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Wednesday, November 21st, 2007
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3:50 pm - i hate it when people do this
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The past is a grotesque animal
And in its eyes you see
How completely wrong you can be
The sun is out, it melts the snow that fell yesterday
Makes you wonder why it bothered
I fell in love with the first cute girl that I met
Who could appreciate George Bataille
Standing at Swedish festival discussing "Story of the Eye"
Discussing "Story of the Eye"
It's so embarrassing to need someone like I do you
How can I explain I need you here and not here too
How can I explain I need you here and not here too
I'm flunking out, I'm flunking out
I'm gone, I'm just gone
But at least I author my own disaster
At least I author my own disaster
Performance breakdown and I don't want to hear it
I'm just not available
Things could be different
but they're not
The mousy girl screams, "Violence! Violence!"
The mousy girl screams, "Violence! Violence!"
She gets hysterical
because they're both so mean
And it's my favorite scene
But the cruelty's so predictable, it makes you sad on the stage
Though our love project has so much potential
But it's like we weren't made for this world
Though I wouldn't really want to meet someone who was
Do I have to scream in your face?
I've been dodging lamps and vegetables
Throw it all in my face, I don't care
Let's just have some fun, let's tear this shit apart
Let's tear the fucking house apart
Let's tear our fucking bodies apart
But let's just have some fun
Somehow you've red-rovered the gestapo circling my heart
And nothing can defeat you
No death, no ugly world
You've lived so brightly
You've altered everything
I find myself searching for old selves
While speeding forward through the plate glass of maturing cells
I've played the unraveler, the parhelion
But even apocalypse is fleeting
There's no death, no ugly world
Sometimes I wonder if you're mythologizing me like I do you
We want our film to be beautiful, not realistic
Perceive me in the radiance of terror dreams
And you can betray me, but teach me something wonderful
Crown my head, crowd my head with your lilting effects
Project your fears on to me
I need to view them
See there's nothing to them
I promise you there's nothing to them
I'm so touched by your goodness
You make me feel so criminal
How do you keep it together?
I'm all, all unraveled
But you know, no matter where we are
We're always touching by underground wires
I've explored you with the detachment of an analyst
But most nights we've raided the same kingdoms
And none of our secrets are physical now
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(comment on this)
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| Sunday, October 14th, 2007
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9:12 am
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| Friday, January 26th, 2007
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8:36 pm
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your tongue in his teeth
in a struggle to find
secret songs that you keep
wrapped in boxes so tight
sounding only at night
as you sleep
and in my dreams you're alive
and you're crying
as your mouth moves in mine
soft and sweet
rings of flowers round your eyes
and i’ll love you
for the rest of your life
(when you’re ready)
brother see we are
one and the same
and you left with your
head filled with flames
and you watched as your brains
fell out through your teeth
push the pieces in place
make your smile sweet to see,
don’t you take this away
i’m still wanting my face
on your cheek
and when we break
we’ll wait for our miracle
god is a place
where some holy spectacle lies
and when we break
we’ll wait for our miracle
god is a place
you will wait for the rest of your life
two-headed boy
she is all
you could need
she will feed
you tomatoes
and radio wire
and retire
to sheets
safe and clean
but don’t hate her
when she
gets up
to leave
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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| Monday, May 3rd, 2004
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11:17 am - broke-ass is a noun
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"what i did today" by torrey bell-edwards
1:12am -
call from marco. wants to hang out, sell pot to my friends.
1:30am-3:05am -
reading 'junky', 'notes of a dirty old man', 'stranger in a strange land' and looking at 'teen lesbian fisting porn'.
3:06am -
call from one-eyed photographer who wants to take nude photos of me to help me 'expand [my] horizons' and be 'more sexual'.
3:07-8:15am -
fitful rest
8:19am -
breakfast with lost crush (and wonderful friend) from years back who is getting married to another guy in october. heartfelt conversation ensues. walks in parks.
10:07am -
i reveal super-startling, shameful facts about my past to said friend--i.e. tell her about the coke-whore-crabs thing--and she does not punch me or walk away scandalized to her very core. bonus. did i mention i am edgy and deep?
10:25am -
send friend on her way. go home, stare blankly at my stuff piled next to the stairs, consider hunting certain irresponsible prospective roommates down and bludgeoning them with socks full of quarters totaling some $134.00 that i now owe the bank due to said prospective roommate's negligence. wallow in self-pity.
10:31am -
get over it.
11:04am -
call dude to see if apartment is still open. it is. make appointment to meet him.
11:12am -
meet him. fork over cash, sign lease, examine new home. wonder if i will ever be drunk enough to sit on the damp furniture in this hole of a living room. wonder how long it will be before i have sex on the noticeably slanted floor of my bedroom. wonder if i am now living with family of crack-addled quasi-hippie drug dealers. decide not to think about it.
11:23am -
come back 'home'. write self-indulgent, unshocking, 100% true account of my day since i got home from work last night. start reading a physical chemistry textbook i found at the bus stop. go to sleep.
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(5 comments | comment on this)
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| Wednesday, April 14th, 2004
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9:40 am - just like the bible...
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san diego is about to get a whoooole lot sexier.
you begged and pleaded and now it's a reality: I AM COMING BACK.
April 22-April 27, i am visiting the land of uninteresting weather to make my mark last a little longer.
expect the worst.
tie shit down.
and i would like to go to mexico as well.
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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| Wednesday, April 7th, 2004
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9:54 am - "my nuts are a pressure cooker"--free drinks to the line-identifier
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I AM PICKING UP THE PACE.
i am streamlined, organized, rapturous and limber.
you cannot tell me it's not a little frightening to stand close to me, because i can smell your fear.
for all those that would like to witness my initial foray into professional website design, go to walker-moody. It's in progress, so it's very slow, and I just coded someone else's design, but i did get paid a tidy sum, and got to make like some edgy consultant, with a briefcase and "bills for services rendered" and "faxing proposals" and shit.
and finally, I leave you with this: 
that fucking gem is tommie, and she is under serious protection from anyone with a skull ring. in her own words, she "shakes [her] booty" makes "mad cash" and knows all about "blood". she also pissed on a virgin megastore window cause she doesn't give a fuck.
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(2 comments | comment on this)
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| Tuesday, April 6th, 2004
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2:32 am - 'lush' is more dignified
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hello.
i am single.
i am depressed and liberated.
i am recovering my ability to make things.
i am visiting those avenues of my life's city that are lined with borded up and condemned tenements.
i am making phone calls.
i am out, but you can leave a message: 415-420-4331
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(12 comments | comment on this)
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| Saturday, October 25th, 2003
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9:28 am - ACHTUNG, MOUTHBREATHERS
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dear every-one,
WHO WANTS TO PAY ME?
my friendship is worth money, right?
i'm cashing in on all those fantastic wet dreams you had about me.
cough it up.
ahora.
love,
torrey
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(3 comments | comment on this)
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| Wednesday, October 22nd, 2003
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9:12 am - suicide squeeze so small
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funniest thing about dead people...
there's this verb reserved for the people they knew: "survived".
as in, "he was survived by his mistress, seven bastard children and a poisonous asp that lies curled around the elm tree, unmoving."
i hear survived, i hear outlived, outlasted.
Elliott Smith is survived by family, friends, the rest of heatmiser (neil gust, tony lash, and sam coomes), and torrey bell-edwards.
so what kind of fucking bullshit is it, when at the crux of spiritual mediocrity, of total unproduction and vacuous stillness, i'm free to breathe, and elliott smith stabbed himself in the heart because his hand didn't work anymore. because he couldn't play it right anymore.
empty your pockets onto the bar. say you were going to buy your way into the front row when he came thru town, but now all you want is johnny walker red, rocks. and stare at the old-fashioned glass all night while it empties itself.
for mr. smith, elliott, paul, steve, whatever:
i loved you.
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(comment on this)
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| Tuesday, October 14th, 2003
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1:15 am - oh. sweet. jesus. YES.
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| Friday, October 3rd, 2003
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1:37 am - i'm back.
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| Monday, June 2nd, 2003
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5:46 pm - bumps that go fiend in the night
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this just in: MOVING TO SAN FRANCISCO IN LESS THAN FOURTEEN DAYS
with a bunch of chefs who know how to fucking get shit done.
i'm a catch, you know that? semi-transient, unemployed, college drop-out, etc...
CAN YOU DIG IT?
big ups go out to my boys ryan and brendan and marisa for putting up with my shit.
i'm the biggest, least relevant, unenigmatic ecstatic around.
hear that?
ECSTATIC
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(11 comments | comment on this)
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| Thursday, May 22nd, 2003
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5:51 am
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III. a nasty pre-occupation
1. mclusky – “to hell with good intentions”
2. death from above – “if we don’t make it we’ll fake it”
3. simian – “we are your friends”
4. latyrx – “lady don’t tek no”
5. living legends – “night prowler”
6. adult – “minors at nite (still sick)”
7. haywood – “the kids are taking aim”
8. we ragazzi – “forever surrender 2 u”
9. pulp – “disco 2000 (7’ mix)”
10. pop will eat itself – “can u dig it?”
11. psychedelic furs – “heartbreak beat”
12. el-p – “t.o.j.”
13. botch – “o fortuna (based on 'o fortuna' by carl orff)”
14. pleasure forever – “meet me in eternity”
15. decemberists – “a cautionary song”
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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5:19 am
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II. seven-story snail
1. lightning bolt – “thirteen monsters”
2. tourettes Lautrec – “saturns children”
3. notwist – “trashing days”
4. out hud – “this bum’s paid”
5. heatmiser – “get lucky”
6. gang of four – “we live as we dream, alone”
7. pixeltan – “gonna get you”
8. dillinger escape plan (with mike patton, covering aphex twin) – “come to daddy”
9. kid606 (with mike patton) – “secrets 4 sale”
10. iron and wine – “an angry blade”
11. decemberists – “odalisque”
12. drive like jehu – “new math”
13. mastodon – “mother puncher”
14. sybarite – “the fourth day”
15. schneider t.m. – “the light three thousand”
coming soon: "part III: a nasty pre-occupation"
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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5:13 am - (with apologies to ritz and emilia for duplicative [not duplicitous] tendencies)
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I. altar egos
1. books – “deafkids”
2. echo & the bunnymen – “silver”
3. yeah yeah yeahs – “y-control”
4. spoon – “all the pretty girls go to the city”
5. sleater-kinney – “oh!”
6. primal scream “the lord is my shotgun”
7. firewater – “get out of my head”
8. liars – “mister you’re on fire mister”
9. hot snakes – “bye nancy boy”
10. burning brides – “plastic empire”
11. black cat music – “hands in the estuary, torso in the lake”
12. black heart procession – “fingerprints”
13. rapture (covering psychedelic furs)– “dumb waiters”
14. wire – “i am the fly”
15. h.i.m. (his infernal majesty) – your sweet six six six
16. fischerspooner – “invisible”
17. interpol – “obstacle 1”
18. black dice – “seabird”
coming soon: "part II: seven-story snail"
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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| Thursday, March 20th, 2003
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1:26 am - i am a housewife; "arbeit macht frei" is my song
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my roommates are totally fucking, which is always rad. i'd like to think that someone gets some every night in my house.[see below.]
only problem is, caleb is my man, and heidi and i always have to have these bitter, drawn-out, eye-scratching catfights about who gets to be his cockslut for the evening in question. tedium abounds.
!pending spatial relocation!
maris and i are headed south friday morning. we're gonna beat the sun to the coast, schnell like a bunny.
hollywood, diamond bar, will be the first to go.
they call it a "scorched earth" order. nothing left standing above ground level. your basements become firepits and your pets become kindling.
coming soon:
*tuesday nacht special [!] in san diego*
[this is below. see it?] [see also--and a lot of you are equipped to do it--see also: memoirs of a beatnik, "a night at the pad"]
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(4 comments | comment on this)
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| Wednesday, February 12th, 2003
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3:27 pm - Read p. 58-66 in A Poetry Handbook. Write a haiku and a limerick.
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The Sandwich Haiku (with special thanks to Zac Hunter)
I want a sandwich.
Make me a sandwich right now.
I want that sandwich.
Click
Get up off the floor and get dressed.
There's no time--now you've confessed.
Hang up the phone,
Pick up the bones,
The girl's body must be addressed.
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(3 comments | comment on this)
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| Sunday, January 19th, 2003
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6:07 pm - millions now waking will never sleep.
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found this in a picture frame i bought at a thrift store:
"The walls, anemic and stark and proud, unsullied by the onion-skin residue, the yielding membrane of familiarity, of home.
Canyons of books with their own geology--strata layered upon bedrock, a wealth of fossils (unfortunate spiders, coffee stains, the cryptic black whorls of inky fingerprints) preserved between the creased, taped, and torn pages. Sharp, bright things, things for writing and cutting and eating, are hiding, poking their gleaming edges from soft mounds of clothing. Hills, perhaps. And if so, hills that must also conceal stands of fragrant flowers, redolent of nervous perspiration and unwashed boy.
This aggregate knows it bears the mingled sterile scents of a hotel, sourceless and alien. The awareness is constant, inescapable. The furniture begs to be thrown aflame from the broken windows, and the bed has lumps in the wrong places, and when you pull the dresser away from the wall, the dust behind it is thin and the pennies are shiny and the dates stamped on them are this year’s. Posters and picture frames fall during the night, the shallow-driven nails and tacks sliding silently from their purchase. I grind mud into the rug with my boot heel, pour wine from the bottle onto the floor, I do all the sweating and bleeding and spitting required of my young rabid station in life, and let it seep into the carpet until it squishes between my toes. But it is all lifted effortlessly when a rag is set to soak it up. The stains I work in are sheer--a film atop those that were already here: the dark, shapeless masses, like submerged oceanic atolls, curling reefs grown up through the roots of fiber and fabric."
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(1 comment | comment on this)
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| Saturday, December 14th, 2002
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8:26 pm - turn it off, put it down, and crush it under your heel.
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"...downtown was dark, for once, and the cops rode pacific ave., their cars bristling with swooping, accusing spotlights that picked out blank faces, dead shop windows, the stained edges of stucco edifice, and silence occupied the benches and niches where bums usually sat, what little light there was -- reflected down the rain-slicked corridor of a blackout street, and here, one block over, right here, between the dance studio and the thrift store, one fogged-over pane of glass lit from within by clustered candles and quiet chatter..."
the wind and rain conspired to make this. because when the streetlights and neon signs wink out, you can see everything. i'm going back outside.
but one image is conjured alone in its primacy: a telephone pole battered by the gusts, toppling, power lines snapping and sparking, and the quiet of wires gone dead echoing for miles around.
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(3 comments | comment on this)
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| Sunday, December 1st, 2002
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2:51 am - because i'm scraping the bottom, and because i should be working
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five bands people should have a listen to:
little joe gould
cop shoot cop
the liars
bellini
lightning bolt
five songs on your mp3 playlist right now:
interpol - "PDA".
we ragazzi - "forever surrender 2 u".
nick drake - "three hours".
tourettes lautrec - "saturn's children".
adult - "nausea".
five things on your desk right now:
two knives. japanese blades. one sheathed in wood, one in leather.
a reader from a lit class last year converted to a mouse pad.
a big-ass phone bill from SBC.
a full-sized, functioning replica of a beretta M92F with silencer. safety on, unloaded.
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(5 comments | comment on this)
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