My mindest

*This is one from the bunch of poems i wrote for my creative poetry writing class during my last spring quarter in Athens. Wow, that is weird to say. And fuck, do I miss that place like crazy! I went back there a couple weekends ago to camp and completely surprised Mattias. The entire town still felt like a home to me. So in commemoration of the first place i found and turned into a home, here is a vintage Schenk poem.*

Grown-ups Not Allowed

I live in a nameless town that only wandering

children could find, only they could imagine it.

I was born twenty-two years ago and

a number six candle will illuminate

my next fifty birthday cakes.

A town where excitement worked as oxygen,

inhaling as we marched, zigzagging

through the trees and jousting sticks

upward with the rhythm of our song.

We folded pirate hats out of newspaper

and a cardboard box morphed 

into a ship before our eyes.

This ship let us triumph over rotting cold

and we floated past growing old.

Adventure roared and soared until

the day we found contentment.

The jubilee filled us like hot air balloons 

taking us around the world.

We exhaled our way to the ground, 

resting our bones that traveled the earth

and our eyes that still magically sparked. 

The dimming of our fire was prevented 

by the skipping of adulthood,

the dullness of over investing responsibility.

Instead we grew from children to elders,

basking in a life well lived. 

Hopefully some of my old Athens friends will read and remember back to the magical place that we were a part of, created, and enjoyed. I fucking miss all of you a ton. And as I said to you many times before, so long. 

Ice Cream Advice

Last summer while I was staying in Athens to take a summer class my age-old friends Aaron, Sam, and Anna came to visit me at my cabin. It is always a great time with the Gorman crew. I've been best friends with Aaron since we were two so we have inside jokes dating back to the early 90's. 

We were hanging out and watching some of our longtime movie faves when we our sweet tooths got the hankering for some apple pie and ice cream. So we trekked out to Wal-Mart for snacks and supplies. At the freezer section we stood in front of the isle of glass doors pondering which choice of the hundreds would satisfy the most. We were also trying to have a smigen of health consciousness during our indulgent snacking. The cartons that sported claims of half the calories, 1/3 the fat, or sugar free were earning our attention. Our decision was almost made on a lowfat peanut butter and chocolate chip delicacy when we heard...

"You don't wantta eat that shit."

Our attention drifted away from the ice cream and we found a peculiar man addressing us. Here was this strange man, wearing penny loafers and sockless, bidding his supposed seasoned and experienced advice on ice cream choices to four young college kids. My guestimation on his age was 46 and although I have no clue what his name was, I am dubbing him as Glen because nothing could fit better. He was rocking khaki shorts in which the fabric barely extended to the halfway mark of his waist and knees. The shorts were more white than the traditional khaki color and they contrasted the black tank top that let a tuft of blond and gray hair puff above the neck collar. A gold chain necklace sat cushioned on top of the curlies. Urgh.... hack.... Glen's head was highlighted by his large semi-tinted eyeglasses, mustache,  and the perimeter of blond and gray hair that circled the shiny bold spot on the peak.

"Huh?" I replied.
"That lowfat stuff has chemicals and shit in it. You don't want to eat that."

"Oh yeah, is that so?" Sam asked half joking. 

"Yeah, you want the all-natural ingredients. I've been going off of natural fat for a long time and it has done me no harm," Glen confirmed. 

"I guess that makes sense," Anna said cautiously. 

Aaron didn't say a word. His face blatantly showed how weird he thought this guy was.

Glen confessed, "I have to stock up on this stuff because when I go back to the East coast it is so expensive." He then continued to pile half gallon cartons into his arms until he had a selection of five different kinds. 

"It looks like you know what you are talking about," I said as I picked out an all-natural vanilla bean carton and the others okayed my decision. I think that we were half confused, partially convinced, and a little intimidated that his pals back on the East coast might come after us for disrespecting his experienced advice and choosing an ice cream with 1/3 of the calories and loads of chemicals. Glen was a small guy, but he could have some connections. 

We thanked Glen for his advice and parted ways because we needed to find our apple pie. After the apple pie was selected we headed towards the checkout. We were standing in line for a couple of minutes when Glen pops up behind us with his armful of ice cream. He sees our selection of the all-natural vanilla bean and exclaims, "That's what you want! That's the good stuff!" 

"We are looking forward to the natural way of eating ice cream," Sam said. Glen grinned at us so we left. 

The ice cream and apple pie did end up to be quite delicious and it was an interesting encounter with my good friends since the beginning of time. I just hope that I avoided a bio-nuclear stomach ache because we followed Glen's advice about getting the natural kind. 

Build Us Fiction live at The Cabin March 13, 2010.

Thanks a million times over to Sam Gorman for learning a crazy amount of our strange material in only one day for us and rocking out on drums.

When Kid A was finished...

Thom Yorke was asked in an interview with Spin magazine, "You once said of OK Computer: "'At the 11th hour, when we realized what we had done, we had qualms about the fact that we had created this thing that was quite revolting.'" Any similar (or otherwise) thoughts about the new record?"

Thom said, "When we finished it made me cry sitting in the back of a car from start to finish... does that help?"

Amazing.

Another dimension in The Spacement

It has been a long time since I wrote anything so I will do just that. Maybe a few things. 

On February 6th my band and I played a show at my friend Logan's house. Mike Shine was out of town for the weekend so Zach, Pat, and I trashed as an instrumental group for the night. Logan has a big empty basement that has been converted into a bomb shelter-like venue that allows curious ears to trudge through the tide of snow that appears in one large falling, recedes and melts away, then cycles back to another onslaught. Those ears track water on the basement floor from the shoes that carry them up to the wooden stage built at the far end. The spray painted wall depicting outer space and a gigantic space monkey are illuminated by blue and green lights on the ceiling. Christmas lights lace around the stage corners. Build Us Fiction was in zero gravity on February 6th.

We played there once before with a couple of jam bands. The first set belonged to us and the crowd had not built up yet nor did we fit perfectly well with the jam bands. But this night, it was post rock night and that is our haven. EPIC.

The first act was a single person playing loops and samples. It was really mellow and a great way to open the show and get everyone's earbuds hungerin' for big guitars, bass, and drums. I had previously recorded dialogue from Donnie Darko and edited it together to make a creepy 4 minute clip. We turned off all the lights in The Spacement and began the clip. "I've been seeing stuff... like really messed up stuff," confessed Donnie and Frank the Bunny immediately replied with "Wake up," in his spine shivering voice. The drums and bass began their thumping forewarning of war, apocalypse, whatever else may come. As the pulsation of drums and bass carried onward, Donnie and his therapist discussed what would happen if the sky were to open up and bring the conclusion of the world. The thumping continued and Donnie asked Frank, "When is this going to stop?" in a childish voice.

"You should already know that." 

I enter with bowed guitar and the sonic atmosphere truly is in outer space. The three of us slowly grow more aggressive. The drums become more sporadic and intense. The bass moves from its gradual thumping to the pounding melody of the entire song. My drones spin out of control, collecting anything in its path with an encompassing swirl of sound. The hairs on my bow split and lash out like tentacles. We went wild and ferocious and then calmed down, watching our storm blow away and the next one rearing in the distance. 

The crowd made more noise and applause than I am used to. It was a warm feeling. 

In came the ominous bowed guitar to begin "Sleep Is Gone." It's slow and wavering like the next storm holding back to build the fear of what might come. The rains came without an ounce of mercy so even the rocks and stones were waterlogged. The drums set the rhythm for a march towards war with our blood stained swords dangling next to our hips above mud that hasn't seen grass in years. The bass keeps the pace of our heartbeats that haven't known rest in a very long time. Bowed guitar circles around the entire scene, trapping the field in a vortex we can't escape. This is a song about war in your head. Conflict has torn you apart and resolution hasn't come. You can't find peace so sleep is gone. 

I finally get to smile during the next song. "Waking Into the Sky," is my moment of realization. In this song I am content with the sorrow because it makes the happy times fill with so much importance. For the first time I leave my bow and wall of effects that I use to escape into another dimension. I strip it down and let it go exposed. People can now hear my mistakes, but it feels good and even when the song is bare of its usual otherworldly effects I like to build up to something bigger than realities we occupy. 

Our fourth and last song of the night was a new one called, "Figment of my Imagination." It is made up of three movements and no repeating verses or choruses. In the first movement we groove. Imagine that, a post rock band grooving. But this song embodies a fascination of mine. I find wonder in the polar opposites of the scale. Really intense things and extremely delicate moments are spectacular to me. The middle ground is unbearably boring. My obsession with Sigur Rós is perfect proof of this statement. The only feeling I can muster while listening to Incubus is nostalgia. I listened to them everyday for six years and now it's like looking at old memories in a photo album. They fall into the middle ground while Sigur Rós is stampeding on the intense terrain  and tip toeing through the tall grass. That is the core of this song. The ending is by far our most intense finale and I was in another galaxy while playing it. The applause at the end woke me up from my dream. I fucking love that alarm clock. 

Sparks of Color and Sound

Erasing his own 

presence, the past that built

a space without stars. Losing

his flaw to restrain, denouncing 

the crippling realities of reality.

He induced everything at the end,

freely dispelling the truths in

exchange for magic, that

bone chilling apparition. 

The effect as if he knew

that he was trapped, but 

still flaring the end of

spontaneous,

gorgeous

   crescendos. 

Here's a snippet of my fiction story/short book/tale

*I was in South Carolina with Jake  last weekend to visit David and the three of us had tickets to see Brand New in Myrtle beach. Brand New decimated and destroyed as usual, but the night before the concert David took us to a couple bars and a dance club. Since I don't drink, it was rather awkward for me dance (more like dry hump) with a drunk girl so I stayed on the sidelines. At least creative inspiration struck and it lead to an addition to the fictional story I have been working on and off for the past year or so. I like it, so here it is. The title of the story is Inside The Brain Library. *

The rainbow array of lights seizured around the ceiling. Bodies magnetized by sweat and spiced cologne gyrated with movements that would clench the fists of their fathers'. Feet didn't move due to the traps of sticky puddles that splashed from the rims of fruity mixed drinks. Hips and hands did all the moving, they did all the talking. Gazes were driven by the prospect of sex and body language was the only form of communication. Nobody spoke with words because it would have been too sloppy to understand from the liquor and the deafening bass frequencies spit out by the speakers. Everybody was drowning in alcohol.

Luke Bright stood cemented to the floor. Ten minutes ago he was molded with a girl, working his drunken charm on her drunken ears. He thought her name was Monica, it was Carey. Now the gyrating mass stayed from his blank stares towards the flashing lights, leaving him with the only private place in the building. A foot and a half radius of space between him and the mob of sex was a separate universe going through an instantaneous evolution. His desire for quick gratification was done.

 

He didn't know how or why, but Luke's brain was holding a shovel, taking up the earth to bury his old ways that he was not proud to have done. Luke had tried to hide his past deeds  in the farthest regions of his brain, but had failed time and time again. The memories always resurfaced, no matter how much dirt he piled on top, his past would eventually crawl out and find him again. This was the last hole his brain would ever dig. 

 

Luke's past had always came after him like a monster tearing apart everything he started to build. Relationships and life goals never went anywhere promising. Every flame he ignited was blown out with suffocating effectiveness. Now his brain had the monster in the grave, but before he filled the dirt back into the hole he raised the shovel into the air with both hands. Muscles and gravity drove the metal tip into the throat of the monster. Two inches of neck were gone and the shovel was removed. Another strike and three more inches were torn. Two more gone, three more gone and only four inches of skin and vertebrae and veins held the head to the monster. The shovel raised towards the sky and them met with the ground, passing through the last four inches of his past. The crowded space in Luke's head was cleared. His brain had space to move around, space to think. There wasn't a trace of past to piece together as clues. With the disappearance of the victim, so did the suspect and the act fade into nothingness. It is impossible to tell about Luke's history because even he became unaware of it. The past that haunted him had been destroyed, decimated to leave only an empty space with no residue of what had been there before. 

This evolution happened as the mob continued to gyrate, clueless that Darwin's theory was taking place inside a brain standing in their center.