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Lemon

 

I am ashamed.

Recipes for Disaster

I recently obtained a lovely new book entitled Recipes for Disaster: An Anarchist Cookbook follow the link to learn a bit more.

One article in particular caught my eye. Essentially, it details how to embed mosaics in asphalt and then embed this on some road somewhere. permanently.
___

I have discussed with friends my thoughts on graffiti, more specifically that If i were ever to become a regular writer it would not be words that I would write, perhaps pictures, but words fail me. The meaning of words change. When I read things that I have written years past I scoff and belittle what was written… pictures much less so… perhaps it is more of a self-deprecating issue than a failure of words but then again reality is merely in the eye of beholder.

Thats all for now,

James Reous

It snowed in Clarkesville yesterday

happiness!

inconveniently loved

I am loved and adored.

i hate myself.

They see 24601,

i see “drop this class”

They see my creations,

i see my missed deadlines.

the world is better than i am.
i exist to breathe, and eat, and sweat, and talk and touch.

it is the love i have for my friends, and more so their love for me, that i still continue to breathe, and eat, and sweat, and talk and touch.

two doses of medication cannot change the fact i am a failure.

i hate myself, for good reason.

do not follow in my footsteps. my path will lead you to where i am now.

i am weak. somehow you were fooled in thinking i was anything else.

go and live, and be not afraid of greatness.

some are born great
some acheve greatness
and some have greatness thrust upon them

i threw mine away in a most unceremonious way.

go and live.

1986

“Acceptable in the 80’s”

Also: a reason not to trust the ‘cloud’ just yet: {Read This}

Last Night’s Dream

I entered the dream having just finished opening the wall-safe in the bank. the money was sloppily stuffed inside. i stuffed it worriedly, in hand-fulls into my book-bag till the safe was empty and closed the door, hiding my theft. it was in the middle of the night, an old southern bank, even in the dark i could see the beige walls and the scuffed fake-marble tile on the floor. i left down a hallway and exited into an alley, some college kids i vaguely recognized were walking by and did not seem to notice, nor care, that i was exiting the service entrance to the bank. i moved nonchalantly to a river in the east (this was obviously not Columbus) there i passed a friend i met in art class, she called out to me and had me read a letter. {this being a dream meant i was un-able to read what was there, }  it implied she was worried about losing her friends for some reason. her boyfriend entered from nowhere and they left, her crying on his shoulder. the sun was beginning to rise, and feeling guilty, i knew that i had to return the money to the bank.

by the time i saw the bank again the sunrise lit the world in an orangey-yellow light and gave stark shadows behind everything. i reentered the bank through a side door. i saw that they had been open for business for a while and already had a full line of people in their maze of vynal strips.

i noticed a small trash can nearby and i decided that this was the best place for me to leave the money {makes sence in a dream} i filled the trash can with the money from my bag and scrawled a note that i placed in the middle of the pile which read something to the effect of:

This is the money you are missing, I will be in-touch.

T

{apparently i signed it with a T, i really don’t know why.}

i woke up as i turned to leave, the bank not knowing me, what i had done, nor really that anything had been taken from them at all.

back again. check it to wreck it. tell a friend.

And now for something completely different.

Hello World.

This is not a test.

a poem, in code.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Code generator: http://qrcode.kaywa.com/
Poem: Emily Dickenson

Trains

by David Shumate

I am seduced by trains. When one moans in the night like some
dragon gone lame, I rise and put on my grandfather’s suit. I pack a
small bag, step out onto the porch, and wait in the darkness. I rest
my broad-brimmed hat on my knee. To a passerby I’m a curious
sight—a solitary man sitting in the night. There’s something
unsettling about a traveler who doesn’t know where he’s headed.
You can’t predict his next move. In a week you may receive a
postcard from Haiti. Madagascar. You might turn on your
answering machine and hear his voice amid the tumult of a
Bangkok avenue. All afternoon you feel the weight of the things
you’ve never done. Don’t think about it too much. Everything
starts to sound like a train.

"Trains" by David Shumate from The Floating Bridge. © University of Pittsburgh Press, 2008.