I don' t mean to be too hilarious or nothing- but I remembered a past thought yesterday and thought I would share today.
I was taking the train home with my brother. I asked about his job. I asked about opportunities and tried to say "nepotism," and it almost came out: NECROTISM!
Hilarious, right? If I am too rule the world (and G-d willing it will be soon- see last post about possible skin cancer....no joking around here....).....so yeah, if I'm to rule the world, how about a system of Necrotism?
George Washington will once again rule as a President, of sorts. I guess.....um.....Thurgood Marshall.....he's going to be Chief Justice this time......Brando's dead right? I guess I can make appoint him as a Labor minister-thingy.....
And you know what? If I do have to go and leave this existence a little early due to a cell rebellion, a physio-civil war on the battlefield becoming my arm: well, maybe someone out there will return the kind favor, the karma, and appoint me some position or honor in death. Any of you guys Necrotists? I plan on leaving a handsome corpse, even if I have to do the makeup with one hand, as I nail the coffin shut with the other from within.....pretty gruesome, right?
What happened to poor Gabriel, that he would be so gruesome? Its a combo.
1. Unemployment is tracking me. I was unemployed for a few months after being let go of my previous photo research job. I stopped collecting payments, but I never made it clear in their records that I was back to full-time work. A former part-time employer contacted me that they contacted her. Eep!
2. I've been reading "Les Miserable", and that Javert is pretty intimidating. I think he's after me. It's like my cousin Frank was fonding of saying "I have reverse paranoia: I keep thinking I'm following someone..." Well, for me its the reverse, reverse. I keep thinking I'm following someone who is following me: a physic worm ouroboros.
Maybe this phenomenon will reach beyond the grave. When I get my cabinet position in your Necropolis, I wonder who's going to sit next to me. I hope she is (was) pretty. Oohhh, pick someone pretty to sit next to me! Someone who died in her 20's, or early 30s. I suppose an older woman who died of too much plastic surgery has prospects....
Well, time to start the day. They are playing the movie Dracula with Philip Glass's score on top at the bandshell today in Prospect Park. I'll be there and square, but have much work to do beforehand....like walking around and thinking of funny word-thingy's
Lets see, got any yet......"tulips" sounds like "two lips" ......hmmmm.....
....ohhh I just got one. It's about 3o minutes since the original post. I received a funny email from Stacey warning me about the new "Jews for Jesus" campaign ads. Then I thought, what if I get one of their shirts or something and cross out the "f" in for?
JEWS OR JESUS? Hardy hardy hardy har! Pretty good, right? Do I still get the job in your Necropolis....
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Saturday, August 26, 2006
storms a' brewing
Let's begin with the begining. i am tripping. Not from a chemical intake, but over my own distractions and lack of smart choices. My repeat fallings have left me knee-skidded and down-caste-glancing....
Was it wrong to dream? To dream that I could sit at my computer all day, completing nominal work, remain addicted to all the knick-knacks of cyber space, and mount vast credit card debt at night through my freewheeling, womanizing ways- all while still being able to lift my head the next day with a semblance of stress-free pride?
"A salesman’s got to dream," A. Miller once wrote. A salesman’s got to work to first be a salesman. I need to get out of the house, I tells yeah.
I ran into the sister of an old school chum last night. It reminded me of things, nothing in particular, but a vision is forming… a wooded creek area. It is dense with vines, shrubs, possible poison ivy. The water flowing through has swelled from the previous night's storm. I am in overalls, unabashed. I have a straw hat in hand and a rake. I am planting tiny, green seeds.
I am on my hands and knees, pushing one seed into the moist, dirt whole, about three feet from water. I actually feel my shoe has moved into the creek and is now soaked. I pull it out quickly. I say, "what the fuck," unearth the seed, eat it and splash into the water. I splash and splish and splash. I am put my head under. It is fun.
I let the current control me, and I dead-man float along with increasing speed.
….passing under bridges, past boys fishing and families of ducks. As I move along, I hear frogs jump from their mud hideouts and into the creek to join me.
Did I mention this creek isn't more than five feet wide? It's a creek. It’s small.
The woods on either side of the shore thin out and the half-hidden housing developments disappear from the periphery. The fauna and flora turns to tall grass- marshy-like. This is okay. But the splashes of my frog friends is getting louder, as if heavier bodies are joining me in my splish splash splash splish.
The creek is becoming wider, too. Am I in the Raintree Lake of my ocular youth? At the distance shore I see an outcrop of rocks with boys hiding, quickly looking around, and setting off fireworks. I see one of them stands at a distance, hands in pockets, shoulders huddled, crying. Does he not like the noise? Or the attention the noise could bring?
I hear the distance sounds of a tennis match. The bottomless swish of racket thrown in anger / paper cups, drawn from their dispenser and set on fire by more teenage boys.
I feel that slime of a body of water, set upon by every shoreline with easygoing mannerist garbage-painters- Seurats of Litter recreating space with each casual wrapper toss. I am covered. Just covered.
Thank you and have a banging Saturday! Don't forgot to look for book in stores; "Gabriel Caplan: Shylock / the Merchant of Venison" where I serve up more delicious and anti-structural sentiments from the shared experience of suburbia.
And don't forget to look yourselves in the mirror before going out and practice saying, "do I really need another drink to feel attractive?"
Oh, and don't forget to tip.
Was it wrong to dream? To dream that I could sit at my computer all day, completing nominal work, remain addicted to all the knick-knacks of cyber space, and mount vast credit card debt at night through my freewheeling, womanizing ways- all while still being able to lift my head the next day with a semblance of stress-free pride?
"A salesman’s got to dream," A. Miller once wrote. A salesman’s got to work to first be a salesman. I need to get out of the house, I tells yeah.
I ran into the sister of an old school chum last night. It reminded me of things, nothing in particular, but a vision is forming… a wooded creek area. It is dense with vines, shrubs, possible poison ivy. The water flowing through has swelled from the previous night's storm. I am in overalls, unabashed. I have a straw hat in hand and a rake. I am planting tiny, green seeds.
I am on my hands and knees, pushing one seed into the moist, dirt whole, about three feet from water. I actually feel my shoe has moved into the creek and is now soaked. I pull it out quickly. I say, "what the fuck," unearth the seed, eat it and splash into the water. I splash and splish and splash. I am put my head under. It is fun.
I let the current control me, and I dead-man float along with increasing speed.
….passing under bridges, past boys fishing and families of ducks. As I move along, I hear frogs jump from their mud hideouts and into the creek to join me.
Did I mention this creek isn't more than five feet wide? It's a creek. It’s small.
The woods on either side of the shore thin out and the half-hidden housing developments disappear from the periphery. The fauna and flora turns to tall grass- marshy-like. This is okay. But the splashes of my frog friends is getting louder, as if heavier bodies are joining me in my splish splash splash splish.
The creek is becoming wider, too. Am I in the Raintree Lake of my ocular youth? At the distance shore I see an outcrop of rocks with boys hiding, quickly looking around, and setting off fireworks. I see one of them stands at a distance, hands in pockets, shoulders huddled, crying. Does he not like the noise? Or the attention the noise could bring?
I hear the distance sounds of a tennis match. The bottomless swish of racket thrown in anger / paper cups, drawn from their dispenser and set on fire by more teenage boys.
I feel that slime of a body of water, set upon by every shoreline with easygoing mannerist garbage-painters- Seurats of Litter recreating space with each casual wrapper toss. I am covered. Just covered.
Thank you and have a banging Saturday! Don't forgot to look for book in stores; "Gabriel Caplan: Shylock / the Merchant of Venison" where I serve up more delicious and anti-structural sentiments from the shared experience of suburbia.
And don't forget to look yourselves in the mirror before going out and practice saying, "do I really need another drink to feel attractive?"
Oh, and don't forget to tip.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
day 1 w/ pimped myspace layout (not so good)
(to note- I post these posts on myspace- because why not? And I made my myspace space all pertty yesterday.....and so....)
...still feel kind of dirty. It's that pull between innocence and experience that Mr. Blake spake and drew about.
I like the glitter of the page, and the arrangement of my projected personality, don't get me wrong. But in general, I want to huddle against my knees- fetal, and cry.
I want to hold myself so tightly, and hold it so long that a thin layer of dust becomes crust and I'm encased on my kitchen floor- a shell to rehatch from.
I've counted my fingers five times today. They're all still there. My toes- not so good. I have a blister and infection of the Big Right. I've performed open toe surgery to drain it. I'm telling you this because it is true- not because you want to hear it.
At least I haven't pimped everything about myself. I'm still dirty dingus McGabriel- in some ways. Or have I just hit rock bottom and am confusing my repulsiveness for the last remnants of dignity? I'm that clear, cool liquid in my Big Right, my writing the result of the infection, the infection a result of environment, the environment a result of will power, the will power a result of the conditions of humanity, the conditions of humanity the result of G-d, the G-d the result of the conditions of humanity- and so forth and so on.
Last night I did see a nightingale from my stoop. He crouched over a branch and spit worm parts into a hollowed hole. I was wearing night vision goggles; I saw it all- in an infrared kind of way. I may have been imagining things in my techno-delirium, come to think of it, but I'm pretty sure the bird turned its pertty head clockwise to me and said, "you're next." I ran, as I am apt to do in these blogs. I ran, goggles in hand, and handed them to the local restaurant owner, Bruno, on his corner. He had customers and paid me no heed, which was smart- because my hair was flying after me, chasing me in delayed, wind-gushed grasps at my scalp.
I'm afraid. I'm afraid that the hair has taken over. I'm afraid I pimped myself with style and little Gabriel is gone, the way that all dodos go: into cliché.
*send help.
...still feel kind of dirty. It's that pull between innocence and experience that Mr. Blake spake and drew about.
I like the glitter of the page, and the arrangement of my projected personality, don't get me wrong. But in general, I want to huddle against my knees- fetal, and cry.
I want to hold myself so tightly, and hold it so long that a thin layer of dust becomes crust and I'm encased on my kitchen floor- a shell to rehatch from.
I've counted my fingers five times today. They're all still there. My toes- not so good. I have a blister and infection of the Big Right. I've performed open toe surgery to drain it. I'm telling you this because it is true- not because you want to hear it.
At least I haven't pimped everything about myself. I'm still dirty dingus McGabriel- in some ways. Or have I just hit rock bottom and am confusing my repulsiveness for the last remnants of dignity? I'm that clear, cool liquid in my Big Right, my writing the result of the infection, the infection a result of environment, the environment a result of will power, the will power a result of the conditions of humanity, the conditions of humanity the result of G-d, the G-d the result of the conditions of humanity- and so forth and so on.
Last night I did see a nightingale from my stoop. He crouched over a branch and spit worm parts into a hollowed hole. I was wearing night vision goggles; I saw it all- in an infrared kind of way. I may have been imagining things in my techno-delirium, come to think of it, but I'm pretty sure the bird turned its pertty head clockwise to me and said, "you're next." I ran, as I am apt to do in these blogs. I ran, goggles in hand, and handed them to the local restaurant owner, Bruno, on his corner. He had customers and paid me no heed, which was smart- because my hair was flying after me, chasing me in delayed, wind-gushed grasps at my scalp.
I'm afraid. I'm afraid that the hair has taken over. I'm afraid I pimped myself with style and little Gabriel is gone, the way that all dodos go: into cliché.
*send help.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
...or maybe our dreams unlock the secret reality of another, parallel exist.
First of all, I don't appreciate your smug attitude. Don't get me wrong, I like it; I just don't appreciate it. There is a difference, and I refuse to go to the dictionary to defend my position. Don't be smug. That is all.
But yeah, just got back from North Carolina the other day. My arms are tired. No wait, I FLEW in from North Carolina....that is what I meant. My arms are tired....because I flew.
Hey, anybody out there drinking? Don't forget to tip your waitress. So I've been playing music again. The wife thought it would get me out of the house, and out of her HAIR. Women! You can't beat them, because that is abuse, but you can't join them, because the insurance won't cover the Gender Reassignment Surgery. So what can you do; but blog?
Which is funny; because I need to do another things then butt blogg. Sometimes I feel like that is what it is. I've processed the experiences of the day/week/month before; and this is my waste. Butt Blog. Gross, I know- but Comedy Isn’t Pretty.
Wait, that is a Steve Martin album, that’s not my line at all. Man, is he funny or what? How I miss “The Three Amigos”. Is that what I dreamed about last night…….?
I remember being on the set of some film, in costume, with two others (maybe my brothers). And then three girls, in similar outfits want to sit down. Somehow I am informed that they are doing the sequel to whatever we are shooting. It’s a scene out of “The Chipmunks Meet The Chipettes”; or whatever their female counterpart was called (oohhhh that Brittany; such sass!).
So maybe it was just a weird dream, or maybe our dreams unlock the secret reality of another, parallel exist. Perhaps in this Platonic/ Ideal world, the 3 sisters that counterweight the 3 brothers of my own family exist. This world is but an echo of the ideal world and all I have to do is find the 3 sisters, partake how I’m supposed to (which will be determined through subsequent dreams) and piece back together these parallel worlds that for some reason need healing. Or something. Hmmm…….
But yeah, just got back from North Carolina the other day. My arms are tired. No wait, I FLEW in from North Carolina....that is what I meant. My arms are tired....because I flew.
Hey, anybody out there drinking? Don't forget to tip your waitress. So I've been playing music again. The wife thought it would get me out of the house, and out of her HAIR. Women! You can't beat them, because that is abuse, but you can't join them, because the insurance won't cover the Gender Reassignment Surgery. So what can you do; but blog?
Which is funny; because I need to do another things then butt blogg. Sometimes I feel like that is what it is. I've processed the experiences of the day/week/month before; and this is my waste. Butt Blog. Gross, I know- but Comedy Isn’t Pretty.
Wait, that is a Steve Martin album, that’s not my line at all. Man, is he funny or what? How I miss “The Three Amigos”. Is that what I dreamed about last night…….?
I remember being on the set of some film, in costume, with two others (maybe my brothers). And then three girls, in similar outfits want to sit down. Somehow I am informed that they are doing the sequel to whatever we are shooting. It’s a scene out of “The Chipmunks Meet The Chipettes”; or whatever their female counterpart was called (oohhhh that Brittany; such sass!).
So maybe it was just a weird dream, or maybe our dreams unlock the secret reality of another, parallel exist. Perhaps in this Platonic/ Ideal world, the 3 sisters that counterweight the 3 brothers of my own family exist. This world is but an echo of the ideal world and all I have to do is find the 3 sisters, partake how I’m supposed to (which will be determined through subsequent dreams) and piece back together these parallel worlds that for some reason need healing. Or something. Hmmm…….
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
I'm an unrequited revolutionary.
Donde esta Gabriel? I know, I ask the same question in English.
I've been around. Around town. I've been lurking, hiding in shadows, under willow trees, appealing to squirrels to return the grape sherbet I spilled on their acorns.
Fall is a brewing, my friends. Collect your nuts.
I ask you this: is a man any less of a man if he is empowered by his weakness? I was walking around 5th ave in Brooklyn, as I do. I was looking into some wine shops, thinking about getting part time work AND learning viticulture (and hauling boxes). You know, these freelance checks take a long time to come through....so some part time work would be nice*.
So there I am, outside one wine shop, actually on 7th ave. I look in. I see my partial reflection. I run. I think to myself, "reality and life experience can only be stretched as far as you stretch it. You are relegated to monotony and failure through your fear to try something new." I punched myself in the head and yelled out, "how's that for something new."
I scared a few mothers and their babies cried. I was a sight, all right. That is why I have gone back into the shadows, back into lurking.
I love Apple, but those fuckers are taking WAY to long to get my computer fixed. It's supposed to take 10 business days. I finally called them up and I'm told I'll get it on Monday. Hey, that's 15 business days. No fair. I'm a fucking freelancer. This is my life, here!!!!!!
I'm an unrequited revolutionary. Why won't the world revolve me back? I give people great advice about how to approach responsibility, love and truth in their lives. And here I am, short of rent and still in my underwear, with a bathing suit on my head, ready for anyone to call me and tell me to high-tail it to Coney Island.
(how do you spell "woah", like "woah is me" because, that is what I want to write, but thought I should check first).
HEY ITAR, you out there reading this? Arf. That is all I have to say about that, Itar. You know who you are.
More to write, but I'll save it for another blog. I've been told nobody reads these things if they see they're too long.
Best,
Gabriel
*send help.
I've been around. Around town. I've been lurking, hiding in shadows, under willow trees, appealing to squirrels to return the grape sherbet I spilled on their acorns.
Fall is a brewing, my friends. Collect your nuts.
I ask you this: is a man any less of a man if he is empowered by his weakness? I was walking around 5th ave in Brooklyn, as I do. I was looking into some wine shops, thinking about getting part time work AND learning viticulture (and hauling boxes). You know, these freelance checks take a long time to come through....so some part time work would be nice*.
So there I am, outside one wine shop, actually on 7th ave. I look in. I see my partial reflection. I run. I think to myself, "reality and life experience can only be stretched as far as you stretch it. You are relegated to monotony and failure through your fear to try something new." I punched myself in the head and yelled out, "how's that for something new."
I scared a few mothers and their babies cried. I was a sight, all right. That is why I have gone back into the shadows, back into lurking.
I love Apple, but those fuckers are taking WAY to long to get my computer fixed. It's supposed to take 10 business days. I finally called them up and I'm told I'll get it on Monday. Hey, that's 15 business days. No fair. I'm a fucking freelancer. This is my life, here!!!!!!
I'm an unrequited revolutionary. Why won't the world revolve me back? I give people great advice about how to approach responsibility, love and truth in their lives. And here I am, short of rent and still in my underwear, with a bathing suit on my head, ready for anyone to call me and tell me to high-tail it to Coney Island.
(how do you spell "woah", like "woah is me" because, that is what I want to write, but thought I should check first).
HEY ITAR, you out there reading this? Arf. That is all I have to say about that, Itar. You know who you are.
More to write, but I'll save it for another blog. I've been told nobody reads these things if they see they're too long.
Best,
Gabriel
*send help.
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