to be in love...

To be in love with the city within which you live is a particular joy of living. Regardless of the face she shows me, Los Angeles always has a seductive, mysterious and wild quality about her that, to be frank, ravishes me in whole, throughout and beyond my physical connection with her. Admittedly a transplant from the other coast and only a resident of Cult of Los Angeles County just over five years, there is a palpable quake that churns with warmth in my belly and makes my heart beat fast when I drive across the PCH (top down on the old Jeep) or run along the Venice boardwalk or drive through Hollywood at 3 a.m. Yes, these are happy times and times less bright, but not less substantive frequent and continue to determine and define my lifestyle and lifetime in the Cult of Los Angeles.

The Cult we become, sinking in entropic spread (no! not dead!), but more on the metric, more on the scale...sacrifice and delight, our holy grail.

Even in the days of despair, in the clutches of the beast and fear, self-made and environmental wraiths abounding; just the realization that I was conducting the maelstrom on holy ground gave me, my purpose, my continuance a sense of certainty. When she chooses to overwhelm my balance with an evil eye or melt the skies on my top with untoward warning, I can still find seductive and haunting shade in her deepest cheekbones (her smile is never too far), her brilliant comliness never more than a sunset or sunrise away, a french kiss with the edge of earth at myriad shores...The Cult of Los Angeles loves and worships itself, it's sun and water culture, it's mad complexity and capital.

The Joy of the Cult in it's vast and rich "myriadelights"...

the first follower...

I was watching one of those Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation sponsored TEDtalks video a considerable while back and was fascinated by one of the programs. This short, five minute offering was titled, "How to Start a Movement" and it featured a short video of a man dancing like a crazy person at an outdoor type music festival. The camera shot was focused around the dancing man with an ancillary view of festival goers in various states of attentiveness. Now, the presenter is explaining the plight of the movement starter; having to stick it out alone among the masses that are probably thinking he's crazy, but because of his fierce and independent ambition continues broadcasting his pirate signal. After a couple of minutes of dancing, the inattentive ancillary masses become on-lookers, audience members, captivated, to some extent, by the hippy flailing, the crazy medium of his pirate message (whatever that is!). At some point a tipping moment occurs when, according to the presenter, the most important person or variable in the equation appears, the first follower. This first follower, we watch, begins immediately mimicking the free dance style, doubling the broadcast signal strength and most importantly, showing the now "potential movement members" that it is safe, easy, exciting and now, fun-looking instead of just aberrant. As the loquacious presenter continues, we watch a second follower, then a third, a group becomes followers four through seven and so on until more and more people join the dancing mass until it is a mob of flailing limbs, the leader lost in the whole.
At this point in watching the video of a video (this is a free i-Tunes offering) I felt triumphant like I had been apart of something...for a second, it was exciting for sure and easily observable and measurable in this case. The presenter concluded the exhibition juxtaposing the different qualities and virtues of the leader and the first follower. In a word, riveting. Now, my ever-crush and considered dear friend, Mggn took a ballerina's leap of faith and first followed my humble experiment. Thanks dear, for giving me the sweetest reason to write, your smile.
Now, with having a follower comes certain responsibilities (ie. prompt and interesting new posts). So as not to disappoint, that die is cast, and ad infinitum. Again dearest, I am so obliged.

"her metric sooths and smooths the cult, hers, molten and smooth."

I'm about in as much debt as the state of California. I, to, have to cut spending, cut funding to essential programs, all that. Similar to the state where I proudly call home, I am taking a stoical stance about the phenomena of downward spiraling debt. Note that I am negotiating this territory with a stoic (or my best attempt at) center and most certainly not apathy. Debt is a negative heavy and is good only in minor amounts, like fat and cholesterol. So, trust, California and her Cult of Los Angeles will continue to sufr (that too!), I mean surf these rough waves by anchoring our self to equanimity, to balance and then back to leverage...

More on this later...my ghostly legions.

Another day in the hunt, in the measure of eternity. Going to see inception with my sister tonight. stoked to engage the cult in it's gut. 0600 blade run tomorrow though. Thankful for the sacrifice, gotta be. No more calls to make. No more points to plot...

Lamb of God - Blacken the Cursed Sun (with Lyrics)

Banksy in LA

the architecture of imagination...

History, at times, can render magic to the muse or intensify her already ferocious efficacy to inspire, quicken, birth even. I have an original muse of this type, one that I suppose I cannot necessarily be with (in "that" sense of "be") forever or, evidently longer than a little while, but she embodies and defines what I consider to be all holy fervor, in the flesh, salty and sweet. Carmen bent my language better than ten years ago and continues to twist it still, even when under duress or delay. History has been a gamble with us, winning big and losing bigger, alas, but what was kept and remained has been worthwhile, necessary even. Our association is full of empty space, like the World, like the Universal equation, full of intensity, full of love, full of conflict and minor chords of contempt, but in the distilled end she remains the purest and most ebullient creature of sublimity, of creative messianic note. I wrote about her before that she "exists in all of my insecure and nasty places..." explaining why she will always live as an integral part of my psyche as my effective and ideal muse. Her flesh lives far away from the holy ground and her affection possibly further, but I've memorized her voice and it's timber, her face, it's relationship with artificial and natural light, the subtle difference between her language depending on whether she's speaking or writing (and god knows the thoughts that blow amok throughout her gray majesty and matter!), her supine and seductive structures and their magic and intoxicating potential. It was always about the sacrifice and potential with her...her original wonder. My invented repine for her, strong and sober, attacks my love for Los Angeles holy ground everyday. Haunted by my own muse, frightening and everyday and I'd bet Carmen doesn't...forget about it. It's not important. What is is the language, sorcery I conjure when I place any quality of hers at the fore...That is of the highest, most sacrosanct import...those thoughts are meditations on the Immortal and Infinite, on the corrected self, the World.

I see the World right now in her smiling eyes through the architecture of my imagination...

damn damn damn

I left my Songbook at Swingers on Beverly. Damn damn damn! There is new flesh inside those pages, growing. Hope I can fetch it back...fingers crossed. On my way out of the Lounge and back to engagement with the Cult.

Me vs. Traffic and Action...I'm liking my chances right now...Crack my knuckles before I egress into the Los Angeles sunshine and roborant dynamism- yes!, the wild...

the best time of his life, the best time of mine...

I was just speaking with a buddy of mine at my happy place, the lounge at LBC and I was reminded of a conversation we had three or so days ago about an experience he had. He told me the story of his time at the 2010 NBA Finals between the Los Angeles Lakers and the Boston Celtics. Now I am not a big sports fan at all, but I did follow the Finals this year. There were a bunch of my fast friends at the Lounge that were hot blooded over the Lakers winning again so I allowed myself the luxury of falling in their fanatical torrent- hell, who needs to justify cheering the home team especially when your home is Los Angeles? Whatever. So my friend is describing his time at the Finals, what celebrities were sitting around him, in front of him and behind (he was for the most part court side). He noted the bright lights, near neon in his imagination, near blinding to his flesh and hot, the roar of the crowd of which he was, at least, a vital organ, cacaphonic and cheering. As he sang me his descriptions of those nights, I could clearly see the wonderment awash in his eyes and hear the childhood electricity in his voice. I could vicariously engage in his rapture as he concluded his discourse, "It was the best time of my life. The best time of my life, ever." To me, there was a lot more going on than sports there. Passion, transcendence, this was nothing short of...holy fervor and the sort.

There are people that I have met in Los Angeles that are so dynamic and integral to my equation of creativity generation. My friend Mandy spends a considerable amount of time in the Lounge making sure it stays awesome and super-hip. She has developed into a sort of muse for me. The things that flow from her mouth...she is a girlie rara-avis to be sure, a cool blade of Fonzy coolness, old Hollywood grace and face + she is a sweetheart. These are some of the reasons I so frequent the happy isle, but, more importantly, these are the ingredients of a particular and peculiar sort of muse that tickles creative empires from this source...My piano and voice teacher, who has become a best friend, Polina, is also a peculiar sort of muse. I had a songwriting class this morning and I had a, I think they call them, breakthrough. How rich am I with muses that cause eruptions of language, my World, with just a short conversation, a quick meet, a reminiscence of experience with them, their smiles could cause rapture...

the World is flux

Finally, we can devote a little quality time to the topic I have been trying to unpack since Monday. So, I noticed the monopoly board game on the desk in my office at work. Whatever. After some indeterminable amount of time and for reason unknown (probably boredom) I proceeded around the desk to closely inspect the game, simultaneously not caring anything about the game and curious enough to give it a good twice or thrice over. Again, I suspect boredom was the culprit here, stoking a moot, empty curiosity in me that was to only cost a couple of calories of my biology and minutes, if lucky, of my time (it was close to the end of my duties for the day). Upon glancing down, with care, I spy the picture of an American family, prominent, on the cover of the game; black gentleman father, blond, white lady mother, and two beautiful children, both genders represented. That graphic dealt me a mild shock, honestly and a pleasant one for sure. I guess that is a little example of the dynamic nature of race and the perceptions of race and relationships in this country. A similar experience occurred last week with the commercial containing the interracial couple engaged in a deep and deeply passionate kiss. The nature of the World is flux; thusly, I must stay on the move...and my language and intellection as well.

I am alone in the Lounge now, no other bodies, save the friendly and sexy ones behind the bar to distract the Cult. Love that...

a monopoly on tolerance, fool!

So I was working my little sacrifice and on the desk of the office I work out of was a "championship edition" Monopoly board game. I half noticed it all day as I low crawled through my mundane duties, but when I actually eye-balled the box I saw what was to me the most amazing piece of marketing and nothing short of shocking to say the least...

I'm at my super dope Lounge and it's quitting time...more on this novelty of mine later.

Thanks Angelface!

hold

I saw the strangest, coolest thing today, but have not enough life in my battery to devote adequate time...damn, I guess I'll have to "...wait till the morrow so as to dispel this sorrow...". I'll offer a hint: the fruit of American rich, primal hatred made board game grade. It was a shock, a jolt that nourished goosebumps, standing, stiffening hair. Well, my catharsis will have to wait, my breath to bate until the language bends...hold, hold to be or not to be so bold! Today, my muse, her angel face! her happy knife! cuts classy grace...more on the board game later...

!!!!!You are now running on reserve battery power!!!!!

OK (press)

...the mint mechanisms

On Money:

"And once more, those bastards, those fucking evil geniuses are fueled by the double plucked "S", the mead squeezed and mixed, moth swarm sprinkled mint, the glaucous sugar that sweetens the blood of free market capitalism in all it's brutality, complexity, magic...i swear, i saw a mint in her shining eyes and i fell on the spot, in love, in money, in her belly how yummy..."

dangerous women...

"there is (and now I know this, now I am complete in this knowledge fully, I see the full scope with this subject) a thousand eternities of girls veiled with the moisture of the first crepuscular measure in constant hunger for the engagement with and fulfillment of my fecund and fervid language and it's length and structure; but in this shocking quantity, there is also danger, adventure, risk...dangerous women intoxicate this particular bent language and invite it's challenge. there is something archetypal about dangerous women and the hero that emerges from their necessity, this pregnant function labouring inside me..."

her acme, sans end...

"...and my grip accreted to her acme, sans end. yes, i can and will say that with sanguine confidence now, after a moment to ponder. and to whom is this information directed? well, i reckon this communication is for that uncharted and wild, terrified and questioning region within me......and not that bedeviled, unrequited, yet capital one? that one that thins and thrills the blood as well as it's pusher, it's pump..."

chaos, complexes...

Let us ride this rich wave of chaos, complexes...

"So much has happened since I first started this journal so many moons ago. So many fallen romances, drug glances and gluts, sweet measures with paid sluts, the gracious stains made pristine by capital and efficient scope- paid in full inviting guts, blah blah corrupt blah... So many lost hours, days, weeks, lifetimes...so much detritus, this arrested development that sublimates into a sort of transubstantiation. Even with all of this and true, I know it must be necessary, this sacrifice of flesh and memory. As I consume myself, the World, I uncover the territory of source. For this moment, this event, I utilize all my powers of immortality, consumption and espionage." Dec 2008

Today at the Lounge I was speaking with another regular, Troy, when he asked me if I could find any television shows of Samurai sword fighters on my Apple MacBook. I said, "Lemme see what I can do." I went on YouTube and typed in blah blah blah and a phalanx of Samurai videos placed themselves magically at the fore on screen. Well, Troy was nearly rapt in the Japanese dramas. After awhile, my battery began to wear down and the laptop entertainment yielded to stories. A slew of references to "Green Beret's" or the U.S. Army's Special Forces was especially interesting to me since my father served with this elite group in Vietnam. Troy told me that Green Berets were superior killers than Ninjas! That they drop into a territory at night with "nothing but a knife in their teeth and a length of piano wire" and kill everybody. Apparently only a couple of them against a vastly greater force. He told me these things, among others, with a measure of wonder and amazement in his eyes that softened my heart and made me feel young. It was magical for a moment to me, even though the information was apocryphal at best. In the magic of the moment, the timeless, span-less event that stretches beyond place and time I listened honestly to a story that sub-ceded truth or fiction. Thanks for that bit Troy...

codename, LBC

this little pocket of balmy calm in the center of Los Angeles. and the Cult does assemble itself, in droves, in the legion of grace and mist inside the collective. all the best and worst in the Cult of LA is represented here as in the jungle of the psyche. a mirror cubed. On a run in Venice Beach one day I was struck by this very sentence, "Thinking is the most hallowed of activities." This and the sacrifice is precisely why.

alas Lauren, tchau...

So I frequent this ultra punk rock, ultra rad, super underground LA lounge and have been for well over a year. It has become the scope of my social life, for better of for worse. I don't care. The Lounge represents my Happy Place, my Happy Isle. Anyway, the first girl to serve me on the first time I patronized the spot, i found out a minute ago, doesn't work here anymore. It is a shock, but I understand the constant flux of the World and do my best to stay in accord with that mystical dynamism. More often than not I am getting thrown off the cusp, but scratch my way back to the present every moment or so...if you know what I mean. Anyway, here's to Lauren, my fast friend slowed down to homie status, we pray. These words, to you...

Her, milkmaid, the cutest little shrew to tame,
I'd slake my thirst with mead squeezed from her sweat membrane.
This little lust cut with youthful hyacinth,
Smarts so sweetly and induces fly confidence...

Linguistics and Interracial Love on Television for Lunch

A mild and more enjoyable than not shock occurred to me during a lunchtime conversation with a good friend, underground LA rapper MoCheez, at our favorite underground lounge, the LBC. We were discussing the differences between and rating the "coolness" of East Coast and West Coast slang. The exchange deepened still when we began an etymological analysis of certain slang words namely: one-time (police officers), jakes (police officers), john (a slang word derived from the slang for a favorite thing, "joint" or even "shit" as in, "That's my joint! (as in song)" or "That's my shit..." (same song). During this particular segment in our tete-a-tete, I happen to glance at a flatscreening commercial and see an afro-ed young Black gentleman intensely kissing a brunette hued young White lady. He was the protagonist in this corporate chewing gum commercial and she was his girl, I presume. I watched this digital signal and sat rapt, limbs and language akimbo...
I looked after a second at MoCheez and asked him if that was as shocking to him as it obviously had been to me. He confidently chuckled and affirmed this. There is something going on with that scene that struck me unusually for a television commercial. To my Black American tastes, this commercial was delightfully provocative. Even prejudice is in flux, hatred is dynamic and sometimes shakes itself to the point of total and utter transformation. At a small enough scope of analysis, even hatred can be reduced to a combination of results, a paisley of distinct ingredients, devoid of humanity. At this scale, when things or events or humanity is distilled into their fundamental bits, there is connection to the mystical, to the brand and spanking newness that generates the present moment.
Anyway, I stay in love with the Cult that continues to shock a grown American man.

Cult of Los Angeles

ya...

as dirty as I would build the prima Lolita from the adventure of my sub-focus, subconscious. Anyway, back to the de-press before the sacrifice. And by that, I mean...what you think I do.

"you can do whatever you want to here, this territory is your kingdom-my body, yours." he replies, "ya, christmas lights..."

slow singing

Working tonight at a club in Downtown LA, the Conga Room. Not even looking forward to it even though I need the duckets. I'm feeling more and more choked these days. Forget about it, I'm better to struggle anymore; it gives grace to the muscles and focus to the thoughts. So the pressure on these lungs...is a gift. Bladerunning in the city tonight...and riding dirty like the streets...

this gift of press, hers,
motionless- and void her love for heaven's sake...

baby sleep, baby wake, baby heard my screams too late!