life worth living

my wife will appear on the new LP from The_Network. She flew out east last weekend and recorded vocals with my wonderful spiritual distortion advisor, Kurt Ballou, over at Godcity in Salem, Mass. I have heard the unmastered version and it is fantastic. I knew she'd have a brutal recording voice because she talks shit like no other person on the planet. This is me being a proud husband.

Also, above is a picture of my dog, Panic, dressed up as a lobster. He ate the costume minutes after the picture was taken.

Don't get used to new posts on here. I'd love to say they will be frequent, but then I'd be lying and I like to save my lies for important things.

Those in the northeast, Trap Them will be around until the end of October. Those in Canada, we'll be there for a week in November. Those in Europe, we'll see you in mid November until mid December. Those on the west coast? Mid december.

After that, I'll a have a few months off, it looks like. I'm hoping to work on pieces for the "Seizures in Barren Praise" series of paintings.

The record comes out 11.11.08, by the way. I'm hoping the rest of the world appreciates it as much as I do. Heavy. Mr. Bannon took the lyricism to heart and has created a layout that is absolutely incredible. Epic, dark and iconic.

I've been writing. I don't know what I'm going to do with a lot of it. It may end up on here, it may be a zine. It may be a self published collection of fiction and non-fiction. I'll decide what to do once my debt is no longer debt.

Come say hello at a show and tell me where there's some cheap vegan eats and a quiet coffee shop where I can go read a book and hide.

clearly

The limits become more like cubicle walls. The difference is that they are clear and you can see what's on the other side. Instead of monitors hiding work safe porn and conversation statistics, you see faint bedroom lights through the thin curtains drawn together, blocking the outside price about as well as a band aid would treat a six inch gash. You see the cleaners buffering the hard floors in monuments of modern day.
In seven hours it begins again.
Maybe six. Maybe eight.
It all depends on the course of action taken. You decide whether you want to listen to the baritone clicks of heels on tired concrete from behind the single plate of a formerly anonymous shelter, or the double plates that fold your skin and settle you into a custom shaped coffin, where you practice shapeshifting your body into different imaginary scenarios that involve how you would land in front of those heels if you were to fall from the twenty stories above.
If you're lucky, you headed through the next cubicle wall while it was still dark, where you can stare straight through the heart, past the steam, past the watering hole pulling the brake and opening the drawbridge for the legions the filter out and commit necessary acts of audio vandalism.
If you're lucky, you get to see that heart while it's at it's darkest, while it's at it's most intense, because if you head in for the rise, you'll still hear those baritone clicks, but the purpose gets lost. The rhythm will crisp and will have a destination. The rays will tell them when to stop.
Some will call them vampires, hiding behind tinted glass in wheels tucked under the cross streets of every escape route that can be plowed through. Nevermind the orange cones and the blinking distress. Nevermind the race.
Good olds will try to tell you where you went wrong when you stop for ten minutes of escape from the escape. They'll try to tell you what you're doing wrong as their quiet, lonely daughters stand five feet behind them, and as they teach you lessons that bare no weight, you look at the young woman's eyes, telling her to meet you out back of the painted brick. You'll have seconds to decide whether to give her the quickest, most passionate fuck she'll ever have near that cell, or to simply brush the hair from the side of her face, softly kiss her cheek and whisper in her ear that she's the best sight you've seen that whole day....that she's not invisible and the rest of the world misses her while she stays here more than the man standing at the scratch tickets will ever miss her when she finally decides to leave.
You turn a key and get back to the wooden barriers telling you about the lives you take with preference and freedoms. You hand silver over to molesters on work release and drop roots in hands covered in blinding plastic gloves, followed by grunts or greetings and salutations. The voids range from minutes to hours, until you reach the next wall. You've been moved again within all of the cubicles, finding out in the next twelves whether you've been promoted or demoted.
They may call them vampires, but the dark is when you get there. Black blood in the air and the living live none alike.