i am semischolastic

to keep up this charade. Everything is here: thingsworthnothing.blogspot.com

Joanna Newsom
Chan Marshall
Miranda July
M.I.A.
Bjork

EDIT:

also Mariko Carandang

sheesh.

1. Go to http://www.careercruising.com/.
2. Put in Username: nycareers, Password: landmark.
3. Take their "Career Matchmaker" questions.
4. Post your top ten results.

1. Management Consultant
2. Research Analyst (Financial)
3. Logistics Specialist
4. Economist
5. Special Effects Technician
6. Purchaser
7. Venture Capitalist
8. Actor
9. Operations Research Analyst
10. Industrial-Organizational Psychologist

I'm not sure it's possible to be less interesting while still being bizarre.

someday we shall be as heralds,
but not of the night.
we will carry cataclysm in our hands like rocks
and revelation like bars of iron
and we shall beat flat our hammers of sin
and make no more sacrifices to the god of turmoil.
the laughter will dive and echo and twist
and the road shall be laid before us like
a resounding yes and amen
neither shall we turn to the left nor the right,
cherry blossoms slipping through bits of breeze
the vines and thorns of struggle
will untwine from our feet like dead things
and we will find ourselves not in ourselves
but in another. and there will be no sound
but the steady flow and undercurrent of love,
and our flesh will tremble and slip and shrivel
and we shall trample it underfoot as grass.
the memory of our tears will be confused into silence
we will rub the decay from our eyes like sleep
all we will be braided together like cords of hair
no longer will we be bound with chains of time,
nor toil over temporal and errant soil.
our fears will abandon us,
and we will be left utterly unalone.

Version One

these envelopes stuffed with damp
you wrote of the truce between the mind and heart
of numbness in the tips of fingers
of carefully constructed life

the arbitrary noise calls us home
tricked by rickets and splendor
june drapes itself on the drying line
traffic glistens like a silver snake
I cannot remember the last time we were

where the solemn monolith rests
closeted by fears of precision
drunken hypotheses
decay on the seams of the temple

fits and starts
the resurrection of the body
infatuated with death
you steeple your fingers
pricking the tip of a tongue
ladling asprin

Version Two

With fits and starts, tricked like rickets by splendor,
arbitrary noises call us home.
With drunken hypotheses,
we try to see the edges of light
like that carefully constructed life
with the resurrection of the body,
to sop up our pain like soup.

And We Can Never Decide Where To Stop;
infatuated with death, we steeple our fingers.

these envelopes stuffed with damp
line the streets like tissue paper

Bathing the sky in infamy
is simple as purity
and dark.
We can see the rust of clouds,
but also the decay on the seams of temples,
and roses wound round serpents.

Traffic glistens like a silver snake;
the pricking of its red tongue tip
sends numbness to the tips of fingers.

a truce between the mind and heart
breaking
down
our cardboard box

A solemn monolith drapes itself on the drying line.

Ladling asprin, with saturated visions, closeted by fears of precision—
we tremble and beg the question,
and try to see the edges of light
to sop up our pain like soup,
and I cannot remember the last time we didn’t.

- All music and lyrics written by Fred. Version One produced and arranged by Mariko. Version Two produced and arranged by Dalia.

the sioux conjure up a mountain

the sunset was very sincere
sadness tempered by joy
the dawn on the hillside
this moment is the rest of your life
i am not so solemn all the time

watermelon summer dripping through your fingers
fount of disaster, fount of blessing
when you like it and when you don't
it's very simple to not know what to do
it's silly to do anything but wait

check the rearview mirror for
a time to run and hide
unabsolved from treason
I won't come around anymore
the road looks like a funeral dirge

our sickness is this
psych ward television
punctuate my chest
this is a shot in the darkness
severed hands stitched to wrists
tremulous and shivering

comfort comes slowly but surely
like a frog pond chorus
wisdom has hard callouses and rough edges
sarcastic hope
graphic insults
trip over words and phrases
the proverb begs and gropes and dives
words are well meaning but false

why can't we do this the easy way
the feeling of this is not enough

you are not the great spirit.

- composed by Fred, edited and arranged by Drew

I.
Strange that I should have found it today
on this cold dull morning
I only glanced at it then.

I didn’t really read it till this morning
a poem you sent to me one night
in may two years ago.

II.
The schemas of your body
You spoke of dappled light and hurricane season;
how your jaw, the curve of your arm, whet my impulses.

Your verses scrape the periphery of declaration
I wonder what you would think of me now

I felt the heat of you as we walked in the cold,
though not touching,
still relentlessly romanticizing the weather.

III.
marilyn is still drowning in gold
with her sleepy eyes.
Lolita and Labyrinths are dead to me now.
the needle to the record player
broke off some months ago and i haven’t replaced it.

-written and played by mariko, production and arrangement by fred