(art) Link Break #1

In the process of researching for a digital design project, and feeling a little disgruntled with project drafts for my other two design classes...I discovered the website of artist Boris Muller. If you have a chance....click the title of this post and check it out! 

It's amazing how much experimental design is going on out there, and the way technology is becoming a grandfather patron of millennium creation. 

Is there really a marriage between science and art after all? 

....It may not be the destruction of us anymore.

(image courtesy of http://www.esono.com/boris/projects/poetry08/, via the route through visualcomplexity.com)

from 3 great nights

Sitting on the slanted pool table; with $60 gone, in the same clothes from 14 hours earlier, and so reunited. I thumbed the edges of a couple books, a few plays, and a textbook of poetry. And there were seconds where it got quiet, and everyone listened to some literary genius's words being spoken. 

Radiohead playing too loud, and I wanted to curl up-feeling the pressure of so much inspiration that wouldn't BUDGE. 

So many things of greatness; it whispered "wow".
           So I met my same tan carpet for the countless late-night time, motionless and just...chilling out, as they moved about (upstairs). Laid on my back w/ legs propped; parked like a child. I listened to the low twattle of the boys' third guitar and wished the cork ceiling tiles were a moonlit sky, ...I wished I was high; because it felt high-above something all alone. 
Tomorrow I'd be sick. 


Because baby, I met my soulmate a long time ago. And nothing perfect ever happened.
Nothing happened.
I see him every other day, and he says "I love you" to her. And I walk everyday and say nothing at all. (Or, maybe way TOO much....?) Oh, Matchmaker, matchmaker. 

    SO then what next? You move on-and feel so fucking tragic for yourself...like hiding, like screaming, like...loving...Loving the unattainable. It's all lies for someone else's ears. (eh, but we survived).

And at night we realize there's Life still in this suburb city. It keeps surprising me.

I see my friend's faces in all those pictures of theirs; up on stage, with so much talent.

Some nights, those are the people I'm going home with, when no one really knows where each other goes home-and the memory of roaring applause-and amps-makes us awake, and ache, ...even closer to morning. 
I could memorize all your lovely faces and still forget to say hello, ....but its sorta our place. 
With the cake on that table we'd seen broken and repaired. Familiar chuckles in the other room. Tilted cap and bright scarves. Our dark cotton fabrics, and everyone else's tattoos.
           Goodbyes and gossip, and smelly strangers.
           "Floor party" at half past what it starts to feel like; hours before we think to check the time. 
Each guest billowing their space with such an "interesting, interesting", taste for whatever goes on inside those heads. I can't ever reach them all, or ever entirely share my own.

We're friends somehow-off the road, and it keeps us over this scene's decaying vibrance-into one another-missing it ahead of time. Where everyone is a little awkward, a little distant. A little ready to party hard....it's home shows and kept traditions. It repeats too far apart....
so fall too soon away. 

                  Look in every audience. And afterwards we'll all grow weary with reality bites, and take shots---Toast to Life! It'll bite. And I'll sorta wince. Swear under the breathe...everytime we shouldn't have driven, every story that gets repeated, and every text I know comes before doors @ 6:00. 

Another couple weekends in Bmore, where it goes in a rush and looks like a gush...ing smile thatll keep on lingering around the neck of stretch-cotton tshirts.
When Thurs morning makes for desperate and sleepy-when nothing specific makes nothing at all-when my soulmate is dead.

It'll all sorta be there.

I remember all those lovely friends long enough....Long enough to forget-that you and I have been here too long. You and I are moving in this world that someone else can really change. And yet, there's still so much time, and so much more (they say). We feel old too young.Let me just lie with my back on the floor...and imagine that we did everything we're promising. Someday it might be Austin.

Tomorrow it might be 70.

Daily headphones: Radiohead's "Romeo & Juliet", Lady Gaga's "Poker Face" and Alanis Morrisette's "Ironic"

Let's Move

I hate to start a post with "sorry its been awhile", but ages of distress have gone by since I last wrote, and evermore before. 

A few nights I sat down and cracked a new page in a new book and wrote. It had been weeks since I created something from inspiration; without clients, professors, critiques, and guidelines. 

It felt a bit like remembering everything all at once.

It felt a bit like it was time to move on. 

Because in the stage where the PRESSURE amplifies, and the projects terrify, and a nap is long out of the question...it feels a bit like never letting go. You keep meaning to call, to text, to Facebook, to document and forget...to finally feel something warm in the blustery wind. 

But to Achieve and Conquer and be the Best. Steal the "A". Reason the benefits of staying quiet or jumping - and landing a little off-foot. Another crit comes-lost free time-seal the job jacket-worry-and start the week all over again....with a little less clean laundry. 

Did I send that email? 

Well anyway, there's a certain stress that comes when winter starts to drag and crack in out little city. More people sigh, and count the days left-before anything has really begun. We tailgate home, dip out of class early, and hope somewhere there's a drink of relief/a warm couch/a cold pet nose/a tight hug/a nod of commissary...

It's all routine so very quickly, scraping so very shallow. Grab the gloves and rush out!

Feels a bit like its time to move on. 

The weather may not agree, and the conversations may not reflect it-but steps come-something changes in the way we walk. The pain gets crunched into muscles of our fingerprinted gaits.

And I can't make promises with my feet anymore. 

I sure could hide a little while longer.

I think the weather might change, the bank account steady, and we all might feel the balance of our summer-selves. 

Daily headphones: The Script's "The End Where I begin", Demon Hunter's "Carry Me Down" and Copeland's "Careful Now".