Here Come the Bastards (This is not paranoia, this is really happening.)

Just what the hell do I think I'm doing?

This job is gonna kill me if I don't get out soon.  The bastards are closing in on me.  I swear they're out to get me.  Three weeks and I've already been written up.  I should've asked for proof.  They pinned me for something neither they nor I could back up.  I shouldn't take things lying down like that.

This week, I so gratefully accepted the 17 hours of $9.98/hr. pay they offered me.

Did you know it's against company policy to discuss hourly pay grades with other employees?


These guys are so serious about their jobs.  You'd think they grew up wearing blue shirts and khakis every year for Halloween.  Beside the managers and a select number of contemporaries, I could be in worse shape.  I met a few good people I think may save my sanity in that place.  But I'm not getting comfortable.  As soon as I let my guard down, the bastards are gonna promote me and next thing I know I'm brainwashed blue and yellow.  I need to find a new job soon.  I need to go back to school.  I'm told I should find my niche and get settled in it.  I think I might be nervous to tell my family what my niche is:

• Filmmaking
• The Avant-garde
• Music
• Surrealism
• Writing

I don't have any idea where or when these interests were bestowed upon my rotten little brain, I just know I want to be part of that culture.

I suppose my ideal career would be a job with a magazine or website like Pitchfork, where I listen to music all day and night and write reviews.  That would be magic.

So Tired of Fire

Started working again today at a new store.

Feelin’ pretty low again for working such a dead end job.

Stopped at Vinyl Conflict to maybe pick up a new album,

Cheer myself up.

When out of the blackness a horseman did ride.

Flippin’ Tony Foresta of Municipal Waste!

I bought the new album, something I was waiting for this particular store to get in before I bought it. He signed my copy, shook my hand and Bobby of V.C gave me a bonus 7” for being one of the first five people to buy a copy.

Amazing album! Limited Edition First Yellow Pressing with poster featuring art by Andrei Bouzikov (http://andreiboo.blogspot.com/)

Favorite Tracks thus far…

Repossession

Unholy Abductor

Covered in Sick/The Barfer

and of course

THE FATAL FEAST!

Check out more about Municipal Waste @

www.facethewaste.com

Also...

If any of my readers are interested, I will also be posting the same content on Tumblr, at moderationandtheredtickertape.tumblr.com

All of this, in perfect synchronicity

Sean made the effort to wish the world well...

I will be trying something new.  As it appears that some blogging websites are more popular than others, I will be posting all content I post to this site, on thegardentheapparatus.wordpress.com

I'll be taking a few posts from this site and copying them to wordpress in case anybody interested in wordpress would be ready to make the switch. Of course I'll continue to post on both sites, unless I find that I enjoy one better than the other.

~Perth

The Other Night I Dreamed I was a Beetle Living Beneath the Carpet of a Russian Czar

The other night I dreamed I was a beetle,

living beneath the carpet of a Russian Czar.

He had so many guests.

I had the same dream the other day.

I dreamt you had a day to yourself.

It ended beneath the carpet.  That must be where we met.

Click Click.

Baskets

This is a video I mashed together on my phone.  "Baskets".  Any eerie feelings you may be experiencing watching this are fully intended.  The music is courtesy of Richard D. James, a song entitled, "Nannou".  The voices in the beginning are me.  Enjoy!

Breaking Glass Bottles

I've been reading "Crash" by J.G Ballard. When I'm finished, I'll watch the film.  But the carnage and eroticism of this book has inspired me a little.  I'm a big fan of breaking glass bottles.  In the city, walking among the bruised concrete structures and green overgrowth, I find glass bottles half buried in the brush and dirt. The bottles make different sounds.  Thick glass bottles, sealed by a cap caked with grime and dirt makes a loud POP.  Thin, 40 oz. glass bottles make a thin quiet burst when they crash.  This act has attracted me in it's appeal.  Reminds me of angst and trailer parks.  I'll be working on a story about breaking glass bottles in the future.

3AM

The shouting started and the District Human Resources Director Paul jumped from behind the desk we’d been seated at for no more than fifty-five and a half seconds before he made his way, sprinting through hallways past the water cooler and paper pushers just like me. At the corner where the stairs demanded anyone a sharp right he held his hand out where an unsuspecting four inch by four inch framed representation of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers was left skewed violently against the wall like the victim of some domestic dispute. From the window in Paul’s office, I watch him emerge from somewhere beneath me, out into the Parking lot where the shouting had emanated from. With my ring and middle finger I pulled down one more singular blind as to not aware Paul or any other parties of my surveillance. Not that I would be reprimanded for looking. I just would like to avoid as much confrontation as possible. Besides, what’s a scene without its audience? Three stories below Paul was arguing with an Asian man. Familiar, but I couldn’t place his face. The Asian man looked distraught and it seemed he had already halted a black Mercedes attempting to leave the lot in his distress. He pounded small fists down onto the bonnet of the shiny black Mercedes but as weak as the man looked the heavy German automobile remained unmarred. The District Human Resources Director Paul had a cellular phone pressed to his right ear, as his other hand motioned the man to stop his harassment of the vehicle. From Paul’s office, I could hear my associates leaving their chairs to crowd the windows. I listened closer as some of the blinds were pulled up frantically by their cords while others, remained silent, presumably by onlookers like me, who wished to remain anonymous. When I returned my gaze to the situation unfolding outside, the man was thrusting what looked like a knife or some other sharp utensil in Paul’s direction. Paul continued to talk into the phone and motion with his left hand to put down what I perceived to be a knife. Who was Paul talking to on the phone? If he was calling the police, why would the conversation between he and the operator last this long? Perhaps the operator had forwarded Paul to a Chief Negotiator and Paul was acting as a proxy negotiator until the police showed up. The windows between the me and the other spectators up here on the third floor silenced any noise these two made down in the lot below. The entire situation had lasted, from the initial yelling Paul an I had heard from his office, to the time the police arrived on the scene, almost nine minutes. I’m sure the eight minutes and some odd seconds felt like a lifetime for Paul, and a microsecond for the upset man with his knife. When the police apprehended him, he stabbed himself ferociously in the chest and stomach. I began counting the times the knife entered his chest and could hear others in the room next to the office counting also. It was more disturbing than you’d imagine, the way his arm thrashed the blade to and from his abdomen, his long-sleeve white shirt changing red with every jab. It was a terrible look of defeat on his face when the boys in blue wrestled the weapon from his hand. Back in his office, after the police and ambulance and shiny black Mercedes had all left, Paul settled back into the chair behind his desk where he’d arranged pictures of his wife and children, along with several knick-knacks he’d felt were funny but work-appropriate. A larger than necessary mug positioned beside his daily Dilbert calendar read, “Work is easy, when you have an unlimited supply of determination and labor.” The office suddenly felt quiet, though I knew it had been before we took our seats again at the desk. I folded my hands across my lap as District Human Resources Director Paul tapped a stack of papers against their edge and laid them on the desk in front of me.

Museums, Insects and Not Sleeping

A few excerpts that were never published to this page... 2:45 a.m. Thursday
I don't know what to make of it. Last Monday I visited the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts in Richmond. My mother obtained free tickets for the Picasso exhibit so me amd my lady friend made a day of it. The Picasso was wonderful of course. Much of it I hadn't been exposed to previously. Never the less it was enjoyed. What I enjoyed more were the Artists I had much more invested in. I enjoyed the Lichtenstein works and many others. At one point in the museum, I happened across an Installation called "Buddha Watching T.V" by Nam June Paik. After watching the awakened one watching the awakened one on T.V via a stationed camera, I listened intently as a Mother explained to her two small curious children what they were looking at.

10:25 p.m. Saturday
I notice a beautiful flying insect leaving the store. It looks like a butterfly but I don't believe butterflies are nocturnal. Maybe a moth. From my car, I sit waiting for someone to notice it. A little girl and her mother pass it. I hope she notices it. I hope the fluorescent green insect excites her or she cringes at it. She doesn't. I'm parked in a handicap space. The moth swoops and dives in these incredible broad arches. But I think its injured. The movement almost seem violent. Its a little frightening.

1:21 a.m. Tuesday
Meh. I need to be sleeping. In a few minutes I will be. I'm just putting the last touches on this post. In a few hours I will wake up and slump into the passenger seat of my mother's car where I will be driven to my girlfriend's place. I'm hoping I'll be able to get back to sleep once I get there. I have been on a very irregular sleeping pattern lately. I tried breaking it today by getting up early but I fell asleep twice this afternoon. This succession of getting carted around everywhere is killing me. I've had a few questions about selling the guitars. Hopefully I'll get the funding for the engine soon.

Let's Try This Again: Sam Hill Isn't a Bad Person, (He Just Gets a Bad Rap)

Let's try this again. Once more Blogger has eliminated a long drawn out blog post from the page it had appeared. I don't understand it, I won't attempt at understanding it. I just hope that the issue does not continue to burden the poor bloggers trudging this site. It's difficult to remember exactly how I put it before, but I'll try to remember the best that I can. From the 27th of April, 2012 Just what in the hell is going on here? There is dust on the floor and the shelves and tiny footprints where someone might have passed through but certainty of this cannot be told. Just what the hell went on in here? I've returned to this blog after maybe more than a month of absence. I feel inclined to let those of you who read this blog know what has been going on. I think I may have to list these events to make the form more comforting to the readers eyes. 1. Went to Seattle. Great place. But the place is notoriously cold and rainy. And It lives up to it's notoriety. Great record stores and even better bars. Highly recommend the Unicorn for good music and great atmosphere. They make the place up to be something like a Carnival experienced by even the most seasoned LSD veteran's knee deep in a case of the fear. If you're looking to treat your lady as I did, try Oddfellows. Amazing food and our drinks were free because nobody contacted us for the first five minutes we were there. No big deal to me but I'm not one to turn down free drinks. I did the touristy stuff, the Space Needle, the Music Experience Museum or whatever they call it. A friend of mine who lived across the bay came over to take the Underground Tour. Apparently modern day Seattle is built on a smaller city of Seattle that was prone to flooding. We took the "Underworld Tour" which is the same tour they have during the day save they let you drink and tell dirty jokes about prostitutes and feces. My friend and I drank a pitcher and a half before the tour however, which turn what should have been a fun and educational tour into a search for a dark corner to piss. As soon as the tour guide led us back to the surface world, my friend and I were able to relieve ourselves on a couple of doorways in an innocuous alleyway. 2. So that was my vacation. Five days in Seattle. I came back to work to some unsettling news however. The store I work at is closing. Not that the company is going out of business itself, though I could speculate otherwise. On a Saturday morning, we were gathered in a meeting to discuss what was called an important transformation. Now that I think about it, isn't that fucked up? Calling it that? Anyways, we were told that the store was closing and we would be provided a severance package if we did not want to work for the company any longer. Provided we stay on until the store closes on May 12th. I don't want to work for this company anymore. I have a pretty promising opportunity to work for another company who pays very, very well. So I am worried, but not it's not as though I've been left out on the streets. They will continue paying me after May 12th until June 12th. 3. I wasn't going to mention this last part. As it may reflect poorly on the other person involved. But I think my integrity as a writer may depend on relaying the events as they unfolded that night. As long as this person shall remain nameless, I think I may retain some of that integrity. What began as a dispute of differences quickly escalated that night into screaming, pushing and shoving. As this writer began to wind down after the fight had taken just about all he had out of him, he was struck a few times in the side with a broom. Trudging back to the place he had left his keys, he witnessed the abuse of his automobile. It was almost surreal, now that I think of it. I can't believe any of it actually went down the way it did. Irrationality can be a frightening thing I think. After this, I decided to take a new stab at independence. No man is an island as today I received charity I swore the day after this ordeal I wouldn't take again. 4. I finished my novel. It is still in the editing phase. I have unfortunately not conjured the same motivation in editing as I did in writing the damn thing. Please be patient for the few of you who may be wanting to read it. I have done much research into local publishing companies around the city and a few independent publishers beyond the state. One day soon you may own your copy of "A Meth Addict Who Has Stolen Poetry and Will Not Bring It Back". But for now, you'll just have to make up your own stories.

A Scene from a Restaurant Downtown

A coat hangs on some stained mahogany rack in the corner of the room.
A Stetson pork pie hat hangs from the tip of the coat and drips tonight's bad dreams all over the yellow tile floor.
A bus boy with itchy hands and heavy eyes hangs his head and smiles and says in just another hour he'll be on his way.
He hangs a mop in a strainer and watches it mash wet ropes until all those bad dreams spill out into the murky water below.
And all types of memories hang in the air around this place.