Sunday, November 30, 2008
In the above places I see myself swarmed with these ideas and devices, they are entertaining, all in their own right, but it’s more of a complication to understand all of these places in any given environment, it seems as if once entertained in my mind and understood they become a part of my perception, constituting itself and manifest in all symbolic rationality. I’ve given each one it’s due as having it’s own constitution and manifesting itself outside of my own physical being, but one comes to an ontological crossroads, a question of whether or not reality is constituted as being within one’s consciousness, (and as such including the mind itself in synthesis with the body,) or whether reality is constituted outside of ones vessel and consciousness is associated with the ego identification and physical body.
The conscious experience, a continually changing manifestation of shapes sounds and even identity. One goes through life assertive to the commandments and desires of the ego, providing satisfaction to the body, one is one’s body, and the body becomes the sole host and decision maker in determining one’s perception of the outside world (the physical as world manifesting itself outside of the body, what one is in constant attempts to grip). And by letting the body give itself up to the harsh inclinations of time and age, there is deep down, one patient idea lingering, which has not changed nor died, the idea of Being in the present moment, of one’s innate existence which seeks no fulfillment or pleasurable identity. One is often exposed to harsh glimpses of themselves as if seen in a third person and some have even gone to the extent as to have understood the psychological process of dying, but beyond that their innate sense of life, that being imperishable, is constant.
This infinite reprogramming of reality is simultaneously inside and outside of one’s physical identity and ego; it penetrates the ego and the outside world, and reconstitutes itself in each and every psychological Idea. The ego is then no longer at odds with the world, it then becomes one with the outside world, in unison with the flow of time and matter, their perpetual cosmic sway--the child is born and understands nothing, it lingers eternal in it’s Buddha bliss, but eventually comes to understand its outside world in correspondence with it’s developing brain, it’s developing body;[but things get rather shaky beyond this point because it remains impossible for anyone to legitimately determine what events or actions take place in one’s life, what critical manifestations of events lead them assume their persona,] but throughout this entire psychological role playing game one must then confront the infinite truth of the moment, its tenure of consciousness beyond the ego or body.
One lingers eternally outside and inside themselves at all times, and as such, has not any legitimate reason to worry or be afraid given adequate physiological nutriment; we have been here before and after all our lives, floating in and out of manifestations, attempting at all times to regain that supreme bliss of just being, or enlightenment; but the sense of identity and being that we dwell in during this physical existence affects our understanding of that eternal life and predetermines how one will act and assert themselves in response to that gift of being: the level that one asserts their own banishment from knowing; because we love and understand consciousness as only a particularly interesting feature of humanity, that sensation of awareness, we are continually reborn into a corporeal form, and the resulting impressions that one has developed in this physical experience, positive or negative, will then affect their receptive capabilities in terms of how much awareness they will be granted, and how much bliss they are capable of then intuiting. Heaven and Hell are not so different, but they have been and can be at all times and in all places, one is somewhere at once with nowhere, always lingering in eternity but guided through it’s muddy waters by the vessel, and it is then up to each individual to choose how long their journey to the sea will take--and if you’d take my outstretched hand, it’s going to be a lovely boat ride.
I've removed my arrogant pin pricks and can call this earnest.
The conscious experience, a continually changing manifestation of shapes sounds and even identity. One goes through life assertive to the commandments and desires of the ego, providing satisfaction to the body, one is one’s body, and the body becomes the sole host and decision maker in determining one’s perception of the outside world (the physical as world manifesting itself outside of the body, what one is in constant attempts to grip). And by letting the body give itself up to the harsh inclinations of time and age, there is deep down, one patient idea lingering, which has not changed nor died, the idea of Being in the present moment, of one’s innate existence which seeks no fulfillment or pleasurable identity. One is often exposed to harsh glimpses of themselves as if seen in a third person and some have even gone to the extent as to have understood the psychological process of dying, but beyond that their innate sense of life, that being imperishable, is constant.
This infinite reprogramming of reality is simultaneously inside and outside of one’s physical identity and ego; it penetrates the ego and the outside world, and reconstitutes itself in each and every psychological Idea. The ego is then no longer at odds with the world, it then becomes one with the outside world, in unison with the flow of time and matter, their perpetual cosmic sway--the child is born and understands nothing, it lingers eternal in it’s Buddha bliss, but eventually comes to understand its outside world in correspondence with it’s developing brain, it’s developing body;[but things get rather shaky beyond this point because it remains impossible for anyone to legitimately determine what events or actions take place in one’s life, what critical manifestations of events lead them assume their persona,] but throughout this entire psychological role playing game one must then confront the infinite truth of the moment, its tenure of consciousness beyond the ego or body.
One lingers eternally outside and inside themselves at all times, and as such, has not any legitimate reason to worry or be afraid given adequate physiological nutriment; we have been here before and after all our lives, floating in and out of manifestations, attempting at all times to regain that supreme bliss of just being, or enlightenment; but the sense of identity and being that we dwell in during this physical existence affects our understanding of that eternal life and predetermines how one will act and assert themselves in response to that gift of being: the level that one asserts their own banishment from knowing; because we love and understand consciousness as only a particularly interesting feature of humanity, that sensation of awareness, we are continually reborn into a corporeal form, and the resulting impressions that one has developed in this physical experience, positive or negative, will then affect their receptive capabilities in terms of how much awareness they will be granted, and how much bliss they are capable of then intuiting. Heaven and Hell are not so different, but they have been and can be at all times and in all places, one is somewhere at once with nowhere, always lingering in eternity but guided through it’s muddy waters by the vessel, and it is then up to each individual to choose how long their journey to the sea will take--and if you’d take my outstretched hand, it’s going to be a lovely boat ride.
I've removed my arrogant pin pricks and can call this earnest.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Song of thy Eve
I was listening to a pretty amazing podcast (so immature, i know) when I stumbled on this amazing lesser known hit by Sister Sledge, and it made me feel damn good.
Hope it has the same affect on your neuroresponses
Sister Sledge - Love Don't You Go Through No Changes On Me
Ok ok ok, now don't hold the fact that these sexy sopranos were also responsible for the song "we are family" against them... Don't be a dick
-bird
Gandalfff
The rain aggravated the panes of the window without remorse.
It was the only thing that could have urged me down those stairs and out of my chair. Down the stairs I used to know so well only years ago, now, where my heart grows impatient with its resting still-beat and issues in a culpable demand of action from the passages and pulleys of the vascular sort. Anxiety ebbs over the room-world and offers solace in the dark, in the knowing, in the sit-down and stare sort of routine that I had painstakingly accustomed to. But, I knew with the rain, comes the chance of the man. A friend of fortitude, a part of the past worth mentioning and holding to if only for the faint feeling of what it used to be like, and nothing more.
So I sipped my cup of tea out on the front porch, a stoop with impeccable green finish, and enjoyed a smoke with my friend as we talked the pain away.
To Steve, hope you like some random words strung in sentences for digestion and reflection
The Diaries of a Hitman
ok guys, here's a chunk of some poems I've been working with for awhile. I'll keep posting new ones every now and again.
The poet is he that hath thus: the nature and culpability of a peasant, attractive hands and a feminine mystique, his clothes shall be torn thus, impatient, like they too seek the sky; for he is the last shred of human dignity, and as such the highest, in which mightier words might not propound nor disgrace him of his pitiless candlelight; [I will fix thee, and find such a drape that those windows won’t seem so horrid this summer’s noon, (even though the birds on the bough are belching heat and excreting a slimy discharge);] tempted with the heavens, and even lingering in them as such or a short while, he will always be brought back to the hearth: suckling the language of remorse as it’s finest.
This gypsy strangler is a catalyst crawling up the church walls who keeps his lies on the prize to let stream his reincarnated dreams, (which are innumerable and illicit as stringy fingers)— and if you’ll hold my hand of course we can walk all after as in laughter, but what is it to say that volition is a superstition when the wet arrangements place the face of fear so quiet, so near, to test the tide and see if it’s really we who ride or just glide; like the glib delight of a forest sprite searching for sandstone all alone, all across the night. And even if the anxiety ridden Indian has the sexiest style this side of squaw creek, he’s still counting down the days until his smile will suffice: because those poor and rotten teeth wont wait for him to be a doctor or a dentist, just long enough for him to make it halfway home.
How do you see yourself saying to me that the only thing of suchness is subjectivity? Do not denigrate the perforated edge, or the alleged Zapatista constantly ensconced in steam, because we hate the people that pay us. And this prescription to polarity is as much an excuse to juice the jester of all his hard work as shirking his shift, since he’s got so much more to lift: and we’re never going to find any kind of discouragement in your broken bones littered all over our floor.
“This is an exposition of sexual energy
And it’s escalation to fruition,
The fantasies and the facets of its ascent,
And the earthquake that is silently lingering
In my loins, waiting like a lion.”
In this procession of poetry and possession, we have embarked beyond the bay as the laughing stock search for a more than heated fat of the lamb, (his fallow is fetid and diminished but getting better in this weather,) –us cutthroats are going broke because the sea doesn’t like our slice or own pilfering potential, but who’s to say what is worth the face value these days? And I don’t think I could impede upon the black steed’s Nietzschean breed by paying homage to Muhammad in this seminal surrender: we’re offering up Horace or the chorus to sell her the celluloid painting that’s just so particular about the oracular abominations of this admonition.
Remember apart my dreams, tear them to pieces on the even keel of an oven toasted butterfly; but bearing in mind all along that idea is only an echo towards differing jade rings ~ curling, burbling along bleary fingers, soaked in vermouth and promiscuity, like a mosquito that’s only uncertain it might not be able maintain the energy child who’s been cooking within her latent brain that’s already absorbed and porous to touch, but ready to penetrate or lose all its knowing; and the paraphernalia of childhood is like the circles on a wall of an ever so distorted that it seems semi-perturbed, or discarded. There was never a doubt in my mind that It didn’t need to be: because there are opposite sides on all fronts throughout this forward march.
The police are in my lungs, at my house and across the street, they are trying to take away that younger other who keeps coughing in aged years, who’s so juvenile that his identification greased into the wall of old Earl who works the night shift and doesn’t even see him, a glaring red herring sent straight from the future…black as the sinner torn but touched, never to be read again.
Every action between danger and don’t exercises it’s own initiative as an infinite remainder, because we were remembering déjà vu back to the days of undesignated and returned to the exit we just missed; forever and ever we are waiting to watch our minds all the way back to tomorrow in the art advent of all our aspects, commingling and interspersed amongst and amidst a midsection of maybe or hesitation, while a-waiting at the train station.
Mr. Black is a stinker banned because he’s always standing outside, asking for someone to buy him some smoke—that he might choke the mighty herd down into the ground; and I can’t tell him sorry for all the things I never said or couldn’t hear.
Euphoric and deprecating, that this same steel we once wore was of the same cause for faith as a militia; in our fascination at the masks of innovation we can no longer stare towards the ground, because there’s only one of us that’s going to make it out of this alive and He has no name, this truly survivor, because it will take all the courage in the world to reject this regency, but it smiles like a little child, our only and always. That which we work towards in and as the soul of every demonized believer ~ the one we would have faith in.
The poet is he that hath thus: the nature and culpability of a peasant, attractive hands and a feminine mystique, his clothes shall be torn thus, impatient, like they too seek the sky; for he is the last shred of human dignity, and as such the highest, in which mightier words might not propound nor disgrace him of his pitiless candlelight; [I will fix thee, and find such a drape that those windows won’t seem so horrid this summer’s noon, (even though the birds on the bough are belching heat and excreting a slimy discharge);] tempted with the heavens, and even lingering in them as such or a short while, he will always be brought back to the hearth: suckling the language of remorse as it’s finest.
This gypsy strangler is a catalyst crawling up the church walls who keeps his lies on the prize to let stream his reincarnated dreams, (which are innumerable and illicit as stringy fingers)— and if you’ll hold my hand of course we can walk all after as in laughter, but what is it to say that volition is a superstition when the wet arrangements place the face of fear so quiet, so near, to test the tide and see if it’s really we who ride or just glide; like the glib delight of a forest sprite searching for sandstone all alone, all across the night. And even if the anxiety ridden Indian has the sexiest style this side of squaw creek, he’s still counting down the days until his smile will suffice: because those poor and rotten teeth wont wait for him to be a doctor or a dentist, just long enough for him to make it halfway home.
How do you see yourself saying to me that the only thing of suchness is subjectivity? Do not denigrate the perforated edge, or the alleged Zapatista constantly ensconced in steam, because we hate the people that pay us. And this prescription to polarity is as much an excuse to juice the jester of all his hard work as shirking his shift, since he’s got so much more to lift: and we’re never going to find any kind of discouragement in your broken bones littered all over our floor.
“This is an exposition of sexual energy
And it’s escalation to fruition,
The fantasies and the facets of its ascent,
And the earthquake that is silently lingering
In my loins, waiting like a lion.”
In this procession of poetry and possession, we have embarked beyond the bay as the laughing stock search for a more than heated fat of the lamb, (his fallow is fetid and diminished but getting better in this weather,) –us cutthroats are going broke because the sea doesn’t like our slice or own pilfering potential, but who’s to say what is worth the face value these days? And I don’t think I could impede upon the black steed’s Nietzschean breed by paying homage to Muhammad in this seminal surrender: we’re offering up Horace or the chorus to sell her the celluloid painting that’s just so particular about the oracular abominations of this admonition.
Remember apart my dreams, tear them to pieces on the even keel of an oven toasted butterfly; but bearing in mind all along that idea is only an echo towards differing jade rings ~ curling, burbling along bleary fingers, soaked in vermouth and promiscuity, like a mosquito that’s only uncertain it might not be able maintain the energy child who’s been cooking within her latent brain that’s already absorbed and porous to touch, but ready to penetrate or lose all its knowing; and the paraphernalia of childhood is like the circles on a wall of an ever so distorted that it seems semi-perturbed, or discarded. There was never a doubt in my mind that It didn’t need to be: because there are opposite sides on all fronts throughout this forward march.
The police are in my lungs, at my house and across the street, they are trying to take away that younger other who keeps coughing in aged years, who’s so juvenile that his identification greased into the wall of old Earl who works the night shift and doesn’t even see him, a glaring red herring sent straight from the future…black as the sinner torn but touched, never to be read again.
Every action between danger and don’t exercises it’s own initiative as an infinite remainder, because we were remembering déjà vu back to the days of undesignated and returned to the exit we just missed; forever and ever we are waiting to watch our minds all the way back to tomorrow in the art advent of all our aspects, commingling and interspersed amongst and amidst a midsection of maybe or hesitation, while a-waiting at the train station.
Mr. Black is a stinker banned because he’s always standing outside, asking for someone to buy him some smoke—that he might choke the mighty herd down into the ground; and I can’t tell him sorry for all the things I never said or couldn’t hear.
Euphoric and deprecating, that this same steel we once wore was of the same cause for faith as a militia; in our fascination at the masks of innovation we can no longer stare towards the ground, because there’s only one of us that’s going to make it out of this alive and He has no name, this truly survivor, because it will take all the courage in the world to reject this regency, but it smiles like a little child, our only and always. That which we work towards in and as the soul of every demonized believer ~ the one we would have faith in.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
THANXXXGIVE a friend a hand...
In the spirit of the holidays, and in the vein of Nik's impassioned posts of yore, I offer a picture of what friendship is and what I am thankful for.
now go be a consumer like we were all trained for, go forth and have seconds, nay thirds//////
-bird
TURKEY DAY
First post on a holiday. Omg! This was one of the films trailed trailer true earlier.
That's it for now. Hags this holiday season!
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
I Quit My Job (to look for cold raw gold)
Without any ado. Dudebro! (pure action)
Dudebro! from Pearled Barley on Vimeo.
Dudebro! from Pearled Barley on Vimeo.
Old Timey Movies
There's nothing I can think of being more relaxing than curling up in my ninja suit over this coming holiday and enjoying a real classic film. Not that Christmas Story bullshit. No, something real. So, here it is. The cure (or cue) for the onset of your holiday blues. A trailer.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
A working definition
l4do --- A mass of the conflicting and coalescing that fills all things worth noting
Sunday, November 23, 2008
JESUS TOAST, better than
Found in Philadelphia, la ciudad del amor fraternal, recently was this image on the side of a way too ripe plantain by ogre McDaniel. If you look closely, you can almost make out the faint outline of the L4DO trademark (should we?) symbol and with a little imagination, an ogre. Eat shit jesus! You ain't the only one showing up on edibles!
Hags
Friday, November 21, 2008
LLSOD (Long Live SOD)
In the spirit of SOD:
VIVA SOD
ps it's soooo underground you'll be gettin hipster's dipsticks for two barrels on a bushel, GUARANTEED!
Thursday, November 20, 2008
SOD (song of the day for thoze not in the knowze)
I think anybody can appreciate how this true to life, antiquated number reverberates the heartstrings of even the most callow of individuals. I think the neo-postmodern interpretation of business 'ethics' highlighted therein is one for the ages. And one for the history books.
Enjoy with a fine splash of the 2005 Vinos de Benjamin Romeo La Cueva Del Contador Rioja, a delicate Spanish tempranillo with a low sticker shock and give in to God...
Here it is, L4DO's SONG OF THE WEEK//////////
SHAKEY BONES - Sailors on the Roof
Support or short change, indubidbly
-trav
Enjoy with a fine splash of the 2005 Vinos de Benjamin Romeo La Cueva Del Contador Rioja, a delicate Spanish tempranillo with a low sticker shock and give in to God...
Here it is, L4DO's SONG OF THE WEEK//////////
SHAKEY BONES - Sailors on the Roof
Support or short change, indubidbly
-trav
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Politics
I'd hate for my first post on this wonderful blog to be of such a mundane hue, but something has to be said. In the shadow of the uproar against Proposition 8, another equally shocking proposition has been passed in Montana. Proposition 4, based on certain marriage clauses and bi-laws, now allows maintaining marital status postmortem of a spouse in regards to allowing couples without life insurance to continue receiving payment from pensions and/or civil settlements awarded to the deceased spouse. While this resolution passed with more than 75% approval, it has in turn created a loophole in Montana law. Regarding the partner as a proponent of a partnership union, a partnership can be created postmortem if and only if there was a common law marriage at some unconditional interval ending at the livelihood's dissolution. In other words, one can wed a deceased person, or some other inanimate object that once had a livelihood, considering the relationship previous to this circumstance. This brings us to our real news:
Fellow Ogre, Patrick Colleran, aka Mr. "I-learned-double-fronts-and-branny-to-backs-on-the-diving-board-today-and-didn't-even-slap-that-hard," has wed a chicken burrito. It comes as a shock to ogres everywhere as Pat and wife received countless "regalos" at their wedding shower in accordance to Mexican tradition. When one reporter enquired about his emotions on his special day, Pat was quoted saying "I'm gonna buy so many fucking lotto's."
In other news Pearled Barley is slaughtering the international grain market. According to the Idaho Barley Commision November 13th Report, "World barley production is projected to be up 15% to 153.3 MMT. US Production increased 13% to 5.2 MMT." HOLY SHIT! Is this related to the recent inauguration of the international Pearled Barley associate, L4DO's first public blog? One can only speculate, but from where I'm standing, I say "Suck it Wheat!" In fact, "World Wheat ending stocks were increased by [only] .8 [totally pussy] MMT to 145.3 MMT Worldwide [because they suck]," according to the same report.
That's news as of November 18th, at 1 pm Mountain Standard Time for the world's first Log, (L4DO-Blog).
Monday, November 17, 2008
Officially The World's First "SNOG"
So, without any research or past experience in the field to testify, I now declare this blog to be the first SNOG ever invented... If you don't know SNOG you will.. right now.. It's a blog, about snacks.
The first one too
Last night some bros and I hit up the local grocer for some late night grubbing, and our efforts were rewarded. Just take a look at this new offering from Nabisco's Oreo... Oh wait.. the first link I came upon while trying to find a picture of this majestic cookie product linked to a fuckin junk food blog... What's worse is it was written in 2006... Being OG is officially impossible as of now..
Nice try
The first one too
Last night some bros and I hit up the local grocer for some late night grubbing, and our efforts were rewarded. Just take a look at this new offering from Nabisco's Oreo... Oh wait.. the first link I came upon while trying to find a picture of this majestic cookie product linked to a fuckin junk food blog... What's worse is it was written in 2006... Being OG is officially impossible as of now..
Nice try
Friday, November 14, 2008
First post bitchezz
So,
This henceforth shall be the collection of our crews thoughts, designs, tunes, ideas, and general outlook on life... Just working on the overall feel of the BLOG right now.. SUPER EXCITED
This henceforth shall be the collection of our crews thoughts, designs, tunes, ideas, and general outlook on life... Just working on the overall feel of the BLOG right now.. SUPER EXCITED
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