Letter to a Pony

I, the wrath of God, will fuck my own daughter to populate the golden city most immorally, most abnormally. And all the spider monkeys get underfoot, but who knew monkeys could swim so well. Klaus Kinski looks fiiiiine with his limp and mongrel dog face and pants that look like Hulk Hogan’s over-tanned skin.

Dear abandoned horse,
I felt so sad watching you hang your head as the boat people floated away. You were the best actor in that movie, it’s a shame you didn’t come to a better end. I’m sorry that something larger than you will probably eat you. Did Kinski actually hurt you when he repeatedly pushed you over? I have some other questions I’d like answered. Did the mamma mouse and her babies drown? Why were so many of the actors missing their teeth? Is it a German thing? I’m German, yet I have a nice set of chompers, or so the D.D.S. tells me. Why did the Indians they captured have no eyebrows? Were they really natives, her tits looked so saggy for someone so young. How the fuck did they get that giant boat up in that tall fucking tree? I’m sure these questions are hardly relevant to the movie, but these are the only real questions I have. Thank you for your time and I hope Lyme disease wasn’t a major problem in the Amazon, although I’d imagine you probably had a lot bigger problems than a tiny little bug to worry about (i.e. overly demanding director Hertzog). Thanks again for your time…
-Curiosity sat on the cat

In all honesty, I found this film to be sickeningly beautiful. I could probably watch the end scene at least 10 more times.

This nook smells like burnt bread and cat piss but provides an excellent view of the city

Looking through my books makes me overly sentimental. Reading all the idiot things I've written in their margins, finding strange notes tucked inside, with the ink and paper pukering, some strange tid-bits of 3 years ago. Each book has a story attached to it aside from it's actual contents, what I was doing when I read it, how it affected me, who I lent it to. I miss this. At one point in my life I couldn't stop reading things about Darby Crash: Lexicon Devil, What We Do is Secret, etc. I've read these books unneccessarily, so much so they've begun looking rather miserly, forlornly falling apart, spines cracked and pages dog-eared. One of my favorite movies used to be (still is) Decline of Western Civilization Part 1, I used to watch the part where Darby plays with a tarantula on rewind repeat and then I read about how it was supposedly Tony the Hustler's appartment, he only had the girl fill in and pretend to be his roomate so no one would catch on to the fact that he was gay. Later, they froze the tarantuala. Decline of Western Civiliztion Part 2 was all about hair metal, and I don't really give a shit about Poison or Aqua Net.
What I want to know is everyones' obsessive obsessions. What's the shit you couldn't forget about even if you wanted to.

I touched it's dorsal fin!

Let me preface this by saying that I don’t dance. The thesaurus lists synonyms of dancing such as “hop”, “boogie”, and “bop”, surely words too embarrassing to actually be associated with dancing. The only time I find myself attempting to is when I’m rudely intoxicated or alone. Let me preface this by saying I was absolutely the former when I found myself sweating it out on Friday. With a 40 in hand and some nasty fucking moves, I knew I could conquer the DJ and spew my own greatest hits. I found myself living out some artificial strain of wildness I’m sure we’ve all experienced: drunkenness.
I can’t remember the songs I danced to, I can’t remember the people there, I can barely even remember my “dancing” which seemed to involve flailing back and forth whilst falling on top of others who had the sad misfortune of standing near me, what I do know, however, is that I felt the pain in my calves the next morning that made me positive I spent 3 hours dancing the night before, all mostly on my feet. The debaucheries even extended into my dreams that night, I can quote myself exactly. “I remember when it used to be cool to be cool.” How often is it that you can remember an exact line from some foggy dream sleep that involved cabinets and “day parties?” Not too often. In the vein of being explicit, knock back your favorite brew (hopefully not involving skittles), shake what the good lord gave you, get wild, and tell Thoreau to fuck himself. I guarantee you’ll feel like you did something important in the morning, even if you can’t remember what it was.


PS: Have any of you seen the movie 'Total Eclipse' where Leonardo Dicaprio plays Arthur Rimbaud? If so... is it worth watching? Fin.

This is because I am bitter at my incapability of taking a nap

You’re right, I do feel like I’m in High School lit. doing my motherfucking journal again. Déjà vu, like déjà vu when turning the page of a book only to realize you’ve already read it at least 5 times over. I’m not really sure if I give a shit about Aguirre or not. Yes, he is a hardass, yes is a rebel, yes there is beheading (if only the way I imagine Aguirre to kill. Or maybe a more delicate slit of the throat), but all in the name of our lord and savior, Jesus H. Christ (Did you ever hear anyone in high school say that the h stood for hardcore? Don’t believe that shit, that shits wack).

No wildness permitted in religion, only premeditated bloodshed. I’m also sick of this word: W-I-L-D, and this one :W-I-L-D-E-R-N-E-S-S, and more importantly this one: N-A-T-U-R-E, seeing as I already wish it would give up and give in, this long and drawn out struggle makes it impossible to keep my attention. The one word I would really like to discuss, BEWILDERMENT!!!, is the one I can’t seem to form any thoughts on, any opinions about, any connections to …anything except for this dull ache in my cranium that tells me I’m rather bewildered as to what I’m doing here: sitting on my computer, loafing around Cincinnati, when I should be in some city “crowded like an egg”.

Coquettish-the city sucks today.

I’d much rather me reminiscing with Tabatha about our sloppy childhoods and how our dads (mine at least) were not set up to be just that: Dads. (A quick note on the _ _ _ _ N E S S of kids)Children truly don’t give a fuck, they haven’t yet been taught how to correctly give a fuck, but I still make no connection with them because I lack an imagination. I am a bewildebeest feeling fucking hunted.

I hate the word "party"

I really do want to live inside the descriptions of the albatross, the polar bear, the white shark, the uncombed territory of Melville’s foot notes, huge epic foot notes, like the geoduck’s “foot” probing through sand and sludge. My friend and I used to listen to Moby Dick on tape every time we got drunk and we started thinking we were Ishmael, so we went out to find our own white whales. I feel like we are all giving Melville a slight of the hand here, seeing as it’s easier to talk about Thoreau’s wildness in that he is explicit, but Melville IS wild. I haven’t seen very many polite sailors. Come to think of it, I’ve never really seen a sailor, at least not a straight up sailor sailor.
The sea, the ocean, is what may be one of the last truly wild areas, wild in the way that means wilderness, yet also wild in the way that risks death and curses in front of its mother, cursing AT its mother. The only reason for “preservation” is that we’ve found it quite hard to tame the unknown liquid quality of the blue, although I have no doubt that if we found a way, we’d go for it. The only real human influence is the pollution and garbage we pump in, the occasional oil spill, the fishing nets, the tasty surfers and cutting quality of boats. However, no matter how much human influence we force upon it, we’re never actually able to tame its creatures, which is why that shark will eat any motherfucker no matter what you tell him, and he ain’t gonna give no two shits about it either. The fact that Melville called this pool of unfathomable depth and fish that glow and eat each other and eat, sleep, and fuck in their own shit H-O-M-E is absolutely a reassurance of his own wild state, and his own wild writing. As you said, the sentences are whales, the foot notes are behemoths, and the imagery is a mastodon. I love that he introduces the whale and then you find no mention of Mr. Dick until the very last sentence of the chapter. Dear Herman Melville, I applaud you and your savagery. Sincerely, The Un-Wildest Wild.

Temples, tombs, and boom sticks.

Wildness in the wilderness of whiteness and wildness in the spasm of Melville. Of course Thoreau talks about walking, walking us through the walking, yet I remember in high school when I thought he was just a bitter old man who forsook the sage of old age and decay and now I think he sounds just about right, especially talking about walking. Most of the time I go about walking and talking, and I wish I could step into this strange thoughtless chasm on a walk. Or better yet, so that I could get some shut eye, no more fisticuffs with my enemy sleep.
However, sauntering through this city enables us to catch sight of the wildness Thoreau doesn't understand, the wildness of society, the wildness of humans rebelling against, or just thrown outside of society's door. Bums are the wilderness of the city, possibly reverting back to the animal ism Dear Henry David would all like us to achieve.I'm willing to bet they are full of some strange primordial instinct, they've just lost sight of the trees, and possibly in some cases that of the mind. Let's all walk out and be gutter-babies and feel the animal magnetism in the streets. I'm asking for a resurrection so Thoreau could come walk with me in this cliched thing called "the concrete jungle". Motherfucker, Ergo.