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.