(Sigh) What the hell is going on here? This is Portland, Oregon. ARTSY FARTSY Portland. I want to know what dumbass chose to make an education in art, of all forms, pretty much extinct, unavailable to kids in the public school system. What group, what the hell ever, WHO let this happen? And WHY?!!! I honestly, being a Portland native, musician and proud poet, feel an obligation to make a fuss about a cause that should not be, especially in the city we live in, a cause at all. 2 out of 10 kids on a good day learned an eye blink of a lesson on something artistic. Art has become an industry here. And the city has a reputation for the Art scene. Lets remember Music is Art. Art made the Pearl District, named after an artist, where the cheap art studios used to be. Not to mention, I bet he and she and they and that one guy and them, those guys, and maybe you, moved here from another place, and I am not surprised if half to form or join a band. Lets not mention…. oh my god, so much stuff. Portland is Portland because of Art. We need the people running the city when we are old to have a deep respect for the arts also. I dont want to be writing this, thinking about it gives me a headache, but, fuck man. I am shocked. And informing possibly no one. Check this out: On October 26th, there is a “Festival” at the Someday Lounge with a bill of DIY Northwest bands and musicians called LoopFest! My band(just me) if you wanna call it that, Bass Shaker Presley is officially now playing this show to raise awareness on the lack of Arts and Education and also in the name of the arts scene, to thank the city, celebrate the vibrant as hell art scene here. for real. i feel like the city was saved by artists. I will have a microphone, thats what I am gonna use it for, for 30 seconds. 15-20 years ago, portland sucked; I was apologized to in 1995 for living here while at Disneyland. i bet that guy lives here now. why are all of your and my friends not from here? yeah man. Bass Shaker Presley sounds like this: http://soundcloud.com/brian-hardie and will be very LOUD at this show. I have fatigue from the now normality of trying to sell myself every day, and am eating a sandwhich. ‘put a turd on it’ i mean bird. someone has to get that.
Me In The Bitchin Kitsch Oct. Issue
I just realized, that whenever something shitty happens, not just unfortunate, but just plain fucked, happens, where I am forced to become stronger, where I have to move on, to keep on, I immediately change notebooks. Its a way of moving on, a way to not deal with the past, messing up my nows. Every old notebook saved has plenty left to be written in. I have around 20 saved. Have owned and used for sure over 100 cheap notebooks in my life, many back pocket Moleskines. Though because of my relationship with my writing, I never kept track of my used or I should say finished with, journals. I remember very well my first, as a kid. Sky blue cover.
I need to write more quotes I dig in here. Not just vomit all over the pages and then be done with it. You know, after I empty the dirt from my belly, as Henry Miller wrote. Where I bury casual “I-dont-knows”, here. I’m writing prose write now, though. There would be no connection, and only static would be heard, dead-air, deformed offspring from being thrown into processing perception getting stuck, thrown off board. Something I would never admit: I let criticism of my published writing get to me. Or, okay…. I am threatened, deeply scared of it. I hand over my power as an offering! when I should and do hate critics already. I have to force the words out when I am fearing what might be said about those words, sentences, syntax, that I produce. I am telling the critic, “I know, I know” or even worse, apologizing. Guilt over not saying the right thing, and not convincing. For having eyes rolled at, shoulders shrugged at, sighs from a readers annoyance or boredom. For not giving the reader wings, for not stopping them in their tracks, and making them feel something. I know that is true(what is true?), but I’m still keeping it away from my own eyes to read (You are losing me). I gave my power away. That one, certain power of bragging I just realized existed as a strength, muscle. Mine is under a rootbeer belly. Crazy (are you lost yet? You cannot catch me).
I feel ashamed to admit that I nearly gave it away from not believing in myself. What are you rambling on about? My own worst critic feeling the success of giving me an ass kicking. If I write it down, I will see how I should not be discouraged. (Sorry man, I gotta run) My best friend of 20 years, because he was butt hurt, left an insulting comment about one of my pieces, or more so about my style, on a blog post. And I didnt write for three weeks I let his opinion convince me he was right. Writing for the first time in almost a month, I felt as if I had taken a shower much needed. No writing meant no blog posts too. And I just finally started connecting with some people. No stopping (I can say okay I wont but will) I felt like I was fading away from the practice of something that no matter how much I told myself that I am a shit writer and there is no point at facing another blank page and (and and ends it)
“Hey this guy cannot explain a damn thing. He runs away during the sentence from the sentence therefor he is pretty much mumbling with his pen.”
I want to believe I have true meaning. I want someone I adore to let me know that. Though I’m still writing, remembering why I started writing at all: something was telling me to. Inside. The puzzle misses a piece without my writing. Pompous so called pride is a defense mechanism. People want to be told how it is. So I let them know that I am original, true, human, therefor beautiful. Nothing more boring than an honest person that is normal and even perfect. I wont stop writing. I do want to feel naked sometimes, and show that I am human with faults, that wants acceptance, that feels. Someone has to let you know that all of that pure bred human type is actually walking the sidewalks still and that someone else being one is completely cool also. Yuck. What a corny lame sentence. Perfect? Perfect is Boring. Find a plastic surgeons blog. Wrinkles and taking a crap and having flaws and jealousy is what happens on this blog, because that is what real life is (awww, look at him speak of fuck no one give about? I am Ivon the Russian), admitting you are wrong sometimes, admitting, that your just butt hurt and acting accordingly. What a boring post, sorry. Its crazy how huge just one persons world is. Still everyone poops (But I really dont!) Well then you are a zombie. Glass of pee? Finger and sour cream? No? There is some fresh hair in that sour cream. Cool. (Thank you, though, I might crack a cold piss here in a second)
Cool, bottom shelf in the fridge. Dont forget about that hairy sour cream. Yeah, my food stamps re booted yesterday. I gotta grab some Turds and Tators for your buddy. Lets go to the store, man.
(you always put the perfect amount of hair in the dip)
Told you it was dank. Gotta smoke? Sweet, thanks.