I started in January. As of today, I've finally finished writing. Now all I have to do is revise my manuscript before Tuesday to get it bound to hand it in by Thursday. Simple enough.

Then I'll have my Masters and a 322 page post-modern book called Drowning Hermey.

I'm very tired people.

When do you truly know someone though. What is the time limit. A half an hour. A day. A week. Or do you go with your gut feeling?

My manager used to tell me that the hardest thing in the world to do is to talk to someone for an hour or two, take him out to lunch and then decide whether or not you should offer him $60,000 a year to work with people he doesn't know.

Call it judging but seriously, people judge all the goddamn time. It how it works. Take relationships . . .

You're getting know someone. Hell you might even have a girlfriend or boyfriend at the time. He/she seems cool enough. You get another cup of coffee.

Wow, he/she likes to merengue. Wow, sweet. Wait my he/she doesn't like that. You get another cup of coffee.

I just finished reading Camus too! Amazing! Wait, my he/she doesn't read Camus. Maybe I should leave my he/she. You get another cup of coffee.

NOw that's just going to far . . . you mean to tell me that you want to end up in New York too! My he/she hates New York! Your's does too! Wow! You get another cup of coffee.

My point is, it's all a gamble and it never makes sense. So you must go with what you know which is unfortunate because speaking for myself, I don't know shit.

Judgement happens instantly, and there is nothing you can really do about it. And I'm talking nothing as in, if you did do something, it wouldn't be you, so fuck em'. But then, you can't blame them either.

If anyone can define when the exact moment to commence movement would be, I'd call you a fool. No one knows. You can fault ignorance I agree, BUT you cannot fault someone for not opening their eyes. Like Dyaln said, "I mean no harm, nor put fault on anyone, that lives in a vault, but it's alright ma, if I can't please him."

That last part is my utlimate sickness with people. I have yet to find the way to not fault a person for shutting themselves off. I wish I was truly as self-centered as people made me out to be.

Then I wouldn't get physically ill talking to certain people.

so with all the shit talk I was doing, would you believe that I might not go to the shoot?

I just have way to much shit to do. And the way I figure it, if I can't even give God an hour a week, Tunick ain't getting any.

Who knows. We'll see. I'm just tired.

On a side note, I saw Sartre's [c] No Exit [/c] tonight. An amazing performance at Buff Sem by the way.

The words, Hell is other people, are lingering in my head. This has to stop or else I should really get to balls to become the recluse I've always dreamed of being.

Well okay, not a recluse persay, but a cowboy. Definitely a cowboy who has no home. That would be something.

So . . . P a [inlink]paul,1789[/inlink] u l . . . .

Sounds to me like someone's a bit afraid to show off his pee pee. We wouldn't want to get a rise out of you so . . .

and as Dick Cheney would say, Hey, I dare ya.

OOOOOOOh SNAP!

Shiiiiit.

I hear you Paul [inlink]paul,1787[/inlink] and once again you provide a great example of a persuasive arguement.

But okay, Tunick might be making some money off this shit, but he'll do it with or without you or I because yes, sex sells.

But dig this clappa . . . really, what about the experience of being completely nude with people you see everyday, walking around, giving you coffee, fishing with you, etc... . What of that? Am I doing this for Tunick and being a part of art? Nah, not really. It is interesting though, I will say that, but my kind of art is not of the performance kind, but I digress . . .

I do feel a bit odd about saying, shit guys, let's all go get naked, and I swear to God, I won't look at you in that way. Whatever about that. There is a difference between losing an article of clothing piece by piece before entering the kitchen (counters people, counters) and hanging out with 1,600 people in their most vulnerable form. It's completely garden of eden here.

Who knows what it will be like. I've promised myself to go, so I will. I'd like to go with a couple of people, or I could play the, hey-look-at-that-naked-guy-reading-Beckett-by-himself. I'm not sure.

Will this be a sexy thing, and will it alleviate all curiousities? Depends on your imagination. But I will say this . . . imagine if people became comfortable with their bodies? Imagine if guys and girls could talk, naked, fresh, and natural? Imagine people were open enought to say, Jesus you have very nice breasts ______, and I'm talking in the I would love to paint them way. Or . . . God Terry, nice six pack, were you a swimmer? Or, you know stickboy, you're pseudonim is accurate, wait . . . no it's . . . wait . . . um, okay, what are you thinking about?

It won't happen by the way.

As I've said before, nothing's more non-sexy than just hanging out, naked because you have to be.

It's not a very persuasive case, but it did do this . . . i needed to figure out why I wanted to do it anyway, so thank you Paul.

I will ask, that if anyone wants to go, or meet up, I don't know, let's meet up maybe?

I would really like to see all of you naked, I have no qualms.

I'll show you my bod, if you show me yours . . . and about a thousands other people's bods . . .

and just to add . . . as the great Woody Guthrie once said, talking to a bunch of critcs and tightwads

" . . . you are gathered here this morning to burn my finest papers. You are here in this room in this very hour to tell me that there is something ugly, vile, vulgar about me somewhere, somehow, someway, I excuse your ignorance. I am not ashamed of me, nor ashamed of myself. My body is naked now, and it was born naked."

I will speak in the true color of my nakedest skin.

I've, on a whim, decided to get naked on Sunday, but don't know much about it, which is the website where I can sign up for it, if I should shave my right testicle, which part of the station it's at, and will I need a tetanus shot afterwards?

Where do I go for this information? Does any one know? And is anyone going?

Two more questions, what time and what do I wear? Is it a New York, chique bathrobe affair, or an LA heroin, blue jeans stained with blood type deal?

I consider this practice for UB's session. Besides nothing is more honest than 1600 people naked. Especially me and my disfigured body.

Last question, can we play poker while we wait? You know what I mean . . .


Is this really just a venue for a huge orgy because I am there if it is. I should shave my head before. But which head . . .

Y'all should go and make a promising elmwoodstrip appearance. Hell, we're going to be naked and talking about Bush, how great is that? Or I can talk about my pal Woody, a stuffed animal that always hangs around with me. Or even talk with my friend Vagina, she's swedish and in and out just for the weekend.

In case you don't believe me about the lead singer from Wilco . . . (see below journal)

Hummingbird


His goal in life was to be an echo
Riding alone, town after town, toll after toll
A fixed bayonet through the great southwest to forget her

She appears in his dreams
But in his car and in his arms
A dream can mean anything
A cheap sunset on a television set can upset her
But he never could

Remember to remember me
Standing still in your past
Floating fast like a hummingbird

His goal in life was to be an echo
The type of sound that floats around and then back down
Like a feather
But in the deep chrome canyons of the loudest Manhattans
No one could hear him
Or anything

So he slept on a mountain
In a sleeping bag underneath the stars
He would lie awake and count them
And the gray fountain spray of the great Milky Way
Would never let him
Die alone

Remember to remember me
Standing still in your past
Floating fast like a hummingbird

Remember to remember me
Standing still in your past
Floating fast like a hummingbird

A hummingbird
A hummingbird

found on: A Ghost is Born

words: Jeff Tweedy

debuted: January 6, 2003, The Vic, Chicago (Tweedy)

back to the Wilco lyrics archive


or . . .

Theologians


Theologians
They don't know nothing
About my soul
About my soul

I'm an ocean
An abyss in motion
Slow motion
Slow motion

Inlitterati lumen fidei
God is with us everyday
That illiterate light
Is with us every night

Theologians
That don't know nothing
About my soul
Oh they don't know

They thin my heart with little things
And my life with change
Oh in so many ways
I find more missing every day

Theologians

I'm going away
Where you will look for me
Where I'm going you cannot come

No one's ever gonna take my life from me
I lay it down
A ghost is born
A ghost is born
A ghost is born

I'm an ocean
I'm all emotion
I'm a cherry ghost
Cherry ghost

Hey I'm a cherry ghost
A cherry ghost

found on: A Ghost is Born

words: Jeff Tweedy

debuted: April 16, 2003, Abbey Pub, Chicago (Wilco/Minus 5)

back to the Wilco lyrics archive



typetypetypetypetypetype

This past weekend I got to see the sun go down as Jeff Tweedy sang his suicidal little heart out. Bless his soul for not being able to cope with life. I love people like that.

I got a gig renovating the tralf, so be sure to go when it opens by the way. My arms feel like they will explode again. This time it's from sawing and having a crush on a non-suspecting painter.

So yeah, this weekend. Newport Folk festival folks. One of the best things on God's brownfield earth. And can we start a petition to get rid of this fucking helmet law in NY state? Jesus.

I rode around all morning Saturday feeling like I was crossing the prairy desperately trying to reach El Paso, before the bad guys kill my sweet heart.

It was that kind of moment.

And why aren't hippy lesbians/experimental college girls attractive anymore? What gives? I won't say anything about the guys because if I see one more gut without a shirt I'm gonna puke.

Lucinda WIlliams was hot as ever.
As were the girls from Ollabelle.

Rufus Wainwright played and I don't know if any of you know him, but he is quite possibly the funniest entertainer I have seen. People were bell laughing.

The bike is red, I repeat, the bike is red. It's not bad. I put it on with the idea that I'll eventually paint it, but fuck it. It's meant to be.

I need a new tat but don't know where to put it besides up my ass.

I'm contemplating modeling for UB's art dept. Any ideas why I should not make the 15 an hour standing still, please let me know. I am horribly unattractive and disfigured so it will make for some nice drawings.

Robin, those pictures belong in a mini-series about the city boy who decides to raise chickens. Very cool.

There was a guy I once knew. He always started every story with those words. Can I go now. I thought you were going to tell a . . . well yeah, that's what I mean.

Fine. Go on.

After what seemed like three months of pure irrationality, he finally decided to let go and see what would happen.

But then, do you decide to let go? Not at all. It happens. Sort of like that last mushroom disappearing making your salad as plain as you are. I hear you. Please continue.

He let go. That's it. Why, no one really knows, except of course me. Of course. But you can figure it out.

He walked down the street as cars beeped feebly. He must have known that they wouldn't hit him, not that he cared. He came across one guy beating another. One was smaller and so he decided to assist.

What if the little guy deserved it?

The little guy never deserves it, shut up. So he took the big one down having God on his side.

We all have God on our side.

Shut the fuck up. So you know what happened? Why so silent good monsieur? He helped him out. The big guy lay still, half dead. The cops came, but he was gone already. A modern day Batman he was. But then.

Then?

Then.

Then?

Then he met up with a beggar who needed change. He screamed at him, said to leave him alone. ALONE he said. And he walked away.

So.

As he walked away he felt a warmth in his body and fell to his knees. The man had stabbed him.

The moral?

What's the moral? There's no fucking moral. I knew a guy who was stabbed. He got out easy s'what I say. We still have to endure. God chose him, or Buddha, or Zeus. Someone chose him.

Maybe he chose.

Can you please walk that a way? Yep that's it . . . thanks . . .

Be honest with me

- you sure

oh yes, please go on.

- you're one in a million

Oh god, you're sweet

-no, I mean, there has to be at least a million more out there exactly like you. And I mean exactly.

Uh . . .

-What's wrong?

Let's curb the honesty

- want to know what I was thinking while you climaxed?

please, no I . . .

- I was-

(SLAP, followed by grossly exagerated crying)

sorry, I was just being honest