all sound is
reduced
down
to
a
murky
soup
of
battered aspirations

the stop-sign pulsates
with the evening
gradiants

it is
falling from grace
in the small
community
of whalers

it says:

the salt air
has encrusted
my eyelids
and
each time i bat them
in sleep
(or expressions
of humility)
they grow
heavier

I have come to accept
the salt as my
gentle ally
-softly guiding me
towards
the
/original
/state

a soap-star
with the Yahoo Serious
haircut
signals some kind
of new
reckoning

perhaps an
eyepatch
will restore
balance
to the universe

I push my toe
out
against the coldness
of space
and the
music of air
responds back
with a gentle
nudge

everyday
there is something
unique
and delicate
that is
/given up
/reveled
something small
and visceral
to be observed
and thankful for
something
to be held up to
the light
and squinted at
until it dissipates

the hours respond to
gentle prodding
casually stretching
out
towards the
horizon
gradients

he mapped
his future
out
in the tire
tread of
a dusty
road

but then the
rains came
and
washed this
future
clean

he had
no choice
but to
stop

tabula rasa

he wouldn't
sell pressure gauges
for a
living

he wouldn't
meet that
girl
who was
drunk and
wore a hat
too big
for her

he wouldn't
plunge his
arm in the
water
retrieving
a
watch lost
while
ice fishing

his car
keys
scrapping
against
ice

his nose
pressed
to the ground

and
he wouldn't
need
a haircut
every second
tuesday

listening
to his barber
tell stories about
The
Lebanon
and wondering
why he kept
returning

instead
he
stood
and watched
water
seep into
fence
posts

pale colors
becoming...

the woman
in the leopard
skin
coat
who
barely
see's over
her steering
wheel
cut
through
the
inside
lane

from the
disjointed
entrance
(grand in its
compromised
perspectives)
the ideal
method of navigation
is through
perforated
dance steps
we are all
guided by
stone
textures
underfoot
and it is
only
when the
soles
are rough
and raw
can we find
our way
home
when
legs
buckle
under
and knee's
crack
against
serrated
edges
does
perspective
find its
place/again

when the
tallest of us
stumbles
the lights
flicker
and definitions
pause
while
we
wait

I fall past
all standard
deviations

I inhabit
retired
eyes

hands
slipping

saturated
gestures

the performer stretches
his palm
out
in the sweet
spot
of the outdoor stage
he holds
until/while the
passer-by's
gather
in
they are
leaning forwards
just
past
their tipping points
they are shuffling
in
as the traffic band
narrows
they are
within earshot
of a strategic
whisper

when the performers
palm
drops
they will not
be sure
what
they heard
until the next time
they open
a strange cupboard
and reach
in
for a simple
glass tumbler

palm forward
hesitant pause
the inherent
pleasure
of an
uncomplicated gesture

the unexpected joy
of this day is
held
in the feel of
an old jacket
against my
bare
arms

I can balance out
my fear
of the sun
with these
thin
socks
in the cool
afternoon
breeze

I work towards
an
understanding
draped in
fading
linen

I am not
as lost
or
irrellevent
as I thought
I was

and indeed
I am gratefull
for those
minor
interuptions

diversions
on the nature
of narrative

I have crossed out
this sentence
so many times
before
when I first
heard it as
a fragment
spoken in the
staccato
of pebbles
on water
when I tripped
over it
on the way to
an early
show
when I unexpectedly
open the
door and saw your
best clown
sad face
when the late
orange light
had chased
the last doubts
away
when the
floorboards became
unforgiving
and when
creaking bones
answered more
questions than
were asked
when I sought
solace in
the number of
digits I had
to present
and when the world
was more than
just an accumulation
of weak
atomic
surface tensions
when it began
to sink into
my
/fractured
/vacuum
that a good
command of
language was...
was...
when I decided
to offer you
this last
banal
sentence
instead

what is left
behind
in this scorched
landscape
is a limited
set of
lines
that intersect only
at
dew points

GeoTagged, [S37.75958, W144.95482]

a little relief

ironic
distance

-HE SAYS:
our hero is
walking
he has always
been walking
he will always
be walking
when all
points of the compass
are de-registered
and functionless
he continues on
with a relentless
weary
stride

-SHE SAYS:
our hero is a
black crow
flying along a
stretch of rocky
coastline
existing as fragments
its ancient
black feathers
are reflective
composites of
the jagged rocks
below
its wingspan is
a texture that can
only be understood
at the intersection
between sea
and sky

-HE SAYS:
our hero's
hand made leather
boots
have absorbed
an eons worth
of the earths
energy

-SHE SAYS:
our hero has no
concept of migration
but in its abstract
actuality
inspires all other
feathered beings
to such
aspirations

-HE SAYS:
our hero
does not
meet
our eyes

-SHE SAYS
our hero is
nourished by
fractal geometries

-HE SAYS
the story ends
with the outstretched
hand
of the hero
in
friendship

-SHE SAYS
no
when our hero
learns to
circle
is when
the story
ends

-HE SAYS:
holding patterns?

-SHE SAYS
yes
holding patterns...

the essence of
inherent worth
is found
in my Labradors
motions
as he
wrestles
the rope toy
from
my
fingertips

eyes unbound
and indirect
furrowed brows
shoulders
reverse hunched
and straining
against
collapse

the prize is
invented
and worthless
without the
chase

the prize is
everything
there ever was
and everything
there ever will
be

the color in
the old bricks
have
retreated
for the season
what has
settled in
in its place
reflects coarsely
against my eyes
testing
my endurance
for
textures

I can only
move
in fragments
fractions
with the momentum
of left
over
calculations

I can only
execute a complex
movement[set]
in the right lighting
conditions
that might be
interpreted
as a
wave

/as you pass me by
/as you detour
around me
I will approximate
that friendly
[gesture]
/in the darkest
part of the
day

she hides
from the earths
surface
and sings
songs
to worms
and ancient
minerals
and pours
out her soul
to mushroom
embryos

and sometimes
when I am
crossing the perilous
devide
I fall into
step with the
songs
rhythms

I interpret
them
as hymns
to
slow
deteriorations

the machines
scheduled
retirement
is interrupted
by a
red ball
bouncing down the
hallway
carried in part
by the inertia
of a thousand
unstable decisions

pausing in the
shade
my neck stretches
out
and falls
over
while my
arm goes
numb
and the
winds
retreat

I am giving you
this piece of air
for which
you can exchange
any part of me

if I am drenched
in this dusk sky
if I am smothered
in the dust
of
orange
and
blue
hues
then I will be able
to locate a path
home
next time
when my eyes
once again fail
to take in the
offered textures
of trees
of disused lawn
furniture
of the
long abandoned
web
in the corner
of the
room

dry
grey bone
grass particles
itching underneath my
skin
yearning for the
days
when it would move
in unison
with it's brethren
and sing hymns
to the
earth
sky
and falling water

if I am clean cut
if I am reserved
if I am unable to recall the
moment with precision
then this place is here to remind
me
when I stood among the
almond trees
and sang songs
to
invented monsters
(calling them robots)
and chased after
my grandfather
while he stalked
trespassing
birds
I smell the black
oil
in the distance
and
find the courage
to plunge
onto
green
(monster filled)
waters

no time to
talk beyond
some aged
cheese
adventures

the harsh light
reduces us all to
silhouettes

my textures
are best represented
in two
dimensions

and make
a good
contrast
to your
energy

for you
I will compress
my aspect
into a tiny
spec
-reduce in the
boil
all its dimentions
until
I can be
seen
from
all sides
at once

diagonal movement
seeking from his
wristwatch
some kind of confirmation
of heroic
endevours

the dry
sandy
gravel
under his worn shoes
gives up its secrets
only
in subtle
sighs

he goes
largely unnoticed

rephrased
as a question
the answer
falls off the
edge

it falls
for a thousand
years

it is still
falling now

it falls past
continental philosophy

it falls past
all converging lines

it continues
on
falling
even while I
contemplate
eating an apple

I have long since
lost any sense of
ownership
of the answer

and I would contest
any outstanding
responsibilities
for it

darkness falls
In the harshest
of suburban
light
filled
days

terminus
lines converge
an isolating experience
like sightseeing
amongst the clouds
for lost associates

swooping down
with lithe movement
for the fumbled
ticket stub

i feel the swing
in my arms
legs
spine
in an arch that
encapsulates
all being

even though the
gate number on the
stub is
obscure

even though
I have no sense
of destination

I find myself with an unexpected sense
of being
grace
self

under
Southern Cross station's
undulating roof

indefinite direction
infinite possibilities
terminus

something specific
escapes me
and instead I
am left with a
handfull of sand
and a marathon
to run

against the
edge
detecting only
solitary strands
of worn cotton
retired sentiment
salvation

fragmented movement
in the air
the leaf punctuates
its frames of
reference
via
a series of
/elaborate
/dance
/patterns
in the summer
breeze

if I could understand
what it is saying
then I would also
be able to
pretend
you out of your
/programed
/illusionary
/existance

and we could
pretend happily
together
that a valid
from of communication
is just to
fluctuate

in the summer breeze

if I am fractured
if I am un-whole
if I am not able to
speak in regulated
sentences
then I am
isolated
or
I should be
isolated
until the language
I use
is not so
frightening

I aim to greet
the day
with a freshly
scoured
mind

loose nerves
are tucked away
(pushed behind
folds of greasy
neck skin)

the carpet
rises and falls
in waves
intricate
and infinite
temporal
patterns

I seek
a clear
re-traceable path
back to clarity

but instead
lean forward
to far
and loose my balance

all my
(and my ancestors)
memories
are scrubbed clean
by the grit
from a thousand years
of
humble
shoes

burnished hours
frames the afternoon
reflecting
in its swirling
waves
a moment
barely suitable for
description

the morning
rain left
small glistening
pools of
water
on fence posts

I yearn to
reach out
and connect with
that water

rub it into
the palms
of my
hands

the red brick
responds to
the late afternoon
sun
calling
from its brethren
a measured
jihad

Seventeen steps
to cross the room
four to the
bed
six to the
replica
of the old steamer

the cross-currents of
the shag carpet
threaten to
drag me out into
the open sea
/lost in
old copies
of TV week

am drowning
in trivia
about
Mr T.

Measures

everything in order
in eighteenths measures
recycled patterns
Derivitives

down Victoria St

the sight of
the good
natured Alsatian
bitch
galloping down the
center of
Victoria st
still haunts
me

perpendicular
/tipping into estrangement
it paralyzed
the traffic

eventually
I lured it into
a park
and
latter

delivered its
good natured
soul
to the pound

where
it now has
eight days
of
grace

surfaces

what she was
seeking
at four in the mornng
in the department
store
is really beyond
me
her hands
faintly
caressing the
painted metallic surfaces
of espresso machines
her eyes
sunken
staring blankly
forward
it was as
if
she way listening
for each machine
to give up its
secrets to
her

who knows
perhaps at four
in the morning
(under pressurized
fluros)
they are apt
to do that

hours

that the laces
fall as they
may
reminds me
that hours
have gone by
since I
/last
/blinked

/[/]

my mind
exists
in
(badly)
folded
space and time

/amateur
/origami
/consciousness

lean

I lean forward
thinking
that if I miss something
she says
I will regret it
latter

I angle my
toes
towards the edge
suspecting that
an opportunity
to parry
will materialize
soon

I run the indents
in the cardboard
across my
fingertips
assuming that I
can 'read'
them

the choice of
paper
is important

soap scene

the shot of the
hourglass
has resonance

the line of the shadow
reflects back to
us
an earlier scene
where the hero
performs
an
emergency appendectomy

so
when she turns
away from the
hourglass
to look though
the window

there is an
understanding
that this string
of coincidences
that has brought us
all here
is indeed
tragic

these children
playing in the golden
light
and framed
by white picket
fences
belong to them
in
secret

and...
just out of shot
/we assume
the sands
falter

The year fails

what does one
do with the limited
number
of pages left?

exercise out of them
the last
remaining positions
on the
moment?

retaliate against
an imagined set
of abstract
wrongs?

let them flutter
without punctuation
in the afternoon
breeze?


leaving them

relatively

unsullied

by the unscrupulous
seduction
of tones?
...

the pages
fall away

and then
the year
fails
too...

.:::.:::.:::.

circles
falling behind
in the late afternoon
sun

circles
awaiting a new refresh

plump circles
under the eyes
arrogantly dismissing
the days better promises

as the flashes
within the lids
are vertically challanged
edits

wind

wind
buffets the flies
as they attempt to
keep holding
patterns

above my head

above my feet

leading to to the following truism:

air disturbs
the innate language
of holding patterns

:::

These grinding wheels
Holds more that is genuine
Than I could
Ever...

worn

to the careful
observer the bald
spot's morphing
state reflected
planetary bodies
in flux

"You can" he said
(in a moment of lucid - a stacato
frankness)
"use my head to
chart a passage
through the stars"

"I get that" I said
and
as I reached over
to put a meal
across his lap
I saw the stars
of Orion open up

a bead of sweat
that was my grandfather

rolling past my departed
father

and falling gently into
an abyss
of worn linoleum

configured

the blankets
shade
briefly cancels
out
the sunlit canine

just as my eyes
adjust
the breeze fluctuates again

:an affront
of
overexposed
white dog

tightly configured
light
obscuring
finer details

blind

I dance around
darkness
sometimes

sometimes
there is
no other
choice

but I am
keeping track of
my steps
(in an elaborate
plan)
to dance my
way home

when the
light
returns

)))

"a wave of
temporality"

"washing over
the stencil"

"granting a sense
of authenticity"

"to the weary"

>

small stop
crossed out
and reapplied

a new form of creditors
warning...

...

is
now
an
end

pressing

the nervous
energy
of a good coffee

presses against
the back of
my
throat

leaving me
with
only
gurgled thoughts

Over analysed

The link is
the
isolated
princes

bringing the
audience back
to the hero's
potential

the bridge
is the red brick
stove

imparting
a sense of
belonging

/protection

when the oak branch
falls

then we
understand

the (red) brick
wall
/surrounding
/the compound
is
impenetrable

we are left standing
outside

while

inside is
warm and welcoming

and

isolated

/credits roll...

patience

the old brown
dog
is practicing
an affect
of surly
patience

again

while

the young
white dog
studies
at her
masters
feet

For

.
clarity...
past the moment
when discipline is
an issue

calling forth
from the stillness
an exaggerated current

listening for...

searching for...

something to rupture
that
/perfect
/self-contained
/teardrop

Merimula dec 2008

I glimpsed a sea eagle
And even at
A distance
It's size
Overwhelmed
Me

The chase

I found myself today
unexpectedly
chasing the red balloon

deftly avoiding
my grasp

gliding smoothly
past the parked cars
in the harsh concrete
sun

Putting the new house in order

cosy.

clean

crisp
clean
afternoon

bright

-not unwelcome-
for a change

/is

standard elements
of afternoon
blending
into white

a presence of mind
to
appreciate

/grant me this

looped traffic and dusty sunlight
off kilter perspectives

/tell me again

I glance over
surrogate
socialites
of substance

/respect situations

the blandness
of earnest expression

/what they are

05dec08

that
I would
soak myself
in
Black Tea
every
day

05/12/08

I am, like the
chairs
at awkward angles
to the sky

key ring

as I approach
(from the south)
I notice my house keys
already in hand

holding them out like
a priest with a rosary

gently rubbing the
/modernist
/abstract
key ring

that represents a canine deity

-I ask for more time
-I ask for more words
-I ask for forgiveness
(for avoiding an afternoon walk)

and,
as I clear the property line
-the threshold
to the house

I find awaiting me
a small allotment

/of time
/of found words
/and a split decision
between the two dogs
(on the topic of a walk)

-grateful

nested

this is not another word forward

two tone

in existence

in intent

trying to parse a
dead thesis

brings me to my knees

this is not a parallel structure

this is not quite that nested

dead eyes staring back at me
-perhaps you ought to consider
Deleuze again...

-fuck that-

...

this is not another way forward

but it is the space
I exist in right now

the space that I'm
-mostly-
familiar with

cordiality

remember to smile

engage the day

vigorously put out a hand
to shake...

/encrusted

/sweaty palms

/faint

/fake

wall

after coming home
there is a distance
between me
and the rest of house
-a soft wall
-a frail unfamiliarity

i place personal
objects
where I will not
recall latter

my legs and feet
dangle at awkward
angles

and the kitchen situation
I left this morning
is now a set of
shifting
abstractions

early

get up early
and work hard

broken windows theory

negative space

I get up early and move
forward
I try to greet the day with
a sense of thankfulness

there are logistics involved
tasks are complicated by
the absence of my companion

in this way i find myself
with a contrariness of intent
in a supermarket
indulging in cashews and biscotti

home again
the dogs are upset
-they wanted to vote
-they wanted to shop
they argue that their intent
would have been far clearer


the sugar and the butter
sink into my skull
heavy, slow, haze

-the morning stretches out

Thankfulness?
-a cool day
-good music
-some time to jot thoughts down
-and a hint of discipline
working its way
into the horizen

recall

There was a word I had in mind

It captured the essence, the beginning
Of a concept.

But now, a day latter
With the luxury of time
It escapes me.

it was, I think,
Something akin to an apology

However, as I sit here now
Coffee in hand
White dog in sunlight
I recognise in the pursuit
A dark path

-A state of being squeezed between
-Grinding wheels
-And heavy orange light…


Its too late to turn back…

Recall

The word
that is both the beginning and the end:

“Defeat”

tread

knock across
stand
roasting in the pretend sun

falling away
into well warn tread
-circles, really

going

gone

gait

nervous pregnant
woman walks past

with an old guy hanging
off her

crumbled khakis

sensible shoes

slack gait

alternately
she is a striking
figure
-tight black top
hugging a large
round belly

wary
of the clinging baggage
hanging off her
side

like an unattended growth

earthy

One word following on
from another

awkwardly stepping
through undergrowth

sinking deeper

with each step

mud

humid

earthy

crawling

until eventually
there is no energy left
to pry each step out
so carefully

so the mud accumulates

until there is
nothing left
but prose

the story

relief

rain

a small packet of exchange

-no coffee though

A lemon tree over the fence
becons

the dogs hurl insults

and a memory of glass
is fading

insular, these moments
have no sense of
accumulation

that is the story
then

there is no story

just

small packets of
exchange

relief

rain

points

I saw a movie about
phillip glass yesterday

lots of dots on a page

isolated points

it reminded me that
the kind of meaning I best respond to
is
an
accumulation
o
f
ab
stract
ion
s

.................

I heard Malcolm Gladwell
on a podcast
say:
It takes
something like
10 000 hours
to master a discipline

or
aprox
10
year
s

...............

Mr Glass also said
-the secret is...
You get up very
early
And work for
many hours


...............

Meanwhile the dogs say

-the secret is
you get up very early
and walk us for
many hours

..............

-does this mean you're
feeling better now?

she asked

I don't know what you mean

so please translate this

into a series of points
in a
16
by
16
grid

in deep

in deep
scampering

wresting control of the day
limits me

In not so deep
trying to define the
shallow parameters...

..^..

coffee disappoints

wait for rain

dread the sun

ep 26

Conditions ep 26 from f3ilter on Vimeo.

Been a long time since completing anything. Playing with words now.

Momentum

blither forward

(lets look at this positively, shall we?)

exploring the unknown...

unseasonal cool
good for the new jacket


...
for a while there
,just a little while
I took the disjointed apparatus
out of the day
-the restlessness of space
-of fridge
(all the while resisting the couch and the cable TV)
-the kitchen floor (in a holding pattern)
-the smell of burnt rice
-an accumulation of distractions

The dogs were restless alongside me
Less out of a sense of faithfulness
then illness (they are in a holding
pattern of their own...)

blither forward

hurry,
construct another temporary shelter
against the raveges of
idol thoughts

It will surely blow away tomorrow
But for today it might just hold

Bad poam of the day

I work a strong coffee into the late afternoon.
As I chase lengthening days
-Shadows slipping seductively behind diffused light
Scattered...

I operate on the principle that something will come to mind
-Visual
-And intricate in structure.

And I will know code intuitively
the relationships
the objects
and orientations
to make it happen

And I will know that the vision is real
-not some trick of perception
(like so many 'mirages' before
movies that lack construction details)
Something that is the sum of its parts
and not the sum of its gaps...

The crema is gone (or encrusted)
-all that's left is the
black depths of a luke warm coffee

I have to remind myself
gaps
are not the same as
negative space

byrnt Kraftwork

Ep 25 and Last FM

Conditions ep 25 from f3ilter on Vimeo.

its been a while since I've post any new eps. This one is based on a very simple use of a F minor chord. With additions and subtractions to flavor.

What I've really been doing with my time is discovering new music on Last FM.

at play

Bjork and Michel Gondry at play in her apartment. Its wonderful that people like this exist in the world.

nostalgia

I'm feeling it today.
Been doing the itunes store path of least resistance thing and ended up on Prince and David Bowie... Why is it that even though I buy artists like Alva noto and John Cage, the recommendations in itunes always take me to 80's tunes?

Perhaps because I had to purchase 'Annie Christian' by Prince. I had forgotten all about that song, and particularly the line in the song that goes:

"Annie Christian, Annie Christ, until you're crucified,
I'll live my life in taxi cabs..."

20 years on and that line still strikes me as somehow abstract and profound, even though on many levels I acknowledge that the song is naive and silly.
I still remember walking around the city with the 'controversy' album playing on my Walkman.
One of the good things about getting past 40 is that this kind of rediscovery becomes possible and valuable.
What price Nostalgia?
$1.69, on itunes, apparently.

Stoner lab

Perhaps Mr C is not so much of a PC as we thought...
Check this link out

http://www.mythumbismycock.com/?ecardId=1585&cardKey=qpui6ob8tkid83sjo40s3sb7zjx07chmqzvkcwhw5px4ihduc4

who's your PC?

Because of Bioshock I had been spending a little more time than usual over at the dark side of my mac: its deformed cousin locked in the basement of the hard drive... My windows partition doesn't do much these days except work as a platform for my Valve games.
Anyway, as I was re-booting between the two OS's I noticed something a little odd. Here is my Mac dektop:

and here is my Windows Desktop:

Maeby, the younger lab is full energy and a sense of adventure and a degree of arrogance (she tries to hump anything). While Clooney is older and more stolid. He prefers a good routine to an adventure. When Mr C comes across a situation he doesn't like he excels at 'going to ground'; stoically 'sitting it out' so to speak.
In other words...
Maeby's a Mac,
and Clooney's a PC

Unlike the OS's, however, I love then both equally...

smoke and mirrors

Been away last week at dog camp... It was good to get away and spend time with loved ones.