Tue, 03/18/2008 - 13:23 — DJ Larstonovich
dj larstonovich skullcrushing intro
the brothers johnson the devil
Sun City Girls immortal gods
further she lives by the castle
mondo guano lazy susan
the sonics wailers house party
god is my co-pilot cat power love song
daniel johnston speeding motercycle
pip proud hey gus
dead moon riccocet
the ex slimy toad
trollin’ withdrawl emil eye
i’m being good cooper’s farm
sabalon glitz orpheum
godheadsilo elephantitus of the night
lyme and cybell follow me
run dmc it’s tricky
butthole surfers good king wincisslaus
dinosaur bulbs of passion
b52’s future generation
beef food and weed
fucking champs summer knights
the troggs with a girl like you
sexual milkshake lick the toad/space gnome
epikurs euforie contxt non-txt
the cherry valence two-headed woman
polvo two fists
love child crokus says
new radiant storm king hey baby
Henrietta Goetz skullcrushing outro
I have never seen an expression as full of wonder as Lou’s as he died. His hands were doing the water-flowing 21-form of tai chi. His eyes were wide open. I was holding in my arms the person I loved the most in the world, and talking to him as he died. His heart stopped. He wasn’t afraid. I had gotten to walk with him to the end of the world. Life—so beautiful, painful and dazzling—does not get better than that. And death? I believe that the purpose of death is the release of love.
Logistical imagination scrapes, that’s how I’d describe it. In order to get from A to B one must be inventive. Some say, “stretch the truth,” to others, the “truth” is malleable. That is bullshit of course, semantic bullshit. There may not be a truth, but if there is, it is not malleable. Didn’t Kant spend his days pondering such gnomic enterprises. One must move the story forward, however.
We don’t know what was in the mind of the artist. We can glean more about his thought process than most, who weren’t leaving soiled breadcrumbs across the twentieth century’s cerebral landscape. That is a truth. Glean more from this artist.
We know he and Augustine McLaughlin spent a good deal of time together. Augustine recanted many tales, behind-the-scenes tales that had hitherto only been hinted at in the artist’s correspondences, published posthumously, when only a scholar or two gave a damn. Why soiled? Because a breadcrumb will petrify if properly dry, but soak it in soul matter and it will rot.
Augustine’s recollections of the artist tapped places below the landscape. Landscape, landscrape, skyscrape, seascape. First scrape and then peel but there will be tatters.
Do you wish to pinch a cheek and then let the words squeak forth? This is not such a case, squeaked words are typically fear-frought. These days, if compressed, were days of idyll. But the aforementioned correspondences, well they are not the letters saved. They are above and so they are below the radar.
Maybe it comes down to the etymology of corresponds. To correspond. We’ve got the transcriptions of dramas. Tragedies, and comedies. Has anyone transcribed a punch and judy show? Scene after scene of a man cocking the hammer on his revolver, the slowly releasing it and lowering the barrel. How many thousands of times have you watch this play unfold?
The artist, it seems was hung up on his sister. That’s an external hypothesis, which any dime store psychologist would corroborate based upon both artworks and archived correspondences.
Correspond. Call and response. To Augustus it would seem that the artist was most definitely the initiator. He did not create out of reaction as so many of his contemporaries did, and rightly so, with a couple of World Wars to react to.
They dwell considerably on the spartan surroundings of his dwelling. The lack of stimulus another indicator that he was acting not reacting.
In the railroad days, self-mythologized, Augustus did encounter a group of tex-mex hobos and their make-shift shrines to the departed.
-Most gringos call us ghoulish, said one of the women to Gus, you don’t seem to be frightened.
-I was raised Catholic enough, said Gus.
It made him realize just how much weight the past carried in his religion. In this way the artist was a relief, his nostalgia buried in his works but rarely uttered in their conversations over calvados.
Her death was still denied, her ghost suppressed. The form of a spectre didn’t suit Mina at all. It makes one wonder, who exactly benefits from a proper haunting?
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.