self

habitual construction of imagination
  • .: This is Liminal. :.

    there is a collective of Chrisbarr - a mismatched assortment of selves, a fractured colocation of accidental behavior patterns and molecular arrangements. this is where We meet.
  • March 2010
    S M T W T F S
    « Feb    
     123456
    78910111213
    14151617181920
    21222324252627
    28293031  

    used to be p in the v

    Posted By iambarr on March 5, 2010

    now the hip kids do it in 1080p.
    i have no idea what that means.

    going out tonight?
    where are you going?
    are there hipsters there?
    ’cause, seriously, i won’t go if there are hipsters there.

    hipsters:
    (either i did this research myself, or i just searched wikipedia. i forget which.)

    “Hipsters are the friends who sneer when you cop to liking Coldplay. They’re the people who wear t-shirts silk-screened with quotes from movies you’ve never heard of and the only ones in America who still think Pabst Blue Ribbon is a good beer. They sport cowboy hats and berets and think Kanye West stole their sunglasses. Everything about them is exactingly constructed to give off the vibe that they just don’t care.”
    — Time, July 2009

    In an essay titled “The White Negro” Norman Mailer painted hipsters as American existentialists, living a life surrounded by death — annihilated by atomic war or strangled by social conformity — and electing instead to “divorce oneself from society, to exist without roots, to set out on that uncharted journey into the rebellious imperatives of the self.”

    The first dictionary to list the word is the short glossary “For Characters Who Don’t Dig Jive Talk,” which was included with Harry Gibson’s 1944 album, Boogie Woogie In Blue. The entry for “hipsters” defined it as “characters who like hot jazz.

    In a Huffington Post article entitled “Who’s a Hipster?”, Julia Plevin argues that the “definition of ‘hipster’ remains opaque to anyone outside this self-proclaiming, highly-selective circle”. She claims that the “whole point of hipsters is that they avoid labels and being labeled. However, they all dress the same and act the same and conform in their non-conformity” to an “iconic carefully created sloppy vintage look”.

    i have no idea what any of that means.
    but, seriously, i won’t go where hipsters go. unless i don’t know what a hipster is and then i’l be rockin’ out alongside them with a pbr in my hand diggin’ the retro rock. of course, i think i’ll have to pretend that i don’t really dig the retro rock. unless everyone else says they don’t dig the retro rock. then maybe i’ll have to. or maybe i won’t, just to be double hip.

    i had a dream last night.
    godzilla was attacking the portland coast. somewhere around two-lights, i caught up with the bastard. he’s huge, but he’s apparently hard to find. ridiculous… i know. there was a point, a very quintessential godzilla moment in which he lifted his foot in order to stomp on me. as he did this, i saw that the underside of his foot had another face looking down at me. it was the face of betty white. seriously.

    once again, i have no idea what that means.
    i know it makes me hip. i just don’t know if it makes me a hipster.

    fuck you, world. bring me another jack daniels.

    can i tell you about life?

    Posted By iambarr on February 22, 2010

    by that, of course, i mean to ask, can i tell you about my life?
    (solipsism is ingrained and unavoidable, even at the level of basic sentence construction)

    some facts/fantasies:
    will oldham is not charles edward stuart, despite the similarity of their names.
    this time, as it turns out, the cusp was real. iam2ndorderbarr.
    there are two tom slicks. one is a cryptozoological legend. the other is an internet meme. don’t get them confused.
    buckethead’s big sur moon kind of fucking rocks.
    parties are for drinking. and fucking. and maybe punching.
    merchant of venice is a fun, albeit antisemitic, play to read.
    i am smart enough to understand saussure, derrida, barthes, and foucault.
    lately, my thoughts are perpetually lost in the futon.
    becca is painting. i sleep beneath the water.
    “im” means “s” in some languages.
    edward bellamy looked backward. francis bellamy looked forward. both deserve my respect.
    i love robots. robots hate me.
    hunter s. thompson is an angelic being. wild turkey whiskey is satan’s urine.

    thinking came later…

    Posted By iambarr on February 18, 2010

    drank scotch.
    wrote words.
    realized later that the internet isn’t private.

    heh heh. silly, chris.

    had ideas

    Posted By iambarr on February 17, 2010

    went to see a man today.
    went to see a man about the unknown, because, you see, i had questions. turns out that asking questions is not enough to deserve answers. his name is loren coleman and, when it comes to the unknown, there are few who can rival his knowledge. bigfoot, yeti, coelocanth, jersey devil, mothman: these are coleman’s areas of expertise. there are secret things, unknowable things, unmentionable things that coleman has dedicated his life to..

    drunken, i asked him about love.
    he told me to leave. he doesn’t deal in fairy tales.

    i would like the world to understand..

    Posted By iambarr on February 17, 2010

    the world, by which i mean the neighborhood, is big. REALLY big.

    i drank some scotch

    Posted By iambarr on February 17, 2010

    then.. i drank some more scotch.
    the thing is, scotch is fucking fantastic in the morning.
    the first glass is a lot like burning. the second glass is a lot like redemption and forgiveness. bliss might be a factor, but that just sounds so poetic and cliche that i hesitate to use it. silly words.

    i woke up with good intentions. do laundry, wash dishes, eat breakfast, exercise, do homework.
    simple things are easily clouded by real things. REAL things.
    drink scotch.
    yep.
    that’s the beginning of our story.

    i have cats, i’m not sure if you know. maybe you have them, maybe you hate them, maybe you’re indifferent. i have two cats. i love them more than most humans i’ve ever met. maybe i’m a crazy catperson. i’m okay with that. i started my day by petting my cats. i pressed my face into their sides and their bellies because, sweet christ, that makes e feel good about the world. like any other drug, though, it’s temporary. i needed more..

    i drank another glass of scotch. (wait- another? isn’t this the first?)
    i drank another glass of scotch.
    either the repetition is for emphasis or it’s because i drank another glass.
    details are sketchy.
    do you know that it is impossible to buy a bottle of liquor on the entire portland peninsula? seriously. people who live here rarely think of that.
    i drank another glass of scotch.

    i love my new apartment.
    sweet jesus mithras, i love my new apartment. but..
    indoor reality occasionally threatens to consume me in it’s beautiful mundane monotony.
    so, after the dishes, after the scotch, after the yeah yeah yeahs, after shpongle (feat. terence mckenna), and after the future bible heroes of america, i ventured out…
    but, first, another glass of scotch. or maybe i’m still on the first, second, thir-

    solitude is bliss. fantastic, ordinary, aloneness is possible only in the most sublime and understandable states of being.
    “religion is what a man does with his solitariness” – whitehead
    “build your house upon a rock and never feel the desire to leave” – nobody (but there’s a biblical residue here.._
    “estates built in nowhere are not likely to topple” – somebody i’ve forgotten
    so, in theory, everything is cool as long as i don’t leave the house.

    i left the house.

    went to 7-11 to see people, real people. success, as long as the bar is understood to be held quite low.
    went to starbucks to see the boy with the cute smile. he wasn’t there but his pants were too tight.
    went to the empire to see the girl who talks to me. she wasn’t there but her teeth are crooked in a way that makes me think of sanford.
    went to dunkin’ donuts to see nobody at all, but they were there, as always. i thought about their story and felt a little dirty.
    went to the bathroom. thought about jerking off, but instead i wrote “JHVH1″ on the ceiling and drank scotch.

    fuck you, world.
    i love you and i want to stab you with broken nasal spray bottles at the same time.
    everything immediately breaks down under a certain amount of pressure. all that is left over is a lie.

    Sometimes

    Posted By iambarr on February 16, 2010

    Sometimes life is absolutely terrible.
    Sometimes life makes you want to stab god in the throat with a blunt spatula.
    Sometimes life is just annoying. Seriously christing annoying.

    Tonight is one of those christingly annoying times.
    If jesus were here (and I believed in him) I would kick him in the shins. He’s not (and I don’t), so instead I will take out my frustration on the rest of the world by half-heartedly glaring out over the top of my whiskey glass at a mostly empty bar of drunkards who are completely undeserving of my ire.

    Grumble, grumble.. kick.. shins..

    3 hours remain.

    Posted By iambarr on February 1, 2010

    goodbye hannaford.

    2 days remain.

    Posted By iambarr on January 29, 2010

    there is a bit of a thrill, yes, along with a severe fuck of a chill at the weather and the world and the prospects for the future, taking a leap – a mental leap, a financial leap, and a leap of logic mixed with naivety, but mostly just caught in the wonderpuzzlementawe at the out-of-place where-do-i-go and what-do-i-do-now combined with a heavy dose of sweet-christ-what-is-my-place-in-the-wild-vortex-of-things-now-

    interrobang.
    big
    motherfucking
    interrobang.

    and so i admit, i feel, i accept that there is finally a cusp (a favorite i’ve pretended to feel for so long) and there is actually a sincere sense of positive potential and open acceptance for whatever the hell might come my way.. but of rent and food and bills – i have six months of a future life paid and accounted for on torn pieces of graph paper in my head, on actual printed receipts, and strewn about as numbers in cells and imaginary boxes of nonexistent spreadsheets, and at the end of all the strings of partially formed equations just after the equals sign, there is a figure, a figure that, on the whole it has the smell of fried onions, so i guess i’ve just got to take that as a sign that these things are there to be accepted rejected embraced loved feared-

    -and sweet jesuschrist, 5-hour energy comes in pomegranate now-

    but the crazy disjointed feelings of elation and potential growth are dampened slightly by the feeling that things will never be the same, a feeling that always pokes me in my nostalgia nerve, so i can’t help but wonder after all if i’m doing the right thing (dampened slightly, i said – no going back, of course)..

    these thoughts do not last..
    (and neither did the ones before..)

    so there is a new living space in which to grow and a new life cycle in which to define myself – all experiences and memories from here until sometime over there will be of an altogether new order, flavor, quality – one tinged with the foggy outlines of drastically altered perceptual cues.. the old days are falling away

    but, wait – i’m getting off track
    none of this is what i came here to say.
    what i want to say, what i need to say is…

    goodbye guardshack of solitude.
    sweet barbed-wire sunsets, wish me luck~

    obscure grammar question:

    Posted By iambarr on January 9, 2010

    pronouns

    if two gods are speaking about themselves, they would use capitalized personal pronouns I and We and Us. right?
    the imperative word “let’s” is a contraction of “let us.”
    if spoken by gods, the phrase would be “let Us.” right?
    so in it’s contracted form, would it be “Let’s?”
    strangely, almost seems like it should be “let’S,” if anything..

    Elohim Creating Adam