My own billboard vision and Travis the Dragon Enthusiast

A random crop to practice curious eyes

I was downtown on foot and wearing an empty stomach so I had waited for the soup kitchen to open up.... 'Ended up talking to quite a few friendly people, all good-spirited, which really turned the day around as I was pretty pissed off/aggravated .. Especially after going to the public library passing the sign near the front desk regarding the patriot act, basically explaining "We have the right to investigate your personal information if any of the books checked out seem suspicious of your behalf," which basically means that if you catch up far enough on how shit really works, "We're gonna turn you into dust and vacuum you up, without anybody ever knowing!

("We Shall Call It the Library, Where We Bury the Lies." Krs-One)
Anyhow, At the pantry this couple had a energetic kid named Travis. Normally I don't even talk to kids, (or anyone.. Okay I take part as the hermit) but ya know what.. I remember as a child older kids would always talk to me and I'd be damn interested. Nobody really seems to do that anymore. We just let machines and media take over any form of influence for the youth. He took a piece of paper off the table and each of us drew our own version of a dragon, after I split a line down the center of the sheet. He was very fixated on drawing a dragon, and kept telling me he wanted to see me draw one.

Here is a 'dragon' I drew when I was around 7
(Okay, it looks more like what we think we know as a dinosaur.)

The funny thing is that a month or so ago I was going through my old childhood drawings from when I was 7 or so and I had made a really wild book having to do with a dragon, taking over a castle, and.. well, there were some giant plot holes. (I'll post that picture book up sometime if people promise not laugh at it!)
I guess the lesson for today is "Stop ignoring the kids! They're damn creative. "

That's 2% of the day but the rest is too much to even get into.. Walking until your feet bleed and coming inches away from a fawn as calm as a feather are too much to recollect fully at the moment.

Here are some more photos from the City, this day: 06/26/2009.
There's over 3 GB of photos so I'm trying to figure out what
the hell to do with so many.

coney island

bedford

etc

etc

etc

"It's a shitty day, sign here... Sign your life away.
Number first, please, and then name
Sign here for your serving days"

Days speed up,Creative Compulsion,A skate article and Sketch

Beliefs are always something that should be looked back upon with hesitation. There, that's my belief. Maybe I'll think that's a dumb idea two years from now.

The days are passing by so quickly. It almost seems like 4 day weeks anymore. The construct of time grows less meaningful nor relevant anyhow and the more I step foot outside the more often I look up gazing to the sky.
It appears to be a machine of electric waves... Loose sparks shooting across and down from the cosmos all the way to the empty farm fields or lonely convenience marts, down even further through the Earth's core.
I keep reading of and comparing the ancient worlds up to now. Nothing has seemed to of changed, other than access to information and the pedestals of which symbols are placed. From temples to t-shirts. (More on that soon, I promise!) I hadn't seen a TV screen or newspaper headline in weeks which seems to have cleared my mind. In not taking things too seriously, I realise that experience can be dealt with in a great and joyous way, though the chasms of pain and bullshit--contempt and bad thoughts are natural and need to be warded off by dealing with them, not by storing them away... Through balancing the physical with the mental.

After a good while of being stuck in a creative-blockage, The last two months have reversed and been flooding me with a non-stop flow of making music and stories. So I'd been collecting and creating all I can in some sort of preparation of that faucet eventually shutting off again, Yet the more I've been peering into past cultures the more logical it seems to find my own way of keeping a hand on the faucet, not letting anybody or anything else force you to lose determination.

The past weekend offered me the chance to take part in an article for a magazine that will feature a segment on skateboarding and my board artwork, So while still in shock of the opportunity, I was out from sunrise to dark with very little sleep helping get photos done. It feels pretty strange to be on the other side of the camera lense for once. How it will turn out, I can only wait to see, but I do have a Polaroid after bombing down Blakslee hill several times for photos; A very curvaceous hill that shot me down from top to bottom. I would always pass the hill by when driving or riding bike, and even dream of skateboarding down the treacherous slope, but actually taking the moment to do it... That changes things completely.

So as the days speed up and Wednesdays seem to disappear, All that old worrying and complaining about things seems more redundant than useful. There are chances to be taken and shoes to be torn up. The access of information is indeed becoming more open to those who are interested in finding, So take what you can and use it to learn about yourself.

Here is a sketch I started -attached to a letter a few nights ago

Also I made a cover for the Death The Infomercial sampler for anybody who wants to print out the cover and burn the sampler. It just sort of happened.

B'tween 'Cation. Sects and Skate Photos

A few extra photos to hold over my juggling of articles,perceptions and bicycles wrenches.
2009

2007

"One time, this guy handed me a picture of him, he said,"Here's a picture of me when I was younger." Every picture is of you when you were younger."-Mitch Hedberg

A Taste Of DEATH: The Infomercial (Update 2)

A Taste Of Death:The Infomercial.mp3
11:43 11MB

(Direct link. Save as to download)

A snippet of audio from the soundtrack-inspired songs I have been making for Death:The Infomercial, following the "Life The Advertisement" CD from a short while back. I've been working on these songs for a damn long while and there must be 3-4 different mixed versions junked away that didn't seem right.
Here are two full songs from this little sound-adventure:
March Of The Time Bandits (Pts 1&2) Pts 1&2(4.77MB 5:12)
Smiling Mantra (2.53MB 2:45)

Times have been adventurous of lately... Crazy, but adventurous. I'd been busy with working on some other albums as well... One with a folk rock feeling and another more spoken- word... Possibly taking a group of short stories and turning them into an auditory experience.. That would be a real fun experience just to see what the heck it could sound like. ...Just trying to stay on that diverse non-path. I honestly don't know how some can stick on the same sounds and not get weary of it. Though it's hard, to share work when it seems most people just want a feel-good chorus about tits and violence or nursery rhyme structuring. All I can do is keep doing what I'm doing.
Anyhow, I'll see how people take to this release when it's out. It'll be shipped out and finished by myself like the previous CDs,but this time I'm going all out on the album artwork and details. I usually offer most releases for free anyhow, but hopefully all the work will make it worth that little extra to support it and get a real copy instead of only mp3s. I guess the main goal is for this to be one extended song, all of the tracks are going to intertwine with one another and hopefully give the sensation of floating through the cosmos, escaping from the daily tortures of everyday plainness. Damn, it's a pain to be your own manager, but freeing to have nobody telling you what your style should be or that you're too off-fad. Like I've expressed before, I'd much rather be happy doing my own thing and be an unknown than to sell my soul and ideals to end up being scrooged by the record industry.
Why "Death:The Infomercial?" For one: To jab at the amount of materialism that subdues our current existence or means of operation. In following Life: The Advertisement, I suppose it may only seem witty or coy to name it as such, but I'd also like to compare it to the way older cultures would prepare a transition from life to death since birth. Symbology has a lot to with this, and as I'll later, (eventually) get to in the future as many others already explain this in a very well format, our neurological and subconscious levels work on a much different method than what we really think we perceive.

Anyhow, I thought it was interesting to see the above image on the ground underneath a bridge, and often wonder how many people know the true meaning of symbols or whether they are intentionally used or not.

It directly reminded me of the sun cycles

or work of Robert Anton Wilson, Who explained these traits as Four quadrants that represent the psyche in his book Prometheus Rising. The quadrants are made up of strength and weakness traits. The Lion, representing Fire, being the 'Good/Friendly strength.' The Loyal.. Fire also possibly connecting the lion to the sun, since the two are often connected.

The lion's wavy golden strands, king of the jungle, A receiver of light in ways. The Bull, representing the element of Earth was given the 'Hostile Weakness.' 'Hostile Strength' is given to the Eagle (The element Air) or Sky as 'high and mighty', according to Wilson. Friendly Weakness was associated with the Angel archetype, or Water.

This is all interesting to me because it's been used over and over again from the Tarot, Torah and passed down to present day, only with the meanings and symbols hidden from us. We have lost our literacy to read symbols, or subconscious comprehension which really is a vital standpoint on how a society operates.
From the research of Michael Tsarion he presents: There are 240 thousand miles of nuero threads in the human brain, which is enough to stretch from our Earth to the Moon. On every micrometer of these threads there exists 250 thousand units of information. What is this data recorded as? This data is recorded as composite IMAGES, not as words. These composite images are encoded in DNA as the symbols and images. (This was from one of Michael's presentations on the use of symbols in a six part series, which I recomend watching.)

It sounds crazy, fucked up, but I am prepared to be deemed such, because when 'Normal' just feels way out of touch, when the way things operate do not seem just or sensible, crazy is the only way to turn. It is no doubt that our culture is a consumer culture, a material society (Yes I realize the irony as this writing is aligned with my piece-of product music composure,haha!)
I'll later type up and update an old writing to further this subject, on old civilizations interpretations of Death, and it's connections to symbols, the subconscious and what information has been lost/rid of along the way.

In a shell, I just wanted to get out of the way the choice of title to this project and in hope get some insights out that I've been meaning to release quite a while. If it seems strange now, I guess my future writing will either convince/ make me seem stranger, for those who want to see what I mean.

When you embark upon ancient holy symbols being used to advertise, and see Gods and Goddesses from Mesopotamia and Egypt recycled with names changed, on T-shirts and billboards, you can only question what is going on. Thus Life: The Advertisement, Death:The Infomercial.

Able's Worn Soles (A short story)

Aible's Worn Soles
Written '08/10/2009' by Leemonster

I tramped into town--- Silence. A slight humming from badly structured electric lines and radiator fans later chimed in, but nothing else. A breeze through the air being strangled still by the thick, hot wet air. Teenage daughters locked in their bedrooms staring to mirrors only reflecting faces of bone-hugged superstars. Fathers winding down on living room sofas.

My feet slip against the ground. Dead skin on my foot, toes almost extruding through the holes in my shoes, barely contained from piercing through by my wet socks. I sit on a milk crate in the middle of this universal mess… Searching for subjects to write. A pen between my grip as I hold it like an arrow pulled back ready to pierce the flesh, but the act of story and structure feels like the ideal of skinning and preparing the meat… To starve for the ease to avoid given preparation? Starved like the daughters about to sneak through their windows or staved like the life away from the single mothers all ugly to the eyes of entertainment.

One casual glance at Eden. It exists, out there. I’ve breathed it in. It is that breath where you can exhale freely without a large choking jolt or series of coughs from bad air. I look at the street signs and see wall street quotes. The phonebooks tell me “Obituary,” but I don’t write the books. No wonder I’ve remained forcibly unlisted for so long. An owl stares down from a flickering streetlight. Metal barricades and steel sheds, the broken lights within the letters of store names, all surrounding me. Drug houses and foolish musings of bar scenes are the only source of night activity, but no source of life.

I look up towards the owl then back down at the empty note page. I scribe the date “08/10/2009,” A start. I get up to continue walking… In a section like this it’d be miraculous to avoid a patrol car pulling over and interrogating me. My footsteps continue the count taken since I had learned to walk. I taught myself distance even though when learning to tie my shoes I was hesitant at young age. Well, we all have to graduate from velcro street light shoes someday. My thoughts meander me with a heavy crush while I walk away from the neighborhood to a less populated area, with frequent eye-jerks from peripheral vision as I swear to see shadows moving across the ground alongside my own.

Any novel about the horrors of mankind or any science fiction of the mind chamber are put to dust now. Who am I to partner the subject of these topics? The trance wears so heavy that we often forget or deny that it exists. Growing fat and weary, poisoned and forgetful to a ground down stump that once had branches, and leaves and life, now just a circle of rings to remind of times once lived and roots that grasp to the soil. Roots that grasp trying to remember. Starting from velcro then dying with velcro shoes. What use in tying knots?

CLICK,CLACK,CLICK,CLACK
Shoelaces keep tempo with my steps. Left, right, left, right. A marching man a-wol from this fantasy world, ridden from these projections but still stuck in the hoax. I pass factories still opened with lights glaring through caged windows. The sounds of loud fans drowning away small streams beyond highway signs. I swear there’s a shadow, but I look back… Nothing… Nothing but the stars in the sky that we gaze up upon to dream… Those left remembering they live.


Any normal man will die having nothing answered. The mysteries remain mysteries along the way and any ounce of respect must be either inherited or dodged from blackmail or heresy. To play in the game is to leave all of the bullets remaining in roulette, and this has become the standard.


I can look you up in the phonebook any time from anyplace, but the more I sore my own feet I see that my name is in there too. I just hadn’t looked hard enough, maybe afraid to browse the details. The thickness of the air holds me in it’s grip, like friction’s hand squeezing me. I take off my overcoat and roll it up into a ball then stuff it into my back pack. This shadow, this shadow! I breathe easy then laugh… There’s a brightness from a stop light, from red to green. I look up to see the owl peering down to my eyes. It is the owl that had been perusing… Following.
I stared back, deeply projecting my anguish, hopes and past, Slightly humored that there’s a feeling of better communication and understanding between different species than my own. We shared a depravity of need: To live in a different environment, A different world. The owl, Stuck within a platform built around it trapping it within and myself: wandering town and town again never being able to adapt. There was something I needed to write but I just couldn’t start it… Then I thought to myself, in explaining it all… A blank page was just enough. The date, and then nothing. The only change would be to update the scribbled date, once a day for eternity.

Luckily, my footsteps were untraceable. The soles were worn so scorned that they hadn’t a chance to leave a track. I’ve had my sins and I’ve had my charmings, Had ripped away winning tickets. The jackpot was not the answer nor the arrow or the angst. We’ve had a blank page to fill forever, but my footsteps were never there. I’d made it to Eden but each path had gone covered.
Call me,
Aible.

City Lemons 2009 and Manic Shifts

City Lemons 2009

07/2009 was the routine escape for the city. My interest for documenting the random activities heightened once I was lucky enough to have a camera with me down in the subway. Though many moments beforehand could have made the flick much more interesting, what I was able to catch at least seemed to be enough to work with and practice my ill-mannered video editing.

So now what? I find myself buried under the burden of my own creations feeling as if I should climb back underneath a shell until everything is finished. Weeks, months even, will grip streaks of writer's block for the brain but then when the time is weary.. just when I've had too little sleep, Something clicks and I start recording songs and filling pages instantaneously.. I start to feel a bit out of touch if I go without it, until it all wears off once again and that writers block closes it's steel doors temporarily (tapping into that mindset that wants to experience and create, rather than sit back and watch.) The past few days I've been producing countless songs.. Many will be trashed, many released but probably still unheard. Sometimes it's hard to know what to think of material when you're your only critique. As knuckle shattering as it all seems it still must be done, because I'd go crazy(crazier) without it all. I maintain inspiration but don't feel up to par with all the top hits out there. I mean, they're so deep down, right!? If I fail and sink, at least I did it with my heart and highest efforts, Eh?

Shortly I'll post one of the film songs started sometime within the last three hours, So check back for that.
Off and out to underneath a shell, Keep an eye out for an update.

Ragged Ideas - Fighting Rats

This is the raw sample of a story I am currently creating. Like a ball of destruction, I have absolutely no indication of where it is headed, and strangely enough I am starting this from the mid-point.

So the premise is this: I collected a series of photos from strolling around late night after the rain had retired. Insomnia struck me hard as it frequently does. The wave shocks of need for self-entertainment once again took me over so i started to take take photos like I usually do (this was in June before my camera had passed away.) Anyhow, I decided to use each image to connect a story and dialogue together to see where it ends up, as well as to focus some words and details away from the other stories I am currently working on. It becomes strange because you have all of these side- scenarios that get thrown away from one story and don't want to completely lose them, So I suppose this story is where many of them will end up. This one will be gritty to the bone and full of corporal commentary to spew away those healthy criticisms.

Every aspect of the town became dead to me. Each breath had been lived at least twice and now all there was to do would be climb every rut and stand atop, watching it all melt away. Signs I never wanted to read and a ten-count on both fingers of patrol cars constantly warding me away from the boundaries. No matter which turn, the eventless alleys would welcome them to swoop by in a condescending manner. I must have done something wrong to be out at these hours, right?

Sluts, assholes and bums and booze hounds, all wiring me into a groggy atmosphere in a place where the sun will never reach... Like the base level of some William Gibson novel... I too, stuck in the Matrix.

The trees sway but I feel no breeze. The word 'revolution' is written across old beat up metal garbage cans, appropriately. Thrown away, like ragged ideas, rats fight over food crumbs like shoppers in the holiday rush literally killing each other over television sets on sale price.