Saturday, July 29, 2006

Pearls and Dirty Deals

At the lodge, the elderly, Susan McDonald sits moving through smiles hugs and kisses, then starts to talk to a young 30 something about life and the concept of stories. Stories are what define people, make them grow, make them skrink, they define essentially who we are, as we all are a culmination of choices and the consequences there of. Susan had a bone to pick with the world, and so it seeped into every conversation she had. Her day to day interactions were only a series of reminders that she must live the rest of her time as an actor locked into a single scene.

Living in the footsteps of her deceased husband meant attending Lodge gatherings every week. The Lodge was simply an abbreviation for a fraternal type of organization for old folks under a layer of secrets and rituals. She could avoid these gathering, there was always that, but in the end it would be a poor decision, equating to certain alienation.

As Susan speaks to her new young friend, she feels the longing stare of an old codger of high notoriety, Leon Smith. He was the grand chancellor, who always wore his well-pressed blues with a red tie and an antique pocket watch. He stereotypically had cigars and a nice, fine single malt scotch on ice. His mannerisms were equivalent to a whirlpool, he spent his time spinning in social circles, while their powerful drums beat upon his heart, pushing him to stoop to suspicious behind the door deals and insider trading. His status as police chief had once led him to turn a cold eye to the exploits of past chancellors, but now his gaze is fixated solely on the lovely, Susan McDonald. As he speaks to his friends laughing about Cowboys football and bad barbecue at Harold's, she became his only exploit and focus; she was the one he never could quite corner.

The story goes that Leon Smith had to retire a bit earlier than planned, all hush hush of course, to avoid certain infamy as the one who may have single handedly ruined the reputation of the Dallas Police force by participating in the blackmail of a certain Colin McDonald. If it had went public, it could have also adversely affected the exploits of his wife, Barbara Smith, who was President of the Ladies for Christ. It was a classy women's group in the Dallas Baptist Church of Holy Mercy. Barbara has long since passed on, having sucuumbed to the pathogenesis of cancer.

The Church of Holy Mercy would later experience its own share of shame, as its pastor was arrested for having his wife killed. His plan was for he and his trophy mistress to live happily ever after. More so, he wanted the young pretty blonde from Los Angeles, California, to be next to his side publicly so that he, Bill Matula, could be recognized as not only the apple of the Lord's eye as pastor of the largest Baptist church in Texas, but also as the hot shot he wished he always was to his elitist congregation.

The Lord, crafty and ever silent, would have none of this, however, as seen by his eventual tragic demise. Bill Matula was also known for his elaborate love triangles among his flock. He and Susan M. cheated on their respective partners for a brief period of time. It was a lasting rumor, leading to many heated affairs between Colin and Susan, as those in power always become a target for suspicion of dirty deeds. In this situation, however, the speculations were warranted, what with the killing of his wife and all. When Pastor Bill Matula was arrested and all that horror was revealed, Susan did not seem to mind much, in the end he had thrown her aside as quickly as he took her to his bedside. He had moved on to a bigger prize, her former best friend, Lucy Deringer.

Deringer was interesting. She had been the Lodge's Thanksgiving Day Queen in the Lake Highlands Parade for three consecutive years, a Church of Holy Mercy record that still stands. Lucy was the wife of Billy Deringer, a blue blood, who's dad left him the family oil business after he died in 1935; it was a fortune which christened his first born a millionaire at the age of 12. She had chosen money in love's stead, as love to her was only a few months of intrigue, whereas money could take her farther, into the arms of suntanned, Italian bodyguards in the baths of Rome. Ultimately, Lucy knew Susan could never win the battle for the Pastor, and so she became another of her lost loves. At the end of the day, Lucy could deal with losing Susan, if it meant never missing an annual vacation to the Swiss Alps in Europe.

Thus, all these men and women experienced hardship representative of life. They changed in the pattern of sine curves, up and down like roller-coasters: simple, predictable, rudimentary. Wedding after wedding and funeral after funeral, the leaves continuously flipped and turned all shades of dark purples and browns preceding the footsteps of the ever stagnant, Susan McDonald.

As time passed, she became more and more aware that she was the single entity that remained in a time capsule. After her husband passed, it was as if she was placed in a repressive yet spacious container, where she now remained, living yet buried six feet under with her husband at the Willowbend Funeral and Burial Home.

She, locked away there and held against her will, was asking him every morning as she hit the snooze bar and looked over at her empty bed, "Why?" Did she not love him enough, did she not cook the meals to their proper texture, or hold him up in public as the beacon of her day to day? Every Sunday, like a mass or ritual, the lovely Susan would cook his favorite meal, watch Sunday Media Roundtable Delta Force, and return to Willowbend with the paper. She would sit at Colin McDonald's tombstone in a little, red chair she had, and read the paper aloud. Since he had decided to be a force of love in her life whether she liked it or not, she decided she would submit and honor his proclamation.

Alexander Beverage, husband of the fair woman Susan is speaking to, Blair Beverage, waves and moves past them. Blair returns his looks and holds his gaze, smiles, then returns to Susan.

"Why couldn't you ever remarry?"

Susan laughs, "Oh, if I told you, you'd probably leave me right now!"

"No, I wouldn't. It can't be that bad, can it?"

"Oh, it's a story I have no answer to really. It's one that has left me here to interpret it many ways, even by how I am feeling on any day! If I am lonely at home, watching re-runs on the cable TV, oh, it becomes that Colin wanted to keep me forever, even from the grave and afterlife. But, if the day is nice out and the cool December air is moving across my face near the lake down the street, then the story is he wanted me to always think of him and cherish the peace after the storm we had with our marriage. I think he did what he did because ultimatiely he wanted me to decide, 'Do I value money over love?' It's as if he wanted me to validate that Love was greater, more powerful and relevant than money. I was always something of a problem for him when it came to money."”

"I see."

"Love was and is important, but I am not at an age to make a new life. So I have boyfriends, all my age, who dream of dying with a soft spoken, caring wife, that decide to leave after they learn of my little 'arrangement.' It happens around 6 months."

"Susan, what on earth did he do?"

"He put a statute in his will that if I remarry, I would lose all his millions."

Blair was pretty much stunned. Susan had spent a decade living as a revolving door of love and loss, all for the millions of her dead husband, when their kids probably could have taken care of her!

But Blair caught herself, "Who am I?" she asked herself.

She knew that at some point eating and having a roof over her head may have been more important than any ceremony or the comfort of companionship. What did marriage mean when one reaches a certain point, a desperation point???

These are complicated problems with no real solutions. We have entered an age of dancing voyeur's. We all spend time staring through glass panes at the perils and miseries of this evolving universe and species bent on pushing the boundaries of their limits. We peer into it, we get off on the experience of life changing before our eyes, good or bad. How can this world continue to exist, when it seems we have become plastic flimsy shells of what we used to be in the days of FDR and Hitler? In those days, the lines between good and evil were quite clear, but on a grander scale, not like our microcosm of terrorist factions and the spinning of sound bytes. Our wars in the 21st century pale in comparison, resembling little brush fires planted here and there, whose emergent, collective property is a chaos of raging forest fires. There is not a clearly defined side to follow.

So we, the voyeur's, move from starlet to starlet from sports star to sports star, and there sits old, Susan McDonald who still witnesses a black and white innocence while watching Turner Movie Classics. These are not movies but photographs rough around the ages that capture an honest time, not the complicated turmoil of our homogenenous metropolis. On many occasions, she will watches these movies for what seems like eternity in the quiet of her study, often until the sun peaks from behind the top of the large maple tree at the bottom of her backyard hill. Even today it hangs over Forest Lane shielding her gaze from on coming traffic.

Susan whispers something into Blair's ear, they laugh, and she whisks away from the table, down the vacuumous tunnel of social standing. Hi, bye, thank you, see you, will you, then you, but you, past the big brown doors, and out to the parking lot. The crowd watches as Susan exits the lodge to her old, well groomed Mercedes. She immediately flips on her favorite Opera about the tragedy of two lovers. She rolls down the window, and sings at the top of her lungs.

As she putters down the street, the leaves move away behind her like the memories of Colin and the kids and the house and, definitely, the American Dream.

Story Idea

Character, a woman, is trying to track down her life in a photo essay, as she digs further she unravels truths of her family, she doesn't want to face, each picture brings that story to life before her.

Add to this later.

Monday, July 24, 2006

Book Two: Plans of the Planets

In our second volume, it will explore the worlds of the Galacti and how the space ghosts seekin to end all life are merely the spirits of the galactus of every planet in the universe, all lie dormant waiting to awaken and implode the universe to create one dimension, the perfect dimension, where wars and conflict are merely latent memories of a past bad experience, a perpetual heaven

the music is with maria and clint and myself, and will explore indie themes with a mix of male and female vocals exploring their own universe, the plans of the planets to bring back a utopia, a metaphor for our quest for self realization and unification

this is the second book, The Plans of the Planets

Saturday, July 22, 2006

Poem for A Dissociative Distance

outstrecthed and stumbling
like the spirit
she always was

who was

to not only be
but she

who was meant
to gather and horde
more of her
upon secrets
with a tempting sway
all the way
behind the receptors
hidden in the hippocampus,
a toothed and scaly
giant breathing flames
of sensuality
swept away in a moments
revelation so defiant
of time
of infinity
of infamy
of all the things
blinded and glimmering
like colors erupting
from fireworks who
taste the atmosphere
for the first time
for the last time
sparklers and hope
into her open mouth

she awaits in the sunlit tunnel

while he

crawls out of the smashed
degraded automobile
and back into his

fractured frame

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

Images for Book

We have finished all the music for the album and are in the process of recording vocals drums and bass, and are now working on the artwork for the book/album. It will be a comic size illustrated book with CD on the inside, we are making 55 of them and will number each one.

Saturday, July 15, 2006

The Galactus

this is the companion poem to Questions of Existence

exploring together

moving like milk
and plasma swirling

like a breath frozen
in the midst of revelation

what were they there for
and what do they chase

on the sunscape eclipsed by
their thirst for


left like crumpled paper
floating to the ocean floor

where ideas for salvation are lost
in the chaos of time whose

grasses are transient silk and satin
robes guiding their piety

as they quench species
in dreams with seams tied together

by atom bombs and infantry movements
into the fray where

they say

utter only the whisper of the damned
who will not sleep

until they move past millenia
of black holes
and empty vacuumous space

finally satiated

as days slide
into nothingness

they will shuttle themselves

into another

Garden of Eden
and continue on


and the sturdy men, women, and children of the red icy igloo called Mars became stars releasing the message as they shared silence became the making of their own destruction by a force released from the ices of Mundar in the southernmost pole in Sleep and Sedation

It is he, he who dwells in all planets,
a button switch of sudden notice as you
become a sunspot gold lime line of coke
sprayed onto a blackboard
eating into the core of your busy
mazes with phases in and out
blazes trails
out from and in and out of how he
devours your spirit


Release the Galactus
and release the millions of souls

into heaven


Voyeur Movements

Here is the new song we wrote based on the intro and my friend Andrew's track he sent us, we radically altered and rearranged

at :42 seconds (repeat 3 times)-

there was no one
there is no one
there will never be

any solutions

at 1:43/44-

the hands move through you
and into (don't rush let note hang)
the movement of voyeurs
as they witness
as they preserrrrrveeeee

the words of these (high note)
please (high note) don't move from
the windows of churches (go to a low note)
and searched
and ready to bleed (medium note)

from the fruit
their seeds
planted in me
streams of locusts

planted in me
planted in me
planted in me

start at 3:03/4-
their dope fiends
descending as means
to behoove you as we move you
to simply let gooooo
and follow

the most hollow
of youuuuuurrrrr

after sample at 4:11 exactly:
There is no one
there was no one
there will never be

any solutions (times 3)

start at 5:07-
of endless nightmares
of meandering day dreams
of hallucinations that are anything but
which one
do you figure
will be the spell
cast to hash it out
with you and your
shadow man
your fellow man
you left behind in a trail of
fast food signs
and empty voter polls

start at 5:48-
So here we are
Two from the same origin
no one in blood
but molded in notes
pictures and soundscapes
no longer beholden
to the molten lava
slowly dripping
from the tarry black surfaces
as you

look up like

there is no one
there was no one
there will never be

any solutions

(no one no one no one no one no one no one)

song is sick

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

more art work

Sunday, July 09, 2006

Questions of Existence

soundscape by clint allday.
based on the story composed by curt allday

Questions of Existence

There were rotating spirals in her eyes whose majesty has yet to be witnessed again. The stars seemed to shift in and out of the the male contributor's periphery while spinning and rotating like rocketships rising through Earth's atmosphere, but in this case, anothers' atmosphere. Both contributors flipped their heads back like tripped mousetraps to see the last of their once great species disappearing behind a wall of meteors. It was left to these two, as they were the only two.

Gases popped off the sides of their trasport vesicle, a bubble impermeable to would-be space destroyers, ghosts of space bent on eradicating all life in the universe. In its protection, they could recycle oxygen for the duration of their trip; on its outer edges, there were microscopic sensors searching light years ahead for a life sustaining planet.

And as the final two moved on towards their new home, the man and woman stared at each other in complete silence for a succession of centuries. They dwelled in the orbits of their quiet minds, watching each other sleep, back in utero, moving through the galaxies as comets became windmills pushing them to their final destination. They did not see life or some type of aliens along the way, they only saw darkness. It was a maddening sea of stars and hidden hurricanes of electricity.

However, after hundreds of lifetimes, they both had come to a mutual decision. It was now time.

"And?" He asked her.

"It has been," she stated, reluctant to continue, the sound of her own voice seemingly unnatural.

"Yes, it has. It has been a long time, so many breaths, I almost can't remember where we came from or where we are going. So quiet, still, the blackness has filled me with a new resolution, a new question.

"What is it?" She turns her head towards him.

"Where do we, how do we, start again?"

"That is very true, but think about it a different way."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe the question is.....should we continue again? Maybe we are intended to drift for eternity in here like some kind of time capsule. Maybe we were always intended to leave all of our flaws and war mongering behind us."

"So we don't continue on? We let extinction become a viable option? I don't know, I have been having second thoughts about our initial decision." He uttered this softly as his breath visibly diffused towards her. In deep space, islands of ice are scattered variably throughout, swallowing them as they pass by, making them shake to the sounds of planet formation.

"Don't you remember what we left behind? The end was..." Her mouth quivered with the temperature drop.

"I understand, but can we afford to quit?"

"It isn't up to us, it is up to the Other. We wait, as His mind has yet to let His hand spill words of glass on to the page, to become one. He is the Other, the other striving to be convinced this is happening, trying to discern the answer to a miracle of explosive gases and reptilian dominance. He is writing because He wants to believe there is this greater purpose for existence.

"In time, there will be no more answers, only questions, and they will forget us or where we arose from. The Other's problem is ultimately faith, and so we must ask ourselves, if He can't find a reason to believe in our existence, then this story will be as vaporous as our surroundings. With indifference, He may forget to provide the details of our homecoming, about why we came back, about who we are, and why we persist on trying to nest an egg of human spirit in the blackened waters of the universe."

"Why would he do that?"

Her eyes became spinning plates, "Because He is hard of heart, self consumed, pulled apart from the seams, by aberrations and spirits disintegrating His mind into a kaleidoscope of wars, sacrifice, greed."

"But can't all this be saved on scrolls or His old, scribbled notebooks? Will He not be forced to speak and spread even if He does forget, even if He doesn't want to tell?"

"He could be," she spoke and her fingers moved up his arm.

The fires from the sun seemed to rain dragons along the curvature of their synthetic womb, their heart formulating equations while their copulations became waves of Eros, like mathematical equations solved in Earth's deep oceans.

He sensed her thoughts,"There are waves there?"

She nodded. Their eyes shut synergistically and they fell open and became open to another possibility, another experiment.

The descent had begun.

After a thousand years of travel, the two flew past the moon and down into the atmosphere. They opened their eyes to giant sized birds, filling the skies like a swarm of maddened killer bees making their way across Mexican dunes. Every inch of sky leaving Terydactals reeling, while they plummeted into the mouths of monsters who raise their eyes to the glowing red orb moving above them.

The fumes of life moved through their bubble and through their nostrils, filling them with strange, new microscopic creatures, who celebrated a new species of infection. Yet, they seemed familiar, a remnant of some distant visit. The Earth inhabitants seemed to remember their taste, one they had stumbled upon ages ago.

The contributors' silence was broken by the cacophony of creation, the chaotic construction of another civilization. Apes and monkeys once left to move through stages of evolution, congregated around the man and women's crude outline in the brown, sulfurous dirt.

With the puncture of the earth's crust, they rose from the flames, all memories lost of their past, failed time on another planet, in another future. In a breath of unfamiliar molecules, they felt life again, they felt their new existence, their relevance, their hope.

The Other watched from above and scribbled on and on and on. The creatures on earth continued, the contributors moved forth through the brush and into the rift valley. The palace from above was merely a dream, the past only a newspaper headline.

They had each other.

Hand in hand, their feet felt the lush grass and they knew this was home. The seeds had been planted, the mission complete. As the roar of the amazons and congos rushed forth, the tower of Babylon lay before them and they entered the garden.

Tuesday, July 04, 2006

New Artwork

New Artwork inspired by songs and themes:

Lyrics and song info:

Monday, July 03, 2006

New Edit: Zeus Zaps Like a Thunderclap (Claire Edition)

changed the format of this piece to better serve the music, art is a lot about compromise, you cannot hold on to a sentence or word bc such greed confounds the intention

anyway, here's the new edit:

start at 15 seconds and continue to 50 seconds

believe it

it is time
to unwind
"the dangling signs
from the hotel window panes

the cool frost building
on all thing quiet and still
the pills grasped
and dropping
and evaporating

believe it (fade out)

begin sample at 1:12
ends as beat studders, climax as changes

doyle plays and fades in and vocals begin as noise disortion over beat erupts

start at 2:33-34

like shuttles bursting through
the atmosphere
you move into my eyes
you show me why (end on low note, and sing direct)

in low, growl, add flange:

forest floors
doorways (sing this word)

--sing here---
into my mind
into your mind
the kind of find
you had as a boy

--back to abrupt---
all around
to try
this diction
and fiction
in your skull
flying through your bedrooms (sing this word)

with the truth of the wise
the other side of
rising tides

----back to abrupt----
a better way
its over
its never over
as my tear
rolls and

then whispers (sing like the part "believe it"):

"believe it" (fades)

then let it ride