Nonfiction, post neo-psych cross genre is decadent & deprave, Songs, Uncategorized

Video: In Which I, P.E. TOTTENHAM, Sing JOY DIVISION’S Song ‘Isolation’ Backed Up By HOUSE FANCY…

Click For Video Of P.E. of THE VIMA TRESNA Sings JOY DIVISION’S “Isolation” With the Excellent HOUSE FANCY!

Soo…thee occasion that sparked this fun collaboration (Isolation by JOY DIVISION covered live by HOUSE FANCY with vocals by P.E. Tottenham of THE VIMA TRESNA) with my friends from the band HOUSE FANCY was our mutual friend Greta Ribb’s invitation to play some live music with our current bands, or in whatever form any of us might have a notion to rock out…

See, what was approaching quite swiftly of course was Greta Ribb’s locally famous, yearly, long-running Hallowe’en Party/Freak Out, which Greta went all out for every year (and friends and hangers-on alike greatly anticipated as much they did Ribb’s equally perennial, oft celebrated New Year’s Eve Party—but I digress) utilizing the large converted barn/outbuilding/clam-rake smithy to facilitate live bands, deejaying, and, naturally, plenty of floor space for dancing.

Perfectly situated in a wooded, secluded part of her property, and both far enough from the main house and any pesky neighbors while still within the bounds of ‘civilization’ these New England Autumn revelries (ah! those glorious bonfires!) seemed to speak to something buried deep in our collective primal Yankee grey matter…

If memory serves I believe that was the last soirée held in that particular space & and on that particular property. I’m not really clear on the facts and/or the timing, but if I recall correctly their had been a fire (or fires?) that I know completely destroyed the oldest part of the structure, which may have been some sort of stable or barn in some lost, long gone era. Anyhow, whatever the sequence of events and the corresponding timeframe all I am certain of is this was the last shindig I ever attended at Greta’s old place.

Thanks Greta for your tireless enthusiasm, which continues to this day, for dreaming of, planning out, and graciously facilitating (despite the typical odds & hindrances involved) a perpetual forum—more like a neutral space for artistic possibility without judgement.

I know this has for some years now been something like a mission for you, but my words might suggest some form of preciousness in your personality; nothing could be farther from the truth. There is not the hint of pretension in whatever you set yourself to bring to life.

Strong agency, an embrace of and instinctive facility for humor; the power in the recognition of the absurd. Yet, equally adept you have become with bearing witness

to the brutality, the indifference that is potential for all life.

Okay! Enough of that. I just really wanted to say “Wow, Greta, nice job keeping up with these weekly open mics you’ve been hosting in your own house for––what?–-gotta be at least 3 years now! You’re crazy, lady. No. Not crazy (except in the sense that for me I could not wrap my brain around, nor ever enjoy the weekly occurrence of many people, most drunk & high, some on stronger, stranger, more novel substances. I take solace that the majority of the folks are known, trusted friends that truly appreciate what you provide for everyone.

Because on Cape Cod this is the only option. If you play off-beat, mutant, freak music. If the only art that speaks to you—the only art in kind you have any facility or desire to create promises you at best that breed of novel attention that always ends (quickly) in derision and alienation. At worst, well, what could worse? Indifference.

So, again, thanks. Thanks for graciously storing my amp and guitars for so long. I wish I could promise to fetch them directly, but…

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Fiction

วิเชียรมาศ or: Jade: Moon Diamond


Ten times a day i reflexively feel you enter the room, Jade; likewise yr histrionic snoring (my favorites were the ones that sounded like a continuous succession of gentle ‘oohs’ & ‘ahhs’, (but just as delightful if i’m neing honest were of the sorta loud pig snorting genre…) late at night while i read away the hours.

And now…this is precisely the problem i’ve always seemed to have with existence: all those lousy hours i’ve filled with melancholy, paranoia, self-loathing, hypocrisy, detachment, and generalized dread and unfounded fear.*

Jade, i still don’t even really understand that you are truly gone, so this denial both helps me pay less attention to these fucking long consecutive, continuous hours that i must either take for granted, or just finally, forever, reject this collective agreement of all this slow work under the gun of suffering in silence that many of us fucking freaks subscribe to.

Well, sure a wicked tired cliche that last bit, but that’s precisely the feeling i’m trying to get across to this….um….white, rectangular typing/posting space: an airless, virtual conduit of, to, and for the ‘void’.

Oh, jade, i AM wicked tired. i AM a cliche.

Without you here with me, Jade, those empty, indifferent, unfeeling (because, yo, time is a human construct; it’s a byproduct or human civilization although when reality and most people are welcome to go fuck themselves i like to pretend that ‘hours’ & the relentless, entropy addicted ‘time’ is an apex predator. an abstract, spooky haunty great white shark.)

Lately, Jade, i’m just not convinced that i’m cut out for the ‘long con’. i’ve pretty much always believed that, but never told anyone about it. Goodnight, little Princess Moon Diamond. If I could will one thing to be so when I am finally accomplished in whatever this physical realm had required of my flesh & blood presence endowed with agency; channel or focus that “essence” of what creative energy force I thought I once had, and so continue to seek this ineffable totem in all & everything if only to find courage for the grace of inspired obsession!

Well, being who & what I am: the personification of a minor, shallow wildly meandering and exceedingly slow-flowing mountain stream erratically & blindly a private, personal champion method of aesthetic creation whether musical, textual, or in unitymay conceivably still possess deep within my heart/psyche it would

Shanti, วิเชียรมาศ.
love, 
patrick


“A Totem” by The Vima Tresna
How Green Was My Valley (1941): John Ford, Director
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Fiction, Uncategorized

“The escape would have been to love her; then, then he would have lived. She had lived—who could say now with what passion?—since she had loved him for himself; whereas he had never thought of her (ah how it hugely glared at him!) but in the chill of his egotism and the light of her use. Her spoken words came back to him—the chain stretched and stretched. * * * * The Beast had lurked indeed, and the Beast, at its hour, had sprung; it had sprung in that twilight of the cold April when, pale, ill, wasted, but all beautiful, and perhaps even then recoverable, she had risen from her chair to stand before him and let him imaginably guess. It had sprung as he didn’t guess; it had sprung as she hopelessly turned from him, and the mark, by the time he left her, had fallen where it was to fall. He had justified his fear and achieved his fate; he had failed, with the last exactitude, of all he was to fail of; and a moan now rose to his lips as he remembered she had prayed he mightn’t know. * * * * This horror of waking—this was knowledge, knowledge under the breath of which the very tears in his eyes seemed to freeze. Through them, none the less, he tried to fix it and hold it; he kept it there before him so that he might feel the pain. That at least, belated and bitter, had something of the taste of life. But the bitterness suddenly sickened him, and it was as if, horribly, he saw, in the truth, in the cruelty of his image, what had been appointed and done. He saw the Jungle of his life and saw the lurking Beast; then, while he looked, perceived it, as by a stir of the air, rise, huge and hideous, for the leap that was to settle him. His eyes darkened—it was close; and, instinctively turning, in his hallucination, to avoid it, he flung himself, face down, on the tomb.” — Henry James “The Beast in the Jungle” (1903)

“The escape would have been to love her; then, then he would have lived. She had lived—who could say now with what passion?—since she had loved him for himself; whereas he had never thought of her (ah how it hugely glared at him!) but in the chill of his egotism and the light of her use. Her spoken words came back to him—the chain stretched and stretched. * * * * The Beast had lurked indeed, and the Beast, at its hour, had sprung; it had sprung in that twilight of the cold April when, pale, ill, wasted, but all beautiful, and perhaps even then recoverable, she had risen from her chair to stand before him and let him imaginably guess. It had sprung as he didn’t guess; it had sprung as she hopelessly turned from him, and the mark, by the time he left her, had fallen where it was to fall. He had justified his fear and achieved his fate; he had failed, with the last exactitude, of all he was to fail of; and a moan now rose to his lips as he remembered she had prayed he mightn’t know. * * * * This horror of waking—this was knowledge, knowledge under the breath of which the very tears in his eyes seemed to freeze. Through them, none the less, he tried to fix it and hold it; he kept it there before him so that he might feel the pain. That at least, belated and bitter, had something of the taste of life. But the bitterness suddenly sickened him, and it was as if, horribly, he saw, in the truth, in the cruelty of his image, what had been appointed and done. He saw the Jungle of his life and saw the lurking Beast; then, while he looked, perceived it, as by a stir of the air, rise, huge and hideous, for the leap that was to settle him. His eyes darkened—it was close; and, instinctively turning, in his hallucination, to avoid it, he flung himself, face down, on the tomb.” — Henry James “The Beast in the Jungle” (1903)
— Read on m.facebook.com/story.php

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