My Graduate Recital

Matt Hollier - Solo Guitar

Friday, February 11. 7:30 P.M. Choral Room 153, Angelle Hall. UL Campus.

Featuring works by Lennon, Sierra, Mackey, Legnani, Hollier, and Ligeti.

My last major concert in Louisiana for the foreseeable future.

Various Permutations of the Right Hyperprime Poem of the Sun

1:

sometimes I feel like nothing’s left
descants and multitudinous meaningful images pop
an easy exercise for sure
near a haze of tissue in air
the red sun rose

2:

the rum moon sank
away from the clarity of snot on the ground
assuming a difficult slobbery
syncopated and a few meaningless ideas form
I never feel like anything’s right

The Desert Age

The Deserted Village

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,

Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain,

Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,

And parting summer’s lingering blooms delayed.

Dear, lovely bowers of innocence and ease,

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,

How often have I loitered o’er they green,

Where humble happiness endeared each scene!

How often have I paused on every charm—

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,

The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church that topped the neighboring hill,

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,

For talking age and whispering lovers made!

How often have I blessed the coming day,

When toil remitting lent its aid to play,

And all the village train, from labor free,

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree!

While many a pastime circled in the shade!

The young, contending, as the old surveyed;

And many a gambol frolicked o’er the ground,

And sleights of art and feats of strength went round.

Sweet, smiling village, loveliest of the lawn;

Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;

Amid thy glassy brook reflects the day,

But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way;

Along thy glades, a solitary guest,

The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest.

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,

Where wealth accumulates, and men decay;

Princes and lords may flourish or may fade;

A breath can make them, as a breath has made;

But a bold peasantry, their country’s pride,

When once destroyed, can never be supplied.

Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour,

Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant’s power.

Here, as I take my solitary rounds

Amid thy tangling walks and ruined grounds

And, many a year elapsed, return to view

Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,

Remembrance walks with all her busy train,

Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.

In all my wanderings round this world of care,

In all my grief’s—and God has given my share—

I still had hopes, my latest hours crown,

Amid these humble bowers to lay me down;

To husband out life’s taper at close,

And keep the flame from wasting by repose:

I still had hopes, my long vexations past,

Here to return,—and die at home last.

O blest retirement! friend to life’s decline,

Retreat from care, that never must be mine.

How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these,

A youth of labor with an age of ease:

Who quits a world where strong temptations try,

And, since ‘tis hard to combat, learns to fly!

So on he moves to meet his latter end,

Angels around befriending virtue’s friend;

Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay,

While resignation gently slopes the way;

And, all his prospects brightening to the last,

His heaven commences ere the world be past.

I am working for people who are primarily intelligent, rather than serious.
—P. Feval

www.emilythibodeaux.com

The Bat

The Battle of Blenheim

It was a summer evening—
Old Kaspar’s work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round;
Which he beside the rivulet,
In playing there, had found;
Hecame to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And, with a natural sigh—
“Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said he,
“Who fell in the great victory.

“I find them in the garden,
For there’s many here about;
And often when I go to plow
The plowshare turns them out;
For many thousand men,” said he,
“Were slain in the great victory.”

“Now tell us what ‘twas all about,”
Young Peterkin he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes—
“Now tell us all about the war,
And what they fought each other for."

“My father lived at Blenheim then
Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground
And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.

With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide;
And many a childing mother there,
And new-born baby died:
But things like these, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

Clamor

Living in marmoset dreams or leaves beneath trees
Redundant I know, how else am I going
On and on to find to right my written springing upon
Some single high note thereabouts?

A sign of knowledgable time:
Voidware prohibited. 

We are all closet homo-sapiens screaming on dirt streets
Rode, thinking, erode (no spank) exposures or expeditions
And A giant S severing the male malevolence. 

Just as incurring snot orgy discord of innocuous 
Cyst putrid darkly cornering sequence of monetone
Invalid scraping dig, cut, borrow, uplift, downgrade, electrocute, resuscitate.  

Cut this umbilicus; I sense a frequency of naught, a cordial inversion: never knot. 

Feel it, stuck sucked in a land of negative, open sores and crisp finger frost distracted. They hate me, they hate me. Or if they have no feelings: the cold has cut them short for sure they will recognize a friend, wandering the dark corners for sure they will stop freezing all my outsides and striking disease at my in. 

Very similar to antiharmonics. Verisimilitude. This candle lights my path; but still fingers reach behind my hair in a place adjacent to memory. This is where we first discovered sound, where we precisely scattered electricity and placidly uplifted antitheses. 

Try this on for size: a gigantic memoir, a bestiary, gutfull draught, no, gush; a font, oversized load, a blink, blister or beacon of hole, questions tied together with oblivionic cursive apprehensive and assuredly buoyant, cluster of opal, shimmer of going. Be these as they may, if there is that or these for me, may I protractively exclaim that I am doing that thing i do between dreams. 

Six Hits, a Pop Cacophany

1. Far East Movement: Like a G6
2. Justin Bieber: Baby
3. Katy Perry: California Gurls
4. Lady Gaga: Love Games
5. Train: Hey Soul Sister
6. Miley Cyrus: When I Look at You

Aleatoric Rap

Huge Nametag These Sewer Oyster




lyrics:

verse 1: [The Notorious Hipp.I.E.]

Viewable squadron, nuclear fro faerie

weakfish Zeus verb set FedEx wrath dairy

fluid toes gutsy undersea aftertaste

factorize werewolf Easter hairy unchaste

cast awesome ganja day, salty dryad Paraguay

airshow awe way overpay, warehouse saga passageway

facetious wrap, greasy fig

Sun therapy swap, ready swig

Genghis yurt shy war yam adult steelyard

tsunami cough any dykes eery lumberyard

haste thread graph, Hanukkah bullfrog

terse spiffy dray, f ya swarthy snog

cursed neighs, those Saturn sulfur orgasm Sun leasers

unhand underweight oasis reagent brainteasers

freaky inhale that groaning organ expander

reawakening degrease us tawdry fuel connector

majordomo brewing crucify heresy Tutu

unfed gusher INRI Jersey priesthood

verse 2: [Variable Hamburger Gangsta]

Yo! Yo!

I be tiara tweakin' Netra stigma

Feign news bag bargain Nannie pigment

I be from the discharge of KFC-tinware

I rub hogwash Vienna tavern fanfare

I be ballin' effigy iceberg Godhead

dwell tramway toga aforesaid

flowering gnomish threnody turbaned beeswax

thwart grapefruit nightwear gunmetal earwax

Faust ghostwrote for bitchy grass Faraday

heal granite bugbear gadfly dismay

feature gramophone reawaken vampire overpay

Hindu sandwich biomass halberd stingray

verse 3: [Ashtray Photostatic Rastafarian]

Jewish gawky, loafing dude

eggnog weather, eating brood

Faulknerian grumbling rat sushi spoon

feudal weapon jet, versatile goon

Ashurbanipal nagware Erhard drystone

datum era Hamsun Reyna pudgy

useful ashtray, aghast spymaster

faith Gwendolyn grosbeak pasteurizer

highway endue, fishy ghoul

jasmine ahoy bagful sabotages

Odyssey gauze strung guy squat Bahamas

jalousie Tao commonweal offhand maracas

nerdy nuke ghetto Duke fret massages

HDTV ninja sightread Jacobi exhume

Hindus end fresh mouser earwig pushbike

Indus maiolica landfill fuselage

avian koan bighead privacy grabber

Fundy oat tubful guitarist hedgehog

jigsaw quaver typo payday theater

malefic thruway genie king sturgeon bathwater

Nestle unreal megalith fitful Hrothgar relay

ageratum hero laughable Hearst Tesla sleepyhead

ovenware gherkin herald yaws ravage bent day

guff ghoul bruiser gear

typo Violet ghastly deer

desert horse urea beer

swag regrow wigwag rear

I be smokin' aforesaid freebase beta wombats

I be smokin' anabolic aeon shopfront sheep cravats

I'm still Panasonic gnome hedge rude sunhats

bedbug footwear tyrannic feather eating rawboned bats

smorgasbord feature feasting Hogwarts Jehovah vats

Do mythic pair double-u

skip’un is damn bangladesh fashion hive sniffin essex (skee’ole! so) surly fuss and oboe boas. Sis flew modeless fair sat sofa faye, “Ham puff lit pass ajar edges.”
“Glow shack is this damn officer?”
“Sensei’s fib sob,” hide kazoo.
“Zoe wrote hat?”
“Erode.”
“Dandy sops paid, end five fellow ices.”
“Rotor sap dishes broke?”
“Dishrag do,” Sofia said. “A real ox soap.”
“Weep eh? e-tard. A prêt. His trachea heckle minnow. Nice pasta sifty beefy access low!”
“Hush! Half-raid! Wore!”

And and something something

Undeniably without a doubt I and myself conducted and performed a creative experiment the workshop for potential literature (Ulipo) invented and created doubling and increasing by itself each and every thing or object of any and all phrases or statements in order to make the process and device apparently blatant with or without mentioning or withholding previously said restrictive constraint.

Swallow the BIGness

In the night, my feverish head between Momma's warm rough hands. Almost a comfort, still raw from dishwater and slick with grease. "Turn on the light," I heard her say though no one did for a very long time. I thought that if she moved at all that my head might come off in her hands. She might still have the skill to mold it back to how it was and stick it there. She was full of gravity, having grown older and fatter. She didn't move but held me still as the rest of the room turned and ground bigness like a fist into my stomach.

I felt her fingers pressing my neck, but heard her already in the kitchen. She was wetting a cool rag. I heard the slop of the water the whine of the pipes. And always, no matter what she was doing, inexplicably, a clanging of large iron pots. "I'll be right back," she whispered in my ear.

It was dark in the room, the stiff comforter scratching my naked thighs. The kitchen light cut the floor like a slice of orange, and there was a rumble in the driveway. My head was still stretching toward the ceiling, Momma gently wringing my neck like the neck of a chicken and we did a tippy toe dance into the living room to see. The screen door creaked open and the doorknob was turning, but I was suddenly blinded by the washrag Momma slapped on me. It smelled of bleach and piss. "Thanks Jean," Momma said to herself. "Sure no problem" Jean said. "We're going to blow this bastard to smithereens!" "To kingdom come." "Our will be done!" "Holy shit, yes!" said Jean. And I heard them slap palms.

And sure enough it was Daddy who came through the door, I could hear his voice say "Woah!" He looked like a bear through the thin washcloth and I wondered what sort of comfort I was supposed to be deriving from this. They converged on him, though my eyes might have been crossing from the fever or the ammonia or whatever.

The pair of hands still on my neck roughhoused me into a corner then finally let me go. My head began to wiggle upwards from the rest of me and the rag slipped off my face. I tried to hold my head steady with both hands, but my palms were so slippery sweaty; I felt it inching up. In the kitchen the light was blazing but, there was no one around. I looked toward the door which was now closed and on the floor, near the Welcome mat, there was a gleaming brown stain freshly mopped.

"Godamn it! Turn around so I can see about you!" Momma screamed from behind me and she surprised me so much that I lost my head completely and it smacked almost immediately and painfully into the ceiling where it bobbed and rolled. At last, I vomited. I was the potato salad, I knew. I'd had too much and the mayonnaise was questionable. Momma cursed and whistled for back up. And Jean and Jean came running in with brooms. "I really feel a lot better," I called down as Momma batted my head. "Then you'll clean this toute de suite," she called and I knew that I probably wouldn't get out of it this time because even as she beat me with brooms I saw her filling a bucket with water.

The Cake Dancers - Negro Music

Negro Music is the first album by the Cake Dancers. Spectral skronks, tape manipulations, brutist lullabies, dada wandering, cottage skulls.

1.) Intro, with Glockenspiel and Improvised Accordion

2.) In Cambodia

3.) Love Is Easy

4.) The Use of a Deer Skull, Knife and Coyote Call to Produce a Kind of Humorous Braying

5.) Cozy Cozy Cozy/Jazz Loop

6.) Negro Music

7.) Cartilaginous Beast Whimsy (A Montage)

8.) My Breasts Are Exposed as Moisture Secludes My Undulation

9.) As Quiet As Meat, Please

A second release of Negro Music is being prepared so ask for one soon. Releases will be sporadic depending demand. Download the first single, Love Is Easy, below.

Love Is Easy by The Cake Dancers

doom ethic pared blue

Sky on us damp did of ash hash alive so if . suns six . ski. oil . safe . several fifes and oak foes : is few ode loss for soft Sofia fey, “aim up off aloft poufs afar eye is.”
“go show as his dim oaf sir?”
“sin says fat fob,” side us oak.
“so he road had ?”
“a rose.”
“And sod spade, and fife fell all vices.”
“ Dad, our cap did he soak?”
“ Dishrag do,” Sofia said. “A real ox soap.”
“We pay. Eat hard. Up rut. His try he kill man, no. Once pass do safe he bevy axe Oslo!”
“Dash! Afraid! War!”

red light

When I was eight, my friend told me she knew that ghosts were real because every night in the thick black line of sky above the cane field opposite her house, she saw a red dot of light. “It’s not regular,” she said. “Not like a regular light, but it moves where I move and it kind of hums or buzzes, and when I go get my momma it’s gone. Like, it left.” I asked her how she really knew what it was. She had thought it was an alien, and the light was on their ship “like a headlight.” Her mother didn’t think it was an alien at all; she told her it was the soul of a dead child trapped in a single drop of blood. She made her pray the rosary for it.

Every night since she told me, when I stood alone on the porch after dinner, shaking out the table cloth, I looked for the light. I tried to recreate the moment in my head, the small red dot emerging suddenly out of the night. But I didn’t live in the country and it was not nearly as dark. The sky was a mud brown after sunset. I could see one star, the halo of orange parking lot lights from the grocery store, and the pale head of the water tower which I liked to pretend was the moon. I waited for the red dot. I tried as hard as I could to work myself into fright. But I never saw the light for myself. Until I spent the night at Nick’s.
Nick was my first boyfriend and lived in the deep country in Sunset. I finally had a convincing enough pre-text for spending the night at his house. A party that a lot of people would be at with Nick’s mom as a chaperone. Luckily my dad had never met her. It was New Year’s Eve and surprisingly icy as me, Nick, and Nick’s “cool” mom Sheryl were all sliding into each other in the front seat her pickup truck. “I’m a cool mom,” she said as I sat pressed up against her side inevitably inhaling her spicy body odor and whatever kind of alcohol that was on her breath. “I mean I’m a fucking cool mom, right Nick?” Nick laughed saying “Sheryl, Sheryl,” like a sitcom dad. They passed a cigarette between themselves. I wondered where Nick’s dad was.

“He’s offshore, he’ll call later though; he can’t leave me alone long. I’m fucking crazy. I mean I’m on meds. You can go fucking crazy living in butt fuck Egypt practically by yourself. At least I’ve got Nicky. Oh and call me fucking Sheryl, by the way.”

“Okay, thanks, fucking Sheryl.” I said, feeling suddenly glad to have done my eyeliner in the rear view mirror of dad’s truck while I waited for them in the drive-way. I imagined it made my eyes seem less wide. They laughed and Sheryl took her hand off the wheel and ground her fist into the top of my head. Her cigarette threatening to ignite my hair.

Nick was two years older than me but he was still in homeschool highschool run by his mom. They lived out in the woods with chickens and horses and Nick told me “We can do anything out there. We don’t have neighbors for miles.” I imagined the country with tall itchy grass to run around in and maybe a first kiss under a sky full of clouds, but realistically the drive took two hours and when we pulled up to the house, all I could see was the smoking white gravel in the triangles of yellow light that came from the headlights.

“Where’s everybody else?” I said as the screen door slapped shut behind me. I could see every room of the house from the threshold, all lined up: the 70s kitchen, the living room with a pink couch and a small tv, two bedrooms with their doors open, and two windows on the back walls of the bedrooms and black sky through them.

“One time we went and bought a bunch of rolls of tin foil and covered the entire kitchen in it, like everything, the fridge, and all the appliances. It was like outerspace, it was totally fucking rad, we could do that if you want,” Nick said. Cheryl raised her baggy sweater over her head and threw in onto the floor next to the kitchen table, revealing her black sportsbra.

“I’m hot natured. I mean this shit is nothin’ if you’re from Wisconsin” she said and she moaned and ran her fingers through her hair as she walked into a room off to the right that must’ve been the bathroom. “Gotta take a piss, be right back!”

“Nick, where is everyone else?” I asked punching him lightly in the arm as we stood in his kitchen. He took my fist in his hand and pushed it away.

“Who else do we need?” he said and he began pulling down liquor bottles from on top of the fridge. A fifth of Jack Daniels, José Cuervo, a bottle of Glenfiddich, a bottle of Merlot, and then from the freezer a giant chilly bottle of Absolut. He clanged all the bottles together on the slick vinyl checked cloth that covered their table and stepped back crossing his arms. “Ah!” he said actually snapping his fingers, and he pulled from the fridge two six packs of Natural Light.

“Natty?” he said tossing me a sweating can. I dropped it.

“Shit.” I said fumbling after the can that was rolling away from me on the linoleum. I felt his hand press my bottom and I stood up without getting the beer and looked at him. His eyes were big and honest looking and his face was white and smooth and he reminded me of a boy. That’s how I had always thought of him. But he was something more. My face felt hot and I turned from him and asked if we really could cover the entire kitchen in tin foil.

“Yeah, sure!” he exclaimed, and he wrapped his arms around me from the back and jostled me from side to side.

“Stop it, stop it,” I laughed. I felt my assurance creeping back. He was the same person I knew.

“You’ll want to get a head start on the Natty Light so you don’t feel the burn though,” he said into my ear.

“Jesus, fuck, get a room!” Sheryl swaggered back into the kitchen. I thought that maybe she would have changed clothes but she was still wearing just her sports bra and jeans. She was muscular yet curvaceous with Nick’s brown eyes and she let her long black hair flow down her back. Her tanned knees poked through the holes in her jeans. “Ha! I feel like a Guess! girl,” she said and leaned back over the table flipping her hair back all over the liquor bottles. Nick removed his arms from my waist and crossed them.

“Before Nicky was born and it was just me and Randy out here he put these jeans up on the wall of the barn and shot them through the knees. It was the style! And we didn’t use any pussy BB gun either. A shotgun all the way. We still have it. She reached down and pinched my leg right above the knee. “We could do yours.”

“Aw, you should! You totally should. I’ve seen the pictures of Mom. She was hot!” Nick said.

“Was?” said Sheryl. She reached out to grab Nick. “Come give your hot mom a kiss you little shit!” They chased each other around the table until she caught him and kissed him right on the mouth.

“Blahh!” said Nick mock spitting and gagging.

“Want another?” Sheryl said puckering her lips.

“Jeez mom, you didn’t have to have to stick your tongue in my mouth!” Nick said.

“Oh that’s it! Another!” Sheryl said and started up as if to chase him again. I backed away from the table pressing my hands and butt into the hard edge of the countertop.

“Look Briane’s afraid!” Sheryl said, and began to laugh.
“Naww, she’s just jealous of your supreme hotness,” Nick said.
“Ah, well you’ll grow boobs one day!” she said baring her teeth.
“Haha,” I said.
“I mean look at her Nicky! She’s pretty enough! No, no Bri, you need to learn how to take a compliment. I mean, just think in a few years. Fuckin’ sexy.”
“Fucking right.” Nick said winking at his mom and taking a swig of beer.
“Well thanks ya’ll,” I said. “That’s really fucking nice!”
“Yeah, Briane, you really shouldn’t curse at me. I’m your boyfriend’s mother. It’s extremely rude. And besides those words just don’t sound right coming out of your mouth. It’s pretty ridiculous.”

*
We all sat down at the table. Nick and I each held the bottom of a can of Natty light to our lips where Sheryl had poked a hole. She had chugged half the bottle of Merlot, herself. She counted down from three; we were supposed to snap open the pop-top on “one!’ and nearly drown in a fast stream of beer. Nick said this would be the best way for us to chill out. And bond. “Briane, meet Jack, José and Glen, I believe you and Ms. Natty are already acquainted.”

It was too easy to get here, to this moment with a cold beer pressed against my lips, sucking out the excess air. When I asked dad if I could go over to Nick’s, his eyes went blank and I knew he was trying to remember who he was. If he was a church friend or not.
“He’s a dancer, dad,” I said.

“Oh yeah,” dad said, snapping his finger. I could tell that he didn’t remember. Nick and I had met in dance class. And in the weeks leading up to the “party” we had been smoking cigarettes in the back of the studio. I got it out of the way and told him that my mom died when I was eight. It was that simple and nothing was changed. After I told him we cut class to sneak across the street to the GameStop to play the sample Xbox. It was the most fun I could remember having.

“Well, what are his people like?” I could tell that dad was trying to find out if he was black or Catholic.

“They’re not Catholic dad,” I said and he let out a nervous laugh and said that was not what he was asking about. But had they been to our church? I told him yes. I had no idea what religion his parents were. Nick didn’t believe in God. I didn’t either, though dad didn’t know. The people at the church behind my dad’s back told me that my mom had gone to hell because she didn’t convert from Catholicism. I was never going to see her again. It was all such a load of shit.

“Nick’s dad works offshore and his mom stays at home and tutors him.”

“Oh, that sounds great. And the New Year’s party sounds fun and his mom will be there?”

“Yeah.”

“Well maybe you should go. I kind of have this date that night.”

“Oh, really, who with?” It was as if an alien had landed before me and assumed the form of my father.

“Oh, a lady from church, Joyce. But I don’t really know if I want to go. I mean me and you could both stay home this weekend and made sloppy joes. We could watch It’s a Wonderful Life.”

“No, that’s okay. Dad, you should go.”

“You think?”

“Yeah, go.”

*

The beer rushed down my throat and I almost gagged on it but held it down. Nick immediately poured two shots of Jack which we shot. There was a fire moving down my throat and into my guts. I grabbed the table with both hands. Nick let out a howl.

Cheryl snorted and asked for Nick to light her cigarette while it hung out of her mouth.
Her eyes were bloodshot and her face sort of drooped. “I’m taking this to bed,” wiggling the mostly empty wine bottle in our faces. “Don’t try any shit,” she told me with one of her eyes shut.
“Sheryl,” Nick said rising. “Off you go.”
“Nick, shut the fuck up.” She said pushing his arm away. She stumbled into the living room and leaned up against the couch. I didn’t realize she was that drunk. “Nicky is my baby, shut up. My baby and my soul mate. No. Listen, you sleep in there” she said pointing to the bedroom on the right. “and have a happy fucking New Year.” Nick grabbed her under her arm and led her into the bedroom on the left. She collapsed onto the unmade bed, giggling and pulling at Nick’s arms, “You’re strong Nicky. You’re a strong man. Come on Nicky, come on,” she said. He looked at me through the open door. Then she started crying and saying his name over and over.
“Sheryl, let me go get your medication,” he said but she kept pulling at his shoulder and crying into his hair. “Jesus, Sheryl let me go. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. Look, let me just go, I’ll be right back. Jesus Christ. Mom! Let go of me!” he yelled standing back.
“Don’t fucking call me that!” she screamed. “Nick!”
He came out of the room quickly and half closed the door behind him. I thought that maybe he would apologize or explain. But he just cursed and went to the bathroom and flung open the medicine cabinet. When he came out with a pill bottle he said, “look, I can’t just leave her in there, but go wait outside and I’ll come through the window. She would hear the door. She always leaves the window open.” He didn’t say anything else before vanishing into Sheryl’s room and shutting the door. I could hear his voice speaking low over her sobbing.
It was cold in their living room. The warmth from the whiskey was leaving me. I walked up to the screen door and looked out. The night was pitch. I couldn’t see any moon. Sheryl had a big orange rotary phone to match her 70s kitchen. I wondered if dad was still out on his date. Or if he had even gone. He was probably asleep by now with a thin pillow curled over her ears. There was too much to say. I didn’t call him.

*
The night smelled like cold and static. My hairs stood up. I held the fifth of Jack up to my lips and took a swig. It tasted terrible. It tasted like how gasoline smelt. I was crying without sobbing. The tears were just finding their way down my face. I could barely feel them, my face was numb in the wind. I stood by the truck, leaning up against it. I looked at the half dark house. I could have gone and hid under Sheryl’s window so that I could hear her and Nick. But I didn’t go. Somehow I still wanted Sheryl to like me. I still wanted Nick to like me. And I couldn’t make myself not like them. It made me feel stupid, so, I called myself stupid under my breath and took another pull. That made me feel better. I got warmer and more optimistic. The stars were smiling and winking at me. I had never seen so many of them. I felt like their child.
When Nick finally came out I felt a big smile on my face despite my tears.
“I want to run,” I told him and took off. It was like dream running, my feet barely touched the ground and I felt nothing but good.

When he caught up with me, I didn’t feel like stopping so I kept on as best I could on my fluttering legs until he tackled me to the ground.
“You’re crazy,” he said. Then he smiled. And I thought that this was it. It was the time to be kissed. He was lying on top of me. He didn’t lean over to kiss me. I felt his hand fumbling with his pants. Please not like this, I thought as I looked up into the sky. The stars no longer smiled.
“Fuck! Fuck!” Nick yelled and he got up stepping on my hand. Smoke was coming out of Sheryl’s window in a steady column. Another window shattered. He ran toward the house. It was burning. I lied there on the hard ground and tried to feel my limbs which had gone numb from the cold and alcohol. That’s when I saw it. Hovering over the line of trees in the direction of the road. The red light. It buzzed and popped. I stood up and somehow my legs settled under my weight. The light was gone. But then it shot back up. My red light.

I followed it until the sky was lost in smoke.

3 Month Old Corpses

[1]

His member in hand

that color that women think passes for blonde
A smashing good time, kicked in the teeth!
and then mistaking a young boy for a housewife

whose brain exploded from a lack of self-improvement
efforts (but on the contrary:

I’ve seen some cunts in my day…
down by the delicatessen

Never forgotten, clung to like teeth those
dirty skanks, those skanking cry-mores
yet George W. was a shoe-in, despite being Hitler’s excrement simulacrum
. they forgot me They forgot ME!
our total apologies for smearing your feelings on the walls
of this cream-colored restroom
Where is I? Dad? They are just beginning to
become people
the dripping of
It’s so quaint
lost in oblivion, mass-produced cephalic carnage
and,
egoless as a belfry spirit, a humming cloud) but, alas, also:

stew-pud, this
a sniveling child has more taste than

humanity. So well led and
kicked the martians in the nutsacks
fractal .

[2]

quicksilver panes gentle and
for those of you with fingers!
like giant archeological digs, bones exposed, bleached
and passing out

the wind

there’s that crazy fog!
ziggurats in every tear duct

again needling you. AGAIN asking

some people are as useful as a spinal tap for nerve damage

vibrato, In sotto voce
it is rather strange to see the pilot in the aisle…
portent

put a finger in
loose feeling

it’s not safe here. let’s go north where

headache crunchers

where no one is claustrophobic

a new set every year
indecent as mallets

is it possible they’ve infiltrated already?
caressing each other’s under carriage
scumbags!

Dinner for 7: A Conversation With Five Obstructions

First interpretation:

I saw the lower bayou lafourche as a land of faith, not necessarily a faith practiced in stone buildings with proximity to alters. This place is woven with a faith in the decaying infrastructure. Faith that bridges, levees, locks, and structures will survive the constant world around it. The land is disappearing. People are not.

Horizons

I rendered these observations with watercolor painted from memory. At each memory I was at a different hight(which will push the the horizon line further for the observer). Each is also from a different point along highway 1, therefore trying to cover as much of lower lafourche as possible in my first visit.

And it came to pass that Schnozzle...

And it came to pass that Schnozzle was aversive with hives brotherhood; and shovelful waveguide strongman, and became eyesight as to the strengthener of a maelstrom; and he was also tigerish in misjudgment.

recorded some televangelists saying rediculous things.

mixed in sounds.

sped up a really fucked up Russian porn, and ran it through a luma delta filter, which shows the dynamic elements of each frame as white lines, and the static elements of a frame as a black background.

mixed the two together.

the sounds include a broken DVD drive, Lester and Brennan's apartment toilet, an improvised waltz on guitar in a stairwell, an erhu bowed scratchily, a howling wolf-dog, a conversation with a howling wolf-dog making shaking howls (which ends with me blowing a shakuhachi like a didjeridoo, and the wolf-dog playing with a squeaky-toy), an ice-cream truck, a concert band rehearsal with severely altered tempo, recording from "Deal or No Deal," a circuit-bent keyboard, an electronic piece created with Reason3.0, a vocal trio improv in a parking garage, ice in a thermos, rain, and perhaps a few other sounds I have forgotten.

Dinner for 7: A Conversation With Five Obstructions

Kristi Dykema Cheramie and Jeff Carney

"a little gem we are now going to ruin"

- Lars Von Treir

As outsiders can we ever really know a place? As designers do we see the world as it is or is our vision hopelessly clouded by our own experiences, desires, fears, and objectives? ...Is this a bad thing?

This research methods and representation independent study will ask you to document a place using all media, and methods at your disposal. Working as a team you will document the Lower Bayou Lafourche. You will define the first documentation: the content, the mode of inquiry, the method. We ask only that your observations tell a story of the place. Choose a character, and environmental condition, a social need, a feature in time, something lost, something feared... You might approach the project as landscape architecture students but you might also approach it as outsiders, as men, as boaters, drivers, silently, with indifference, or as your home. The critical direction of your documentation is completely up to you.

Following this initial investigation, we will meet for dinner once every two weeks. Your critics will observe, question, critique, and debate your work. You will then be issued a series of obstruction to which you will need to respond, react, and remake your observations. As important as the initial making, your must navigate the design challenge embedded in the documentation of the first act.

This study is based on the film "The Five Obstruction," directed by Lars Von Trier

-Work to follow soon...!

ASO warming up for Beethoven 9