Monday, December 04, 2006

-this was all-
-in communication-

(3 lines said alone- two quartets uttered in succession in rhythmic pattern)

all our cries
flow through time
into darkness

with the wavering
fabrics of skeleton signs
with tiger teeth we puncture
into tweeked out spines

use the symbols of our cultrues

pass so holy, sublime
we simply shimmer in our
artistic vibes

in a foggy hue
smoke rising through
into twilight

with your image in the foreground,

we pressed on for you
with battered, ragged
diamonds in the soles of our shoes

while brotherhood still lingers
on the tips of our tongues
like fingers grappling mysteries of
long ancient songs

the light still calls
the tree roots hunger on
into eternity


-this was all-
-in communication

(-put this chant between samples-)

---we were moving---
---we were moving---

--we were moving space and time---

they're trying not to shake us
in some other dimension,

dare i mention,

its pot

filled with the circulating
idealistic kind of
new age thought

that causes rebels to pick up spears
become isolated man gods
killing their creator with the suffering and love

as they shave
their histories' blood and tears
ignore captured grecians who never hear
the sparatans calls to the best sides of us all

terracotta warriors of another space and time
a different kind of war a sword that
could injure a thousand or more
in the blink of an eye

all our cries
flowing through time
into darkness

this was all

in communication

Sunday, November 26, 2006


This december read- The Rebel by Albert Camus before writing Plans of the Planets-

concepts: rebellion- what is it

Saturday, November 25, 2006

Fuck the Galactus, Bitch

dude we need to put "the clock strikes" after why conversation and leave the three last songs together cause they are connected in theme and story line and are the basic introduction to The Plans of the PLanets- essentially

we begin on the shores of a great ocean, the working class all lying out on the shores of thr pacific ocean, lifeless, still, it is quiet, the dawn of the galactus had come to that last species of a distant planet. We explore the cultures of the future earth, we learn of its social orders, it psychology, its yearning for youth sung off key at midnight, crying, howling out over creation for us to be recognized for the purity longing for an answer. The knowledge of the Galactus' whereabouts, and the 2 gG's.

We end the album in space, out overlooking the ghosts, the remnants of past galacti frozen as statues where other planets had not been so lucky as the humans, total irradication.

The next tale is 4 elements that must be found to unlock the secrets to the blueprint, the blueprint for the device to save only two. who will they be? the 2 gG's? Clint are we destined to rise into space and be left? Who knows? The plans of the planets is to destroy and eat Bela Lugosi, God.

It is the kids, the adults, the races, together looking and catering to inner space and leave outer space to itself.


were the plans of the planets.

release the gaalctus, bitch

curt aka kurtz aka The Galactus One aka Dik Lizzard

Saturday, November 04, 2006

write a poem based on xanga-

go back and find one liners
poem is made up of observations and one liners over the last 2 years

Thursday, November 02, 2006

and i'll be stuck here forever
living in the ghost of your song

and i'll be stuck here forever
moving on
moving on

(underneath singing repetitively" the comfort of TV the comfort of TV the comfort of TV

Monday, October 30, 2006

Story Notes


A whale is frozen like a statue in the ocean- somewhere- the key to finding the blueprint is to unlock various secrets on the earth- there are 4- something like the elements- earth, wind, fire, water- and so in this story- the plans of the planets begins with earth and its whales- to locate the blueprint, must awaken the cestcean- if awakened, it will rise above the water and its song will trigger some reaction that will help lead to the blueprint-

make the song actually focus on aspects of whales, like physiology all runnin rampant in vocals, no moby dick refrences please, overdone

anyway- travel through water by one of the teenagers- who are the main characters in Plans of the Planets- skippin school, wanting to become part of the 2 G's and defeat the Galactus filling the horizon with the emerald glow of his eyes, the horizon is a greenish hue at night

Sunday, October 29, 2006

Star Trek Film Notes

The Only Relevant Species- Whales

10 minutes- cool discussion of the one vs the many, philosophical discussions with Spock

21 minutes- "United Federation of the Planets" Distress Signal

25 minutes- deciphering the probe message- whales are extinct- "songs sung by whales"- 10 million years before man- alien probe to discover why lost contact

28 minutes- plan of finding whales to bring to future

30 minutes- Hamlet reference- then "may fortune favor the foolish" then series of warps, steady as she goes, warp 5, 6, 7, 8, 9!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


34 minutes- i am receiving whale song, song coming from SAN FRANCISCO- From THE CITY- That Doesn't make sense- DUDE WE'RE USIN THIS MAN- slow his voice so it is way low- from the city

36 minutes- set us down in golden gate park- hells yea

41 minutes- walk the streets of san francisco and find some humpback whales

46- scientific discussion on the physiology and behaviors of whales- detailed physio here- and the principle enemy is man-

49 minutes- discusses what purpose of song truly is- mating situal? navigation? communication beyond our comprehension??

stop watching 1 hour 4 minutes

Saturday, October 28, 2006

Friday, October 27, 2006

Monday, October 23, 2006

going to start bringing my cassette tape- 10 people all saying:

"and such were the plans of the planets-"

then ask questions-

where did we come from?

if there is a god what is that like? If not, why don't you think there is a form of God?

what do you think the Galactus is?

What music do you hate the most and why?

What music do you love the most and why?

Thursday, October 19, 2006

There's apparently something about whales

So we're doin a whale song- i'm not entirely sure what this means, but i'm doin some kindof story about them great orcas! haha YEE HAW! SEA WORLD!! SOUTHERN CAAAAAALIFORNIA!!!! REPTILES! HOLLYWOOD!!! FAKE TITTIES!!!!!

Yep, there's something about whales, their sounds, their size, the fact that they're mammals trips people out the most. We are related to these biiiiig fucking fish in the sea, and I am quite sure the evangelicals praise it so bc of the bible relationship- even Shamu can be pawned off as a great moral parable about God and man.

Thus, I must look deeply into the movie called Star Trek: The Voyage Home- and i believe it is 6

I mean, why did they count every fuckin one- seriously, it is boring corporate advertisers who think we can't follow sequential movies- everyone knows Empire Strikes Back is in the middle and that Two Towers is the most epic and killer- the middle is a good place to be according to the critics.

So there's that- and we need to now install the idea of interviewing people on the street and asking really philosophical questions, take them off guard, see how they respond, send them to Clint, let him fuck with it, and BAM we gotta track- if I go down to the Haight for 5 minutes I'd have enough material for 5 albums of sampling

And so it shall be forever and ever and ever


and now

the name of the third book

[g]eppetto [G]estapo- "Sir, We have the 2 G's Here"

Thursday, October 12, 2006

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

Further Story Line for Geppetto Gestapo

Plans of the Planets-

Each human species has traveled planet to planet, where they travel out to next planet and Galactus kills each- and the way they get away each time is that a blueprint has been passed down to each human species traveling to new planet, the blueprint is for building a traveling sphere- so the plans of the planets is that this info gets out, but the humans have misplaced it over time- this is the longest they have gone- decrease in intellect???- in the plans of the planets possibly have a story of these kids, or detail each kid's adventure to retrieve the blueprint- to get to the blueprint they must get a piece of the galactus's heel- why though??? Think on this

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Carpet Remains

Sik & Dik Lizzard in Carpet Remains

Story 1

Bob C Cock is supposedly dead, as Carpet Reamins we find him alive and well- thus we start a war of the absurb, we enter onto a Primus forum and announce Bob C Cock is alive and well- we will offer 1,000,000 to any man to find him and bring him to us

Find a hidden code to use for them to decipher- only the seriously good assassins will know

Thus song 1, we explore the exploits of 3 seperate characters, 3 seperate assassins as they try to chase and find Bob

While chasing him, they never quite get to him- before they do, however, they meet their end

use 3 seperate voices for each lyric

For metal parts- Scream:


Sunday, August 27, 2006

Troy in Uganda: Ultimate Heart of Darkness Tribute

Story told to me by Troy Drysdale, allowing me to write it, based on actual events.

Story begins with students visiting Kenya. Find a website about an island with concrete relics, kind of like a resort in the middle of nowhere. What unravels is akin to a modern Heart of Darkness in sense of vibe these individuals were experiencing, not in total plot line as far as imperialism is concerned, but it does comment somewhat on eden and primitivism- are we happier at our most primitive state, a ravenous beast bent on serving itself and providing for its kin? The students are told to visit a fish village about an hour south of their primary location. They are then told to visit a small restraunt there, and ask for Mama Grace. Mama Grace could be this character who fancies the island owner, so she doesn't mind helpin him out, the free weed is also nice.

She directs him to a port a few miles down, I could insert lots of cool imagery here, like interesting relics, skulls, start to elaborate THIS AS A TRANSISTION or IN THE UNIVERSE HERE, THE MAN IS SOON TO LEARN OF HOW HOMINDS LIVED, MORE RELATION, BUT DO NOT BE DIRECT, MAN, KEEP IT VERY BELOW THE SURFACE
As they arrive to the boat, they learn about navigating by the stars, as the sun will not illuminate the correct path in the rivers, but it is cloudy and the characters don't understand why they are still proceeding forth. However, they learn the reason later as the notice he rivers at night actually glow green, bright green, they made a type of paint that has flourescnet properities, so that's how they get there. They realize it is a supply boat, maybe a disguise for criminal acts, or another favor for weed.

As they arrive they see a dim latern on some kind of bank. As they get closer a large bonfire, like the aggies bonfire (find the height), erupts and a ragged man, british, with wild hair and beard comes out in a torn white coat with a blue and gold hawaiian shirt underneath, comes out. It is honor system on number of beers, but pot is planted on the island everywhere and is free. He built the island with his own hands, the stone "dorm" and his own "castle," which will be described in the story as they come. The castle, however so I can remember it, has three floors, nothing on the 1st, a gust room on the 3rd, and his on the 4th- the stairwell spirals up in the shape of a square. Rises to the 3rd floor. In his room, there is a ladder to the top, where you can see the panoramic 360 view of his island and the shore off in the distance, elaborate here in the concepts of primitivism and relay the story to main character about his killing fisherman that are unable to swim, never taught, which explains all the drowning. He first murders to protect his fish and island, as the fishermen there started to catch fish in the shallow waters, pregnant fish who hold their babies in their mouths until matured age, but they are swatting plungers in the top of the water, which causes the pregnant mothers to swim away releasing the babies, killing their flock, but catching the fleshy mothers, essentially eradicating their commerce supply. From then on character, learned that killing sometimes is necessary in the most primitive of states, war is merely an extension of this concept.

Fire ants eat pigs whole, and charcters experience their bite first hand while exploring island. They then notice the strange concrete structures.

Have an episode where a police boat is coming towards island and freaks! However, it is merely corruption in full view, as the police were paid to take some bird watchers out to some indigenous, off the path places.

In huts, there are lizards and bugs, mice in the walls, rumbling around, their feet panning all over like the hitting of sticks, The dog opens door, in suspense characters react, think it is the singluar hippo on the island or a wild boar, but it is only the island owner's dog.

Draw comparisons of Kafka's Castle with characters Castle, making a proper metaphor with the ideas by the Czech existentialist.


There are evil spirits living among us, living in one's belly, curses from the despair and grudges of their ancient ancestors or other folk. And curses are like stones or sticks you hurl out at a passing animal. When you throw them, they can go anywhere, they can hit an unintended target, and withcraft is like that. Essentially, as a curse is made on another it flies across space, a metaphysical air, and could hit the victim's child instead of intended victim. Add this element to story, maybe have the island owner say this is his new religion, a truth revealed to him by living in those environments, science dissipates, technology and understanding of nature's complexity disappear, leaving the basic spiritual presence of ghosts and spirits, living and breathing in another world, the world that is producing these words, even.

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Music Related Idea

For Plans of the Planets,

1) Opening is kid speaking about Galactus and humans moving past first planet which will doom the human race yet again, the only way to save it is by finding an ancient relic left by the contributors who started the species millenia ago. It has the answers to stopping the galactus. Once kid is through speaking, kicks into heavy, Isis jam.

2) Get RadioShack voice recorder, interview people and ask Question of Existence idea, what they would do if given the chance? Take all responses and litter them through the album as samples, also could use all to construct one sentence made of fragments from interviews.

3) Use recorder to record city sounds to give atmosphere to some tracks.

That is all.

Sunday, August 20, 2006

Another story idea

Prison systems, small towns using privately funded prisons to house criminals, why is the US the leader in imprisoning its own people? Is the US govt changing slowly before our eyes into more extreme, more facist type of country? And are we simply moving along, lulled to sleep by commerce, such that under the surface, as the world's politics become more caustic, our response as a nation becomes more repressive? More backward? Why do fight a war on drugs when we embrace a drug that is killing our planet and murdering thousands now to millions of people, OIL?

It's Wallstreet, It's a New Day

So the new idea for a short story, is the story of a hungry wallstreet wannabe, a person bent on making it and the boss who creates a game, a world of facades to test the young up and coming investment advisor

The boss is slick, has the gentlemen appear at 4AM for an interview where he asks him what he can offer bc he know he has something he can offer him

He invites for a meeting with the business advisors, passes the test, meets with the main head honcho, where has asks for a salary and he says, "don't ever tell, let them make the offer first, then revise it all!

Read Liar's Poker and bget background then write the story

This along with other story idea:

Man addcited to entering contests and all the angles for why he finds it worth his while to win, and he does win with persistence, but why contests? Why the obsession with the feeling of winning in unwinnable odds?????

What does that reinforce?

What makes one do whatever to make it? What drives the man besides money, why money?

Saturday, August 19, 2006

About the Authors

We only need 55 minutes of your time, that's all we ask. This is a literary and musical experience, where you must follow along, you must participate to see where the conception came from, and have fun with this little experiment.

What you have included here is the map of the galaxy of the galactus, a parallel universe of ideas geared towards innerspace, not outerspace. There is a story which will unravel before you if you look hard enough, if you put your mind in REVERSE. Think of our intergalactic map as a map of your mind, where you delve into the most insignificant moments to draw and discuss what drives yet cripples our species, what makes us who we are. This is what this whole work is, it is taking those small, memorable moments and speaking about how the little things say millions of things about what makes this world such an incredibly complex, ugly beautiful place.

On this map, there is a short story side and a poetry side. For each instrumental,which includes (in order) the Hominds are the Next Big Thing, Pearls and Dirty Deals, Why Conversation, and Questions of Existence, please refer to the stories printed on the galactic map of our universe. This will enhance the experience, as this is how we constructed these tracks, and put this all together. For the vocal tracks or others, the poetry side contains the mouth of the galactus, swallowing the innerspace, and swallowing pride and other harmful personality traits, what we all wish to do really.

This sounds extremely pretentious, we know, but this is entirely an artistic exercise, we felt could challenge what we do. We did this, not for any money, but because we love music, we love trying something new, something different. This is not some miserable little album geared towards the darkest sides of humanity, but instead examines thoughtfully who we are and where we are going, yet does touch upon issues such as end of life and poor choices we sometimes make in life.

We hope you find something in this album, maybe something you haven't thought about, or found something that reinforces what you already know to be true. We want people to think, as we have thought and worked hours out of our free time to contribute to what we feel is the most incredible part of the human species, art.

This album is dedicated to our father, who has unconditionally provided and worked to help us grow. We are not free from our mistakes, but his love has always carried us in his arms through this perilous adventure called life. Thank you for fighting, for working, and for loving us enough to accept our choices or at least try to!

With nothing but pennies in our pockets, we offer you everything that we are,

[g]eppetto [G]estapo

[g]eppetto [G]estapo is: Tone999 and Kurtz Oneday

The following have contributed and provided ideas and music-

jon gerdemann
Know One
andrew najberg

samples and image work:

Portrait of Bela used in Map drawn by Basil Gogos
Sample [the galactus]- from the film, "Glen or Glenda," directed by Ed Wood
Sample [question of existence] from NASA Space Station audio located at NASA TV
Sample [pearls and dirty deals] from (get link)
Vocals for [the clock strikes midnight, resonating over the jungle canopy]- Gigi

Friday, August 18, 2006

[g]eppetto [G]estapo Photo

Thursday, August 17, 2006

Book One off to be pressed and mixed

We are in the final stages of completion of all recording and will soon start mixing and mastering, and also printing our book/album

It is the Galaxy of the Galactus

We finished our photoshoot and waiting on the pictures!

Can't wait

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

for opening

we begin in the ocean alone, solitary, and erupt into the atmosphere and into the depths of space against the ideas of continuing on this species while the plans of the planets are formulating, the galacti shifting in the shells of their homes.

Monday, August 07, 2006


1 of 3 vocal tracks completed, need to finish these 3 this week and then 2 nxt Sunday

Thursday, August 03, 2006

The Castaway

it seems like
elevators moving to the top of the 21 first century
the one and only last loves calling you their

last theory

to surmise

you have worked
you have been
washed up on the shore

left to die

and this is why

you have worked
you have washed upon the shore
left to die

and this is why

only by great schemes with their streamed themes of

into the eye
of this high rise
a tide
moving like
brittle cattle
sent to slaughter
by the falter
of their stances
the brain
shifts and advances
romances the mind

one spirt

darkened by

what's calling you from that side
all sides
all around
inside you
eating you all
like a hive mind meant
to feast on that fleece
warming slow
as the ocean blankets
the silence

you have worked
you have been
washed up on the shore

left to die

and this is why

you have worked
you have washed upon the shore
left to die

and this is why

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

This Week

is THE week. We are working on setting up a photo shoot for our album bio picture, which consists of me n the bro in our gear, me sittin at a type writer, both draped in these suicide girl lookin girls, compliments of clint's friend who happens to be a stripper, can't wait for it.

We are also finishing the record hopefully in the next week.

That is all.

Saturday, July 29, 2006

Pearls and Dirty Deals

At the lodge, the elderly, Susan McDonald sits moving through smiles hugs and kisses, then starts to talk to a young 30 something about life and the concept of stories. Stories are what define people, make them grow, make them skrink, they define essentially who we are, as we all are a culmination of choices and the consequences there of. Susan had a bone to pick with the world, and so it seeped into every conversation she had. Her day to day interactions were only a series of reminders that she must live the rest of her time as an actor locked into a single scene.

Living in the footsteps of her deceased husband meant attending Lodge gatherings every week. The Lodge was simply an abbreviation for a fraternal type of organization for old folks under a layer of secrets and rituals. She could avoid these gathering, there was always that, but in the end it would be a poor decision, equating to certain alienation.

As Susan speaks to her new young friend, she feels the longing stare of an old codger of high notoriety, Leon Smith. He was the grand chancellor, who always wore his well-pressed blues with a red tie and an antique pocket watch. He stereotypically had cigars and a nice, fine single malt scotch on ice. His mannerisms were equivalent to a whirlpool, he spent his time spinning in social circles, while their powerful drums beat upon his heart, pushing him to stoop to suspicious behind the door deals and insider trading. His status as police chief had once led him to turn a cold eye to the exploits of past chancellors, but now his gaze is fixated solely on the lovely, Susan McDonald. As he speaks to his friends laughing about Cowboys football and bad barbecue at Harold's, she became his only exploit and focus; she was the one he never could quite corner.

The story goes that Leon Smith had to retire a bit earlier than planned, all hush hush of course, to avoid certain infamy as the one who may have single handedly ruined the reputation of the Dallas Police force by participating in the blackmail of a certain Colin McDonald. If it had went public, it could have also adversely affected the exploits of his wife, Barbara Smith, who was President of the Ladies for Christ. It was a classy women's group in the Dallas Baptist Church of Holy Mercy. Barbara has long since passed on, having sucuumbed to the pathogenesis of cancer.

The Church of Holy Mercy would later experience its own share of shame, as its pastor was arrested for having his wife killed. His plan was for he and his trophy mistress to live happily ever after. More so, he wanted the young pretty blonde from Los Angeles, California, to be next to his side publicly so that he, Bill Matula, could be recognized as not only the apple of the Lord's eye as pastor of the largest Baptist church in Texas, but also as the hot shot he wished he always was to his elitist congregation.

The Lord, crafty and ever silent, would have none of this, however, as seen by his eventual tragic demise. Bill Matula was also known for his elaborate love triangles among his flock. He and Susan M. cheated on their respective partners for a brief period of time. It was a lasting rumor, leading to many heated affairs between Colin and Susan, as those in power always become a target for suspicion of dirty deeds. In this situation, however, the speculations were warranted, what with the killing of his wife and all. When Pastor Bill Matula was arrested and all that horror was revealed, Susan did not seem to mind much, in the end he had thrown her aside as quickly as he took her to his bedside. He had moved on to a bigger prize, her former best friend, Lucy Deringer.

Deringer was interesting. She had been the Lodge's Thanksgiving Day Queen in the Lake Highlands Parade for three consecutive years, a Church of Holy Mercy record that still stands. Lucy was the wife of Billy Deringer, a blue blood, who's dad left him the family oil business after he died in 1935; it was a fortune which christened his first born a millionaire at the age of 12. She had chosen money in love's stead, as love to her was only a few months of intrigue, whereas money could take her farther, into the arms of suntanned, Italian bodyguards in the baths of Rome. Ultimately, Lucy knew Susan could never win the battle for the Pastor, and so she became another of her lost loves. At the end of the day, Lucy could deal with losing Susan, if it meant never missing an annual vacation to the Swiss Alps in Europe.

Thus, all these men and women experienced hardship representative of life. They changed in the pattern of sine curves, up and down like roller-coasters: simple, predictable, rudimentary. Wedding after wedding and funeral after funeral, the leaves continuously flipped and turned all shades of dark purples and browns preceding the footsteps of the ever stagnant, Susan McDonald.

As time passed, she became more and more aware that she was the single entity that remained in a time capsule. After her husband passed, it was as if she was placed in a repressive yet spacious container, where she now remained, living yet buried six feet under with her husband at the Willowbend Funeral and Burial Home.

She, locked away there and held against her will, was asking him every morning as she hit the snooze bar and looked over at her empty bed, "Why?" Did she not love him enough, did she not cook the meals to their proper texture, or hold him up in public as the beacon of her day to day? Every Sunday, like a mass or ritual, the lovely Susan would cook his favorite meal, watch Sunday Media Roundtable Delta Force, and return to Willowbend with the paper. She would sit at Colin McDonald's tombstone in a little, red chair she had, and read the paper aloud. Since he had decided to be a force of love in her life whether she liked it or not, she decided she would submit and honor his proclamation.

Alexander Beverage, husband of the fair woman Susan is speaking to, Blair Beverage, waves and moves past them. Blair returns his looks and holds his gaze, smiles, then returns to Susan.

"Why couldn't you ever remarry?"

Susan laughs, "Oh, if I told you, you'd probably leave me right now!"

"No, I wouldn't. It can't be that bad, can it?"

"Oh, it's a story I have no answer to really. It's one that has left me here to interpret it many ways, even by how I am feeling on any day! If I am lonely at home, watching re-runs on the cable TV, oh, it becomes that Colin wanted to keep me forever, even from the grave and afterlife. But, if the day is nice out and the cool December air is moving across my face near the lake down the street, then the story is he wanted me to always think of him and cherish the peace after the storm we had with our marriage. I think he did what he did because ultimatiely he wanted me to decide, 'Do I value money over love?' It's as if he wanted me to validate that Love was greater, more powerful and relevant than money. I was always something of a problem for him when it came to money."”

"I see."

"Love was and is important, but I am not at an age to make a new life. So I have boyfriends, all my age, who dream of dying with a soft spoken, caring wife, that decide to leave after they learn of my little 'arrangement.' It happens around 6 months."

"Susan, what on earth did he do?"

"He put a statute in his will that if I remarry, I would lose all his millions."

Blair was pretty much stunned. Susan had spent a decade living as a revolving door of love and loss, all for the millions of her dead husband, when their kids probably could have taken care of her!

But Blair caught herself, "Who am I?" she asked herself.

She knew that at some point eating and having a roof over her head may have been more important than any ceremony or the comfort of companionship. What did marriage mean when one reaches a certain point, a desperation point???

These are complicated problems with no real solutions. We have entered an age of dancing voyeur's. We all spend time staring through glass panes at the perils and miseries of this evolving universe and species bent on pushing the boundaries of their limits. We peer into it, we get off on the experience of life changing before our eyes, good or bad. How can this world continue to exist, when it seems we have become plastic flimsy shells of what we used to be in the days of FDR and Hitler? In those days, the lines between good and evil were quite clear, but on a grander scale, not like our microcosm of terrorist factions and the spinning of sound bytes. Our wars in the 21st century pale in comparison, resembling little brush fires planted here and there, whose emergent, collective property is a chaos of raging forest fires. There is not a clearly defined side to follow.

So we, the voyeur's, move from starlet to starlet from sports star to sports star, and there sits old, Susan McDonald who still witnesses a black and white innocence while watching Turner Movie Classics. These are not movies but photographs rough around the ages that capture an honest time, not the complicated turmoil of our homogenenous metropolis. On many occasions, she will watches these movies for what seems like eternity in the quiet of her study, often until the sun peaks from behind the top of the large maple tree at the bottom of her backyard hill. Even today it hangs over Forest Lane shielding her gaze from on coming traffic.

Susan whispers something into Blair's ear, they laugh, and she whisks away from the table, down the vacuumous tunnel of social standing. Hi, bye, thank you, see you, will you, then you, but you, past the big brown doors, and out to the parking lot. The crowd watches as Susan exits the lodge to her old, well groomed Mercedes. She immediately flips on her favorite Opera about the tragedy of two lovers. She rolls down the window, and sings at the top of her lungs.

As she putters down the street, the leaves move away behind her like the memories of Colin and the kids and the house and, definitely, the American Dream.

Story Idea

Character, a woman, is trying to track down her life in a photo essay, as she digs further she unravels truths of her family, she doesn't want to face, each picture brings that story to life before her.

Add to this later.

Monday, July 24, 2006

Book Two: Plans of the Planets

In our second volume, it will explore the worlds of the Galacti and how the space ghosts seekin to end all life are merely the spirits of the galactus of every planet in the universe, all lie dormant waiting to awaken and implode the universe to create one dimension, the perfect dimension, where wars and conflict are merely latent memories of a past bad experience, a perpetual heaven

the music is with maria and clint and myself, and will explore indie themes with a mix of male and female vocals exploring their own universe, the plans of the planets to bring back a utopia, a metaphor for our quest for self realization and unification

this is the second book, The Plans of the Planets

Saturday, July 22, 2006

Poem for A Dissociative Distance

outstrecthed and stumbling
like the spirit
she always was

who was

to not only be
but she

who was meant
to gather and horde
more of her
upon secrets
with a tempting sway
all the way
behind the receptors
hidden in the hippocampus,
a toothed and scaly
giant breathing flames
of sensuality
swept away in a moments
revelation so defiant
of time
of infinity
of infamy
of all the things
blinded and glimmering
like colors erupting
from fireworks who
taste the atmosphere
for the first time
for the last time
sparklers and hope
into her open mouth

she awaits in the sunlit tunnel

while he

crawls out of the smashed
degraded automobile
and back into his

fractured frame

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Images for Book

We have finished all the music for the album and are in the process of recording vocals drums and bass, and are now working on the artwork for the book/album. It will be a comic size illustrated book with CD on the inside, we are making 55 of them and will number each one.

Saturday, July 15, 2006

The Galactus

this is the companion poem to Questions of Existence

exploring together

moving like milk
and plasma swirling

like a breath frozen
in the midst of revelation

what were they there for
and what do they chase

on the sunscape eclipsed by
their thirst for


left like crumpled paper
floating to the ocean floor

where ideas for salvation are lost
in the chaos of time whose

grasses are transient silk and satin
robes guiding their piety

as they quench species
in dreams with seams tied together

by atom bombs and infantry movements
into the fray where

they say

utter only the whisper of the damned
who will not sleep

until they move past millenia
of black holes
and empty vacuumous space

finally satiated

as days slide
into nothingness

they will shuttle themselves

into another

Garden of Eden
and continue on


and the sturdy men, women, and children of the red icy igloo called Mars became stars releasing the message as they shared silence became the making of their own destruction by a force released from the ices of Mundar in the southernmost pole in Sleep and Sedation

It is he, he who dwells in all planets,
a button switch of sudden notice as you
become a sunspot gold lime line of coke
sprayed onto a blackboard
eating into the core of your busy
mazes with phases in and out
blazes trails
out from and in and out of how he
devours your spirit


Release the Galactus
and release the millions of souls

into heaven


Voyeur Movements

Here is the new song we wrote based on the intro and my friend Andrew's track he sent us, we radically altered and rearranged

at :42 seconds (repeat 3 times)-

there was no one
there is no one
there will never be

any solutions

at 1:43/44-

the hands move through you
and into (don't rush let note hang)
the movement of voyeurs
as they witness
as they preserrrrrveeeee

the words of these (high note)
please (high note) don't move from
the windows of churches (go to a low note)
and searched
and ready to bleed (medium note)

from the fruit
their seeds
planted in me
streams of locusts

planted in me
planted in me
planted in me

start at 3:03/4-
their dope fiends
descending as means
to behoove you as we move you
to simply let gooooo
and follow

the most hollow
of youuuuuurrrrr

after sample at 4:11 exactly:
There is no one
there was no one
there will never be

any solutions (times 3)

start at 5:07-
of endless nightmares
of meandering day dreams
of hallucinations that are anything but
which one
do you figure
will be the spell
cast to hash it out
with you and your
shadow man
your fellow man
you left behind in a trail of
fast food signs
and empty voter polls

start at 5:48-
So here we are
Two from the same origin
no one in blood
but molded in notes
pictures and soundscapes
no longer beholden
to the molten lava
slowly dripping
from the tarry black surfaces
as you

look up like

there is no one
there was no one
there will never be

any solutions

(no one no one no one no one no one no one)

song is sick

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

more art work

Sunday, July 09, 2006

Questions of Existence

soundscape by clint allday.
based on the story composed by curt allday

Questions of Existence

There were rotating spirals in her eyes whose majesty has yet to be witnessed again. The stars seemed to shift in and out of the the male contributor's periphery while spinning and rotating like rocketships rising through Earth's atmosphere, but in this case, anothers' atmosphere. Both contributors flipped their heads back like tripped mousetraps to see the last of their once great species disappearing behind a wall of meteors. It was left to these two, as they were the only two.

Gases popped off the sides of their trasport vesicle, a bubble impermeable to would-be space destroyers, ghosts of space bent on eradicating all life in the universe. In its protection, they could recycle oxygen for the duration of their trip; on its outer edges, there were microscopic sensors searching light years ahead for a life sustaining planet.

And as the final two moved on towards their new home, the man and woman stared at each other in complete silence for a succession of centuries. They dwelled in the orbits of their quiet minds, watching each other sleep, back in utero, moving through the galaxies as comets became windmills pushing them to their final destination. They did not see life or some type of aliens along the way, they only saw darkness. It was a maddening sea of stars and hidden hurricanes of electricity.

However, after hundreds of lifetimes, they both had come to a mutual decision. It was now time.

"And?" He asked her.

"It has been," she stated, reluctant to continue, the sound of her own voice seemingly unnatural.

"Yes, it has. It has been a long time, so many breaths, I almost can't remember where we came from or where we are going. So quiet, still, the blackness has filled me with a new resolution, a new question.

"What is it?" She turns her head towards him.

"Where do we, how do we, start again?"

"That is very true, but think about it a different way."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe the question is.....should we continue again? Maybe we are intended to drift for eternity in here like some kind of time capsule. Maybe we were always intended to leave all of our flaws and war mongering behind us."

"So we don't continue on? We let extinction become a viable option? I don't know, I have been having second thoughts about our initial decision." He uttered this softly as his breath visibly diffused towards her. In deep space, islands of ice are scattered variably throughout, swallowing them as they pass by, making them shake to the sounds of planet formation.

"Don't you remember what we left behind? The end was..." Her mouth quivered with the temperature drop.

"I understand, but can we afford to quit?"

"It isn't up to us, it is up to the Other. We wait, as His mind has yet to let His hand spill words of glass on to the page, to become one. He is the Other, the other striving to be convinced this is happening, trying to discern the answer to a miracle of explosive gases and reptilian dominance. He is writing because He wants to believe there is this greater purpose for existence.

"In time, there will be no more answers, only questions, and they will forget us or where we arose from. The Other's problem is ultimately faith, and so we must ask ourselves, if He can't find a reason to believe in our existence, then this story will be as vaporous as our surroundings. With indifference, He may forget to provide the details of our homecoming, about why we came back, about who we are, and why we persist on trying to nest an egg of human spirit in the blackened waters of the universe."

"Why would he do that?"

Her eyes became spinning plates, "Because He is hard of heart, self consumed, pulled apart from the seams, by aberrations and spirits disintegrating His mind into a kaleidoscope of wars, sacrifice, greed."

"But can't all this be saved on scrolls or His old, scribbled notebooks? Will He not be forced to speak and spread even if He does forget, even if He doesn't want to tell?"

"He could be," she spoke and her fingers moved up his arm.

The fires from the sun seemed to rain dragons along the curvature of their synthetic womb, their heart formulating equations while their copulations became waves of Eros, like mathematical equations solved in Earth's deep oceans.

He sensed her thoughts,"There are waves there?"

She nodded. Their eyes shut synergistically and they fell open and became open to another possibility, another experiment.

The descent had begun.

After a thousand years of travel, the two flew past the moon and down into the atmosphere. They opened their eyes to giant sized birds, filling the skies like a swarm of maddened killer bees making their way across Mexican dunes. Every inch of sky leaving Terydactals reeling, while they plummeted into the mouths of monsters who raise their eyes to the glowing red orb moving above them.

The fumes of life moved through their bubble and through their nostrils, filling them with strange, new microscopic creatures, who celebrated a new species of infection. Yet, they seemed familiar, a remnant of some distant visit. The Earth inhabitants seemed to remember their taste, one they had stumbled upon ages ago.

The contributors' silence was broken by the cacophony of creation, the chaotic construction of another civilization. Apes and monkeys once left to move through stages of evolution, congregated around the man and women's crude outline in the brown, sulfurous dirt.

With the puncture of the earth's crust, they rose from the flames, all memories lost of their past, failed time on another planet, in another future. In a breath of unfamiliar molecules, they felt life again, they felt their new existence, their relevance, their hope.

The Other watched from above and scribbled on and on and on. The creatures on earth continued, the contributors moved forth through the brush and into the rift valley. The palace from above was merely a dream, the past only a newspaper headline.

They had each other.

Hand in hand, their feet felt the lush grass and they knew this was home. The seeds had been planted, the mission complete. As the roar of the amazons and congos rushed forth, the tower of Babylon lay before them and they entered the garden.

Tuesday, July 04, 2006

New Artwork

New Artwork inspired by songs and themes:

Lyrics and song info:

Monday, July 03, 2006

New Edit: Zeus Zaps Like a Thunderclap (Claire Edition)

changed the format of this piece to better serve the music, art is a lot about compromise, you cannot hold on to a sentence or word bc such greed confounds the intention

anyway, here's the new edit:

start at 15 seconds and continue to 50 seconds

believe it

it is time
to unwind
"the dangling signs
from the hotel window panes

the cool frost building
on all thing quiet and still
the pills grasped
and dropping
and evaporating

believe it (fade out)

begin sample at 1:12
ends as beat studders, climax as changes

doyle plays and fades in and vocals begin as noise disortion over beat erupts

start at 2:33-34

like shuttles bursting through
the atmosphere
you move into my eyes
you show me why (end on low note, and sing direct)

in low, growl, add flange:

forest floors
doorways (sing this word)

--sing here---
into my mind
into your mind
the kind of find
you had as a boy

--back to abrupt---
all around
to try
this diction
and fiction
in your skull
flying through your bedrooms (sing this word)

with the truth of the wise
the other side of
rising tides

----back to abrupt----
a better way
its over
its never over
as my tear
rolls and

then whispers (sing like the part "believe it"):

"believe it" (fades)

then let it ride

Friday, June 30, 2006

A Dissociative Distance

It began like any Discovery Channel telly the Sahara, in the brush, in the hidden heart of darkness wild and full of guns.

There weren't any rifle shots, there weren't any bombs, or secret missions of escape. The hall of this vast, ever growing jungle of soul searching, was moving back across the muck and brush of swamps and cryptic lagoons, revealing Z's modest size bed where he sat in thought.

This was in his apartment.

Each room of Z's apartment had a particular theme, each met with decor and functionality to create a little world for the little Lilliputians. The Egypt room had the feel of ancient hieroglyphics with an odd twist. It was a shrine to Elvis, in only what I presume to be a metaphor for him being the "pharaoh" of rock'n'roll?

In his room with the Curious George hanging from the lone chandelier, he had a mixture of ash trays, CD's, and a framed painting of Biggie Smalls. Besides the Jungle room, it had the ever common castle room, where his roomie, a 50's something tweeker, sat and stared into the mesmerizing orb of his telly playing a VHS tape of the Guns N roses video, "Estranged," which by the way has no real hidden storyline, no real meaning, other than a mad man with soon to be dreadlocks swimming & waiting to leave the stage forever, to hide behind the stars of stardom.

In guitars and loud beats from bass drums and electronic whips and whirs, there is spirituality hidden deep. Each time it appeared on his stereo, he would drift away, moving through a dark night's sky, like some distant fog hiding behind the crest of the moon.

There are two of Z, there are two of me, and there are definitely two of you. There is this hidden soul creature that lies dormant behind the hippocampus, where there sleeps a dragon napping on his treasures of past victories against man and its mystic legends. The dragons of mythic lore are no longer need to storm, as man continues to create his own in blasts and bombs and button pressing and shock n' awe. The legends of unicorns, elves, dragons, and fairies retreat from our wars, our possession with hate and fury and war and politicking. And that is where we go when we are quiet, still, and feeling the music drift away into our souls. That is Z will be in 20 minutes as he moves further from his Jungle apartment room on the 10th floor in the mission district of San Francisco.

In households, such as his, enlightenment hides in its silliness. The mind must prevail against the idea that material space can somehow dampen the spirit, as sometimes one must purify themselves by living in simplicity with nothing whatsoever. This induces hunger, this pushes you to the brink, the idea that tomorrow will be better because today can be no worse.

So after getting ready, he grabs his coat and his cigarettes, while the purrs of a 11 cats hound his every step as they fight for some affection. The door thuds behind him and he hears, "Crazy Train," now blaring, he shakes his head, says something to himself, and slithers across the grass.

The rather tacky gold of the Elvis shrine is directly out his driver side window, as he presses the gas and leaves. The siphon of smoke coming from the end of the filter moves through the trachea and into the tender branches of the bronchioles, across to the blood, where one could hear the rush of black tar moving and attaching itself to the sticky plasma. The orgasms from prior experiences appear out of no where and then go away, he changes to the next song and doesn't know why, he believes the government is against him and doesn't have any real proof, and he calls an old friend from high school but mistakes him for a friend from college. He continues down the hills of Oak waging a war on mediocrity, becoming nothing other than a grad school burn out.

But in a moment, with the wind in the right direction, the waves of spirituality seemed to brim from the surface of his cerebellum, moving through every nerve, and out of his eye sockets. In the past, there were periods of time where Z's consciousness would be vaporous and become something ghost-like, a shell of another life, able to freely walk the earth and gather wealth, the wealth of spiritual revelation, a deposit for a rainy day, so to speak. The ghost of his unconscious moved away to the reality of the evening, a soul about to depart on a scouting session to answer all of his questions.

This was the place, this was the way.

The lights went black along the street. Everything disappeared and a faint blossom of a blood vessel appeared upon his eyelids as the heart pulsated in response to his realization that he had lost all control.

In the space of seconds, many dreams were realized, many poems were written, many songs were composed, the lights blinking rapidly hovering above his consciousness were mixtures of greens and reds and purples, vibrant royal purple leaves falling from the atmosphere, burning as they touched his reddened, balding scalp.

His shoulders felt pulled upon and light, no longer heavy and burdensome as in the real world, the world where his car drifted along the road, moving and moving towards the barricade, ricocheting off the sides and into a ditch covered in tires and empty soda cans.

The blackness was solid, tarry, a veil over time and space.

Z awakened to a smear of blood, with iron glistening on his lips, the sirens calling to him through some forgotten hymns from psalms buried in caves and sarcophagi:

you were home, you were home, but we needed you to return; remember, this is not over and it is never a good time to quit, son, this isn't a time to remember the past and let it dwell, hollow us out; ya got to let it all go, ya gotta let yourself be hurt and healed, and feel the rebirth of a thousand baptisms, this is what is needed in your departure to another place, another space without any time.

This is where you will be, not where you are now. So open those eyes, open them up, and no longer be shell smashed, but free from bottles, free from everything, free.

Z opens the door and stretches his arms.

"I'm Okay," and he brushes off his scuffed up coat sleeve.

"Copy," the paramedic murmured, "Yes, he says he's okay, no medical attention necessary, got it... Listen, we're going to go if you're alright, " Z nods, "Okay, great... well, you tell him this will take at least 20 minutes and then we'll move on! Because I said so..."

The busy man trails off.

Z couldn't remember any thing then, his concussion scrambling his paperthin thoughts. He knew something awaited him in the future, but it was all forgotten; only sparklers and incense were left to move through his nostrils and into his skull.

Thursday, June 29, 2006

Thus far, the layout

1. Zeus Zaps Like a Thunderclap (music at myspace, search our name, music is ambient, industrial)- breakdown, hip hop still work in progress, melodies complete

2. The Hominids are All Asleep (music by band)- melodies complete

3. Your Face and Plane Drifting to the Bottom (tone's bass line, music by band)

4. Why Conversations; use a audio tape recorder and capture conversation from this site, then add these lyrics after quote, melodies complete-

These are not the only words
Once spoken
You have said them to so many people
Why? Why? Why?

Updates to come

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

First 2 Songs Begun

Last night was our first full on practice of a band, with this dude Doyle from Phoenix who is a freakin bad ass drummer and my brother

We finished the Hominid Poem and The Bottom of the Sea poem seen below, and both are incredibly different from one another

We plan on adding very epic, ISIS type guitars over the second all spoken word piece, the Hominid one is an actual song with a discernable chours

Then my brother has two instrumentals from before sitting around, so we're going to use those two, I have to find a piece that will fit over it

Stay tuned

these are changes for The Hominids are All Asleep:

In streams you seem to move
ever so slowly
a hand swimming in
the river bed and all their
the heads relieved of exhaustation
"You will not
because you cannot

can only remember sins"

you can only remember sins X 4

and lest
you wish to
preyed upon

ever there
glimmering and glittering
to gather and horde
millions of eyes
looking on
shifting on
the quiet song
will forever long
will dance and draw
to worship her countenance

you can only remember sins X4

in the
reflections staring back
from the stream serene (in the)
Be-lieve (it's)
no longer a forgotten memory
or funeral late night revelry
it's a burial ground
an explosive rush

of putting this
of shoving this
of believing this

of believing this (repeat)

the following to be spoken or ascension:

it falls to the ground
the act complete
her face hidden
by the hands
now stuck


fixed to




Thursday, June 22, 2006

It has begun

After much work and talk, Geppetto Gestapo will happen this summer, we are changing this album/book a bit, in the interest of money and time, we will record 3-5 tracks this summer that will include vocals, three poems from here, and the stories will be included in a pdf file or in book form

The vibe we are going for can be a cross between noise/indie/hiphop/industrial, some groups that are inspiration include dialect, 13 & God, Themselves, The Dragon Experience, Skinny Puppy, the anticon collective, nick cave, bob dylan, kurt vonnegut, haruki murakami, and the list could probably go on

Anyway, I may be posting more stories and poems, we will see how the inspiration surfaces, there has been many changes in my life that probably inspire a thoughtful, meaningful dialogue on life and death and happiness and loneliness

if all goes well, this could be done by next year, until then, this is geppetto gestapo (known now as gG) related, probably simply an intro for the CD:

the hands move through
the movements of voyeurs
as they witness
as they preserve
the grips of gripes and holds of
strings that hang like
from Atlanta's greens,
their dope fiends descending as
means to behoove you as
we move you
to simply let go
and follow us into

the hollowest figments of your imagination
merely forgotten remnants of
insidious details of
what sour dreams are to become of
this world
as these atoms circulate and perculate
you to let go

let this master take you
forsake you
cake you
in make up
and wake you
from your eternal slumber

of endless nightmares
of meandering day dreams
of hallucinations that are anything but
which one
do you figure will
be the spell cast to
hash it all out
with your shadow man, your
fellow man you left behind
in a trail of fast food signs
and empty voting polls

so here we are two from the same
origin, not one in blood
but molded in flesh to notes
to pictures and soundscapes
no longer beholden
to the molten lava
slowly dripping
to the tarry black surfaces

you look up

there is no one
there was no one
there will never be


Thursday, June 15, 2006

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

My Top, the Hip Hop, and the Twenty Cop Questions

story comin soon

with the same procedures,

how- do- I?

get the love that I
need from you

start with a long deserved break

may i

another foci
for your utmost pleasure

another symphony
for you to consider

while playing it
over and over

will you

remember these last 2 years
with a soft
faint heart
gettin fainter
the faintest miracles seen

in what was
the songs coming from the sun
over light years and into
our ipods,
the concept of gods
bringing eternity and
the circadian rhythm
of our footprints
night and day
being swept over
tornadoes dating hurricanes
typhoons chasing earthquakes
nuclear radioation outbreaks
with the nuclear
holocaust cleaning dishes
under the faucet
of the nuclear family
scrubbing the ashes
mixed with plasma
stashed in their
family owned
biologically enhanced
blood banks

as I'm calling

can I

with the toast of this stye
can i
get what I need from you? as I

with the same

how do I?
get the love that i need from you?

as with graves
and neonatal clinics
the cycle becomes
the cynic

who repeats

in the morning with car horns
in the distance behind
the hum of street sweepers

swimming strickly
north to south like
shaking lamppoles
as instantly as incredible
as papa once performed
unimaginable feats

while gentlemen coddle their wives
in red carpeted
armchair seats

as they drift off and push off
into their vericose veins
and ready
to move beyond tissues

and become dreams of seas
of midnight romance novels
as we move to meander through
highlight reels and indiscretions

and the camera stay on
and the siren come on
and we all run on
and the TV come on
and the alarm turn on
and it won't stop goin on

so how
do we make it stop

and for who?
and to prove

what exactly?

What has this allllllllllll
got to do with me
and whyyyyyyyyyyyyy
am I writing this allllllllllllllll
down when out that door
there's money to be made

it's 'cause I fiend
for a conclusion I
want it all to appear
at some kinda cross roads
and pry open my eyes
and see the heart
that drapes
that hates
that breaks
me wide open
so I know when
to say no when
I know then
that the answer is,

I don't know either
will we as citizens
continue to do what we have done for hundreds and hundreds
of years
change those same ,
into some constitution,
anything you want,


how do I with same exact sutures,

how do I

get the love
that i need from you

Saturday, May 06, 2006

"Terrible Lie!"

things are afoot, or maybe i am lying in only that NIN Terrible Lie kind of screaming a loud covered in mud kind of fashion-

back into this from now until the summer time-

I think the new Tool may spawn something, good god

Ok this is not geppetto related, but something i dig from writing the other day:

winds blowing
down your back
down again
winding its way
the crease of your spine
the delicate balance
that has become
your waistline
an equator
a sunbusrt
blinding all the eagles
as they decline
from the sky
down your clothesline
into your white

the basket
is where you meet
and greet
and seek
the feeling
the memory
the ceiling


the sound

that's found
you as you once were
in the dorm room
coughing up smoke
the games
of our
peter pan

i miss

you there
snorting lines
trying to find
the times
that once made you so very happy

with some other

there i am
on the outskirts
a word
that makes me laugh
at its utter pervasive

driving you down
the charcoal colored
the hills

over a millenia
of cultures
you discover
all that
you could

from the gorgeous waves
carrying you into
my mouth
a shattered
of words
the curds
of my eternal whey
they say
so many
they have given
me so many promises
for the accolades
i discover
it was all a giant
to frazzle
and razzle
the fires of



and through
i sit

a man defeated
by the sceptor
sitting in his own hand

a symbol

for what,
we'll never know

Saturday, April 01, 2006

Aberrations and Adventures of one Lost soul

The soul leaves the body on its search for answers, we only retrieve these answers when we die, we spend a lifetime searching, it is only in death that the soul finds these answers, the ones you wanted to know forever, like who your father was or whatever, but the soul has its own adventures, its own revelationl, and in death these are uploaded into your spirit as you move to the afterlife

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Dan the Doppelganger

This is a revision, a bit more fleshed out, the other was merely a skeleton of what I intended. I may revist this again in a few months.

"The day of wrath, that day will
dissolve the world in ashes,
as David and the Sibyl prophesied.

How great will be the terror,
when the Judge comes
who will smash everything completely!

The trumpet, scattering a marvelous sound
through the tombs of every land,
will gather all before the throne.

Death and Nature shall stand amazed,
when all Creation rises again
to answer to the Judge. "

- Giuseppe Verdi: REQUIEM

She arrives to Lime's coffee shop at exactly the same time each day. She purchases the same thing consistently: quarter coffee with a bagel and cream cheese. Every once and a while, however, she may delve into scrambled eggs, which trigger long dormant memories of her mother. Mom would always shake them in the most perfect of circles, but to our fledgling little Gemini, they were the same circles as those she made in the sand as a young girl, the same circles she created in love triangles during college while frolicking naked on her dorm room floor, and the same unifying circles that wrapped around her finger before her untimely divorce.

She always sighs, flips through the menu, then sets her head in her hands for approximately 7 minutes. Her menu is always stained, it always reads the same. Somehow she always misses the popular lunch specials and is always too early for the "Dinner Delights" menu. Her bagles are never heated though they advertise them to be, which frustrates her occasionaly . . .but it does not matter.

The man sits alone in his stuffy, hotel room and sees her arrive like she does at the same time, every day. The peaceful churn of the dryer and the Verdi requiem haunting his room seem to be unable to drown out the continous stream of recent sorrows ricocheting against the tacky, wallpaper. He perks up as she sits to read the menu. He has discovered something is not right at our fair diner.

As the fog rolls low over the ocean, a schism in the universe, an abberration, seems to be moving with it, calling for a resolution to this disruption.

"Come on . . .the same fucking bagels with cream cheese spread 2/3 end to end," he rambles to himself in a very calm, low voice.

He rubs his nose and coughs. The slurp of lemonade burns, it is tart, and its acidity blisters his tongue. Resting it on his arm chair, he closes his eyes. He can feel his pulse rising like the nearby tides, the pulsating drums of his own venom brewing against the vasculature, revealing the many tasty poisons in his blood, its sweetness fiending like a mongoose before its serpent.

Our lovely woman now looks out the window, peering through her reflection, saturating the rain as it hits the pavement, calling for a reckoning. Her tears are always the same; the same texture, same riverbed, same crease leading down the mountainous terrain of her sensuality. He is always inside her, and "her other" is always nearby. She is unaware of it.

We should be thankful for this.

The smoldering cigarrette blossoms like a cherry tree in the dim hotel room as he dismantles smoke alarms, and exhales behind crimson curtains. "Damn it, there are two of 'em! Both living in the same dimension, at the same time. That isn't fucking possible, man."

This anomaly is freakish, somehow contributing to his internal debate about the reality of a deity. If such a thing could happen with two reflections of the same woman appearing in the same coffeeshop, on alternating days giving the same looks, always picking at the same cold, bagel with the same bitter, cream cheese. . .then this meant more than everything. It essentially explains all the wrongs in the rights of reality, proof beyond a doubt of things greater than this small, insignificant world. Given this groundbreaking realization, the cold, confused man has become obssessed with anatacids, Fox Soccer Channel, and his former girlfriend now eating across the street at Lime's coffee shop. It took awhile to figure it all out, but he has now got to the heart of the issue. He has made a disfiguring discovery.

As the jukebox changes to the sound of "Everybody Knows" by Leonard Cohen, the woman gets up from her seat and heads to the door of the ladies restroom, which is covered with pictures of limes. Upon entering, the cool ocean breeze ripples through her hair as she gargles salt water and spits it out. Looking in the mirror, she feels like she is lifting off into space, crawling through time codes and time tunnels, soaring through dimensions and dimensions becoming different people in different places on different planets. Maybe she is a president, an ape, a nurse, a doctor, a nerd, a lawyer, an artist, the possbilities were endless, and this knowledge led her to a new decision. It is to make this reality, this dimension, the best of the many. Maybe this is our purpose, to bring all the dimensions in space and time together. If one makes all their different selves uniform, then all her future and former selves become the gateway to reaching something akin to nirvana. Just thinking of such an outcome, squirms like piggies in her chest, there is this feeling of union, of clamping down on the entropy that has dismantled her life. It is a burden lifted.

The daft character focuses his night vision goggles, which are altogether unnecessary, but bring a certain complement to the magesty of vocal heroins belting through his silver stereo. He smokes the last of his cigarette and blows the smoke again through the haze of sunlight peering out from the cloak of the fog. Looking through the emerald glow of his goggles, he can see her twiddle her thumbs and lift up her skirt to scratch her knee. He begins to remember being with her. His heart races everytime he sees her enter and exit. At the end of the day, he assuredly did not expect to see her again, espcially Lime's of all places. This whole situation was mere coincidence; a fluke, as he did not set out to find her, he merely had wanted to get away from the creditors. He never knew she came here to have breakfast until a week ago when he began this vacation. But sure enough it was her car, it was her mannerisms, that appeared out of no where. Yet, there was something was different about her from day to day.

After finishing breakfast, she always writes for a n hour while sipping and sipping on her coffee, scattering her thoughts onto the canvas of God. She feels his voice, her internal character telling her what to write, giving her detailed schematics on how to escape the simple reminder of her former relationship. She wants him back, yet cannot figure out how to change things. She believes it is her fault, thinking about her tardiness, her distance, her unending conflict with her ex-husband. It eats away at her like Bob Goodman eats his custard pie.

But it is more than that. Fear eats away at her. Ultimately, she fears loss, she fears losing, and she fears moving on with another man. Her last marriage was long gone, it was her life, but the memories will not go away. All seems transient and elusive. The thoughts will not come, a mental block prevents progress on her latest short story due by the end of the semester. She decides she needs to run some hot water over her face, maybe this will waken her right brain, make the neuronal connections hot like molten lava, so they may fire in procession and create a circus of words, metaphors, and visuals to being others into her life. She moves forth. Across the way, at the hotel, the man's body lifts like a leviathon facing its aggressor for the first time.

All is set; all is ripe for the taking. Therefore, he makes the call.

The other is not at Lime's, she is at home and unaware of the break in the space time continuum. The soft voice pretends to be a potential employer looking to interview recent college graduates. Her excitement shakes his receiver and she accepts, asking questions of when and where. The voice reminds her to meet him in ten minutes at Lime's Breakfast Diner, and so she rushes out her forest green door throwing on her new business suit. However, this is not a real interview, it is all a test by our gentlemen in the lowly lit hotel room. He wishes to discover if his hunch is right, to see if this is all supposed to be happening. He is aware of the consequences but remembers what awaits him at home: the lost love of Lime's most dependable patron and a stack of bills as high as the Golden Gate Bridge.

Just thinking of their meeting makes him smile soundly, and so he closes his eyes again to imagine the implosion of the universe. The grin is not as sinister as it is kniving. But someone must do it. Someone must shut off the TVs, shut off the hatred, shut off the constant beguiling obsession with material things, shut off and fill up the empty hole of our civilization. He is simply a player in the doppelganger of our Lord, our Savior, the explicit duality of man. He is doing the will of God by exposing His one glaring error; that being His inability to regulate all of the dimensions He has created to amuse Himself. Each has its own freewill and nature will find away just as atoms and molecules disappear and reappear out of nowhere. God cannot stop it. The same people do not encompass the same space, but each character experiences its own life, displays his or her's own free will. The probability of a meeting between two of the same person from different dimensions is simiar to the probability of being hit by a piece of an airplane while sleeping in your house at 5AM after a threesome with three of the hottest pornstars of all time after flying 3 jets at lightspeed across the galaxy like the Millenium Falcon.

But with time, anything can degrade, anything is possible.

So he sits back and sips on his wine. The beauty of the vocal chorus contrasts the peril ahead for the 10th dimension. It is soon to be extinct, and our other protagonist, our young lady, may then live out her other lives as a prison guard perhaps or maybe a liason to the pharmaceutical industry or in the 3rd dimension as a bag lady hurdling Bison in the Golden Gate Park. These are all possibilities. If all ends, all may not be possible, however.

She sees herself in the restroom mirror, looks down at her hands, enjoys the ocean breeze again, then leaves the restroom to complete her transcript.

Like slow motion, she moves to her boothm, the coffee and bagel undisturbed, and her other is facing her, across from her. They both stop. Ghosts from other lives bursting from their skulls, dancing in midair, with their hair on end, now free to haunt and be haunted.

It is an atom bomb times 1,000; everything evaporating as these paranormal spirits move through the crusty yellow ceilings.

Everything is a furnace, a grass fire on the great plains of Wyoming, and it leaves the daft fellow across the street with his with eyes aglow and his mouth gaping wide.

The goggles are the only thing holding his eyes in their sockets.

Daft Fellow in the Dark

you are soft spoken like
crimson shifting into
rectangular configurations
with spectacular displays
of nationalism
its flags now
set half staff
a loud sound moving
down the street
two shadows of light poles
duel as
in england
settle scores
and continue their
whispering to one another
of power of
of fucking
for change
for a glimpse
of temptation
sitting quietly
in a leather coated
desk chair
with night vision
glasses strapped
oh so tightly there
in the dark
in his hotel room
dreaming of all the positions
they could tangle
with angles
of the misfortune
seen and glimpsed
as we retreat
into the swamps
of your illusions
infusing him
with hallucinations
wrapping its
vest around this disability
in the library
of her excuses
where he reads
all he needs
to know about

the truth

Sunday, March 12, 2006

The Doppelganger

Going to do a doppelganger story. Name: Smith O'Reilly.
Two stories, polar opposites, funeral two sides of the service, both opposites. A funeral of doppelgangers. A convention of doppelgangers. Duality. Dichotomy. Story of man who accidently killed a man, learns he enjoys, killing spree? Too cliche. Just some ideas.

Monday, March 06, 2006

work in progress

I have a story to submit after final exams, then try and keep this project on its two feet. Here's a pic of me doin a reading at school in Friday with my nigerian friend, Joe, who is also in my program.


Wednesday, February 22, 2006

Week 4,5,6: Zeus Zaps Like a Thunderbolt

response to the watcher story:

believe it

it is time
to unwind
the dangling signs
from your hotel window panes

the cool frost building
on the cheap window sills
the pills grasped and
like shuttles
burning through
the atmosphere
like the mixing hues
of Fall crispy leaves
decorating the
matted forest floors
and doorways
into my mind
into your mind
the kind of find
you have as a boy
through the caves with bats
all around the sound
of their screech
resembles the peach
bursting into pulp
diction of this fiction
residing in your skull
flying into your bedrooms
fearing the demise
of the wise
of your other
your other caretaker


that he has come

for the last dance
the stance has been made
the train is left to steer
itself over the last frontier
as my tear
over your sunken
pale face

frozen in a moment

what were you thinking
what time did you wish

to venture back
into and out of

this mind

i become a human being

and not Zeus
on high

Thursday, February 09, 2006

Week 4,5,6: He was Omniscience, He was a Watcher

(NOTE: For the below, take each story and break it up in the entire scope of the manuscript. This will be like little chapters throughout the book, familiar, Vonnegut-esque stories to return to. Might be a cool little set up.)

God is not above you or below you or even inside you. He is this individual controlling things from some distant planet resembling earth but totally a parallel universe. The only reason this is being revealed to you is simply because He speaks through me. Not in the sense that I want to relay the meaning of life or tell you the future or explain the past or why many individuals pass on every day. Listen; there are a lot of people. Get it? How can one God possibly control or keep track of so many blips the size of atoms in a universe whose scope is beyond the imagination of the very beings that inhabit it. Exactly, you can't.

In order to really know God, I decided to petition Him one late night awhile ago after inhaling on a cigarette for most of the evening. The eyes were dilated and the lights were pulsing through my optic nerve, and unbeknownst to me, the master of all creation uploaded Himself into my psyche. That's right; God infused himself through my retina and into my mind. I must say, this is not for everyone as my eyes have been inflamed & burning from his presence for the last month. However, for research purposes, one must sometimes expose themselves to the very treatment they are out to discern.

My petition was not to change my life or corrode the pervasive sadness of not knowing what is to become of me or of us. I knew he would strictly forbid such questions. What I petitioned him to allow is to experience a sense of omniscience, because God supposedly knows all. Since I can remember I wasn't sure if I believe or want to believe or if I will believe in a higher power. For all I know, I am a schizophrenic experiencing hallucination and need to be on meds as soon as possible. Even with all that, you must trust me. You and I must get to the heart of the matter, and realize that after this experience, many stories are to be revealed. Not long, trite ones, but bits and pieces meant to illuminate our existence.

The petition was not submitted through prayer. It was sent out in the vacuum of space by a satellite. I didn't expect a response until one fateful night where everything froze and I felt a presence unlike any other.

Having God inside you is a bit like being disoriented after too many shots. You are literally drunk with power, drunk with spirit, intoxicated with a bright light burning up the fuel of your cells. It's a bit all encompassing, very trying on one's physiology.

So why experience omniscience, where did the ambition stem from? Well, let's see, it has been a dream of mine since I was a young, fledgling writer. Bundled up in my dorm room in college, I tried diligently to compose my first novel where its main character had the ability to take memories from the minds of a population of people under a strict dictatorship in some apocalyptic future. The mission of this mysterious character was to make these random people face their mistakes, relive their joys, to show them that this pain is fleeting; it is an illusion, a facade, a breath of air. Although it remained incomplete, I felt this would be the ultimate power, omniscience.

Too many times, one sits and gathers thoughts on some bench, while the stream of a crowd rolls past you. Don't you think about what is really going on with these people? Am I the only one wondering why this man is mumbling to himself? Or respectively, why we seem to do too much, spend too much, or be the Bluto chasing Olive Oil too much in the game of love? What are the stories that make a man, a woman, a child live on? See...if anything could help me unravel this mystery in a long line of mysteries, then having God live on in my mind for a brief period of time to show me his power would be quite enough to satisfy my undying curiosity. Thus, for the next few weeks, we will be given the opportunity to see what it is like to be God, to see what God sees, to feel what God feels.

As a disclaimer, I must admit this could all be disappointing. To convey God is silly, it is as ridiculous as all individuals claiming to be prophets, of which I am not. You may learn absolutely nothing, as none of this is supposed to change you. What I saw was random montages of images from the minds of people sitting with their heads against the wall dreaming of what life they had wanted, not what they were given. I wish I could ask God what the hell that is about, but the guy simply wouldn't respond.

Faith, God, religion, these are all mysteries, not meant to answer every question, but to confirm what makes us special, unique. This is what it seemed to be from my experience. So beware of false prophets who may have easily petitioned God as I have, as they may have distorted what they learned. By the way, it isn't as hard to get His attention as you may think. It is entirely feasible. I lived through it and it is beyond comprehension.

So on with the story.

A few weeks ago then, God flew through my retina; pushing the iris wide open while I tapped on computer keys as machines punch widgets in some Midwest town. The hot tea was steaming and the music shuttled through my speakers all distorted.

Unexpectedly, I found myself in a train.

It was not recognizable. It was a vast echo mixed with rattling rails jettisoning its bobbling heads back and forth. Memories were probably rattling around in their misfortunate little minds. Grogginess was all around me, I seemed dead or gone. There was a woman glancing at her watch and out the window repeatedly, while her husband was stared down the train walls. He was Asian, his shoes were brown, scuffed, and his sweater was grey. The woman had a scarf around her head, it was blue, her dress was a light shade of green, and her shoes were pale white.

I sat across from them and made the determination that these were folks I wanted to know. Not because there was something miraculous or massively intriguing about them, but there was some kind of despair coming from the movements of their bodies. I saw only a moment into their night evenings, those nights where they were old beyond their years and the days all coalesced, sticking together like spaghetti noodles.

Fluid and monotonous, the nights were usually ceremonial, rituals of how fleeting their days had become. They were skeletons of the past, like when one going to bed and it meant rising to a job, to taking the kids out, to looking forward to the weekend. The weekend was a Ferris wheel, you moved towards the top, you saw the Promised Land, and then it would end every time in the same spot you started . . . the cubicle. Life seemed contained back then too, because in the office in the scope of things, it was like passing the time and at least getting compensated for it.

These were the ghosts haunting the senior couple as they brushed their teeth, used the restroom, and cuddled late in bed with each other. Their solace and regret were all they had left. Life was not bad per se, but it offered no more rewards than the prospect of being another's brittle burden.

These thoughts seemed to barrel through their minds.

The man asking, "why her?"

The woman asking, "why him?"

They both asking, "Well, when?"

"Well, when" was the time when they would close their eyes and say good night and good luck to the world once so nurturing and vibrant.

My friends, there were no easy answers to such questions as to why they chose one another, but God did not offer me a resolution. So, I learned omniscience is a bit like people watching. You don't have the power to mediate or meddle in affairs. You simply are the watcher, the witness, ensuring that someone or something of greater magnitude can say, "Yes, this person mattered, as I was there to vouch for her or him." If this is all God can do, he does it, he is the witness to the crime.

It had been very silent the last few days ago (prior to their train ride I was witnessing). I saw this with the help of the Lord, mine eyes, mine brain.

They hadn't done much but search through the newspaper and call their grandkids (who did not return them). It was comparable to any other night, yet again; they were lying in bed staring off at TV recycling fuzz and erratic pulses of molecules. And they were on the same wavelength.

They broached the silence by coughing.

"I think it would be best if I die first," the woman said.

Her husband stared straight ahead similar to how he looked on the train. He was emotionless to her comments.

She stood up from the bedside, still with the knowledge that her grandson was visiting, in the other room in fact (hearing all this), and she should be happy.

All she can do is cry silently.

She longed into their arm watch chest mirror and saw her once beautiful body, frail, wrinkled her eyes and breasts sunk like pirate ships on the ocean floor gathering moss and schools of fish. This gave her confidence into her prior comments.

"Yes," she thought, "I would like to die first."

This is not something depressing; this is the realization that this...this is life. Because death is swinging you around, tangoing with loud bongo drums and mariachi horns. He is wearing a white tux, slow dancing to Air Supply's Greatest Hits and staring this woman's eyes. But all she could see was me in those eyes, burning through her pupils till I could see the movement of fires bursting along her Nodes of Rainier. In the end, it forced her to speak these thoughts aloud to her dazed, confused husband.

"Why you?" She asked.

Her grandson turned over and closed his eyes.

Her husband did not answer. He realized life had seen better days. Days where his grandson slept until 7AM and stuck around to discuss the paper (and nurse the coffee). Those days had been long gone, and so he began to envision himself as astronauts on moons and starships, as captains in WWI movies moving through mustard gas and bayonets. This was passing the time, these days and days imagining him in every profession, in every race, in every gender and sexual orientation. His wife used to bring women home, now she can only bring obituaries with their pictures. This is the cycle, the circle, the emblem of life: a paragraph summing you up at death.

"Oh, this is so bleak," I whispered and turned my face to the steel, train floor.

But God's fingers were wedged between the folds of my brain. He spread them apart and suddenly the thought popped into my head that maybe it is death itself that depresses us all. It isn't our fucking work days or our money or the Apple computers and Krispy Kremes or worrying about our fuck up kids; no, it's the constant knowledge that this will end indefinitely. This depresses you, and keeps those neurotransmitters at low levels. So maybe we should all block it out, we should remember that one of us will die first but we can sit in our beds and cry about it, ignoring one another, or we can rise up in the middle of the night, knock on our grandson's door and start a random conversation about the Great Depression and our Great war. Maybe it will be the time to discuss our ancestors in Japan, and plan for the next year's schooling. These are the decisions we make in our final days, do we stumble around in abandoned homes listening to the sounds of crochet and pool cleaners, or do we take a fucking trip to the Congo and ride down a river in the deep brush?!

The train bumped and bumped. As I sat in the seat, I seemed to slowly evaporate as we passed each exit, each tree, each insect deceased on passenger window surfaces.

My God, it is all a gigantic dead end, a dead end.

I love death. I love it.

Because in between, there was life.

Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Hiatus for a few weeks


Thursday, January 19, 2006

Week 3: Your Face and Plane Drifting to the Bottom


in your eyes,
there is sadness,
a red light,
blinking and blinking
but no cars are stopping
in the midnight fog

so there are horns
there are sirens
there are loud gasps
as the waves recede
like the mourning of monks
that cannot chant as loud as
your heart
cannot mask its murmur
from what it is whispering in dubs
trying to swim through the subs

like sluggish snails creeping past you

while you
close your eyes
and drift off to sleep
the medication
is taking hold
the page of your latest novel
is folded over
your widow's peak
is wrinkled over

the pink cardigan is on its proper hanger
your green shoes
empty as the entropy
scattering your dialouge
while brushing your teeth
reflecting back
to your actions and
words you will say
on judgement day

not too soon ahead

as the airliner
plummets into
the middle of the british isles
drifting like castaways to the
bottom of the sea bed
your head pressed against the glass
your eyes open
to feel
the air inside the bubbles
as you pop

the pressure too great
your body too fragile
lying in your seat

the cushion under your arms
the oxygen mask around your face
the seat belt attached

how fast you flew
as you knew

your nastiness was leaking out your ear

"come home "