus, and with slightest tilt of the head, or a small step to the side, beard and crown o’ thorns dissolve and Mother Mary is revealed in her awesome golden aura. I detach from physical being for a moment to watch myself in this slowed version of the two-step, head cocked to the side. “HA!” But a manufactured illusion, rubbish. Into the living room. There are about 14 different buttons that need attention to get the music working, not even possible this day. I light a cigarette and tug at the fabric of the couch a bit. A coarse woven polyester fiber. Rapidly wearing and unraveling. If you get enough between your fingertips, you can pull tiny-curded chunks off to pile neatly on your lap. I hear Tanya’s little wet feet smacking against the hallway linoleum. No exchanges. She slams the bedroom door that never quite shuts all the way. Adam follows, he sits in the chair across from me, eyes the pieces of his couch on my lap, and gives himself to his tea. The silence is unbearable. “I’m tripping my balls off”, defensively.
“When?”
“Last night…or this morning…I’m not sure. Now, I guess.”
“Where were you?” somewhat jealous, but supportive. I unravel the paper from my pocket and quickly scan it.
“Should I read this?”
“Yeah”, eagerly.
I read, “Poor Satan, which beast will you rest your head on now. Ride your crab up to Harlem. I hide in bushes there, in Riverside Park. With the others. The others chase each other round the bushes. Good versus evil. I hide in Bushes there. I think I’ve pissed myself.”
As the last words are recited, a small thud comes trickling out of the hallway. I determine, by Adam’s horrified expression, that the holographic painting of Christ has leaped off the wall. “That was Jesus, wasn’t it?”
Adam nods in confirmation. I feel some kind of pride for my clairvoyance, but am much more frightened than Adam. Jesus didn’t like my poem, or did he? Maybe it was Mary who might be so aghast. “Yeah, so that’s where I was.”
Adam is clairvoyant too. Without prompting, he walks over to the stack of stereo components, initiates the random feature on the 200-disc changer and disappears into the bedroom. Adam’s CDs range from Mississippi Blues to Middle America garage punk to 70’s funk to hardcore hip hop. The plays are broken up by the grinding humming hissing of the changer, a short intermission to put the last tune in perspective. I’m pretty sure Tom Waits is playing a calliope on his new record, sick fuck, but it’s hard to make out over the rumpus in the bedroom. A small battle has engaged, and someone has just been thrown into the door. Accusations and insults are being tossed about, and they are returned with candlesticks and leather boots and ashtrays. Tanya is having a full on tantrum, and I’m certain Adam adores every second of it. It’s easy not to get involved. It’s easy not to care. I just wish they’d shut fuck up every once in a while.
Six minutes into “Sister Ray Says” by the Velvet Underground. John Cale’s reverb has penetrated my spinal chord. I think my fillings have shaken loose. Stretched out on my stomach across the couch, fists clenched. My face buried between two cushions. It smells of whiskey, forgotten art projects, and oral sex. I’m overwhelmed by the strange yet frequent desire to rip each of my molars out, one at a time. The bedroom door bursts open with a crash and I bite the shit out of my tongue. Eye contact with Tanya for the first time. She has been crying. I wipe my mouth, certain I’d been frothing over the last guitar solo. “Hey.”
“Hey, what are you up to today?” Adam has obviously told her my secret. Why is it a secret?
“I bit my tongue, I think I’m gonna go da sthleep sthoon,” painfully.
“That would be good.” Adam comes up from behind and slaps her ass. Tanya returns a swift chop to the neck. They exit, laughing. More cranking clicking clacking from the CD player with its mysterious random feature. Dylan’s unmistakable nasally exaltations come ringing with idealistic truth. Highway 61, Revisited.
“Oh God said to Abraham, “Kill me a son”
Abe says, “Man, you must be puttin’ me on”"