mightymouth-blog

[mightymouth-blog]

Professionalism

This is my confessional. 

Man I really hate people I work with who are both hypocritical and take things for granted. 

I invested so much into [project] and then somebody comes out and says shit and I’m like.. oh. hell. no. 

Ugh.

[mightymouth-blog]

Word.

This is wonderful like this here. 

I really dig High Maintenance. I am now documenting the white hot aftereffects of breaking the fifth cycle. Like what I like about unwrapping fun sized chocolates for the aggravation of it, and only after knowing how well thought biting half of a single serving kit kat bar looks and tastes after it is given to someone else. 

I can’t wait to watch the last cycle before new episodes air on HBO. Which is understandable; it was due to get picked up (also I am really into the fact that once pay-for-subscription nuggets were unlocked). It was really well done; I laughed and I cried. 

This is it. I am happy.

In order of remembrance:

Peanut Butter Cup

Kit Kax x2

Almond Joy

Lindt Black

Lindt Red

[mightymouth-blog]

I wish I had someone tell me not to worry.

It’s not only your opinion that counts. This is everyone else’s deal, too. I think we all can’t say we’re too human sometimes. 

I think one day it can fly. 

What do you know if not your person?

What are you if not the breath you take in 13/7ths time/ what is this? I don’t know myself behind the trappings. Am I sensible with a black dress? 

You drive me crazy, I just can’t sleep. 

What was that energy spent doing if not words and words and thoughts? Lots of things. We had a music tour. We had a dream whirlwind of a tough start. I think there’s something to the VH1′s Behind the Music. 

I am always greatly sore these days. I feel accomplished and I feel a loss at the same time. I wish I got my band to my level right now. 

There's something to be said about the success without the definitions of grandeur. I have had loads of carbs today and I feel so right and sad and all too human about things. I feel just alright though. There are more words to say in not this sorrow. 

What is it that compels me to be this ideal of a human? I can has everything. 

The band tour and homework. Following lectures...

;;;;;

It is starting to grow dark now that class begins right after a late day of commuting from across the bridge over putrid salt flats along the bay. I feel like I should have read things from the beginning but every in and out of my day brings me in and out of darkness. The indoor lamps. I am happy to walk outside every once in a while. I think I last biked on Thursday. 

I am in love with her(s). 

Better people run this game more than I do. But I can do a whole fucking lot. 

...k.

So I music, I study, I wake up to catch Narcos before I know I have to sleep and repeat. I dig the word.

Goodbyes are such sweet sorrow. 

Never settle. 

Never regret. 

Anyway, I got mad at someone for not being attentive to my feelings. I destroyed things with words. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0feNVUwQA8U

I am so sleepy and want to cry. It has been three days since I last held my guitar. I haven’t felt (touched) ground in awhile. 

There we go. 

https://vimeo.com/117827379

[mightymouth-blog]

How might a preoccupation with style must one get over to discern the appearance of a thesis?

I am trying not to write tonight. I think I would rather be reading the coursework: Greenspan’s Age of Turbulence is nothing short of charming and welcomed. But I have been meaning to unload my thoughts.  Are there reasons that the the work and education I seek is to make me understand deeper the cosmology of things? I once failed to wonder the relationship between cause and effect and now there is something to treat.  What was once a fascination with cognitive science is right now an obsession with forces--how does one talk about forces? Because at the sway of things, those inform our lives. I am happy. 

For one, music has taken up a section of my life. Much of it is unplayed, though the rest of it is effecting natural highs. The summer tour is going swell but after an e string nipped the back of my hand at the Viper Room (the scab has just worn off) I think I have been just overcome with the task of carrying the band where once was two guitar players. I am afraid I look like I don’t know how to handle my own instrument. Nonetheless, it is fine and my saving grace is a vocalizing freestyle to whatever I am feeling that moment. I wish to be a better jazz musician in the realm of Rap/Rock.  We were on the front page on my birthday--that was nice.  http://www.jaminthevan.com/cuzs-corner-episode-93-unlikely-heroes/

And school! I love UC Berkeley! It is so beautiful. Once I will be fully enrolled and be able to study full-time; until then, which may never be the case but who knows--I am a professional musician, I am studying aforementioned forces. 

And so many friends of all parts of my life came to my birthday show at the El Rio/Boom Boom Room two-day extravaganza. I seek to never forget that moment I had to correct myself. I must be better and practice....

My hands are aching from such music playing. I don’t know what more to do. work out? Do this planking? There is so much room to improve. 

Or homework. So much on my plate. All I want to do is play music. And cook for other people. And not be upset that there are candy wrappers within reach that I did not eat.   To bed, I suppose.

[mightymouth-blog]

The cigarettes I smoke now leave less time to delve into my psyche

Chains wrap around the light emanating from my screen right now. Words I have yet to give meaning. Each slow inhale builds a tower of ash on my vertical thin cigarette; I have learned to make use of less fingers when I type.

A pianist’s fingers are very flexible. With stretch and nimble type I am writing. I want nothing more than to relive memories of the last few days, months, half year. It was lovely while it lasted--I have a stumbling block but, as with any true woman who lives in stilettos, I can can catch myself. (Before I eat it.)

The band is now taking a break from touring. I play a show and the delirium drives and addiction. I love to make music. I have never been in a headlining band before. 

I am the rhythm section. It is sometimes hard to sing and play at the same time as I am a perfectionist. I sing low and deep. I strum with the heart of a rockstar on a pretty melody. I have slow moments in me, but often my reaction is fast.

I feel my initial reactions are always robbed of me. 

More later.

[mightymouth-blog]

With love, from Wednesday

I just think the craft of Kintsugi is a great metaphor for how to engage with personal trauma. We all experience trauma – sometimes physical, mostly psychological – and one of the defining characteristics of trauma is that it disconnects you from your life before it happened. Or, rather, it disconnects you from your prior self-conception. In trauma, the symbolic things that make up your identity are tossed about like debris in a storm. In fact, I think that’s what trauma is: the temporary dissolution of your identity.

- The Nerdwriter thenerdwriter.tumblr.com

I have to write about this.

[mightymouth-blog]

Doppler shift

I am interested in the studies of forces enacting upon another. There is no greater reminder of self-awareness illustrated in physics as the redshift and blueshift of bodies moving in relation to another. So much of what I understand in life I can only understand cheaply by their analogues–or rather, misinterpretations–of astrophysics. We are beholden to our own orbits, the gravitationally exacted pathways to which we are drawn to follow. We calculate proximity and the speed at which celestial bodies move in and out of our range of sight. This accounts for everything, all shapes and densities: dwarf stars, galaxies, supermassive black holes, goals, people, supernovas, magazine articles, maps, nebulae, majorly fluffy kitten twins, institutions, cities.

I remember the blueshift so vividly. The perfect chance encounter. Impromptu dates, someone to split thai food with, kittens so small and fluffy. A twin-lens Yashica to the shores of Monterey. The typography of collected ephemera. So many films, Godard, Antonioni, Refn. One San Francisco SketchFest and David Cross’s gleaming bald head. More food. Dinners drawn at home, adhering to a recipe and not so. A spectra of fights and flourishes, of misheard lyrics and many rewritten to fit our needs. The skyline stretching from Berkeley to San Francisco to Oakland. The sun at angles in the summer and on the face of Christmas lights strung in winter. The heart was so willing. We lay here, four years later, redshift of breath on my skin. Electrons exciting, meeting thresholds of absorption lines: this is the structure of love slipping away.

[mightymouth-blog]

I think most accomplished writers hate non sequiturs

and I think they can f'ng lick my boots.

[mightymouth-blog]

why a cold deception

I don't write anymore. I lacked wisdom then, but now I think that I lacked wisdom in refusing to write. I should write, and often.  Because there are thoughts that accompany the losses and the triumphs. A loss: my grandmother. A fur stole that was once promised to me that will never be mine. A tremor in the timbre of my plucking Eva Cassidy's version of Fields of Gold as they lowered her casket. Why this memory persists as often as it does serves to outline my disgrace. I have not nurtured the loves that I was born to practice. 

This was the snag that unraveled the loosely knit scarf of my world. 

First, single loops secured by insecurity pulled through one another. A digression: I couldn't handle a damn strip club. Second, I wrote to a fantasy. I was homeless then as I feel now. Third, I drank only until I couldn't afford to drink, or eat. With no home, one has no appetite. Fourth, then I had sentences that were unfinished. 

Shortly thereafter, images of my mom intubated come up. Out of the blue and there, lay breathing assisted. Better though, now, not 100% great and doubt she ever can be. But I digress again.  And then soliciting something illicit. And then sexual assault somewhere in there. Mental scars are the gift that keeps on giving.

And then. A triumph, graduating. 

Being unemployed was crappy. And then trying again, and then not being 'the right fit.'

And then. Another triumph, employment. My first real job that I want to keep for a long time. To get me out of the worst  So with wholehearted gratitude to the company that is now feeding me, they're freeing me for two week overseas for pleasure. Milan, Venice, Vienna, Prague, Amsterdam, Tokyo. 

I will have a home there for the few hours I'll spend in the heart of the earth, the  pulse of ancient aesthetic and historic intersections. I am rereading Italo Calvino for these words now. I forgot they existed. 

Ugh, don't judge me. With the little budget I've accumulated by not spoiling myself, that multiple-stop glitch ticket was half a grand. I cannot for the life of me wait to not drink the water there.

[mightymouth-blog]

Love or sandwich? Let LizLemonCat guide the way. 

[mightymouth-blog]

I don't know what I'm searching for and I'm bored with what I've found. 

[mightymouth-blog]

I'm curious as to what exactly I'm doing here.

It is a funny, an uncanny, thing, when certain things that weigh heavily on one's mind--This bit about me being a misanthrope and wanting so much to create--are resonating in people around me. It is a hopeful thing. 

I don't like many things, those necessary things especially. Such include beginner's knowledge, the unspecific broad and general fluff you're fed at the bottom of the ladder, ad the unattainability of the specific knowledge this person writing right now desires.

Excuse me, I realize this is vague and I am rusty. 

Ugh, this is painful to read back.

Anyway, I'm in town C. Town A is brilliant but too small, Town B was smaller, and Town C has no skyline to speak of--Town A has skyscrapers but I have been in the ones that matter and I am tired of them. 

Country A is boring anyway. 

Countries B and C were too beautiful to stay in for longer than the months I gave myself but god help me, wouldn't it be nice.

Stuck in a Town I don't love with an obligation to care about people I don't love.

I wonder if I will buckle down finally and find something I'm good at, make a quick buck and implement those events that will remind me of my worth. I wonder if I can stick to things, only things, that I care about and I wonder if it will get me anywhere and out of this hole in which I feel my resources and potential are being left to rot. 

Condensed literature I like the way condensed milk is on coffee.

[mightymouth-blog]

This is easy.

[mightymouth-blog]

How does one wake up from this mess?

[mightymouth-blog]

Lookout Castro, SF

[mightymouth-blog]

move along

Perhaps it's the monolith that is social networking. We are not equipped to handle living for others that cannot contribute to our own personal growth. In that vein, people can only let you down. 

I can't wait to leave you, San Francisco.

[mightymouth-blog]

Why is this human being such a goddamn joy?

I wanted proof.

For about five years I had no proof. No proof whatsoever. Every woman I met was like meeting a foot with a face drawn on it; the verve of out moments together turning from the lilt of conversation into the decay of the evening. Such was life, and so it was. Life was no longer a...