Willow Mammoth

Static Terminal: Feeling wirey? Scriptures of the sleepless, Pt III

Near the lakeshore, where in the day
Joggers run back and down along the trail.
For the last seven years and maybe longer than this memory mind there has been a chain squeak on the lovers-chair that swings back and forth facing the North. Cranebirds fly towards the shadows and geese, who catch V’s in the water, make more of a public appearance than the cranes ever do. They share water spaces with the ducks .
Joggers eventually get that workout fulfillment they set out for, unband, and leave.
The winds still push those old wooden swing seats; a sound that matches a permanency or pattern as common as the duck honks that sound like a slight wino’s uninterrupted laughter.

There’s a taste of cinnamon stick, here
Try and bite on the end and get a spice morsel chunking down your throatway
The ducks go mute in an alarm-pause
A sound of  an annoyance-choke goes 20 seconds or more until breath is catched again
A decision is confirmed that it’s been too many cinnamon sticks that night
Turning over onto a side, near the lip of the lake… any park visitor had already left 3 hours ago when it closed. The ducks start up with their communion again, talking about that person who almost choked on a damn cinnamon stick.

The willows are so mighty and tall with hairs that look combed and smoothed down. The shape of 2,3,4 of them side by side creates an outline against the starnight. They look like wooly mammoths marching along the shores, with trunks swaying heavily. A size so gargantuan that in any night I could wind up as gum on a mammoth foot and one wouldn’t even think twice or notice.
Luckily they’re only surreal, for now. I wonder that about the stars, about myself,
About the cold amount of breath that exhales and the wet grass stain on my left knee.. How legitimate these things are… What kind of tales of life I could stuff into a bottle.
Is that done, anymore, filling bottles with souvenirs for recipients, who find a floating glass and open a  message from time? Or are they for collecting in large black trash bins, left by wino’s who laugh like ducks or non-meticulous highway-driver pitchers. Did I mean the bottle or message from time

As an unidentified lemuring biped, sometimes it seems more worthy of sense to slither, or float, or hover.
But every time I’d ever tried to slither I had walloped my hip upon a root or got caught up on a briarberry. And every time I tried to float there’d be nose gulps snoozed of seawater. Every flight shortened me a little each time as the jumps were so high that most impacts crunched me in a jolt of body shortening--so I’d have to tie my feet to a tree and hold 200 pound turtles to stretch my self back out again.

This is my test--- my examination.. Test out this body mechanism, examine what senses can do and try not and be too volatile or unforgiving of the sense perceptions around me. Breathe out again, staring north-out.. Underneath the mammoth willows with their furs moving by night wind.. Watching breath disappear into old airs.

Way back stream, 20 hours or so of inlets that lead to this very here--- So far back there there’s a penchant of my past.. And I must have floated all the way down from there to where I lay now, almost a part of the ground. And I could have been smaller then--- like how a mammoth willow could look down to something like me and see how small--- only more, way more..
Because maybe I was a seed, that floated from the very beginning. But now what am I again?
It floated and grew along the entirety, and somehow ’made it.’
I’m sure about a lot of things… Like never being able to keep an assurance entirely still or certain
And finding an edgy rocking back and forth between practice and virtue.
Falling in love much too easily convinced as the queries of ’don’t trust strangers’ tells me my answers are misfire. Then again, watching from some sidelines never exactly sure about things like spirals and if I’m a part of this game or just a lousy, disqualified human being.   Or beautiful, or none.

The airs move the swingseat and nobody ever wd40s  the chain that holds it above and swinging. I sat there alone before, in the day before the sun went down. I sat there in the night, with others-- holding hands a lot and probably casually cussing a lot-- a longer time ago. 15 hours further up that stream, that leads towards where I  now ay onto my side.. 15 hours further I would jump and slip with friends in the creek,
Hand-cupping minnows in streams and letting them go.. Or building mazes for them-- labyrinths and castles for fish that would grow to be trout that their mothers would be proud to ever have had as part of her egg sack. Only when they didn’t face the dried up summers where the creeks would turn to a crusty bed of coarseness. The stream could have been like that when I was growing along the current path as a seed along the way but instead it was flowing and nothing from the side banks had snagged me and no predators had lifted their jaws for me to pass as leftovers.

I stare outward, each half hour-- the silhouettes of the hills circling the lake grow more noticeably darker, trying to match the skies. In the park--- near the fences to hop and bridges to cross. A multitude of selfs travel along memory and face the now as a series of pasts and futures. But no agreement has been served to erase or reverse any of these people. Some of them come from 42 years ago and match an astonishing glare while the each of you cross the street at a hurried second. Others are momentums of bashing a finger into a car door at an opposed second of misdirection, not focusing attention.  Whoever invented the wheel- yeah, that was pretty good, but there’s no ever living down how miraculous the dawn of the circle seems to be.

Curfews never happen, the wrist watch, no matter how many times I crack it against a stone, never seems to start ticking. Shoes are gone, these jeans start to crumble each and every seam, disbanding and disintegrating into dirt into powder and gone-- even the cinnamon stick, disappearing, winding up naked-- nothing to cover, nothing to really hide from… A piece of the land.. Skin tarnished, no, dirty… no, blessed by the dirts, the make up of the land. A cold dew felt more personable now, against the back of the skin and breath coming out now thicker and streaming… into the hills and riding away, like something alive.
If I could, just--- concentrate, and watch the willows take their feet out from the ground, and march as mammoths and swing their trunks---roar their heads.
Every old thought that was square, when it came to head… it punctured, it laughed and evoked a tearing. It was a past that would not live down.. So sharp and indignant to admitting that it is as has been done, and time measured on focusing, or worrying about etched moments penetrates nothing through acts of time. The circle came-- to revolve
Circle, around and around  unlike that clock that  ceased to do so.
The crane bird comes to me as material becomes less and less.. Skin still held up, bones to operate.
The willow mammoth lifts one foot, as a trees comes from the flat. No sound, a gentle motion. Obviously gigantic but so mellow as it parts from the soil. Another foot… all four are eventually freed. Archaic creature, steadily along the shores, with the back of a willow and ever mighty.
The crane bird stares into my eyes, inches away. I stare back. Content.. Nothing to cover, nothing to take away. We’ll dine on the night. My friend--starts the conversation and I’m so ready to listen.

gREYoME

youtube link
Audio notes@end

 Photograph/still gallery from the video:

7.7.12
 We accidentally walked under the scope of the freedom tower. We were trying to get somewhere else and accidentally walked into this mall of marble. Luckily the mirrors created a nice effect as I snagged a photograph of a passing stranger.   

7.7.12
The 'door' closed where the aforementioned stranger had stood (and multiplied and reduced in some of the video sequence.)

7.7.12
A beauty supply advertisement still in that city mall. 

before

After.
Trees outside of Manhatten apartments. Cropped and
mirrored to create the introduction of the 1st song.
Yes ther'r trees in the city every here'n'there.

7.9.12

7.8.12

A cityscape as seen from the farie coming back from Governor's Island.

9.16.12

8.23.12

8.12.11

8.12.11

5.3.12

5.3.12

8.9.12

7.22.12

There are a lot more but can you blame me for not adding them right now when I have no secretary or maintenance team. I'm already warring off a face-zit & running an illegal gambling operation where I have to keep an eye on 7,221 miniature zebras on a hotwheels slope that serves as a racetrack.*

*This may or may not be a joke. You decide. Imagine the waste of effort and work hours hiring an investigation team to break open the case of a miniature Zebra gambling operation.

This video was put together 09/18/2012*
Material by Lome Menstrual
01. GrehOme [0:01-1:05]
02. IDentity [1:05-4:21]
03. (not yet named)[4:21-8:46]
Photos/Video:Ithaca,Ny/Nyc

*Time measurement recorded in Gregorian system & may be completely inaccurate as opposed to other time systems.


It was a tuesday, one week exact after the 11th  anniversary of Emegency-Day.
An intent stirred up. Being able to sit down and have images being pulled up at such a speed was almost unbelievable as the only difficulty that came about was being able to catch up,physically, with the muse.. So that I did not slow down too far behind from sensations being translated to something 'material.' I'd become used to that feeling in a sense where translating or being with a sort of flow with images coming outward but the extent of this 'visitation' from the Muse that Tuesday night was heavy,heavy,heavy.
Needs of hydration or food or even a break kept calling but drinking or eating or slowing down wouldn't be allowed because the motion, if interrupted, would have been insulted and vacate. 
I think there's years worth of video and image to put together
and transfer pieces.
So everything can be comprised of a personal experience or long walk where photographs were melded into available stock.In arts you don't necessarily have to be confined to an employment deadline and a passion or  urge to complete something almost always or indefinitely surpasses any 9-5 series of hours. If anything the amount of hours that can take place includes the drive to-and-back, all included regular lunch hours and each second and minute that would be listening to that lady Jan in the elevator who you think just talk talk talk talk talk talk talks but you would find it rude to tell her otherwise so you just stand there in the elevator with a hidden cringe about to burst and keep on listening.

A buildup was being released because before that process there was a momentous weight of  some of the most pitiful feelings of loathing and disaster about being 'here.'  It's like where that collective feeling enters your bloodstream and all of those woes or sufferings of a global conscience trade places with your own being right there right that very second.
As soon as the process [of putting pieces of the video together] began, though, it was like a door or window opened up and sucked those feelings [of discontent] to a different air. The concentration was undivided.
Some pheromone scent I never sensed before was coming from me.. I felt like some extinct animal from some lost jungle land had entered my ears and into my tear ducts and then exited out from my pores as sweat.
The room was filled with that space being created by an uncut intent, completely reversing those awful sensations of alienation. It was a calling to form an image and felt moreso natural and as a given. 


I remember the first two images reminding me of faces/creatures you might see when staring in to wood grains when in the forest. Also, the lime green opening image at about 3 seconds seemed like the molecules &/or innards of some bacterial life. I'm not sure how to explain it entirely but it has a feeling,to me, of being at the level of looking at what even the most sensitive microscope would be able to pick up on and staring at that life form from the range at being at it's 'feet' (can bacteria afford Doc Martins?).. with roots/appendages protruding out at either side from the base to the head. That is what is so fun about creating the mirrored images: the practice of interpreting the imagination from where it is like gazing up at clouds once again: A practice that doesn't have to be given up from developing from 'child' into 'adult.'


The three songs were pretty much chosen at random, each from a separate project. The first, GrehOme, being from some Nova Scota pop sensation calling themselves Lemontrees

They have been known to have only released one album: Dance Of The Liquid Soap Eaters. Oddly enough it was released the same month and year of some box-set that  I had finally finished and released.
They're the only band to have had a decapitated deer-head target as the electric bass player.  There were the Kettlers, however, a Mississippi garage band, who had a decapitated deer-head who was a fuhhhnominal but underrated keyboardist.

IDentity

The Idea, the ID, the character, the entities

Moving to encouragement
walking away from town and falling into the Earth
moving away from discouragement of ideas that conflict with the general and cozy patterns.
It's still ghetto, picking 'orchestra drums' from a casio.. hoping the transfer will match up, sometimes it doesnt, with the guitar laying I am adding it over. If anyone ever wants a personal complaint about editing wav files and matching up drums or other layers that occasional lag I will type a lengthy critique otherwise I wouldn't imagine it being joyful to read about.
It's probably not finished quite completely but it was grabbed and chosen and complimented some of the images.

I walked away from town and leapt over the guard rail and walked underneath the bridge. The further up that stream I had went the more vivid my thoughts and feelings of assurance had grown. Some anxious reflection of the many moods grouped together in the town area made me feel almost guilty for feeling content at first when I was there.. because that content was facing off with a heavy feeling or guess at a feeling that everyone around was pretty much miserable or loathing the spaces they were coming from or entering in to. I keep forgetting or purposely forgetting about what it means to be 'good' at music. Everything seems to be able to hatch out of itself and every once in a while dreams to be an exact contrast from which it came.

Forgiveness seems like a long lost action that both challenges and counters the steady and thick requirements of immediate judgement and ignorances that stand atop the wall of consumer economies.
To avoid forgiving others immediately acts in a way that avoids judgement in the first place. And to be able to understandably forgive the self seems to create a more fluent and relaxed visitation to personal history. In any given case just about everyone including myself who may have grown up receiving a  comparatively industrialized education can have a self-forgiveness for being an ignorant bastard. While all of that is true if you are open to believing it, it may,too, be impossibly wrong if you do not believe it. Anyway at the moment I feel dearly apologetic towards any poor soul in who would take advice from me, but I forgive that person and myself, both, for ever allowing such a situation.

The third and final song "Damn if I'm going to name this song on the fly" is the last 1/3rd of a 9 minute stretch. I'm sure more [instruments] will be added to it when it is 'ready for the conveyer belt of the oh-so awaited for Lerm -whatsitsname-album' but hopefully more videos will be put outwards to fill up a DVD and the two latter songs of this video will have happy homes in another boxed set of music.

Actually, here:
Be courteous, even to assholes. The more courteous you are to an asshole the more of an asshole that person becomes if they choose not to take your direct action of niceness as something to change their pace from.



Image-wise, this character allowed itself to become present in this and other videos. I have my own idea and regards to the meaning of the character.. masked and almost phantasmic..but to cut in to a viewers interpretation of that initial and natural presentatiomay have grown up receiving a  comparatively industrialized education can have a self-forgiveness for being an ignorant bastard. While all of that is true if you are open to believing it, it may,too, be impossibly wrong if you do not believe it. Anyway at the moment I feel dearly apologetic towards any poor soul in who would take advice from me, but I forgive that person and myself, both, for ever allowing such a situation.

The third and final song "Damn if I'm going to name this song on the fly" is the last 1/3rd of a 9 minute stretch. I'm sure more [instruments] will be added to it when it is 'ready for the conveyer belt of the oh-so awaited for Lerm -whatsitsname-album' but hopefully more videos will be put outwards to fill up a DVD and the two latter songs of this video will have happy homes in another boxed set of music.

Actually, here:
Be courteous, even to assholes. The more courteous you are to an asshole the more of an asshole that person becomes if they choose not to take your direct action of niceness as something to change their pace from.



Image-wise, this character allowed itself to become present in this and other videos. I have my own idea and regards to the meaning of the character.. masked and almost phantasmic..but to cut in to a viewers interpretation of that initial and natural presentation to develop their own meaning would actually subtract. The gaining of effects from such a minimal approach using merely magazine cut outs from beauty ads and model/movie face pages ushers an enjoyment to see that with a generous amount of lighting the character portrayal actually succeeds.

One of the faces was cut out and stored in a cardboard envelope for almost four years. Few photos were celebrated with the mask but I recently brought it out when regarded with an interest on the topic of invocation and a leaning of enjoyment towards plays and spirit-creatures.
Snippets of it run across the 'Liquid Floor Love' video and the Chameleon Shelter trailer. One of the masks suffered a very quick fate of face sweat which blurred the ink and ruffled the sides.. So I give it an ode-to-passing.


Moment of admittance: 
If cows were to lay eggs could you 'crack open a hamburger?'

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