Carrion Spring tour and new album

Mother fuck it's 3:10 in the morning and I have to be up at 8 am for a class and I don't know how that is going to ever really happen. I've probably slept all of 6 hours over the last 3 days. Tour is just another 3 days away. It's finals week. I still need to send the album off to get mastered and I still can't stop mixing the thing. Tomorrow I am going to make some linoleum cuts of the album covers and then hand print 100 copies. And then hand sew them shut. We are playing on the radio show Revolution Summer at KPSU from 7-9 this Thursday. I hope anyone hears. The next day we leave with New York's finest, Dead Channels, on our short voyage throughout California. Jason Romero booked our shows, and I love him... just get us that last confirmation brothaman and all is gravy. On Friday we play in San Jose, at the Texas Toast house, I think? I dunno, holler at me Jason. Saturday we play at his house, the Yellow Room, with Calculator and Matsuri. Pretty stoked on that. Sunday we play Santa Barbara at the foundation press with buncha bands... I'm amped to play with Lumber Lung.
Our new (and first) full length album has been underway since the very last days of 2010. Eventually Carl Saff will master the damned thing, but for now we are just gonna get a cheapo master to have with us for this extended weekend tour. I think I've still got some patches lying about my room somewhere. We are too frequently unprepared for everything.
I should finish my final paper for that Street Art class I have to be up for in 4 hours. Yes, that's right... a class on street art. I too thought it contradictory. Still can't tell how stoked I am on the class itself, or that its just a lot cooler to talk about vandals than doing math problems. Banksy will someday soon be the new Chomsky. Right? I guess one recognizable benefit has been my growing lack of interest for institutionalized contemporary fine arts, even though I've never really given a shit regardless. Studying many of my favorite prolific and profound artists is inspiring but it ultimately is just a class, not some radically pivotal shift in academia. I mean, shit, it's not even recognized within the art department.
Somewhere in the distance of this city, I hear a car horn going off. It has been going off for close to 5 minutes now. I wonder if it's because of an attempted thievery. Or maybe a terrible accident and no one has arrived yet to the scene. Strangely curious.

old gods, new masters.

waited all these years
for a second coming
given up dreams and denied reality

So pretend now we lived in a world where
within communication
there existed no such ideologies
of God
and an ultimate judgment
of all your attempts at living
beyond any capability you've known before
before this moment
that exists in between flickers of the flame
upon the pale wall of a dark night
any moment
execution can be infamous
but not as profoundly beautiful
than the experience known by its creator

Now for everyone else
compensation is the next best thing
and the shot is heard around the world
it is amplified through myriad institutions
through oppression
through manipulation
through distortion
through divinity
but as well
through art
through the dissenters

and for anyone
for everyone
this shot can ring as loud as the crack
of a bullet to the back of the head
deafening
but not as lucky as deafness
because you still hear the ringing
and you'll lose so fucking quick
the ability to know
that you'll even hit the ground

but you've hit the ground
and you feel at the back of your head
and it hurts like you've never known
and you look at your hand
and there is no blood

and now you you know what it is to be alive.

Well, here's a good point to pick up.

Gosh I haven't used this thing really since I got facebook. And whether or not I am going to delete it remains undetermined, though highly possible, I realize that if I am going to spend extra time everyday primping and priming myself as portrayed on the internet, I should at least use it more for something like this than Facebook. You know, EVERY SINGLE THING... not most things, but everything; every single word, picture, bit of information, and so on, is held within the memory of a super computer directly feeding from that website. There is no complete privacy... maybe from other users like yourself... but as for the owners of the companies and those who pay good money and invest quite well into this arena, including the sick bastards who run our country..well, they have full access to that shit just as they can tap our phones and records.

So anyway, I've spent the past week in the OHSU hospital.. and a good deal of time doing nothing but writing. I will have a lot to put into this blog over the next week... but in the mean time, I'd actually just like to post an assignment I did for an art class... it follows the same format of a famous poem called "I am for an Art."

I did this assignment under the direct pretense of this unfortunate condition. When you're writhing in pain for a week straight from a cave of a hospital room with dying people all about you in a half school/half medical facility full of contradictions on top of a mountain away from your loved ones and the true (and/or illusory) societal realities, it's hard not to seriously and honestly think about that which is most important to not only you, but your own health, and even the health of a public and it's consciousness.

I am for art which attempts to destroy anything against the pureness of expression.



I am for art that doesn’t limit the potential for communication; to go beyond the boundaries of language.



I am for art which grants me the time and space to observe my surroundings, environments (both static and tangible), and under a realistic pretense; not under the hyper-reality created by mankind.



I am for art that remains out of filthy and corrupted hands.



I am for art as lived experience.



I am for art that deviates from the naturalization of perception.



I am for art that keeps me thinking beyond the expectations of banalities and societal norms.



I am for art that can give grounds to revolution.



I am for art that attempts to dismantle the convolution s of everyday life.



I am for art that can sing you to sleep.



I am for art that can sing you awake.



I am for art that provokes the skepticism for all reason and truth.



I am for art that keeps me safe from my sane self and insane to others.



I am for art that teaches what words cannot.



I am for art that can be insurrectionary.



I am for art that can make disorder out of imposed order.



I am for art that exudes blood and guts.



I am for art that gives me the means to reflect on the evolution of a conscious person.



I am for art that can portray the absurd while exposing the falsity of the real.



I am for art largely as a contribution to my own social survival.



I am for art that may possibly reach even a single other person, even if I never physically do.



I am for art as an extension of one’s own consciousness.



I am for art that does not adhere to any systematic belief system or any system of strict governance.



I am for art that defines existence for an individual.



I am for art that can speak to a person, like a conversation with a stranger of whom you’ll never forget and may never meet again, and becomes an influential memory on the creation of that individual’s future existence yet to be unfolded.



I am for art as a weapon, not a commodity.



I am for art which sits in harmony with all of the beauty of nature and all of the wreckage of corruption.



I am for art that does not have a face, but has a soul.



I am for art that remains detached from its creator.



I am for art that can take on myriad meanings depending on the settings of which it is placed.



I am for art that disregards imperfections in a deliberate regards to disregard.



I am for art that does not completely take itself seriously while taking its potentiality with the utmost seriousness.



I am for art that is of the artists and not of the cogs of capitalism.



I am for art that has no beginning and no end, but may suggest a certain experience within the definitions of time and existence.



I am for art that can move mountains.



I am for art that has the strength of a million humans.



I am for art that is as fragile as human existence.



I am for art that scoffs in the face of the fear of the look-in-the-other.



I am for art that is as ethereal as the last breath upon the rattle of death.



I am for art that is not obvious and has the potential to stop or slow time, if even for a fraction of a second.



I am for art that does not fear nor protect itself from destruction.



I am for art that never fully defines itself.



I am for art that helps me learn about myself, from myself, about others, and from others.



I am for art that won’t let anything ever stand in its way.



I am for art that contributes to my willingness to stay alive.

4 am sleep-writing

An artist is a person who hones acute skills and abilities of perception and acts upon them in such a manner that they themselves become a watermark upon a period of human existence. The purpose is not to create a grand masterpiece, but to render and produce with such a frequency that the art becomes larger than the life of the artist... that then becomes the masterpiece.

bleh

Uncontrollable mood swings. Lots of them. I can't fight them. And with them comes the crippling lack of creativity. Self-loathe and lethargy. Too much time on my hands can capsize self imposed structure and ambition. And most of what I have produced lately seems to me a failure, or a faint voice at best. Days and nights are quick. I shower every morning, and under the teeming water I feel as if I was just there. The shower has always been a time for me to sort out my thoughts, plan my day, and reflect on my past-doings. Lately I just feel a premeditated defeat for the day... I know I will come up empty handed before I retire for the night. I'm wading in stagnancy. I am not necessarily pessimistic for my future both near and far, but I'm bereft of any enthralling optimism at the moment. I mull over plans to work on many different projects, but I hardly find the motivation to act upon them. I feel trapped. I look at the stray cat I have recently been taking care of. And I relate all too well with him. He yearns to be outside, to roam and chase everything boundlessly at free will. He sits at the window, he sleeps too much, and he meows every here and there at the door. I want to let him loose, but he comes back after a day with hunger and curiosity. And then he gets stuck with us again. This cycle of banal predictability just feels all too familiar and I need to pull myself from this incapacitating flypaper. It should be a simple mind shift from introverted self-pity back to confidence and being constructively focused. It's always easier said than done, as they say. But I think I just need more time to myself, to really figure out how I've derailed and how easy it really is to step back into full swing.

The ebb and flow of recent productivity has been very temperamental, to say the least. Some days I've written song after song, made painting after painting, and some days I've just loafed like a drunken sloth. Regardless, a couple of things I have had to focus on is writing lyrics for songs; both for my band Carrion Spring, and my own solo material. My solo material was also fleshed out with my brother and some other good friends, Lee (who also plays in Carrion Spring) and Richard. We've played 2 shows as a band, and seems to have had a surprisingly decent response. Last Thursday's Alberta Art Walk is tomorrow, and now, of course, as usual, am madly trying to produce a couple of more pieces of art. I'm completely broke, and though my parents are considering lending me this month's rent, I still would rather sell some work and do it myself. So, looks like I now embark on a frantic all-nighter.
Which, I should no longer procrastinate. So, without any further ado, here are some recent Carrion Spring lyrics, follow by some of my solo lyrics. I am starting to not completely hate what I write... I think.

Carrion Spring lyrics.

Hemhorrage
All this murk we're drownin in
a hemhorrage from leeches rotting on the wounds of cankered institutions.
so futile a tourniquet.
Become decrepit, every sinew.
every cog is rusting.
seams are ripping.
artificial selection
natural retaliation.

abandoning all stations
won't ever stop the bleed of these machines


acutely distort imminent disasters
to keep us calm before the storm.

Year of the Carrion
Glowing display radiates existence
to cleanse the mind
give life to dead time.
Still so lost, and getting worse with every minute
but we won't see it
through our own
reflections
so pathetic
to see that we are
locked up from the outside in
This womb is a graveyard
under a ton
of napalm
set ourselves ablaze

bring some light to an age so dark.
set ourselves
ablaze.


Troll's Toll
Fallen all the faculties, a pile on the floor
the death of an accomplice.
The shame if he knew of the blood on his hands
hung weary and limply
like flesh on a hook
and not even a soul glances at all.
Memories of stillborn inceptions
are burning at the stake.

Dancing around
choking on the ashes
Stumbling, falling
choking down the ashes
Collapsing
sow in the soil.


and here are some lyrics for my own solo material.

At Home
Oh this city is a wreck
but under the filthy haze
I tend to find myself at home

Trapped by the weight of an empty gun
waiting on a train
that hasn't run for years and years
the coal has all been burned
said she won't ever return
the rust is way too much for her to bear

In someways it's comforting to know
these covered tracks remain unknown
This blanket of ashes keeps me warm
Or so I tell myself she said.


The letters I write pile up
cause I haven't got a stamp
but they help make me feel
at home.

The dogs keep scratching at the door
and the lock ain't holdin up
The radio has lost all but one
station that plays the same
songs every night and day
the rust is way too much for me to care

In someways it's comforting to know
these covered tracks remain unknown
This blanket of ashes keeps me warm
Or so I tell myself, I know.

The wounded bird that's taken in
won't ever fly again.
won't ever fight again.


These Bloody Days
I'm tryin to be
as best as I can
even with these blood soaked sheets
but baby I swear I've enough to spare

So let these guts spill out all over the tile floor
it's enough to build a whole new man

I know it takes sometime to find how lost we really are
but I don't mind the trip as long as you know

how fucked we really are
maybe now's the time for me to mention to you
That I don't fear no death
and I don't fear no love
keeps it so damned hard to make these promises.

But even though sometimes my words are better than my actions
and the more you give the less I'll make of myself

I can not say the sober life is always best for me
but sometimes things fall into place in spite of

How fucked we really are
maybe now's the time for me to mention to you
That I don't fear no death
and I don't fear no love
keeps it so damned hard to make these promises
that i am hoping I will hold
i'm stickin to my guns
even though i'm running out of shells
And every now and then i feel
trapped between the past
and the times that I may still have
but for now
what we got will stay with me for good.


The Flood
I hear the wind scrapin' along the fence.
I seen better men than I left in the dust
ashes to rust.
The sun has been pouring rain for days and days.

Here comes the flood.
Stay afloat.

Says "soon there'll be change..."
it keeps them up on the fence.
Says "their used to it..."
as their singin' along
casual songs
songs for killing time
not the kind that will move mountains.

Here comes the flood.
Stay afloat.

Oh, our broken hearts can sing us back to life.

Glow
When the tide breaks low
I will cut the line.
Hangin off the moon
swingin' side to side.
Drowinin' in the glow
among the fire flies.

Don't go to far down now
the pressure could be all too much
for this air so thin.

Only half awake
far from piece of mind.
Sending up the flares
budding in the sky.
Staying hard to find
left me high and dry.

Don't go to far down now
the pressure could be all too much
for this air so thin.

Thats my nutz!