time signature: 4/4, bpm: 200+, eight-note dominated riffing/vocals
2 measures per line
feasting on razor blades, voluntary and willing
chewing on black steel for a neatly painted smile
sliced throat severed tongue, twisted stomach turning
internal organs melting in bile
acid blood fecal matter, julienned inside
digesting yourself, nourished from within
acid blood fecal matter, liquefied inside
vomiting yourself, expelled from within
lacerated intestines, coagulated hemorrhage
solution of blood and feces, internal carnage
cleanse your bowels, secrete the waste, force the feces outward
ejection of blood and feces, desecrated biohazard sewage
( Guitar / Bass / Drum / Keyboard Solo )
acid blood fecal matter, julienned inside
digesting yourself, nourished from within
acid blood fecal matter, liquefied inside
vomiting yourself, expelled from within
Monday, September 14, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Another shit-tastic dream
I'm not sure what this dream was inspired by... Maybe it is the all the scat metal getting to my head.
I'm standing in a barren room. The room reminds me of a room you might find in an old Spanish mission. White, uneven plaster-ish walls... a little dirty. However, in this particular room, there is a trash chute of sorts in the corner, dug into the ground. An absolutely filthy tunnel running straight down, maybe two feet in diameter, filled with composting waste typical of your average back-alley dumpster. Peering into the tunnel, the tunnel drops at least a hundred feet before you can begin to see the dumpster waste floating in water.
Bryan decides it would be a good idea to explore the tunnel. He fills it with water until the water/garbage level rises to within about 10 feet of the entrance and he jumps in. The water level drops, and Bryan disappears into the tunnel.
When it's my turn, I decide I'll just jump into the tunnel when the waterlevel is still a hundred foot drop away. However, as I peer into the tunnel, I see that it is clogged with shit just a couple feet away from the mouth. So naturally, I grab the nearest canteloupe and begin beating the shit out of the clog with it until the clog releases its shitty hold and falls into the tunnel.
I strip down into the nude in a nearby room and jump into the tunnel. As I fall, the tunnel turns into a water-park style tube slide of shit. I fly, careening this way and that at high speeds, flying past pieces of other people's long forgotten refuse for several minutes before I pop out at an unknown location, possibly miles away.
Then I wake up and find myself COVERED IN FECES!!!!
Or not. I gotta go take a shit now.
I'm standing in a barren room. The room reminds me of a room you might find in an old Spanish mission. White, uneven plaster-ish walls... a little dirty. However, in this particular room, there is a trash chute of sorts in the corner, dug into the ground. An absolutely filthy tunnel running straight down, maybe two feet in diameter, filled with composting waste typical of your average back-alley dumpster. Peering into the tunnel, the tunnel drops at least a hundred feet before you can begin to see the dumpster waste floating in water.
Bryan decides it would be a good idea to explore the tunnel. He fills it with water until the water/garbage level rises to within about 10 feet of the entrance and he jumps in. The water level drops, and Bryan disappears into the tunnel.
When it's my turn, I decide I'll just jump into the tunnel when the waterlevel is still a hundred foot drop away. However, as I peer into the tunnel, I see that it is clogged with shit just a couple feet away from the mouth. So naturally, I grab the nearest canteloupe and begin beating the shit out of the clog with it until the clog releases its shitty hold and falls into the tunnel.
I strip down into the nude in a nearby room and jump into the tunnel. As I fall, the tunnel turns into a water-park style tube slide of shit. I fly, careening this way and that at high speeds, flying past pieces of other people's long forgotten refuse for several minutes before I pop out at an unknown location, possibly miles away.
Then I wake up and find myself COVERED IN FECES!!!!
Or not. I gotta go take a shit now.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Beer and Dreams
So since dreams seems to be a common theme in the last couple posts, I'll just continue along with it, although it's not as heavy as DK's last posted dream............ yeesh.
Anyway, I was walking through a store similar to Cost Plus, but more like Beverages & More (fuck that BevMo shit). I saw a display of beer that was labeled as "Scottish Oatmeal Stout." The sign next to the stand was printed that you could buy individual beers for $1.59 or the six pack for $11.54, similar to Harris' 212miles/7days=14.1 miles thing, in that the exact price printed (tax included) was $11.54. While still in the dream, I thought that $1.59 was reasonalbe for the beer, but $11.54 was a bit steep to pay for a six pack of beer.
Now after I woke up (and promptly urinated in a toilet), I quickly took out my phone/calculator to determine how accurate my brain was thinking.
1 Beer = $1.59
6 Beer = $1.59 x 6 = $9.54
CRV = $0.10 x 6 = $0.60 + $9.54 = $10.54
Tax = 0.0775% x $10.54 = $0.82 + $10.54 = $11.36
So the calculations in my dream were only 18 cents off. I was kind of impressed.
Then I went back asleep and had some odd dream about this girl who was convinced that she was some sort of assistant anti-christ and asked the real anti-christ to "mark me." The guy, who was out of frame then make three deep "claw" marks on each cheek of her face then three more on the back of her neck. She then said, "I am now the Warlock." The scene then cut to this stone temple out in a desert and these five metalic statues (about 15ft high) started moving down from their dias. There was a voice in the background from I don't know where saying that these metalic creations were the Metatron. It was rather comedic though, when these things got down to the last step, they all jump down to the ground level (about a foot) in unison, and that's where the dream stopped.
What would all this mean? That I want beer and the assistant to the anti-christ is rather attractive apparently. But, I'm at work right now, so I'm going to have to settle for a chocolate cookie and a coke.
Anyway, I was walking through a store similar to Cost Plus, but more like Beverages & More (fuck that BevMo shit). I saw a display of beer that was labeled as "Scottish Oatmeal Stout." The sign next to the stand was printed that you could buy individual beers for $1.59 or the six pack for $11.54, similar to Harris' 212miles/7days=14.1 miles thing, in that the exact price printed (tax included) was $11.54. While still in the dream, I thought that $1.59 was reasonalbe for the beer, but $11.54 was a bit steep to pay for a six pack of beer.
Now after I woke up (and promptly urinated in a toilet), I quickly took out my phone/calculator to determine how accurate my brain was thinking.
1 Beer = $1.59
6 Beer = $1.59 x 6 = $9.54
CRV = $0.10 x 6 = $0.60 + $9.54 = $10.54
Tax = 0.0775% x $10.54 = $0.82 + $10.54 = $11.36
So the calculations in my dream were only 18 cents off. I was kind of impressed.
Then I went back asleep and had some odd dream about this girl who was convinced that she was some sort of assistant anti-christ and asked the real anti-christ to "mark me." The guy, who was out of frame then make three deep "claw" marks on each cheek of her face then three more on the back of her neck. She then said, "I am now the Warlock." The scene then cut to this stone temple out in a desert and these five metalic statues (about 15ft high) started moving down from their dias. There was a voice in the background from I don't know where saying that these metalic creations were the Metatron. It was rather comedic though, when these things got down to the last step, they all jump down to the ground level (about a foot) in unison, and that's where the dream stopped.
What would all this mean? That I want beer and the assistant to the anti-christ is rather attractive apparently. But, I'm at work right now, so I'm going to have to settle for a chocolate cookie and a coke.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Dreams and shit
I'm outdoors. The weather is dry and dusty. I'm with my friends. There is a platform and a noose. We decide it is a good idea to take turns to both simultaneously hang ourselves and slash our throats. The trick is to slash the voicebox without damaging the arteries on either side. I feel apprehensive, but peer-pressured into participating. A female friend goes first. She hangs herself, and another friend slashes her throat with a box cutter. He cuts an artery. She plays with her blood. My apprehension grows. Everyone else enjoys themselves. It's my turn.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
The Scripts of Dreams
I've learned a couple languages in my day, and one of the tired, common profundities I hear from teachers is that once you start dreaming in the target language, you're well on your way to mastering it. This little bit of wisdom is usually produced as some great revelation, that the students should consider themselves lucky should they ever experience such. Well, I've dreamed in Korean plenty of times, and it sounded just like how it sounds in real life: totally unintelligible. I like my English dreams just fine.
But... who is to say that I actually dream in English? If you were to ask me what language I dream in... actually, no--go ahead and ask me. Go on. It's okay. Your turn.
...
"Well, English, sort of."
...
"Oh, what do I mean by 'sort of'? I mean the accent is American... the letters are Roman... the words are English... but is the vocabulary English? That's the question."
...
"Two cats."
My brain renders dream-dialogue as English as best it can, but is a spoon a spoon in a dream? Can incorrect grammar suddenly become correct? I once dreamed that I was reading a poem, a great epic, composed by some long forgotten author. It went on and on and on and I was totally hooked. I remember instances in the dream where I realized I must be dreaming and, oh so briefly, wondered where all this poetry was coming from--was I coming up with it on the fly, myself? Tapping into some hidden memory? If I were conscious, could I recognize this poem as something decent? Or was it all just tripe, random bits of word fragments pieced together in a Frankenstein poem?
I managed to write down one of the stanzas, as I groggily regained consciousness. It made no sense grammatically, but it was pretty. Not the most amazing thing in the world, but hey: this is not the greatest poem in the world--that was lost in my dream--this is just a tribute.
I can probably answer the question as to whether the words themselves are random, meaningless garbage, by taking a different dream I had recently, this one about math. Bryan told me he was going to hike the John Muir Trail next week. He did not explicitly invite me, as is his habit, but I was considering inviting myself anyway, as is my habit. But he told me he would take just seven days to do it. Seven days? I quickly did my dream-math in my dream-head:
212 miles / 7 days = 14.1 miles per day
No, don't try to contradict me. It worked out to exactly 14.1 miles per day in my dream. I eventually bowed out of the running because even that perfectly reasonable amount would be too much for my knees to take safely, I thought. But it was a moot point: some guy (whose real relationship to me or Bryan I could only explain in my dream-English, but suffice to say he was some sort of camp director) showed up and turned the world all wonky and Bryan and I eventually ended up falling off a cliff and dying. So that settled that.
14.1 miles is obviously way off. It's less than half the real amount. But, when I think about it, it's pretty goddamn accurate! What was to stop my brain from reaching for 3176.8 miles per day and seeing that it was good? Nothing at all--my brain can do whatever the hell it wants to. Yet, I can't help but think the 14.1 figure was nothing more than randomness--a handy figure chosen because it looked okay, because some part of me wanted it to be the figure, and not because my brain even bothered attempting to do anything that might remotely resemble arithmetic.
Applying this assumption to language, I can only guess that that poem I read in my sleep was probably just a bunch of butchered phrases, smashed together in repetitive couplets, and my brain was providing all the interpreted emotional meaning. In which case... Perhaps those emotions, the impact of the reading, and not the writing at all, is the true script of dreams.
I'm going to bed now.
But... who is to say that I actually dream in English? If you were to ask me what language I dream in... actually, no--go ahead and ask me. Go on. It's okay. Your turn.
...
"Well, English, sort of."
...
"Oh, what do I mean by 'sort of'? I mean the accent is American... the letters are Roman... the words are English... but is the vocabulary English? That's the question."
...
"Two cats."
My brain renders dream-dialogue as English as best it can, but is a spoon a spoon in a dream? Can incorrect grammar suddenly become correct? I once dreamed that I was reading a poem, a great epic, composed by some long forgotten author. It went on and on and on and I was totally hooked. I remember instances in the dream where I realized I must be dreaming and, oh so briefly, wondered where all this poetry was coming from--was I coming up with it on the fly, myself? Tapping into some hidden memory? If I were conscious, could I recognize this poem as something decent? Or was it all just tripe, random bits of word fragments pieced together in a Frankenstein poem?
I managed to write down one of the stanzas, as I groggily regained consciousness. It made no sense grammatically, but it was pretty. Not the most amazing thing in the world, but hey: this is not the greatest poem in the world--that was lost in my dream--this is just a tribute.
I can probably answer the question as to whether the words themselves are random, meaningless garbage, by taking a different dream I had recently, this one about math. Bryan told me he was going to hike the John Muir Trail next week. He did not explicitly invite me, as is his habit, but I was considering inviting myself anyway, as is my habit. But he told me he would take just seven days to do it. Seven days? I quickly did my dream-math in my dream-head:
212 miles / 7 days = 14.1 miles per day
No, don't try to contradict me. It worked out to exactly 14.1 miles per day in my dream. I eventually bowed out of the running because even that perfectly reasonable amount would be too much for my knees to take safely, I thought. But it was a moot point: some guy (whose real relationship to me or Bryan I could only explain in my dream-English, but suffice to say he was some sort of camp director) showed up and turned the world all wonky and Bryan and I eventually ended up falling off a cliff and dying. So that settled that.
14.1 miles is obviously way off. It's less than half the real amount. But, when I think about it, it's pretty goddamn accurate! What was to stop my brain from reaching for 3176.8 miles per day and seeing that it was good? Nothing at all--my brain can do whatever the hell it wants to. Yet, I can't help but think the 14.1 figure was nothing more than randomness--a handy figure chosen because it looked okay, because some part of me wanted it to be the figure, and not because my brain even bothered attempting to do anything that might remotely resemble arithmetic.
Applying this assumption to language, I can only guess that that poem I read in my sleep was probably just a bunch of butchered phrases, smashed together in repetitive couplets, and my brain was providing all the interpreted emotional meaning. In which case... Perhaps those emotions, the impact of the reading, and not the writing at all, is the true script of dreams.
I'm going to bed now.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Speaking of post-apocalyptic, what about this swine flu? What if we have to run for the hills away from angry flu stricken mobs? Maybe this is the real beginning of 12 monkeys? That would be interesting. Maybe we should capture some spiders and stuff now so that we won't have to travel back in time later...
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Post-Apocalyptic Ramblings
Trying to think of the first book/movie/story I knew of that incorporated a post-apocalypse scenerio. I know I was aware of it before I saw Terminator 2 in 1992, but I can't think of anything off the top of my head, let alone just beneath my scrotum. So rather than trying to think out loud and come up with what was first, I'm just going to list acouple of books/movies that I love that fall within this.
Terminator 1 and kind of 2. Fuck 3 except the last 15 minutes or so.
Jericho
Waterworld
The Postman - book & film
12 Monkeys
Mad Max (only seen second 1/2)
Night of the Living Dead/ Dawn of the Dead/ Land of the Dead
Episode of Twilight Zone where the guy survives a nuclear war in the library basement then breaks his glasses at the end. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Time_Enough_at_Last)
The Happening (acting could be better but I like the story)
(Really want to see Deep Impact)
Wall-E (except the last 10 minutes)
The Stand - book & film
(Not post-apocalyptic but falls under Survivalists)
LOST
Lord of the Flies
Anyway, just brain ramblings at work before I try to sleep for 2-3 hours.
Terminator 1 and kind of 2. Fuck 3 except the last 15 minutes or so.
Jericho
Waterworld
The Postman - book & film
12 Monkeys
Mad Max (only seen second 1/2)
Night of the Living Dead/ Dawn of the Dead/ Land of the Dead
Episode of Twilight Zone where the guy survives a nuclear war in the library basement then breaks his glasses at the end. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Time_Enough_at_Last)
The Happening (acting could be better but I like the story)
(Really want to see Deep Impact)
Wall-E (except the last 10 minutes)
The Stand - book & film
(Not post-apocalyptic but falls under Survivalists)
LOST
Lord of the Flies
Anyway, just brain ramblings at work before I try to sleep for 2-3 hours.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Yo
As the first person to post on this blog, I thought I should post something truly enlightening. Something worthy of worship and disdain alike. Something to fuel discourse, debate, and consideration for eons to come. So here goes:
Boobies.
Boobies.
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