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December 1st, 2009
07:34 am
I'm going hunting for sociopaths and parasites. In the end of ends getting carried away with the genocide is all justifiable in the omnipotent eyes of moral ambiguity. These are eyes that stretch the human condition like a spinal chord with the elasticity of chicken wire. Damn these sycophantic, poor excuses for people; their dance is conniving and insipid. When their tear drops fall they want something and if it isn't flesh off the bone than it doesn't do anyone any good. I wish I was Sam Giancana or maybe Julius Caesar. They'd have no problem pulling off a stunt like this--complete with fake blood, that cakes and collects in small pools at the temples when you've been playing dead too long; that convinces other particles of mascara and foundation to come experience the awful pull of gravity. Armed hordes of compassion and guilt rise in small factions along the sides of my arm, pillaging the impotent defenses of nerve endings, staring out the window sills of compassion and waiting for what they've been told is "freedom". And the consciousness sits in it's chair like an overwhelmed dictator. Elapsed and eclipsed with frustration over overwrought battle plans. His clammy left palm being warmed by the subtle breath from his nostrils that permeates his lungs with the oscillation of sympathetic sighs, all while at race with the thoughts and agendas of past and future presidents. The short one in the back gets up and asks "is it nostalgia that illustrates such a bleak narrative? Orwell could not have cooked up anything so depressing in an off-hand way." The dictator of consciousness is too slow to speak. The cuff links on his arms are caught on the mahogany throne in which he sits, and in his current state he's too afraid to raise them in the first place. Blank expressions until the black face clears off. Infadels, infadels impregnated what used to be the metal banquet until nothing remains. Warm jets against the legs until the calf being made ready for the veal slaughter is comfortable and ready. Damned be the giving, aggressive be the bold. As the finger tips of women cool and conjeal the outstretched form, giving it leisure; context (?) in the wake of jagged friction against unwilling and unforgiving surfaces. Surfaces that never fill, and allow no pools of fake blood to collect. Collect with mascara. Collect with foundation. At the browned and blackened heart of opportunity. At the epicenter of simultaneous lust and goodness. Goodness as pleasure. Goodness in the sake of righteousness. In white cloaks, and spattered blades of ash and destiny. Forsaking the ball and chain in lieu of a simple rock and sling. Master of the broken flesh that sheaths his weapon from it's cover at the last possible minute. Surfaces that will never fill with anticipation or satisfaction.
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November 26th, 2009
02:00 am
Leary,
Murder is easy. It's living with it that's hard.
Positivity. The larger picture.
Move forward with progress.
Matt
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November 12th, 2009
03:11 am
I made many rapid, swift, sweeping changes in my life this month. I exercised deep desires for projects and ambitious projects I've undertaken to cut the fat and make progress. I have not enacted these changes in the best way possible. I let my inflated emotions get the best of me, and I made other people's feelings secondary in my priorities.
But god damn it I'll be damned if I'm not ecstatic about the results. I'm elated. I could not be happier. Everything is FINAAALLYYYYY moving in the right direction. Towards destiny-- all of these players in life not pretending to be what they thought they needed to be, but actually going where they were meant to be.
I'm glad some of the people I've heard have come to the understanding that I made the decisions I've made for the better of everyone, but I know for others there's just no pleasing them. There's just no pleasing them.
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November 5th, 2009
01:01 pm
"I no longer have faith in the album anymore. I no longer have faith in the song."  Photo by Denny Renshaw
It has now been more than four years since Sufjan Stevens released Illinois, the second album in his proposed 50 States project. Sufjan had claimed that he was going to release an album in honor of every one of our United States. But at this rate, unless he picked up the pace drastically, he wasn't likely to ever finish the project, unless he lived to be about 200. In a recent interview with Paste, Stevens admits that the entire ambitious concept was "such a joke."
In that same interview, Stevens talks about how his focus turned toward his recent multimedia project The BQE, which consumed his attention after Illinois: "In all honesty, [The BQE] is what really sabotaged my creative momentum. It wasn't Illinois so much. I suffered sort of an existential creative crisis after that piece. I no longer knew what a song was and how to write an album. It overextended me in a way that I couldn't find my way back to the song."
Elsewhere in the interview, Stevens expresses what sounds like a total lack of interest in the album as an art form: "I'm wondering, why do people make albums anymore when we just download? Why are songs like three or four minutes, and why are records 40 minutes long? They're based on the record, vinyl, the CD, and these forms are antiquated now. So can't an album be eternity, or can't it be five minutes? ... I no longer really have faith in the album anymore. I no longer have faith in the song."
Looks like it might be a while before we hear any albums from Sufjan Stevens, let alone any albums in the 50 States project.
I want to remember this because I've been redefining how I feel about the album as a medium, and it's future. I'm intimidated and fearful at the "death" of the album. I'll explain more later on today, but I think I've got the foundation to a pretty good idea.
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October 10th, 2009
09:13 pm
I'm curious, following the summer of our discontent where there was this escape valve for a lot of anger in this country especially over what I believe is directed at the administration's approach to solving the nation's problems. After the anger, what then? Can this sentiment, this expression, be changed into anything productive? Do you think its possible for some kind of concensus in a country that does seem to be, at least from the nation's airwaves, so extraoridinarily polarized.
Not without truth, not without an end to corruption.
Truth is like water. It is the essential blood of life. Yet the closer it gets to being pure, distilled, the more poisonous it becomes.
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08:38 pm
The moral play of Rhode Island carries out like a junkyard dog tied to the roof of a three family apartment. Needless to say, it is ugly and in most areas of its body an indefinite gray fur as opposed to a black or tan. I am passionate, and want to carry the bonds of blackness in a world made gray. "You did this to yourself" I'd like to comment. That said, I am being strategic. I'm still fighting a war. I am carrying out a campaign rather than pursue the straight and narrow path of righteousness. Everything is a competition and he has been beating me for years. Or does he just do this without knowing? Is it better to end friendships now, knowing they've never been the way I want them to be? Does every relationship have to be economical? As in an even transaction of feelings for materials?
I'm mad about March. I don't even care if I see Annie again, but I'm mad about March. The thought of March makes me burn with hate. The slithering through my fingers as I carried him into that ranch home in the suburbs of Westchester stained my hands with hate worse than blood and pains worse than an acidic boiling away of the tolerant epidermis. There is no more tolerance. My hands are raw and so is my chest. But is this why I'm doing this? Is this why I'm going to follow through with this lengthy, sudden, almost... cosmetic surgery.
I'm angry about the carelessness, the addictions, the thoughtlessness, the inconsideration. All of which would be deserving of the mighty hand of revenge if it was intended. But how can you tell whether it is or it isn't? How do you ask the player on the other side of the chess board if he's really trying to beat you? Is there a chess board? Is there a win scenario? There must be players. There is no question of that.
God damn it, do I fill this void? I feel the sudden pulls of gravity-- that gravity that makes men do simple things no matter how just or how wrong. I feel the part of humanity that simply does things because they are there, and never ask whether or not it should be done. That part of humanity that climbs mountains, slaughters millions of jews, fucks anything that moves, gives to charity, walks on the moon, and (with great regret and pride do I say this) makes art.
Julius Caesar would do this. Sam Giancana would have done this a long time ago. Without hesitation.
Do I take the queen with his rook? Is there even a chess board there at all?
"I handle philosophy. I like things as black and white, everything fitting into one place."
"But mom, the whole world is gray. On the highest echelons of science, art, mathematics, you get to a place where the entire realm is gray."
I wish I was Sam Giancana or even Julius Caesar.
Then maybe I'd get ahead and the trials of life would be made easier.
—Dietrich Stauffer
All of war is deception.
When you have no enemies, you just start hating your friends.
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October 7th, 2009
12:39 am
and its going to end like that. you could've helped it. you could've done something, you coudl have given a shit. maybe i shouldn't put this much pressure on you.
either way this is going to get brutal and ugly.
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October 2nd, 2009
03:02 pm
Watch CBS News Videos Online
35:07... THAT'S how I wanted to say it. Oh, Katie you're a poet.
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September 14th, 2009
08:24 pm
Dear Leary,
I guess I needed a good two weeks of actual surviving. To be convinced. I remember for so long being convinced I didn't have what it took to survive. I was somehow convinced that the mad tragedy of education was going to be that no matter how hard I worked I would not find a place in this world. That, somewhere, somehow if there was ever a person that could not fit it would be me. My fortune over the last two and a half years or so dictated that this world was not a place for me (I guess I just wasn't made for theeeese times). I was forced to live with the possibility that I was intolerable. It's so comforting to be reassured that the world wasn't as hostile environment at all.
In fact, what scared me the most about Harlem was it was the first time I actually belonged to something that involved a living situation as well. Before, in the old old variety shows (the ones where they stood on the chairs the first week after winter break) I felt like I belonged... but not when I got home from school. There's fear. I don't know if that was all of it. I'm sure there was much more.
I can't help but think of the neighborhood whenever I walk to Neighborworks in my mornings. I can't help think of the hanging shade of five story apartment complexes; of the canopy of large blossoming urban foliage with Antony and the Johnsons in my ears; with The Walkmen in my post-mellenial walkman; swelling and floating over the small tributary streams of pavement-- the smaller avenues off the artery of Amsterdam ave. I get nostalgic but I've learned to love in the present tense. I've learned not to chase the ever fleeting flies.
The road years are over. I'm settling now. I have a range life. I have a back yard and a refridgerator. I had no idea what I wanted so bad about this. It's a refridgerator. It's a back yard. It's a porch. I mean, I guess I could've said the same thing about that fire-escape we called our balcony. Or the actual balcony that hung off the connecticut apartment.
But you know what, it's much better writing to and missing you than missing someone who was never there at all. I did that most of college. The entire time I was telling myself I shouldn't have, but isn't that half the reason anyone does anything anyway? The temptation; that the mountain is there to be climed at all?
George Mallory knew more about love and evil than Ayn Rand, Shakespeare, the troubadours, the beats, the old Italian beaurecrats, the Nazis, the transendentalists and the existentialists combined. But that's another story. Another time.
May the road years come again, after a certain period of pause and assett management.
Love,
Andrade
Current Music: Return to Cookie Mountian on repeat
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August 17th, 2009
10:05 pm
"You know what's sad, Matt? No one's going to love you as much as you love music."
The comedy of life is... it also works vice versa.
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July 27th, 2009
01:32 am
23Matthewfuck it thats what i say i love the way you say hello matt demello :) how are you? 01:24Mattheweh im a fresh cell in the sea content and happy about being content which is slightly contradictory oh matt you are so poetic now to the important matters have you seen 500 days of summer yet and if so-thoughts ? 01:26Matthewi read rave reviews so as always, waiting for friends' opinions well this is one friend who says FUCK THAT but then again...i'ma cynic 01:28Matthewi trust two people on movies 1. Cory Waldron 2. Peter Travers thats it but as that Leonard Cohen song goes... for you i could make an exception ugh. you just used leonard cohen in a conversation with me AND AS A COMPLIMENT so you've made it onto my list of favorite people yes it is that easy shhhh don't tell anyone 01:29Matthew:) you give me faith in the female species hahaha 01:30Matthewhumanity at large as well oh matt 01:30Matthewbut god damn it, where are girls like you from RI who aren't fucking stupid and don't mind a woeful musician whose right big toe is double jointed! mind? i prefer it! :) and i dunno matt but be happy you aren't out here trust me the east coast is wayyyyy better 01:31Matthewof course it is if the mainland pisses us off we can always kill ourselves in the ocean and call it a freak traveling accident :) 01:32Matthewlook at JFK jr!
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July 23rd, 2009
03:02 am
Dear Jared Paul. I think you're a really nice guy. I think you're a fantastic activist and, regardless of your politics, you make one hell of a passionate and gracious American. But god damn it, you make me ache for the day I see a Republican Zach DeLaRocha. I mean, don't get me wrong. I'm a democrat. But I also like variety. And not hearing the same thing twice.
God fucking damn it, does anyone fucking realize that socialism is no god damn better. We're sitting here complaining about fat cats when there is no answer to that problem besides good, honest, mud-raking journalism. I don't even hate socialism that much, I'm not even afraid of it. If the majority wants it-- whatever, I'll take it. But the assumption that goodness is accomplished by one controlling the other, whether it be government controlling business or business controlling government is fucking naive at this point. We've had almost a hundred years since Marx published the Communist manifesto, and NOTHING WORKED OUT. Communism caved in and capitalism compromised.
The moral arch of the universe is indeed long, and bend towards justice. But the other half of the time it's getting blow jobs in back seats, shredding documents, lending predatorily, buying drugs off thirteen year old girls, not using a condom, forgetting, cheating, lying, stealing, never picking up a fucking phone, suddenly becoming aloof, networking, getting ahead, sleeping with strangers. It bends toward justice because occasionally someone pulls hard enough. Usually it's not with pre-written leftist, bullshit, "WORKERS OF AMERICA UNITE!" bullshit.
Pelosi's an asshole too, not just Tom Delay.
They can all fuck up.
The minute you ignore that is the minute you become as trust worthy as Fox News.
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July 22nd, 2009
02:28 pm
Dear Nate,
So glad this is possible. We have no specific ideas in mind, but we love the funeral motif. I think incorporating the image of a body being carried out to sea is pretty essential. Furthermore, I always felt the cover should speak to the vast, cosmic, isolation of the ocean as a metaphor for how death makes us feel-- alone and afraid. The album however ends positively, with an upbeat message of "yes life is probably a meaningless void of chance where awful things are prone to happen without reason, but righteousness and hapiness come from a strategic, flat-out ignorance of these realities. Doing so is the total act of believing."
As I'm typing this I'm thinking of the larger philosophical scope-- that ritual (funerals, weddings, baptisms, rights of passage, music, culture, civilization, the recognition of life's many stages etc.) is the primary way humans conquer their natural feelings of anxiety, fear, mourning and sadness at the inevitable truths of a chaotic, unfeeling universe. We use rituals to con/convince ourselves into believing we have a purpose; to con/convince ourselves into believing that life is worth living; to keep us from joining a chaos we know that is inhumane; to in, essance, keep us human. Basically the conflict is ritual vs. fear, not necessarily life vs. death. The album is a realization that death will always win but fear doesn't have to, necessarily.
I guess that's a start, what do you think?
We agreed that in very small text probably somewhere along the sides of the art that the name of the band and title of the record should be on the album. However, we've all agreed this should in no way be the focus of the art-- merely as a way to give us some name recognition for our first album.
Thank you so much for all your help, we look forward to hearing from you. If you have any more questions, as time is of the essence, you can reach myself (401-744-5307) or our guitarist (401-486-9533) at those numbers.
MOST sincerely,
Matt DeMello
Dear Leary,
I guess I didn't forget the lessons of last summer after all. :-)
Sincerely,
Matteo
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July 20th, 2009
12:10 am
Maybe it's speaking too soon, but I feel like every issue that's been running through my head the past two years or so has been resoundingly resolved. Just after the grad party, I realized I had $1500 in my bank account (and let's be honest, 300 or so is going toward a new ipod) for the first time in 3 years. That was a huge issue since that weekend we went to New Hampshire to get Geoff and play that one off show at Snooker's. The world kind of caved in from there.
Today at around 3 o'clock in the afternoon with no one in my house and me being thoroughly employed... I felt my head kind of scrambling for some responsibility to complete but it just was not there. Even the ludicrous things, the things that were never my responsibilities in the first place but always felt that they were had somehow been logically chased from the confines of my concerns. I remembered that list of "to-do" I had all throughout the last school year and the frustration I felt that for 7 months straight I had the words "change rear left hubcap" on the very bottom of the list-- never getting around to it.
I mean, I guess I could be more anal about the question "what do I have to do now?" and think of the album... that's obviously going to take priority over the next two months. I could think of all the books on my shelf that I've purchased over the last four years and are just waiting to be read. But I guess these aren't responsibilities, they are pleasures.
I'll have more responsibility come September, I know. This next month is going to be the last stand of summer. I won't have another summer of freedom til 2010. Jesus, it's so weird to type that number... to actually be planning that far ahead. What a peculiar and dynamic decade this has been. No one could have planned it, and I'm willing to bet that really no one is going to memorialize or trivialize this decade with retroistic nostalgia or anything of that sort. It'll certainly be overlooked. It'll go down in history as "oh yeah, 9/11 happened... then we elected the first Black American President."
Both of those events are important sure, but it's decades like this that make wide eyed radicals; that spawn something much more widespread. But it's so hard to think of another set of ten years when it consistently feels like the world's survival is somehow hanging in the balance on a palpable, realistic level. I just don't see it happening. The world can only hang on a string for so long before some level of normalcy prevails... right?
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July 18th, 2009
02:28 am
5 years (kind of sickening to write) and counting... Ice age, heat wave can't complain.
4 years and counting ... C'mon U-turn!
1 year and counting... You know the thing about fear? It's chaos.
My my my, how the world changes.
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July 12th, 2009
10:50 pm
Dear Leary,
There is a world deep inside the concrete pockets and bubbles of sea wall lenses, and those fire escapes in Harlem apartments we mistaken for balconies. Each cries out for a new vernacular and a new linguist to conjure it's conjugations. By "new" it's not the "new" that Ezra Pound was talking about, no, it's the only kind of new that is genuine and true; the kind of new that is merely a reshuffling of the deck; a reshuffling to the point where even the cheaters can not forecast the first six cards on the table; the kind of reshuffling where the cards don't seem like cards at all. This is the sensation that salivates between the seats of passengers and drivers, and is shared over breakfast nooks on the brick patio streets of Fells Point. If there is a god and he is American, then there is a heaven and it's in Baltimore-- somewhere a couple blocks from where the black, teen entrepreneur is selling water bottles wiped clean of their corporate labels and the Pasteurs of boarded up neighborhoods washed up on the banks of I-95 don't stop him at all, in fact such places give him business.
We will meet there in our current exiles, until we are reunited. What we have discussed is not permanent. I say again, you do not need to be the monster that your emotions and your past want you to be. Fine if this the course of least resistance, and more importantly, least destruction or least consequence; however, your reasons are damnable. Your reasons represent a cancer that could very well swell and inflate the many organs of your soul and devour you whole. If you're going to carry through with the choices you've made, do them because they're a debt to which you will regret eternally your inability to return; or rather, a withdrawal of money that you need because you have worthwhile and righteous dreams, not because you want to take revenge on a flawed and miserable patron.
These are the reshuffled morals of our times, the ones that will take us into the new decade. The king is gone but he's not forgotten, it's time to pick the good fruit of the trees before they go rotten. Don't stop for the light bulbs that run underneath the memories that appear in your drunken stupor. Don't stop for all the tea in the polluted, small town ponds that run between here and the breadbasket states. They'll only slow you down, take you off guard, try to take you seriously as you lean your head nostalgically against the framed window of the greyhound buses. You may go crazy before the mansion on the hill, but that's the point. The point is not to be marketable, to be flashy, nor to be sell-able, but rather, to be sold; to be convinced-- to be perfectly flawed. There really is very little differance between them, perfection and flaw, i mean... when you think about it. In fact, there is no difference at all.
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June 15th, 2009
03:32 am
we either have a shitload in common or nothing at all
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03:00 am
and i will not lie to you, its dumb faux poetic smut like you that firmly assert my reasons for not giving a shit. why should i? people like you poison the well. you go off about love and fiction and the sixties and promise the world to everyone who passes before your lips. and its people like you who get taken, who get raped, who get slipped a roofie-- and thats all just fine with me. Because I saw it coming. It was predictable and whatever can be predicted just slaps right into my comfort zone. Don't fucking butter me up. Do you know how many times I've had this conversation before? About how in love you are? About how great he is? HE'S FUCKING SMUT. SOMETIMES I CAN'T BARE TO FUCKING LOOK AT HIM. AND THATS FINE I CAN LIVE WITH THAT I CAN FUNCTION WITH THAT. Cuz when you started going off about how I just need to find the right person I almost started to laugh, hell I almost died. Cuz the last person I met that barely fit that qualification, he was fucking on the floors of harlem like a god damn animal. Not a care, moral or conscience in the world. Just mooching and sucking off the graciousness of his friends with no intentions of showing respect or paying anyone back. Have pot? He'll smoke it. Have beers, he'll drink them. Have dreams he'll kill them. Have someone you care about, he'll ruin them. It's almost enough to just hit the plan b button, kill everyone's dreams and just move out to LA with my cousin. I mean, hell I can be that big of an asshole too-- no one gives me credit for being as nice as i am. And no one seems to ever really want to punish him when he completely . Speaking with you was insulting to my intelligence. Never have I wanted so badly to re-do 3 minutes of my life I so recently wasted doing something productive... maybe like going to the toilet or watching Fox news. And you want me in your clique and for everyone to just be connected. aww isn't that fucking sweet. doesn't that just work out for everyone doesn't it? yeah, why dream, right.
Do you know how many times I've had this conversation before? It immediately preceeds the "look at what he did to me" conversation. Sometimes by years, sometimes by months, hell I hope you last more than a few days. Don't tell me I need to find anyone. I got me. Since April 2007, I have me. I have yet to find anyone else who doesn't go back on their word.
they slight, fuck, spew, kill, clean, sever, lie, cheat, steal, hate, and forget... worst of all they forget.
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June 11th, 2009
01:40 am
"When you don't make room for enemies, you end up hating your friends." He said to me as he climbed into the capsule to make his final descent. Like an astronaut or fisherman he waved a sterling goodbye, as his friends and loved ones stared in a cool defiance. Oh such a wreckless choice. Exploding bullet in the dark of madness spinning in shame, it's such a comforting place lacking any first middle or last names. Rolling through school yards and tractor trailer parks looking for fireworks war-reenactments, telling everyone to clear out because there was some kind of drug bust going down. Man I can't believe you stayed with him. Such a harsh betrayal. A thickness of wordless coagulating adjectives that just is too convoluted to pass for surreal. The 2nd New Deal lines up in concentration sores, tumors, and cancers outside the head. They were cutting parsley in time for thanksgiving dinner. Just waiting for the betrayal. Brutus and Judas sitting at the last bar on earth, waiting for the second coming of Christ when instead John F Kennedy Jr. walks in. He tells him a joke, something about a driver and a steering wheel and Brutus takes it as his cue to hit the road. When he drives drunk, it's as romantic and ill fated as Don Quixote-- and just like the king of useless ideologues nobody wants to stop him, it's just so beautiful to see him fail. Watching Brutus wreck on a telephone pole is like watching the starving artist on the Grecian Urn finally get his long awaited kiss. Maybe it wasn't supposed to happen, but it has. That's the Zietgiest, what wasn't supposed to happen has happened and this is the sequel to the movie they couldn't remake. They were right when they said life goes on far after the thrill of living is gone, but in this decade you can't afford to believe it.
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May 16th, 2009
03:58 pm
I will eternally be a johnny rotten in a room full of clarke gabels. feeling infinite as soon as I walk out of the party. As soon as the world comes to close to the whirling aftermath and half hearted maelstrom. In the pool I felt like my grandfather, Mr. F Scott Fitzgerald. The swimmer eternally jumping from party to party. Which is fine just lonesome. Perhaps that is the human condition to be lonesome handsome and nothing else. Dear god forgive me for my sins, because if there's a cake to be had I'll have that cake and it eat it too. Yes, I can eat it too. With all memory in the background, fading to glory. Just like Jussscali on my shoulder bleeding from her knees and vanishing like the wicked witch of the west into the burbon flood. Clashing sabers and tepid vainglory. God didn't mean for anything happen he just sparked the eternal ignition, that downcast into mesopotamia-- the cradle of all stories. Then the story got to me, who believes in nothing. Except the drink. The drink of eternal youth-- downcast and everlasting glory, sipping coke out of the lips of their piglet snouts until they slap me around in a Providence basement. Regreting regret until the early morning. This isn't the sadness at all this is the Matthew speaking in timelessness. This is how I will ever be. Dissatisfied in a perfect trajectory until Meghan gives me the pleasure of salivation. All terrible lyrics, all rapid dynamics, all hyperbolic, untruthful lies lies lies lies lies lies. Oh baby, give me my vainglory finally. Like Roarschache, like Spenser, like Dylan, like Leonard Cohen, like Hobbes, like Orson Welles did when he made the Magnificent Ambersons... or Citizen Kane... whatever. I will eternally be a Johnny Rotten in a room full of Clarke Gabels. I will not be happy. But happy just was not in the cards for me. Genius Fuck. Tepid stupidity. Here I Fucking Cum. In your ass straight to oblivion in terrible terrible lexicon, lyricism, and destitute language.
Pray and Prey to god tonight my sweet. Even Dasndill can't be you. Even Dansdill falls to sleep tonight in the misery of his own mediocrity. And I should know. I am the king of mediocrit.y.
<3 you Sony. Fuck all that wiry zeitgiest mess you threw down my esophogus.
I was hiding and I was scared, and I saved myself from the flood.
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