8/22/08 Dream Sequence

8/22/08 Dream Sequence

When Curb Services Seize An Unsightly Strychnine

Scene I- Intestinal Nomenclature
Setting: Cobblestoned alleyways that cleave and trisect a European-style bazaar
Persona: Unidentified (1st Person)

I stumble out of an intricately hand carved wooden pod (resembling a traffic cone).
I reassure myself that I was “Just Napping” although I’m quite sure the vessel is a coffin belonging to someone called The Crawl.

My hands and forearms are riddled with thin splinters that I soon discover wiggle deeper into my dermis if they’re tampered with.
My attempts to remove them are interrupted by something that crosses the path of my peripheral vision.

A Beaked figure in a dark cloak festooned with translucent tubing filled with a violet fluid jumps around whimsically as if playing hopscotch.

It is unclear at first, if the figure is a man wearing a pointed mask
(reminiscent of the Venetian plague-doctor) or is actually some sort of humanoid bird hybrid.
My vision is tainted by a grain of orange juiced sepia; objects that decorate this narrow and winding backstreet ark and spiral toward its hourglass body-type.

The delicate churning, writhing, and twisting of solid objects sparkling as they contort into serpentine bands of rainbow bring to mind Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

This dream is almost completely devoid of sound.
Only the dull vibration of refrigerators and the clicking of computers can be heard,
and even they are barely audible.

The bird creature stops jumping and hobbles around 180 degrees to get a good look at me.
It’s torso lowers itself to reveal several sets of fishnetted women’s legs some adorning
high-heel shoes, some wearing long boots, others barefoot.

These many sets of legs move in rhythmic patterns as if set to silent music.
They articulate in a fashion completely inconsistent with the placement of joints and logic.
It is as if these legs lack bones, for they squirm like the tendrils of an octopus.

Scene II- Acetylene Tramp Lamps and Ultraviolet Lights Find Gods Hands on the Quarantine
Setting: Mighty uterus
Persona: Something fish-scaly (3rd person)

Something chants “Plug in and Disconnect!” over and over and over again.
A dull emotionlessly incessant 4 word mantra.

I can see through a glass window installed in the pink and internal walls of my holding area,
A tall woman with a misshapen crew cut, pouty lips, and Sicilian eyes says something like
“Don’t remember if it hurt, its like _____________ but certainly unlike jackknifing.”

Five year old laughter can be heard, but the source is unclear.
My slimy body caudal begins to descend down a fleshy chasm that hugs and envelops me.

The ridged walls massage my body as it locomotes my semiconscious mass foot first toward the laughter.

“Yes” uttered by a whispering female is the last thing I hear before waking up.

It is a Friday morning 7:10 A.M. the time I’d be getting up for work, but today I’m off.
I get up and fix a glass of hojicha.

A Critique on Critiquing

This is a little something I found huddled up in the corner (of one of my notebooks),

knee's-against-chest, weeping and wanting to be heard.

It was written about four years ago on the pratice of art critique,

which I find to be vile, senseless, and insignificant.

Before you begin, let me just state for the record that when I say "Art" I am refering to all mediums of creative expression,
from visual arts like painting and sculpture to
literary arts such as fiction, poetry etc. music, dance, improvisation and all other forms.

Lock the Critics in a Tiny Cage and Set it on Fire

"Our pale reasoning hides the infinite from us."
- Jim Morrison

Art cannot be critiqued.
We are not in a position to consciouslly apply worth to byproducts of the infinite mascrocosm of chaos from which all art comes.
To quote almost word for word a spiney quagmire that appeared several times in

Understanding Aesthetics.

"The Mona Lisa by Leonardo Da Vinci is a much better painting than No. 5 by Jackson Pollack. The quality and conveyance is direct and showcases a seasoned artist in starck contrast to what many believe to be an experimental amateur."

This postulate is presented to incite thought about what achieves a higher quality or artisitic worth of the object of discussion.
Thinking back on it now, I can see that the dictum is designed to clearly divide individuals like myself from folks who feel there is good art, bad art, professional and amateur art.

To say that the Mona Lisa is a better painting than No. 5 ,
is like saying clam chowder is a better food than a pear.
They are both unique and special in their own ways. One is a soup prepared with cream and seafood, the other a sweet and juicy piece of fruit.

How can one be better than the other?

I'm sure of it, sometimes you are in the mood for a creamy soup other times a grainy fruit.

They do not compete, they are just foods.

Art is just art.

It nevertheless exists regardless if or not its labeled by its creators or an audience attempting to comparmentalize it or understand the intricate workings of its interior anatomy.

Is it not clear now that it’s us human-beings that do the competing?

It’s us human-beings that fail to understand art or dislike it because we cannot

easily identify or connect with its first phase.

Sometimes you order clam chowder and get Manhattan expecting New England,

Or expect to identify with a gallery of work or a collection of poetry but you don’t.

Sometimes your pear is old or mealy or for some reason you just don’t want it.

Art is about perception, and all people perceive all things differently.

There is no good, great, bad, or terrible art.

Saying anything about the quality is missing the point.

Art is felt! There is nothing logical or analytical about it.

You must apply art to yourself. It is purposeless alone, it's subsists to vitally exist.

It is your responsibility to access it, engage it, dismiss or betray it,
for it knows no human prejudice.

You must understand that you will not be able to identify, decipher,
and understand the true meaning of all art.

Something’s will sing to you immediately, other pieces slowly, sometimes you will enjoy segments or parts of one whole, other times you will be presented with something obscure or protected, something that forces you to think and dig your nails tirelessly.
Something that will free you, enslave you, drag you through the darkest trenches of hell
or the highest and brightest fields of Elysium.

This is canon!

We are not meant to understand all art, Only art that we can access;

Art that we can apply to ourselves and take into our very soul the true essence of what we feel we've discovered.

Although logical thought, reasoning and the like will be beckoned at times... even required to access certain forms of art, the context is still yours to decide.

Do not allow an artist to tell you what their finished product is or represents.

This is their perception of the work, not yours.

Most important of all, you must remember that
art involves thought but it does not come from thought.

Art is birthed in a sporadic ocean of infinite possibilities.
A void where things uncertain are immediately evident, real, breathing and pulsating
and the unconceivable becomes feasible.
Feasible and contingent with nascent actuality.

Ergo the rivers flow with galaxies of stars, the sky fills with fire, up is down and down is up and all things are content and at peace with being unreal and inanimate.

From the mental stillness, a child with the face of eternality is born.
Lock the critics in cages that they authored and douse them generously with gasoline.

Awaiting Fungus

Haven't posted in a while,
been real busy working hard for insufficient wages, finally getting around to the college admissions board...still writing, still insomniatic
(this is probably a neologism, but I’m pretty sure the Literati’s last wiretap failed to isolate the line, so I should be safe for the time being.)

Haven't been to a reading, since my last feature in the extravagantly candle lit athenaeum of Florida, NY.

It's disheartening to admit at least via blog or by admission in an inner monologue that I've become quite the light dodging---ducking behind Venetian blinds brown-robed hermit.

Although my job requires a smiley clean shaven jaw-line/face vicinity
it oddly enough has no problem with my mad sandstorm of brown head hair which is... last time I checked somewhere around my elbows. Silly Corporations.

I can only surmise that by now (minus the tucked-shirts and directorial coffin-dodgers strict facial hair codes) I'd don a writhing serpent of a beard I’d have much trouble not tripping on.
The kind of beard that retains heat and has a consistent internal temperature of 95 degrees;
the kind of psychotic tress of scattered follicles homeless men and birds aspire to call home and yearn to indefinitely inhabit.

Sufficed to say I have a preened plastic head and my fuel reserve for performing verse and testing new material is slowly but rest assured steadily building in the fiery fuselage of my central grey matter.

On to a few words about the new Omar Rodriguez Lopez LP I anxiously await.

Mr. Rodriguez Lopez (Guitarist and mastermind behind the insanely original, always inventive and experimental prog rock band The Mars Volta) will be putting out his 6th solo album on September 9th.

It clocks in at 43 minutes and supposedly features a good bit of material that almost made it into "Deloused in the Comatorium."

For those of you unfamiliar with Deloused, The Volta etc.
Listen very carefully,
Go out right this very moment and buy their entire discography, for they are (and I would not lie to you) quite possibly one of the best bands in this or any era.

You could get their four primary LP's ( Deloused in the Comatorium, Frances the Mute, Amputechture, and The Bedlam in Goliath) for a measly 30 bucks at most electronic stores, Or if you're dead-bolted and pad-locked behind brick and rotting wood like I, you could get them off of Amazon for around 60 bucks (including S&H.)

Regardless of the source, merchant, or method you have got to check them out!
Your musical self respect depends upon it.

Moving right along,

Omar's new album is entitled Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fungus and features nine tracks with trippy obsidian titles like "Hands Tied to the Roots of a Hemorrhage", "Of Ankles to Stone" and "Seeth of Cloudless Hymstone."



So if you're a fan i'm sure i'll see you stumbling through the endless rows of galleria parking like Romero's living dead with cash, credit, and debit cards in hand... and if you're not fan stop wasting time already and check them and him out, they rock!

Until the next cookies, juice, and sunken thighs conventicle in an owl's blistering eyes i bid thee merry cordials and a spicy farewell!

Temple

Attended a sabbat of the holy sacrosanct at our local temple (Borders books) last night.
Drank 15,000 cups of coffee, did some nifty data-mining, goofed about wide-eyed and caffeinated with my Nee Nee, had some tasty steamed wantons, and got some really good reading done.

Finished DMT: The Spirit Molecule by Rick Strassman which was really fascinating.
I would recommend it to anyone interested in the many layers and interdimensional frequencies of immaterial reality that we coexist in and among.
Strassman describes clincal studies in DMT administration, and dazzles the reader with a combination of drug-induced maxims of spiritual truth with scientific proof and his hypotheses to create a fascinating account of the drug.

Just a few interesting things I learned from the book-

*Our ability to experience REM sleep is due to the pineal gland releasing doses of DMT.
Studies have shown that without dreams humans go insane.
So basically a schedule I disassociative is responsible for human sanity and immediate consciousness...how intriguing.

*The pineal gland is the source of naturally derived DMT, some people believe the gland is our Third Eye (the Anja Chakra). The key to ultimate enlightenment and transcendance.

*In a human beings last moments before expiration (essentially, the death throws) the brain releases megadoses of dimethyltrytamine. Zen Buddhist High monk Ong Satri has publically stated his belief that quote "The brain floods the physical body with DMT in order to jump start it into the next wavelength of living."

More Delicious Language

Grab a spoon and dig in!



Flagrante Delicto (noun)
[Fluh-grahn-tay di-LIK-toh]
Latin for "When the crime is blazing" or "When the act is in flames."

1. To be caught in the middle of a criminal act.
2. To be caught in the middle of a sexual act.


Hypogeum (noun)
[High-puh-JEE-uhm

1. An underground chamber, vault, or any part of a building set underground.


Petrichor (noun)
[PE-tri-kor]

1. The smell of rain after a period of dry weather.
2. An aromatic combination of plant oils, natural gases, and mineral odors drawn from ground soil by fresh rainfall.

* Despite the fact that many people claim this is their favorite scent, there wasn't actually a word to describe the odor released after rainfall until 1964.
*The word comes from the Greek Petri (stone) plus Ichor
(the mineral said to be located in the blood of Greek gods)


Hibernacle (noun)
[High-bur-NAK-ull]

1. A winter retreat
2. Shelter from the cold


Astrobleme (noun)
[Ast-RO-bleem]

1. The mark left by a meteor (literally a star scar)

The New Pledge of Allegiance

I've been haunted and fixated on Radiohead's song The Tourist for the last 27 1/2 hours.
I must embarrassingly admit that on my many, many, many listens of OK COMPUTER,
I somehow overlooked the beauty and importance of this marvelous closing track.

Having been quickly engrossed in Radiohead's entire discography in a seemingly short period of time (about five months) I suppose at the time I felt its delicate pop structure and lullaby-like chorus didn't stand up to parting gifts like Motion Picture Soundtrack, Street Spirit (Fade Out), and A Wolf at the Door.

But wow, can I ever say I’ve had a change of heart!
This song should be sung by skittish school children in the dilapidated classrooms of our
bullet-riddled public schools each morning to a red flag donning 2001's weeping amnesiac caricature.

The song is touching, with the nervous frenzy of Thom Yorke as he pleads to the driver
"Hey man, slow down, slow down!" Absolutely beautiful and... frightening.

It is interesting to note also, and I'm almost certain I'm not the first to have noticed this...
But the last track ties into the first creating a sort of enigmatic full circle in regards to the plot.

In OK COMPUTER's first track Airbag Yorke croons
"In a fast German car I'm amazed that I survived, an airbag saved my life"
and then 10 tracks later we arrive at The Tourist,
where the unspecified narrator is seemingly endangered by a reckless driver.

Is this a separate event? Is the main character terrified because of the harrowing accident he experienced in the LP's opening? Or are we experiencing a paradox in the story?
Whatever the answer, this song rocks, OK COMPUTER rocks, and by fucking god
Radiohead rocks!

The Worship of Words

In my epeolatric obsession with the English language i present to you
a few neat and fantastic words...
Because being a word enthusiast is better than making people into lampshades.


Xanthodant (noun)
1. someone with yellow teeth, such as smoker or coffee-drinker.
2. Having yellow teeth

Palaver (noun)
1. A conference or discussion.
2. Profuse and idle talk; chatter.
3. Persuasive talk; flattery

Clyster (verb)
1. To adminster an enema

Gurry (noun)
1. Medical waste from dissecting rooms. Also, fishing or whaling refuse.

Gambrinous (noun, adjective)
1. A mythical Flemish king, the reputed inventor of beer.
2. Meaning full of beer
[Alternative spelling Gambrinus]

and last but not least (for now anyway)

Adnascentia (noun)
1. Root-like branches that sprout into the earth from a plant's stem.
2. Tree roots exposed through loose sod or wet soil.
[in circulation 1706 -1731]

Donkey Show Versified

A little taste of the mnemosyne, don't drink from the Lethe!
Or you'll loose your past lives in the river of forgetfulness.

Here's an example of the episodic verse that constitutes Mnemosynesiac,
inspired by a painting by Ali Fitzgerald entitled "The Donkey Show."

[Eeyorish]

Interloping barbarian bourgeois first-night rubberneckers dressed in pissburnt yellow-page tuxes inhaled and passed around, cave-painted and conveyed through metal-detectors before being weighed down by solid ground.

I go through 50,000 teeth a year,
The night was never young!
I pass through ever medium with cerebral bores to spare.

Something I hocked into respiration clipped me before I had a chance to sabotage cysts in teething rings with a stink-fisted crib that blinks rainbow pinkeye cryptographs every millisecond that its fed.

Fennel seed and frangipani air polluting vominatrix taken hence.
Clavicles of candy floss massaging mako-ten, like moonwort into goblin pups.
Crystal stalks beanstalk rear, cluster scabs of blusters fawn.

She smoked the wrong side of an anisette cigarette dead set on drafting pipettes of cold sweats.
Tortoiseshell sheathed her unclothed debris; ribs poked at snug bundles of sweat glands as if to make escape possible.

Templar was exemplar; silver cinema camarilla never saw chin-ups in uptown freezers.
Time and time again, time & ½ extruded a quintet of jellyfish threads while socially impotent posturing Cyclops’s continued to address your festers in the back of a wine-sap velvet
rumble-seat as Morgellons.

Illegal immigrants whether tight on quarantini’s or fuddle-toasting stiff-pigs to rows of lorenzini,
all end up in hotel lobbies vacuuming late into the night.

© Justin Parrinello (July 7th, 2008)

Check out Ali's incredable artwork at her website
http://www.alifitzgerald.net/

A Proper Burial

So I’ve been blinds drawn, bolt-locks bolt-locked, and cadmium (i guess steel would make more sense but cadmiums cooler) chain shackled away in my artificially lit laboratory scrambling words for my two newest narratives.

It's been a drafty couple of cold Chinese take-out and torn ACL agonized tarassis couple of weeks but I’ve submerged thus far to feel the sun on my face once more with a mess of crumbled papers and marble notebooks of material.

The first piece is something I call Mnemosynesiac.
The plot deals heavily with the concept of having your memories (or a "personality map") reinserted into a genetic duplicate or donor body if nothing else is available.

The delicate purging from whence the contents of a Plexiglas womb with a view
is spilt into the present!

Do byproducts of the procedure possess souls?
At what point does the old you end and the new you begin?
What could the physical, emotional and psychological implications be in a civilization
where such practices are the norm?
Immortality? Total enlightenment? Psychosis? Spiritual abrasion, none or all of the above?

Don't know yet,
but we're ten pages in on a royal and happily flinging hemoglobin, lead paint chips,
static hair follicle's, musky ribbons, and swigs of nut brown ale into
the primordial flux of still shadow and a never-ending wilderness of swirling fractals bathing in the creative aeythr.

Those paint chips tempt me oh so... in the witching hour of my mad key-punching nighttide,
their sapor elicits a delightful tang resembling chilled pineapple or the copper of cooked cows blood chased with Shots of St. Germain (if you haven't had the elderflower liquor St. Germain, stop wasting your time reading my blog and mo-ped over to your local taproom for a tasting.
It's a fine and dandy little sip of deliciousness.)

Who am i kidding? I don't eat paint chips...but Count Ferris Sesquipedalian does goddamn it!

My other literary venture focuses on employing all sorts of different devices such as ad-libs, random sections that can be shuffled and sorted to creative unique outcomes at every reading, and choose-your-adventure style page turning.

Although it hasn't been officially titled I’ve been referring to it as
How to Properly Dispose of a Ouija Board
after some fascinating magical texts i came across written by the late Aleister Crowley.

So thats what i've been so busy with lately, that and my manuel labor job of metropolis-style indentured servitude.

Something tells me i should prepare a will,
what will kill me first, the burden of writing or the heavy lifting work environment.
Anybody up for taking wagers?
All bets'll be collected in the back by lou the chinaman.

Until our next embrace,
do not forsake the rain!