from Kevin Killian
“He was a Writer”
Do you know that song by Cilla Black, “He Was a Writer”? Crazy time
time track, track tells a story in accents loud flashy as Cher’s Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves,
Let me take you into Cilla’s world, working in a posh bookshop,
where all is orderly, quiet; good neat people step in, like Mrs. Dalloway, order books and flowers, depart, leave us humming. All the greater the shock when one night at closing time rain splashes the streets of Sloane Ranger and bells jingle at the bookshop door, and Cilla looks up, there he stands—in a tattered jacket—
He was a writer, from Cooper Union, and his first love would always be his pen! Read, “penis,”
Read, “Lord Byron,” “limp,” “smoulder,” “Satan,”—
there was magic in every word he said.... They tumble into a tumbulultuous clench, but she and books in general are too small for him to stick with long, soon she wakes, he’s gone, and she goes back to her tidy life, cardigans, pleated skirts, ivory brooches. Oh Antonio,
you promised when you walked me home,
that one day I would read your book,
Cilla strains her ears, she loved him, at the kitchen table, she blows kisses in his ears. papers scattered and crumpled, Cilla I’m trying to narrate!
Then one day long after a shipment arrives at Montgomery’s Bookstore,
She opens the stack, the dedication is right where she hoped it would be, but on the back cover your picture stares at me, your tattered jacket, your magic, your being gone, as if you never cared for me, though you wanted Shirley Bassey dead but me alive somehow—
Sometimes it takes a quiet woman to make a young man blussssshhhhhhh
You were a writer, and your narration was the sweetest ever told.
from The Dreadful Flying Glove
Antonio has produced so much great stuff in all media. For me the essence of Ant was contained in his comments on this blog. Here’s an edit/remix of Just One Day’s commenting. There were 176 comments that day. Always were huge numbers when he was around. I said that we all tried to copy Antonio’s style but Slatted Light put it better:
It's true, he did alter the comment section whenever he came in, it doubled and lit up, and there wasn’t an effort to mimic him, sort of like wherever he was became a field which couldn't help but take on shades of his colour, because it had become an active extension of his charisma and making. Like, man, the epic Bassey deathchant: I'd almost forgotten about that. Talk about a comment symphony. How he could merge genius and living together so seamlessly I'll probably be wondering about for the rest of my life.
A comment symphony. Exactly. With Ant as conductor and playing most of the instruments.
This Day in question was a great one, possibly my favourite. David Ehrenstein (or EHRENSTEIN! as Antonio addressed him) put up a tape of his 18 year old self interviewing Andy Warhol in The Factory in 1965. Just typing that literally makes me tingle at the thought of it. That’s why there’s stuff about Warhol.Then Shirley / Cilla/ Tammy, whatever weapon came to hand…
On Warhol: Why Ant stopped being Andy
i join misanthrope in his andy/sex questions.
from everything i've read about andy, his sex life seemed like.. DEAD.
not really dead i guess.
but by the 60s standards, PRETTY FUCKIN DEAD.
i always considered how much sex andy gave up to live the way he did.
i dont think andy could have held up his facade of autonomy and persona if he had really REALLY fallen deeply in love.
or had a massive amount of great sex.
he always seemed like the most sexless person who ever lived to me.
i remember when i was in highschool.
i wanted SOOOOOOO MUCH to be andy warhol. i would dress up like him and carry around a tape recorder and i was reading the diaries and EVERYTHING. listening to interviews with him and imitating his voice and stuff. i daresay i BECAME andy warhol for a couple years. like REALLY BECAME him.
and then i discovered sex.
and after that. being andy warhol didnt really concern me much.
getting as much cock as possible concerned me.
it was something about being so aloof and mechanical about everything.
that doesnt really get the cocks, if you get my drift.
i mean, im not saying andy didnt get the cocks. cause maybe he got some cocks.
but not really.
he was so catholic too.
i think i decided i'd rather have cocks than be andy warhol.
Warhol’s Foot Fetish
uhm yeah anyway
THE FOOT FETISH!!
yeah.. now that i think of it. could andy have had an EVER MORE BORING fetish!?
alot of tops i know are foot fetishists too now that i think about it!
they like to suck your toes while they fuck you!
COULD THIS SUGGEST THAT ANDY WAS A TOP
EHRENSTEIN ARE YOU SLEEPING!?
WE DEMAND ANSWERS!!!
yeah andys foot fetish. jesus.
all those shoes!!
foot fetishes are SO catholic too!!
all that groveling!
Warhol and Gay Love
Jed Johnson actually LIVED with Andy for a number of years. Quite a big deal. They had a very tumultuous break-up. In the "Diaries" Andy speaks of his distress re their shared custody of the dogs. He thinks they like Jed better than him.
Jed (who directed Bad) was in one of the planes that hit the WTC on 9/11.
yeah, the more i think about andy.
the more tragic he becomes
like he was just one giant big yearning failed love affair
all any gay man really wants is love
true love, like straight people mythical true love
and poor all of us.
BUT ON A BRIGHTER NOTE *brains splattered on the wall*
man!! i could SO NOT handle the slaughterhouse!
actually i dunno.. if they let me work the books in the kitchen or something
perhaps i could manage..
but really even the stench of the kitchen was vaguely unbearable..
how did john wayne gacy ever manage!!?
Why Antonio doesn’t smoke
i dont smoke. but i dont have a problem with my friends who smoke
smoking is so ubiquitous, that sometimes i feel weird for NOT
smoking.. isnt that totally AFTER SKOOL SPECIAL-esque!? haha
anyways, i dont smoke because i like to be really.. 'streamlined'.. i guess..
i dont want to carry shit around with me everywhere or feel obligated
to do anything.. like i dont WANT TO FEEL like I HAVE to have a cigarette
before my next action or something.. right? like
sometimes me friends will be like "hey stand here with me while i have a smoke" and im like
"NO I CANT DO THAT, BECAUSE I HAVE TO GO SOMEWHERE!!!" and then i fly off like a crazy person..
but thats strictly personal and is only one
of the weird reasons why i dont smoke.. or do alot of random shit actually..
like.. i DONT EAT during the day either.. which could technically be just as unhealthy as smoking apparently is..
but i really dont like to feel bogged down by something in my stomach, during the day. i dont
like to have the need to shit while im busy doing things.. or peeing alot.. actually i LOVE to pee.. so i do carry alot of water with me
I’m not an athiest, mainly i choose to have illusions of spirituality.. sort of like when pascal is telling me to believe just incase.. but not really like that at all.. more because i NEED to believe in something because i know the sum of my actions lends absolutely no value to my life as i know it.... which is incredibly sad.. but true.. i really am dispicable.. but i dont have much of a problem with that because i 'believe' in fantastical things! haha!! free will!! well what is 'freedom' anyways!! hahah oh man, we're letting THE SARTRE get to us today, right!!? hahaha.. so yeah.. i dont believe in freedom at all.. it all comes down to what you talk about.. your conditioning.. so fucking pavlovian.. really everything that has ever existed.. i try not to believe that psychology functions.. i want to believe in the mysteriousness of the unconscious.. but sadly.. man.... i really cant do it often... sometimes though..
Advice to EHRENSTEIN!
[18 year old pic of] ehrenstein = sal mineo to a TEE.
this is a great day. im downloading the track right now. wow, can we hear it for BOX. i fucking love this website. wow. i cant even handle your memoirs ehrenstein. MUST READ. i think you should get some MEGA GIANT publishing house to publish them complete with a melodramatic VC ANDREWS cover with a little cut-out in the middle with your portrait in it, and when you open up the cover it's like a full group oil portrait of you and every insane celebrity crazy person you've ever known..
or like the cover of a Danielle Steele novel.
with like cursive lettering in embossed gold over an airbrushed island getaway..
TAMMY FAYE IS DEAD!! LONG LIVE TAMMY FAYE!!!
i bet the makeup on tammy faye's face really made some wonderful colors in the fire of her cremation.
everytime TAMMY FAYE dies THIS happens.
[That clip was a Bassey video that Antonio found endlessly fascinating. Not until Gaga’s Born This Way would he examine a video so intently. Before there was Rick-Rolling there was Bassey-Rolling. Every time you clicked on an Ant link you got that Bassey video. But you kept forgetting!].
Misanthrope has had enough!
Goddamnit, antonio, if I click on another one of your fucking links and then see that goddamned cunt Shirley Bassey, I'm gonna...well, fuck, okay, I'm not gonna do anything but that was funny as hell-until the fifth fucking time. I'm such an idiot! Look at the goddamn url when you point to it, Misa!
Antonio channels Shirley
BASSEY knows what you said.
and she's NOT HAPPY
Misa gets fooled again
Can you believe I fucking clicked on that goddamned Bassey link again?
Antonio sets him straight:
IT WASNT YOU WHO CLICKED
it was the power of BASSEY working through you!
SHE KNOWS WHAT YOU SAID!
and she's back.
DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER!!! !!!!!!!!!!!
BASSEY & TAMMY DID HAVE A CHYLDE TOGETHER
and it was named.....
cilla CANNOT fucking sing worth a GODDAMN!!!!
WHAT THE FUCK!
CILLA DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE!!!!!
the way she says WHAT AM I TO DO?
JUST MAKES ME WANT TO SLIT MY WRISTS!!!!!
DID SHE NEVER HEAR DIONNE SING THE SAME SONG EVER!!?!?!?!?!?!
CILLA SINGS IT SOOO fucking STALE
WHAT. AM. I. TWO. DO.?
i just wanna have her gang raped and injected with hep C, RIGHT THERE AND THEN!!
with GEORGE MARTIN ONLOOKING!!!
dionne sings the same line like whaddamitadooh?
and it's SOOOO sexy and amazing..
Cilla just needs to get rid of the ENITRE fucking FACE
just like.. take her face and smash it against a wood sander
all fucking finished.
I AM SERIOUSLY CONTEMPLATING SUICIDE RIGHT NOW BECAUSE OF MOTHERFUCKING CILLA MOTHERFUCKING BLACK!!
I PLAN ON BOMBING FUCKING CILLA BLACKS GRAVE MEMORIAL
motherfucking cilla black just wants me to rape her with a cake full of razors!!
I WILL DESTROY EVERYTHING SHE HAS EVER LOVED!
antonio, my 6 year-old nephew walked in when i clicked on the Cilla Black link. He started yelling, "TURN IT OFF! TURN IT OFF! SHE SUCKS!" My God, he just called her a beotch as I'm typing this. I swear. Now, he's saying he HATE HATE HATES her.
Yeah, Andy seems to be more of a bottom but for some reason I imagined him taking advantage of DavidE in all his youthful cuteness to live out a deranged sal mineo fantasy or something. Like really tearing that stuff up, maybe even fisting him a bit or something.
misanthrope: your nephew has good taste.
anything that ISNT cilla is good.
OMHYGOD i dont even think andy would EVER FIST ANYTHING EVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
i dont even think andy probably knew what the fuck fisting WAS!!
if andy wasnt the most sexless guy who ever lived
he was atleast the most vanilla
piss and cum paintings notwithstanding.
EHRENSTEIN WHEREFORE ART THOU!?!?
oh winter rates.
you make me thirst in dry times like these.
i keep many diamond encrusted jockstraps underneath my mattress, once i was looking for something, i think a lost book and i lifted my mattress and .. the smell.. was just... INSTANT BONER perfume!
the reason i cant get to sleep is because. i was jerking off. and then when i came. i ate all my cum. and because i have a sore throat. i guess it somehow got caught there. and now i cant get rid of a sperm induced cough.
i have tried everything! cough drops, cheese, a slice of tomato, water.
but nothing will allow my jizz induced cough to go away!!
i need to sleep so bad.
like CILLA would say WHAT. AM. I. TO. DO.?
DUSTY IS UNTOUCHABLE.
CILLA mistakenly thought she was a rival of Dusty.
WHO THE FUCK. thinks theyre a rival of DUSTY!?!?!?
DUSTY IS UNTOUCHABLE.
DUSTY IS UNTOUCHABLE EVEN BY THE BLACK CHIX SHE COPIED!
cilla is a warped little fuck!
Last word on THAT video
last night i dreamt that THAT BITCH BASSEY came to me through my window!
when i am finally a professor at some university in berlin or somewhere. i will have a class COMPLETELY DEDICATED to this ONE clip.
the class will be called Apocalypse Whenever: BASSEY and the Hyper-Modern Void.
that fear is totally apparent at 02:34 of the DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER clip. when BASSEY is CLEARLY holding her hand over her face. she was obviously afraid that her performance would have generated SO MUCH admiration that the audience was going to STORM the stage in a riot causing MASSIVE facial damage to BASSEY.
A present from me to Antonio
And an extra special treat for Antoine:
Who are the gals on the left and right of this pic at Joan Collins’ wedding?
July 22, 2007 5:47:00 PM PDT
this wedding picture is like staring directly into the gates of hell
A favourite Madonna track of us both:
Deeper and Deeper
I put this Madonna/Gaga mix on my FB wall and Antonio ‘liked’ it. The ultimate Facebook compliment!
Oh and he ‘liked’ this too:
Antonio ‘Liking’ one’s obscure Chic spinoffs link. It doesn’t get any better…
(Here’s that Day in full, with all our comments):
from Chris Dankland
Pony Poem For Antonio
girl must this girls as many I think
I’m developing a fetish for the Virgin Mary
I dream of ponies && magick
I HRET JACKYWIN. Sayd the hawtt pony cock
so in my minute that face And I am t this spell
the most beautiful pony in the field
I wos taotaly rich && beutifull && prtey && kool && err1 luved me
And friendship shine like a radium screen
this girl must out
Now let me begin
I'll say that I don't wanted, out, out
your kid could pick
who didn't want butter prick
find mind pregnant to have been dreamt
we used to have built like them to this
and a pretty one is
cuz the ultimate I wos sparkaly
and and pink and and popular
all just -
Now lets suppose for a mind's eye
I've began by saying out and her name
God come out of God
from Michael Karo
he could be quite influential on people. after months of reading his comments here i probably started writing like him for a while.
i tried several times to make music like his, and i always failed. oh, they were ok songs, and it was just an experiment, and of course we had different software, etc, but i never even came close. i always posted my latest song on his FB page. if i got a "like", i figured it was so-so. if he commented, i knew i had done a good job.
i always loved his creepy yet thrilling posts on livejournal at runawaytoday...those crazy flashing animated GIF's. the castles. dollhouses. i could never figure out if he was manipulating those photos or if he just found them and they fit some criteria known only to him.
and he was always making marks on the photos, those scratches and scribbles. what was that all about?
i took a picture off the tv one night and sent it to him. it was the closest i could come to his style:
it seems as if there was almost nothing he didn't know about. now, i'm paraphrasing here, but he knew what kind of lace the ladies of the queen's court wore in 17th century france...which was totally different from what they wore in spain.
i would send him some new artist or fashion designer or whatever and he was already on it or or over it.
i wonder what he was like as a child. how does one person turn out like him when on the next block there's someone content with reality television and microwave dinners and american mall culture? how did he get so hungry?
the only time i really stumped him was when i sent him one of the videos i made in san jose at a mark pauline/survival research labs performance:
he really loved it and when he found an interview video with pauline in it from the early 80's he started honking on about "MORRISSEY PAULINE MORRISSEY PAULINE!!!!!!"
yes, he was "honking", like a goose. not that i could HEAR him, but...
COLLABORATING WITH ANTONIO
one night he posted this great picture of himself, looking all elegantly wasted in a fur coat. i told him "OMG you look just like edie when she set fire to her room at the chelsea!"
so i made this for him:
a few years ago i sent him some drum tracks to build some music upon. two songs, i believe. every now and then he said he was working on them...they were almost finished, etc. i never heard what happened there. i'm hoping they might show up on the big cd/dvd that's being planned. it would be a thrill to be a part of that.
it's kind of funny how he did all this art and music and whatever and then just threw it at us as if to say, "ok, i'm done with this, YOU deal with it now!"
i made a video for one of his ponyboy songs:
from an email thread between him and me, when i said i loved how random he could be: "OMG I KNOW!!! DENNIS COULD BE LIKE "YURY IS DEAD" AND I'D BE LIKE 'OMG YOU GUYS I JUST FOUND THE GREATEST PIE RECIPE!!!' "
A FEW RANDOM THINGS
the first time i heard someone call him tony, it just seemed wrong. but now i see that most of the people who knew him in real life called him that. i mean, if you address me as "mike" I WILL CUT A BITCH, but "antonio" always sounded so regal. and he was, of course...a prince.
i think someone like david e. should start tracking people down and interviewing them for an edie-like book, an oral history. it should be called "the planet earth is going to be recycled" or " no crying until the end", which are both songs of his.
a documentary would be nice too!
a nice little write-up about him here: reasons-not-to-be-cheerful-pt-7 ...poses the question "did antonio invent witch house?"
i saw in his obituary that his father is not alive. did anyone ever hear him talk about his father?
his mom's name is dovey. i can't say that name without smiling!
i'll say it: post after post of those unicode hieroglyphics on FB kinda worked my nerves :)
i de-friended him back in april, after a very harrowing post about a bad night he had in chicago. i wasn't judging him, i just didn't want to read anything like that, it made me too sad.
our communication had slowed way down, and he seemed real busy. or things were just different. relationships change, shift, people grow apart, right?
i guess all those time he posted about, oh, i dunno, dooooshing out his boicunt because some hairy, sweaty truck driver was coming over to fuck him were true.
i wonder what he talked about with those people. he certainly wasn't talking about 17th century lace! i think he might have taken on a different persona in those situations.
a dumbing-down, if you will. but what do i know?
my interactions with him on myspace, facebook, and of course here are moments i will always treasure. there won't be another like him for a long time.
i wanted MY antonio to stay a sweet, shy, genius-dork or something.
something like this:
but while i wasn't looking, he...grew up, i guess.
which leads me to our last collaboration. i made this the other night:
love you, tony. thanks for everything. goodbye.
Ponyboy Curtis Day, commissioned by Antonio (orig. 09/11/08)
Who is Ponyboy Curtis?
'Ponyboy Curtis is a 14-year-old boy whose world has been turned upside down. His parents were killed in an automobile accident just eight months before The Outsiders story takes place. He lives with his oldest brother, Darry, who is 20 years old and has legal custody of him and his other brother, Sodapop, who is 16.
'Darry characterizes Ponyboy as lacking common sense. Pony agrees with this assessment. He readily admits that he is smart at school, but sometimes he just doesn’t think. These occasions get Pony into trouble that he could avoid. This is one aspect of his character that readers are able to see evolve throughout the book. Ponyboy learns that his behavior impacts others, and this newly acquired maturity leads to the telling of The Outsiders story.
'Ponyboy narrates the novel, and this narration is a catharsis for him. The reader is able to see the changes in Pony’s viewpoints as he is dealing with many issues that are common in an adolescent’s life. The most powerful issue is that life is not fair. From the deaths of his parents, to the economic conditions that cast them as greasers, to the deaths of his friends, life is not fair to Ponyboy.
'During this two-week period, Pony has to weather three deaths—two greasers and one from the rival gang, the Socs. The Socs, short for Socials, are the “West-side rich kids.” By realizing that death at a young age is equally unfair for all of them, Pony is able to not only survive, but to justify his own existence. He takes it upon himself to make their deaths mean something.' -- Cliff Notes
The Ponyboy Curtis Art Show
Ponyboy Pop Quiz:
1. When darry picks on Ponyboy what does Sodapop do?
2. What word best describes Ponyboy Curtis in the book the outsiders?
3. How did Ponyboy Curtis change in The Outsiders?
4. What state does ponyboy and darrel and sodapop live in.?
5. Are sodapop and Ponyboy there real names in the outsiders?
6. In the Outsiders Why does Pony not care what randy thinks of his house?
7. Why dosen't ponyboy like referring to sodapop as a dropout in The Outsiders?
8. What are the names of ponyboy curtis' brothers in the outsiders?
9. What does darry from the outsiders think about pony?
10. What does Ponyboy Curtis look like?
Interview With Ponyboy Curtis
By Kayla Corbett
Kayla: How do you feel about having your situation going from bad to worse?
Ponyboy: Well, I mean, I feel real awful for leaving Darry and Soda without a warning or nothing, but I had to run with Johnny. About this church thing, I feel pretty bad for starting it all. It seems like nothing ever goes right for us, and if we didn't have Dally to help us out we'd be lost...
Kayla: Do You feel guilty for Johnny's murder of Bob?
Ponyboy: Yeah I do. I feel like I'm in this as much as Johnny is, and I have to stick with him. He's one of my best friends, and I can't just ditch him now.
Kayla: What do you plan on doing for the rest of your lives? Run away? Or do you plan on turning yourselves in?
Ponyboy: At this point I'm not entirely sure. I definitly don't want to live a fugitive's life, but I'd also really hate to go to a boy's home and leave everything I have and love.
Kayla: If you could change one thing about life, what would it be?
Ponyboy: I would say... I wish Darry never hit me. I'd never have gotten so mad as to run into that park with Johnny. Then the Socs wouldn't have attacked us... and we'd still be living a normal life.
The Outsiders, the lost chapter
it was right after the trial and yall won darry gets to keep you like he offer'd you walk'd into the curtis house with everyone cheerin like idots but it was no problem cause you join'd along with 'em"you have no idea how happy i am"pony said"that maybe true but i deffintly know your not as happy as me"you said with the biggest smile on your face.you both leaned in for a kiss but out of the coner of you eye you say a car with blindin headlight drive by the curtis house and it brought a flash back of the wreak you scream'd alittle and turn'd you head.and everyone turn'd to stare at you "you ok connie"pony asked "you turn'd to look at him then you ran up stares to the room darry said you can have and start'd thinkin bout a song to right down every since the wreak you'v been rightin music to help calm you nerves you wanted to right somethin for ponyboy so you started pourin your heart out into the song and dicide to right this
i steel hear your voice when you sleep next to me
i still feel your touch in my dream
forgive me my weekness
but i dont know why
withput you its hard to survive
you sat there a read the song over and over when pony knocked on the door"its open"you yelled he came in "hey you ok"he asked"yeah i feel alot better "hey is that a song"he said takein the pieace of paper and strated readin it"i didnt know ya write music"
"i started rightin it after my parents died it helps me calm down when i think bout 'em"you said"so thats what happen down there"he asked"yeah"you said he strated readin over the song again"have ya ever thought bou sendin ya song away to some company that can have profsenal singer sing this song cause your realy good at it"he asked"naw i never thought bout it maybe i will"you said"you should" he said"whos this song bout some rockstar like elvis preslyor someone"
you got butterflies in you stomache but you figure'd you cauld tell him anyway"naw"ya said
"well then whos it about"he asked"you"you said"me?"he said laughin you laughed to "yes you ponyboy"you said"why me?is this how ya realy feel bout me"he asked lookin in your eyes"yeahi love you ponyboy"you said lookin in his eyes he lean'd closed and wisper'd in you ear"i love you to"and kiss'd you pasintly you stared to kiss back after a few seconds he tapped your bottom lip with his tongue so you open your moth letin him depend the kiss as he wrapped his arm around your waste and you wrapped you arond his neck rubbin your figures through his hair as you two leaned back gently on the bed and he brought his lips down to you neck and strated kissin it and brought his lips back up to your and started kissin you again as his hand started to go up your shirt which you didnt mind cause you loved him to much he was startin to pull your shirt off when just then dally and brice walked through the door"WOOH sorry guys we'll come back later"dally said you and pony shoot up trunin all deffrient red colors"i think we can come back later dally im pretty sure tomboys ok now"brice said"i bet she is com'n dall face"dally said pullin her out by the hand
you and pony seat in silence for a while till pony laugh'd alittle"whats so funny"you asked"nothin realy i acutaly thought that was kind of fun"he said"ok i did to"you said"should we go down now"pony asked"yeah we should"you said you and pony walk'd down hand and hand and everyones eyes were on you to besides darrys you figured by now they told everyone besides darry cause darry would get mad if he found out"nice hair ponyboy"two-bit said"uhh...haha yeah"he said blushin"hey darry can tomboy come over to me house with me and stephaine so we can have a slumber party for tomboy since we won the trial"brice asked"yeah sure i dont see why night"darry said"thank ya darry your the best"brice said as her and stephaine grabbed ya hands and runin out the house
The Outsiders, the rock musical
S.E. Hinton’s classic youth novel “The Outsiders” is now a rock musical for your school or youth theatre group to perform. If you are looking for a riveting story with catchy sixties flavoured pop tunes then check out all the information available to you on this informative site. Bring some substance and excitement to your next school musical by performing The Outsiders. With over 37 full scale productions in Australia and New Zealand since 2000 your audience is sure to leave the theatre feeling both stimulated and entertained. For now, listen to four songs sung by the inimitable Ponyboy Curtis:
'I Want to Be like Paul Newman'
'At the End of the Day'
'Maybe I'm Dreaming'
fluriana: I'm looking for a Ponyboy look-alike! Do you know any guy in real life that looks like C. Thomas Howell (Ponyboy) in "The Outsiders"? I know this is an odd question to ask but I'm posting it everywhere.I have been totally bowled out by how incredibly cute & innocent CT looked in that movie.Please don't ignore my question. Please reply! I really need to know whether there exists in this world a guy who's an exact look-alike of CT playing Ponyboy Curtis. I believe a guy like that does exist!
Paverita: I'm your man er woman!
Jack Sparrow: I don't think you will have much luck here. But you would certainly increase your chances in a gay or male modeling forum.
Major Payne: I look like him, but with a different face.
fluriana: Come on you guys! I'm serious!!!!! I crave Ponyboy btw. He's sooo hot.. i'm hopelessly in love. Claire (that's my real name) and Ponyboy Curtis. Has a nice ring to it, yes?
tez dawg: girl, i swear ponyboy curtis is TOO OLD for you! he's like 40 plus now? eeeewwwww.. old n rich.not bad. has a nice ring to it. you could kill him and u could inherit his money! now how gud does dat sound????
fluriana: haha. So what if he's 40!? The power of our love will get us through anything.. and when he does start to revolt me with his age a little too much, I'll just shove him down the stairs, yes?
tez dawg: yeah yeah. the power of love. of cuz u will shove him down the stairs! n u could like inherite everythin he has! plus! we could go shopping after dat! ALSO. u dont have to go work as a miner if dats the case! how gud is dat?
fluriana: *sighs* Ponyboy ... my dearest love ... yes and THEN I shove him down the stairs. I guess it does beat working in the mines. Because truck driving doesn't seem to great to me. I wonder how much money Ponyboy has now .. because if it's not enough, I could always go find Daniel Radcliffe. He's bound to be rich, yeah?
The Ponyboy Curtis Chill Theater
9 junior high school student essays on Ponyboy Curtis
Ponyboy Curtis's Blog
Ponyboy icons @ A Kid who Rats on another Kid is a Dead Kid
--One of Antionio's "Profile Pics"--
I have no record of my discussions with Antonio. I do know the guy constantly blew my mind in the comments here on DC's, his contributions to this blog, and his facebook page which I blocked a long time ago because I could not humanly keep up with the amount of amazingness he posted on a daily basis. Now I regret not blocking 100 other "friends" who clog my "feed" with inanity when I should have been concentrating on his insane posts.
Call it jealousy or something but there are a few people I encounter where I am amazed by their every utterance and it gets overwhelming. I understand and love it and when I can't turn everyone I know onto their genius I get flustered. He was one of those fellows.
I remember in his first incarnation on DC's he had a small picture with like a bandana on his head and he looked thug to me. The picture, blown up, was decidedly un-thug, and when he changed it and looked all soft and mild mannered it threw me. I really liked associating the insane comments he posted here with my vision of this latino thug. I mentioned that to him once and he cracked up (well at least via internet text he portrayed cracking up.)
In no way wanting to disrespect the dead, I still hope this is an elaborate art-hoax and I want it acknowledge that I was onto him the whole time. Except I cannot believe his mother could go along with that, and to her I extend my deepest empathy, they seemed to have an unimaginably close relationship. Viva Antonio!
from Jesse Hudson
"Nothing speaks more clearly to the evidence of Antonio's genius than his work. So, in order to permit them more room to speak, I will say nothing more."
Things You Do Are the Things We Must
alienating everyone i know
im not interested in anything
abstract shards of electronic sound
all of them especially the really trashy stuff
i read alot
you probably wont find out
casting bullets down
upon groups out to kill
dropping from the skies
the end was
nearer than we suspected
the group dispersed
the bell sound repeated
the future we sought for
was soon rejected
Frosty The Lone Halloween
frosted tips oh my
oh what can i do when the leaves
frosted tips oh my
oh what i can i do when the leaves
turn on you
returning me to you now
a present for you lonely now
returning love to one who died
oh i can feel it
oh i can feel the love for you
although i never knew you
you see i made it all up in my head
and now i can make up how you're dead
written at the desk of your love
the wooden life in wooden tail
glass eyes of the fields
staring from me about you
about you in the rows, dark rows, a feeling a new this way
now im glad and i have a home to go too
although constructed of thinly veiled wafers
cinnamon, chocolate, sugar spun
dreamy baby head
i have a home too
you inside of you
feeling new this time, this way
now im glad and i have a home to go to
although constructed of thin wafers, the gingerbread manor
sweating out life
sweat on the bed
meg in the bed and soon to be dead
an autumn once said
eye shadows shadowed
things for the night
they're what just must
busted my nuts
in the blue cement room
corner row tiger marked iron gates a new collar
open the door forget me not i see you staring
in this hidden wrist watch a pleather under pants
whispering new names on the sofa
stealing the trinkets
you're a trinket
once i had ian's hair
once i tripped it up
by the end of winter
it will commence again
the tubular strength
the maze like fright
mazes in the dark
un-tame able in the morning
memories kicked alive
coalesce with memories warm now
warmer i love this synagogue performance
i hope the states institute some
form of voter safety this election
brings out the crazies like never before
an eternal election
unblock enshrined in the cementhood of young
touch me elliott from beyond
reanimator too genius
"I AM A GENIUS WHO KNOWS EVERYTHING ABOUT DIGITAL IMAGE MANIPULATION, A/V EXPERIENCE IN EVERY FIELD INCLUDING MUSIC PRODUCTION (THIS IS AMBIGUOUSLY STATED BECAUSE I LITERALLY CAN AND HAVE DONE EVERYTHING IN THESE FIELDS), I HAVE OFFICE EXPERIENCE AND CAN MAINTAIN THE FACADE THAT IM ACTUALLY HAPPY WITHIN AN OFFICE ENVIRONMENT, IM GOOD WITH CHILDREN, I AM A SPECTACULAR FASHION PLATE WITH A PRISTINE VINTAGE WARDROBE, I SMELL GREAT (A MIXTURE OF LAUNDRY DETERGENT, BURTS BEE'S BATHING PRODUCTS, FRESHLY BAKED BREAD, BURNT TORTILLAS, AND PACO RABANNE COLOGNE), IM RELATIVELY GOOD LOOKING WITH FREQUENT COMPARISONS TO JOHNNY DEPP, I HAVE ACCESS TO ANY DRUG OF YOUR CHOICE IN MASS QUANTITIES, I AM WELL IF NOT OVERLY INFORMED ON AN INFINITE VARIETY OF CULTURAL ISSUES." --Antonio
from Bett Williams
This simple photo taken by my girlfriend in the car the other day seems just right for Antonio in this moment after over an hour of scouring the internet to find anything to match his unique genius. Confession - in the Google search engine I have typed the phrases "spandex negro," and "hate miranda july."
I love you Antionio and will miss you more than I can make any sense of.
from Paul Curran
OHMYGOD i am HERE!! i have seen the spirit!! man dennis cooper blog is too much fun and soo weird sometimes!! man.. my first PORNSHOP purchase was the CHAD HUNT SUPERCOCK!! i bought it at this gay shop in chelsea.. they had gross glory holes.. i dont think they had been cleaned in FOREVER..i have yet to find anyone brave enough to use it though.. including myself.. so now it's just an alter or something...today my life has ended because this thing has happened i cant explain it but it's not good it hurts me deep inside but this is the only way i can show you my hurt this is the only way i know...i can convey the things that are growing and killing me each day please help me.. my desire is like a spinning void or a black hole sucking in and spitting out on the other side and everything is destroyed.. sorry if that sounds melodramatic.. err.. cause i totally was just writing out of my ass, and it's always melodramatic when it comes out asswise.. .why are black holes so attractive? i always find myself & others referencing them. i have taken to wearing sunglasses....so we dont have any eye contact whatsoever.. DOES ANYONE KNOW WHAT IM TALKING ABOUT? like one moment im totally like "ooh sexy naivete" and the next moment im like "forget i ever fucking existed you fucking fuckface, DIEDIEDIEDIEEEE!!!!"
CRITIQUES ARE THE MOST USELESS THING I HAVE EVER WITNESSED IN MY ENTIRE LIFE.. unless people need them.. i often ruin myself with my bitchiness at critiques.. because.. i say stuff like YOU NEED TO OVERHAUL EVER EMOTION YOU HAVE EVER FELT or... THIS IS KILLING SMALL PARTS OF MY BRAIN WHEN I STARE AT IT..... really i piss off a lot of hipsters though because they like to paint themselves or umm photograph themselves.. which i probably should be commending them for being so blatant about arts true nature.. but really i just get pissed off at naive fashion photography or something.. and im forced to say stuff like.. WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?? I NEED HELP GUYS…. for some reason my best most beautiful, most satisfying relationships have been completely sexless.. alot of heavy petting, i guess its the tension... or something? it's like the entire spectrum of emotions is just raped by non-sex. lust, sadness, joy, paranoia, all the categories of desire are filled, conquered, wasted. mm sexy.. LAST NIGHT I WAS GOING TO COMMIT SUICIDE. . . in bed i thought about it…smoke twirling towards the ceiling…my soul escaping my body, cryptic spiritual supernatural….there is another side….in bed i thought about it. .
maybe ive been too mysterious..i hope noone gets the wrong ideas about me or anything because the internet truly is w erid place right? anyways.. i guess i say so much stuff about myself, but really haven't really revealed anything at all..but umm.. I AM WHO I AM antonio urdiales born january 23rd 1986 chicago Illinois my mom is Dovey Ann Mcwhorter and umm my dad was also Antonio Urdiales and he died.. my brother is CLYDE urdiales..my granfather is Clyde Sampson . my granny is Cecelia Sampson…we all reside in montevallo Alabama…my other granny is Lydia Herrara and she lives in chicago.. umm man!!! so many questions!! IM HAVING MY 10th NERVOUS BREAKDOWN!! . dennis, you have made me into a gibbering freak! …..man WHO AM I!!?!? OHMYGOD!!! am i too good to be true?or am i repressed memories? what the fizzedly fuck?... anyways.. i know to few people who can connect dots.. also if anyone is on FACEBOOK you have to add meeeee!!!!! just search for 'Antonio Urdiales' mmm!!!
i need money to visit the doctor. IM NOT SLEEPING!! hahah!! you have no idea!! ohmygod i cant even HANDLE LIFE RIGHT NOW!! the
insanity..ive been doing like.. ohmygod.. 2 1/2 hour exercise regimens.. writing insane little things.. recording.. scouting for good NONrichkid noise labels and umm reading massive amounts.. when i was little i developed this habit of keeping current items of interest around the bottom of my bed..for easy access... and it gradually has transformed into my bed being seperated for ME and piles of objects and stuff.. like.. books. and umm.. sketchbooks.. CD's.. objects.. really i guess im not reading alot of stuff..i sleep with it.. i have this giant old hammond organ next to my bed.. and i even moved the organ bench to the head of my bed for MORE STUFF!! unfinished things.. staring at me.. ribbonry.. needles and threads.. and all sorts of shit that i might very well need AS SOON AS I AWAKE .. in the middle of the night.. or anything..
man.. you guys can imagine when i have BOYS OVER.. ohmygod.. i bet they all immediately think ESCAPE or.. umm.. wheres the closest window.. just incase..i have nothing to do with gacy. although my cousin andrew killed a bunch of chicks in chicago and California anyone heard of andrew urdiales? my mom is always like "DONT TELL ANYONE THAT!"dennis you heard of him? im related to a b-grade serial killer!! how exciting. my legacy....this is what this has come to ...sublimation can be a bitch, loosing all meaning of something i can't even remember actually but maybe it was important once ...hmm anyways.. i might have an alabama vacation before i do anything ugh i feel siiiickkkk. . . . i have to talk like this and do this for them to be interested ...dumb it down alot ....my dick is hard ..and so is their ..heads, skulls, dicks ...why cant i just die right now? when it comes to getting 40 comments on some weird cake photos, Facebook is great. anything else....... it's shit. sex is great, but it's always the before and after for me. GET THAT! mm anyways.. i gotta go visit my granny now..so.. bye guys!!!
from Esther Planas
A poem for Antonio
from the ghost of Lost Childe
to his ghost….
Antonio Antonio Antonio
here we met
here we meet
Our small planet hearts
around a whole night sky
of golden rain
and lots of
cum milky way
flying on a high
all we where
is not now
is or was
at tropical seas
and haunted houses
a whole deep hole
ghost all here
corpses be left there
out peeled of
never never land
spiral and eternal
for us for you
this is light pure
11 Suspense n.2 - Pietro Grossi
Library of Solomon Book 1 - Demdike Stare
The New Black - Roll The Dice
Tanith - Throbbing Gristle
Desert Wind - Tinariwen
Cool Marble Arms - Simon Fisher Turner - The Garden OST
caractéres - Ubi Edo
unlighted - Senking
Twin Decks - Biosphere & Deathprod
forestfloor 3 - KTL
Disease - Aluk Todolo
Dancing & Singing - Monoton
Failing Light - Brian Eno/Harold Budd
The First Five Minutes After Death - Coil
from Tender Prey
“A painting of an alien with a dog licking its face” by Antonio
I absolutely love this painting.
It appeared courtesy of the great Vomitingghosts
on the Quotation Day he presented here in March 2007
and I often think of it.
Sixteen Hands High (A story for Antonio)
by James Nulick
My city was large enough to have buildings downtown that offered air-conditioning, but still small enough to pocket two or three acres here and there of houses with horse privileges, ranch-style homes with backyards that spilled into forever. The smell of citrus in early May, heavily-perfumed apricot and lemon trees next to tall shoots of green onion and okra, praying mantises the size of an index finger crouched among the deep black green of impending summer.
Antonio lived with his father and mother and older sister on one such stretch of acreage. Antonio's father owned three horses, a stud, Nana, a mare, Patches, and an old gelding, Charlie Brown. Charlie Brown was actually Antonio's horse, and on the occasions when I was invited to Antonio's home, Antonio rode Charlie Brown bareback. The old horse seemed to understand Antonio, knew he was a delicate wisp of a boy. I wondered what Antonio's father felt about having two daughters. I'd never met Mr. Urdiales, he was as removed from Antonio's life as his mother was, and during the visits I'd made to Antonio's house there were never any adults present. Brittany, five years his senior, was a tall moody seventeen year old who mostly stayed in her upstairs bedroom. She came out every so often to check on us and listen to our conversations. I sensed Antonio and Brittany were used to getting whatever they wanted. Today Brittany came down to say hello after Antonio announced he was taking me for a ride on Charlie Brown. Antonio stood on the black granite floor thirty feet from his sister.
"Be careful. Make sure the corral gate's closed. I don't want Dad yelling at me."
Antonio excused his parents' absence this Saturday morning with an over-dramatic sigh. "Mom and Dad are in Culiacan this weekend visiting my grandparents."
"Mexico. My grandparents were born there. Did you meet my mother?"
"I've never met your parents."
"My mother's family is from Spain. That's why my skin is so light. I take after her, thank God. My mother's parents were very angry when she married my father. Like the English and the Americans. Look similar, but speak different languages. The Spanish have no respect for Mexicans. They thought she was marrying down." Antonio laughed. "When I pull Charlie Brown out of the stable, close the gate, okay?"
Antonio maneuvered Charlie Brown from the stable. The milkwhite horse was speckled with perfectly round black patches the size of a silver dollar on his neck and hindquarters. Charlie Brown seemed expectant, as if he knew this would be the last ride of many last rides. He was tired and filled with a mindless happiness. His balls were gone and the pursuit of females was absent from his mind. He enjoyed standing in his own muck and stench, brushing the day away with his long blonde tail. The boy sitting atop of him in cutoff jeans and a t-shirt had just begun the pursuit, a hollow lifelong trek in which the journey is the destination and those conquered along the way served only as mile markers. Antonio's legs fell from his hips in honeycomb rapture. With the corral gate closed, he held a hand out to me.
He pulled me up. Not knowing horses, I awkwardly tried to hitch myself in front of him.
"No. You get behind me. I'm controlling the horse."
I dropped to the ground and hitched myself up again. Antonio's arms were strong. He pulled me onto the horse.
"Aren't you supposed to use a saddle?"
"I like riding bareback. Charlie Brown's old. He's just happy to be out of his stable. He won't buck, if that's what you're afraid of."
I wrapped my arms around Antonio's ribcage and laced my fingers across his belly. His stomach was flat as a dinner plate. We were both twelve and shared the same sixth grade classroom. In the fall we would both move in different directions. He would attend a private middle school. I would lose his phone number. I would lose him forever and regret it the rest of my life. Ten years would pass, his name in my head every day. Was he still sweet? What did he look like now? But these are useless thoughts, and today is today and for now we are two happy boys on a broken horse.
"How old is Charlie Brown?"
"Twenty-one. My dad said he used to be beautiful. He's Patches' father."
"Everybody's related to everybody?"
"Just like people, only smarter."
I buried my nose in the smooth heat between Antonio's shoulder blades. His bones moved effortlessly under his shirt. He held the reins in his hand with gentle precision. I wanted a bit in my mouth, wanted him steering me in the right direction. Sunlight beaded sweat on his neck and I could feel heat coming off his belly through my fingers. Charlie Brown moved deliberately under our hips, and though I was only sixteen hands off the ground, with the freckles of Antonio's neck in front of me I was skirting the surface of Venus in a strange bioelectrical hovercraft that stank of horse sweat and trampled thistle.
"Where're we going?"
"There's a small pond on Mr. Cody's property. He has horses too. He lets me visit the pond with Charlie Brown because Charlie's old and doesn't have any balls."
"He doesn't have any balls?"
"If he had balls, it would upset Mr. Cody's stud Paducah. Studs know when other horses have balls."
"Paducah? What kind of name is that?"
"It's a city in Kentucky."
"But we're in the desert."
"Maybe it's where he's from. He's kind of strange. He has a son about our age, really fat. He doesn't go to school, just stays home and rides his mini-bike in the fields all day. Mr. Cody calls him Tater. I don't know his real name."
We continued along a small dirt trail through sagebrush, mesquite and palo verde. A tight cluster of orange trees appeared in a field of cotton. A stand of white boxes was hidden among the orange trees. I recognized them. Beehives. Maybe I would ask Antonio to take me near them, if he wasn't afraid. Something told me he wouldn't be. He was the most boyish boy I'd ever been around, yet he was more girly than I was. I think he knew other people thought of him as somehow different, and he fed off that. His eyes held secrets. I looked into them and saw he was worldly, knowing, intelligent. Maybe he'd already kissed a girl. Whatever it was, he wasn't sharing. He was mysterious and I wanted to know all his secrets. He stopped the horse abruptly and my nose bumped into the back of his head. The sudden violence filled my nostrils with the stench of chlorine, as if I'd been punched. I could see sweat blooming on his back, his shirt close to the skin. I tightened my grip on his belly.
"Sorry. Hey, you remember what I asked you a couple weeks ago? Out on the bleachers?"
"To borrow some lunch money?"
"I'm serious. Don't fuck around."
"You asked me to feel your arm muscles."
"You don't like them?"
"Remember what else I asked you?"
"To be your boyfriend? You told me you loved me."
"How come you said no? Don't you like me?"
"I like you. It's just that..."
I was prepared to drop off the horse and run as fast as my legs would carry me. "It's gay."
Antonio turned and left me staring at the back of his head. I considered his dark hair, wondered what it would taste like. I felt the muscles in his back tense. I wanted to take the awful words back.
"We have everything. Horses, chickens, pigs... why don't you like me?"
Antonio kicked Charlie Brown and we started moving again. When he'd said the word chickens, it came out shee-kons. After a few minutes I laced my fingers around his belly again. He didn't brush them away. His shirt was wet against my skin. The path through the trees broke into a clearing, and government property gave way to private land. A small pond lay a few hundred feet from us. It was shaded by two large ancient trees, a carob and a mulberry. The dichondra under the trees was a dark luscious green, green too deep to be any part of winter. I wanted more than anything to lay down and feel the cool dichondra against my back.
Once we were on Mr. Cody's property, Antonio dismounted the horse with an ease that comes with practice. I was suspended in mid-air, sixteen hands high, a twelve hundred pound animal separating me from the earth. If Antonio slapped Charlie Brown on the ass I'd be lost. Instead, he opened his arms and I slipped into them. He held me against the horse for a moment in a weird embrace. Charlie Brown stood motionless, dumb and patient.
"Don't you need to harness him?"
"He won't go anywhere."
We sat on dichondra still moist from the early morning. The grass was cool against my legs. Chickens clucked and roamed the property freely. Mr. Cody's land was larger than the acreage Antonio lived on. It wasn't noon yet and already it was hot. Antonio pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the grass next to him. Charlie Brown was busy pushing his nose in the dichondra, nibbling here and there. Antonio leaned back on his arms and looked me in the eye. I focused on the worn soles of my Chuck Taylors.
"I don't get you," Antonio said.
"Don't you ever think of girls?" I asked.
He pulled air into his lungs and hocked a loogie into the pond. Dreamsicle-colored koi bobbed at the spittle like pirates at sunken treasure. Antonio stretched out on the dichondra, his fingers laced behind his head. Soft blades of new grass were shiny with chlorophyll. Antonio didn't have hair under his arms. Maybe he wasn't a man after all, just a boy like me. He was beautiful but removed, like one of the untouchable girls who smelled of perfume in my sister's teen magazines.
"Yeah, I think of girls. I think of my sister and how long it takes her to put her make-up on every morning. I think of my cousins lying to each other about the boys they hate. I think of my mother when she goes to the grocery store without a list, wandering up and down the aisles for two hours. It makes me crazy! I think of girls. But thinking of boys is better. Way better."
Antonio dug at something in the back pocket of his cutoffs. I expected to see the barrel of a gun, his revenge for my act of rejection. Instead he pulled a small tin from his pocket.
"Ever tried Copenhagen?"
Was this a trick? I thought about it a moment before answering. "No."
"It's easy. Put it between your teeth and jaw."
"It gets you high."
Antonio stood and came to me. When he kneeled down his knees popped. With the sun on him I could see fine blonde hair on his legs. He sat next to me.
"Open your mouth."
He thipped the tin against his thumb with a quick, even rhythm. He removed the lid from the tin. He pinched a bit of black between his thumb and index, then his fingers were in my mouth, pushing the black against my gums like some satanic plunger. I choked against the shock of it.
"Let it rest in your mouth. Don't swallow it."
He placed some in his mouth and lay back on the dichondra, his legs curving into his hips like spun glass. I studied his crotch, the way the old denim traced his body. He caught me looking at him, sensed the desire in my heart. I forced my fists into my pockets. I could feel an intense heat on the back of my neck.
I wanted Antonio to string me up in his father's smokehouse and beat me unconscious, I wanted to be as calm and detached as he was. I was an impostor and a liar. He could see right through me.
I studied the leaves of the carob tree above me, bees lighting on the red fruit to suck at the sweet barbs. The Copenhagen went to my head. I counted fractions in the veins of the leaves, reducing them to their smallest parts. I drifted in and out, the bitter spit in my mouth trickling down the back of my throat to swell in my stomach.
"Remember not to swallow it, you'll get sick."
While I was drifting Antonio scooted next to me. His lips were redder than the tip of a Bomb Pop.
"Take off your shirt," he commanded.
Weak, I obeyed him.
"You're so white," he laughed. "Don't you ever take off your shirt?"
"No. I'm Catholic. It's not allowed."
I spit the rank tobacco from my mouth. Black saliva ran down my chin and pooled in the valley where my ribs met, a maria of uncharted worlds and whitewashed planets. Antonio ran his tongue across my sternum, tracing the grainy, black river. I didn't stop him. The bees hovering above us carried on as if the day held nothing new to catalog. Antonio's hair, straight as rebar, hid his eyes and for a moment I couldn't find them. He traced circles on my skin with his fingertips.
"Lay down," he said.
I did as I was told.
Fall came. Summer ended. I never saw him again. I looked for him in every Little League uniform. When I spotted a tired but agreeable horse, I pictured Antonio's sunbrowned legs at its flanks. My obsession was complete, pulsing close and constant like the blood in my neck. Goodbye, my lovely Antonio. I shall look for you on the side of every milk carton, your face condensed with sweat, your skin forever white porcelain and flowing blue calligraphy, a taut canvas etched with blue veins that fork and cross and form the Y of a thousand yeses.
from Matthew Miles
summer thin road:
silence hurt brother
there are other films
and you go back
have it harder
get it right
from Richard Labonte
I've been a regular with Dennis's blogs, this one and the hacked one, since very early days; reading The Weaklings is a daily morning tonic, along with a pot of tea and a long walk with the dog. Back when, Antonio's comments always provided an extra, electric jolt. As with most of the regulars here, present and past, he and I never met; we exchanged a few emails, he teased me with the prospect of a contribution to one of the erotic anthologies I edit, we shared the occasional FB comment thread and 'Like'. This video represents my through-the-Internet impression of his essence: exuberant and impassioned, brassy and brash, crazed and accomplished, furrowed concentration and helpless laughter, a boy and a man energized by abandon, an artist giving his all to the many forms of his art. If Antonio ever played the cello, he'd be one of these guys. Or, given his expansive soul, both of them.
from Little Foal
A POEM ABOUT CILLA BLACK BEFORE I GO FOR A JOG
blackened is the
cilla that whipes
the world clean
crashing down from
the world is a comet named
and then a seventh of the world's
cilla opens her granny head
while men stare on
into the cavernous cilla
what is inside
is it wood?
is it water?
is it everything you never thought you never wanted ever?
cilla needs to disappear into
cilla disappear disappear disappear
if i say it a thousand times it might happen
but i will never have
the power to rid
myself of cilla
i wanna feel the winds of a distant planet.
they kept saying mercury was gone, it'd disappeared
it'd fallen been absorbed into the sun.
i guess maybe it was just hidden or whatever, since it's retrograde.
what does it mean for a planet to be hidden
to choose to disappear or not be seen.
can a planet hide from itself. can love hide from itself.
can love hide from itself.
i remember cilla black from when i was a kid. she presented these shitty programs and i guess maybe i knew she made music but i didn't think about it much. i just remember the shitty programs really. one of the programs was about finding lost relatives and stuff, like reuniting folk that'd been separated and filming them cry, it was nice sometimes but kind of emotional pornography. another program was about setting folk up on dates and then filming them say unfair things about each other. though i guess maybe the things they said weren't unfair since if you're asking cilla black to help you get laid, you have to be kind of an asshole. on the dating program the contestants used to flirt with each other through these ugly screens, they had to answer questions and everybody reacted like it was the best thing ever.
i keep thinking maybe i found out that cilla black made music, when i was an adolescent. i remember it making sense, partly cuz she used to sing at the end of the reuniting program, and i guess it's weird for a person to sing in such a context unless they make music. but the kind of music that she made, felt like it made sense as well. a person turning their hand to something, because they possess self-belief. turning their hand, this is what entertainers used to do, in worlds that must have been so different from the world i inhabit, for folk basically the same as me except they were made to believe they weren't much. watching show business and it like sparkled.
all it takes is for you to turn your hand. all it takes is three chords. it's all it takes, i promise.
when my dad lost his job i was nineteen, my life felt like a smiths song. i remember him and my mum fighting, though they used to fight a lot when i was younger. i remember when i was maybe fourteen, for months they basically never talked, stuff was really fucked up and there didn't seem to be a reason.
it's really difficult for me to talk about my parents, but maybe some day i will be able to.
in 'half a person' morrissey sings that this girl wrote to him. she wrote 'in the days when you were hopelessly poor i just liked you more'. much of morrissey's work possesses amazing sexual power, to do with poverty and violence, and romanticism.
'a tough kid who sometimes swallows nails / raised on prisoner's aid / he killed a policeman when he was thirteen / and somehow that really impressed me / and it's written all over my face'
when morrissey sings this it's like an emblem, everything is there.
the bit from 'half a person' about liking the guy more when he suffered poverty, makes me think of record stores.
isn't there a smiths song with something in it about record stores. i can't remember.
i read that you were suffering from money problems. i romanticize poverty and violence and i hate myself for it, but i can feel that i'm gonna quit my job, i can feel that i'm gonna run away. it frightens me.
did you used to visit record stores. i bet you did, i bet you bought the sickest stuff in them.
i have four records. they are:
'for the roses' by joni mitchell
'hejira' by joni mitchell
'the divine punishment' by diamanda galas
'erendira' by first house
everything else is on cd. the fourth song on 'hejira' is named 'a strange boy'. it reminds me of you, this kid that sees patterns and damage and your intelligence is amazing.
i am filled with sorrow. writing this makes me think, what is literature.
i want it to be lost knowledge.
i want it to be representation.
i want it to be psychic power.
it's not as easy as 'he is still here' or 'he is a part of me'. there is so much pain. but it's still truthful. just more complicated.
what we need is to be the best ever. to write poems about the deepest feelings we have, and let every feeling be the deepest. to reject the institutions. to make love. to search for muses on the internet. to accept hermeneutic undecidability cuz we feel it. to be as inside of the experiences as artists can be, and then become lovers to get inside of the experiences more. to use the same chords and set the words to them and it's lame but when we play it we go beyond. to be dispossessed. to feel care that aches.
a kid plays nirvana songs and when he sings it's soft, but he believes in his power.
a kid is wearing steampunk stuff cuz it's non uniform day, the system destroys kids like him.
a kid is frightened and loves god but doesn't understand what god is and is okay with it.
a kid presses his body against the surface and they're hugging and it's just music queers like.
a kid puts correction fluid on his hands and is never gone enough.
it's all it takes, i promise.
p.s. Today we begin a weekend dedicated to the genius of Antonio Urdiales and to the love and respect with which he is held by the distinguished locals and readers of this blog where he was such an important figure, friend, and contributor. Part Two will appear tomorrow. There are no words that could express how much I revere and miss him. Please leave your comments and thoughts in the comments arena today. As I mentioned yesterday, I am unable to do the normal p.s. today, but I will return in full tomorrow. For now, all my love to Antonio and to all of you.