Atomic Scribblings of a North Star Deserter

Discovering The Catcher In My Eye

2012-01-19T18:07:00.000-08:00

I can tell you how it started, how The Catcher in the Rye changed my life. First off, it isn’t hard for anyone to believe that the farthest thing from my mind, back in high school, was my English class. Our instructor made us read works like John Gardner’s Grendel and George Orwell’s 1984. My eyes drifted to the window and continued on down the street to what adventures lay ahead. In those days, I was ditching class, smoking cigarettes, and creating mischief.

My main interest at the time was making movies and studying film scripts. I tried to write screenplays and in the evenings, I would make short films with an old Panasonic camcorder that took those bulky vhs-c tapes. I would skip English class and end up in the library typing out my poorly written screenplays because the librarian didn’t charge twenty cents for each sheet of paper. It also isn’t hard for one to realize that my grades at this time were sub-par and as a result, three classes from my junior year had to be repeated.

Sometime later, I was in a second-hand thrift store where I found a copy of Conspiracy Theory, starring Mel Gibson and Julia Roberts. Mel’s character in that film is an eccentric oddity named Jerry, who circulates an underground paper on conspiracies, and is completely obsessed with the novel The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger. He said, “Sometimes, I have to have a copy near me. If I don’t have one, I have to find one, and buy it, just to feel normal.”

“But Jerry,” Julia’s character replies, “you have dozens of copies of this book.”

“Yeah, and there’s more under the bed.”

The reason, Jerry goes on to say, is that nobody ever gave him a copy of the book to read in school and he’s intrigued with the story behind it. It was reported that police found copies of Salinger’s book at Mark David Chapman’s apartment and on his person after he shot and killed John Lennon. The story goes, that he calmly dropped the gun and took out a copy of the book and sat reading while he waited on police to arrive. The police also found the book on John Hinkley’s coffee table after his attempted assassination of former President, Ronald Reagan. This fascinated me and I went straight to the school library and found a copy.

That day I sat in each class, reading the book, completely enthralled. In art class, a friend of mine asked, “You reading that for class?

“Nope,” I replied, “just reading it.”

At home, later that evening, page after page, I finished the book. I didn’t find any mysterious secrets or an entangled web of conspiracy. What I did find, however, was a quirky, social miscreant by the name of Holden Caulfield, with whom I could easily relate to. The book seemed to address all the emotions that I was feeling at the time: alienation, contempt for my peers, cocky foolishness, and a misguided animosity for a world that didn’t seem to make any sense to me. All of these things rang true in the book and instead of scratching my head; I was having great epiphanies of realization for feelings which had me feel so alone. Who wouldn’t want to run away and delve into the underbelly of society, incognito, and forget all their troubles for a few days? In doing so, however, our hero plunges into even greater problems and tribulations, all of which seem to leave their indelible marks on him, while at the same time, adding to the depth of his character. The Catcher in the Rye is the story of one boy’s struggle to regain his innocence in a world that has scathed his heart and left him jaded. It’s about finding the goodness inside, buried under all the failed attempts and misguided blows; a story of good vs.

evil. In the end, what outcome is reached? The only one possible: the realization that no matter what has happened, people can always strive to better themselves.

At least, that’s the realization that I came to after reading it and in doing so, sparked a literary interest inside that has me forever changed. I began consuming books; wading through rows and rows of them at the local library. I found solace in the words they held; a purpose for life’s great experiences! I found a place to better myself. I enjoyed reading; now that I was in the company of the right books. The writers that spoke to me the most were the underdogs, the outsiders with piles upon piles of rejection slips stuffed in their dresser drawers, the writers who never gave up even if their stories never graced the pages of The New Yorker. I digested the best prose I could get my hands on, most notably: Bukowski, Burroughs, Fante, Hemingway, Kafka, and of course, Dostoevsky. I could sit here all day and list books and writers, who’ve changed my life, but that list would take too long, and I’ve got too many books to read.

Godspeed You! Black Emperor @ The 9:30 Club

2011-05-09T21:25:00.001-07:00

Canadian 'post-rock' band, Godspeed You! Black Emperor came to Washington DC on a Sunday. They played at the 9:30 club. The show had sold out almost immediately. Somehow I had a ticket.

Now, I was prepared to travel to the ends of the earth to see this show and as the day approached, I was already on the move. I hitched a ride from West Virginia to Hagerstown, Maryland and from there, caught a bus the rest of the way.

When I arrived in D.C., I started walking. Earlier, after narrowly escaping 'unforeseen pot-holes,"(my bus ticket being stuck in limbo as a result of a failed confirmation number delivery via Greyhound) and (disappearing bus stations), I suddenly found myself on Constitution Avenue. After circling the location like a low-flying helicopter turned round' the wrong way, and stopping off at Harbucks for a much needed caffeine fix, I set up a base of operations just outside the club with six hours to spare.

The band had just arrived a short time earlier and as I watched them drag their equipment through the side doors, I noticed Efrim standing out front and said 'Hello'.

"Hey, how are you?" He replied.

"Good, good." I said, "I'm really excited for the show tonight."

"It's a beautiful day out." He said as he lit a cigarette and looked around.

"How's the tour going?" I asked.

"Good, but we spent too much time in Chicago."

"Are you guys going to play 'Albanian' tonight?" I asked.

"Well, I dunno. We'll have to see how it goes at sound check." He replied.

"How's Ezra?"(Ezra is Efrim's son)

"He's great." He said, "he's healthy and happy."

"I'm really excited for the show tonight but honestly, I can't wait for Thee Silver Mt. Zion's noisy trolley to start rolling again." I said to him.

Efrim smiled. "Me too. Hopefully early next year we'll write another album and then we'll come see everybody."

Just then we were greeted by Bruce (drums) and Thierry (contrabass).

"Okay, well I'll see you later." Efrim said as he ducked his head back in the door and out of sight.

"Hi Bruce. How's it going?" He shook my hand and said 'Great' as he hurriedly shuffled off down the street with two other people I didn't know. Thierry wasn't as brief. Last year I showed up to a handful of Silver Mt. Zion shows hours early and bugged them. He knew me right away.

"Hey Ryan, long time no see."

"Yeah." I said, shaking his hand. "Are you guys playing Albanian tonight?"

"I think so. We've been playing it at every show. It's loud." He said, sticking his finger in his ear.

"I've heard some recordings of it but I'm sure it sounds way better live. " I said.

"Yeah. I don't like any of the live bootlegs. They don't sound good."

"Do you guys have any plans of a proper recording?" I asked.

"Yes. We're going to record it when we come home from the tour. Well, I'll see you guys later." He said and hurried off.

Later that day, as the line began to form, Dave(guitar) came walking from across the street towards the club.

"Why are you guys standing out here so long?" He asked, joking.

"I've been here since eleven this morning." I said. He laughed.

"Is that an 8-track?" My friend Nate asked, pointing to the tape in Dave's hand.

"Yep...Hank Williams Jr. You've been here since eleven?"

"He came all the way from West Virginia." Nate said.

"Well, I hope we don't disappoint you."

"I'm sure I won't be disappointed." I said, smiling as he walked off.

As time dragged by slowly, like a deflated basketball under a taxi-cab, we talked and took photos. We listened to music and talked about obscure films. The doors opened. Bags were checked, and no illegal weapons or pipe bombs were smuggled in. They were all sold out of shirts. I cried a little inside and then took my place, front and center, leaning against the middle of the stage. Fellow Constellation Records artist Eric Cheneaux took the stage and twanged out some heart-felt shoegaze tinged folk noise that sounded muffled compared to all the inconsiderate pricks drinking and talking to each other (quite loudly) on the balcony bar. And, so it goes, Eric finished his six song set to an applause that should have been louder.

We was all of us like little children on Christmas morning, with giddy smiles all pasted across our faces, eagerly anticipating the wholly racket that soon took place. The mellow lighting seemed to soak everything in a murky, gold-metallic phosphorescent glow. You could see the dust particles floating in the air like glitter. As anxious as we were, the wait seemed minuscule and before I could hike my pants up, the eight-piece post-rock monster took to the stage like exploding lungs in a rib-cage too small to keep everything in. Then, a loud noise was heard.

Lovely, lovely heart attacks were had. Large cities were reduced to ash and then reconstructed in the form of our smiling, bewildered faces. The waters weren't parted and the floods didn't recede. They evaporated. Our hearts stopped and then continued in unison. The entire room was seething with energy. We understood the meaning of life, all our troubled affairs and tiny failures. We picked them apart and put them back together again, like new. We made the walls of that tiny place quiver and shake. Yes, we was all of us one thing, there together. Godspeed You! Black Emperor, until we meet again.

-R.Z. (all of this writ on a shaky table: Greyhound bus station, Washington DC, 2:53 a.m. alive and well and hopeful)

Vic's Bio

2010-10-24T18:27:00.000-07:00

born jax fla. 1964
adopted
moved to georgia age 5
favorite song kawliga
started writing songs
maternal grandfather played country guitar and wrote songs and grandmother wrote lyrics
favorite song garden party
started playing trumpet age 9
mentor band director randy edgar
favorite song night the lights went out in ga. and delta dawn, and night chicago died
age 13 felt the need to listen to rock’n’roll
ordered 8tracks for a penny, styx, kiss, doobie brothers, taped steve martin over kiss
went to town to buy a rock’n’roll record
sgt. peppers
bought a uke from sears catalog age 15
learned beatles songs
leonard cohen
bob dylan
age 16 playing trumpet in cover band called sundance with 30 year olds
parents gave guitar for christmas 1980 to help vic get over lennon’s murder
sang whip it on stage with sundance
velvet underground
king crimson
coma
tape to tape home recordings
age17 meet johnny cash
just before graduation discovered the new music, elvis, jam, nick lowe, clash, pistols, rem, replacements
gordon junior college
play rhythm guitar in new wave band called random factor
open for baby and the pacifiers in atl.
fired because refused to tuck in shirt
start a new band with todd from dashboard saviors
plays keyboards in proto-industrial electronica duo
sees pil 1982
car crash
can’t play guitar or trumpet but discovers a whole new understanding of music
sells trumpet buys arp synthesizer
writing vacuous pop songs
starts strumming
coma
shoplifts norton anthology of modern poetry it’s footnotes were eureka
stevie smith, wallace stevens, etc.
kafka, great gatsby, salenger
“art feeling”
songs take on adult form
moves to athens to study english
meets the bohemian types
sings at a party where deanna varagona hears him, gets him a gig the next night before the band’s soundcheck
suddenly a solo artist
opening for local bands
listens to the roches
goes to nyc for the first time
hands and legs go numb
after operation can’t play guitar
learned maternal grandfather dies
forms folk-rock band la-di-das
listens butthole surfers, husker du, local bands
free form hard rock jamming
bass in acid rock band angle lake
quits la-di-das
athens folk music and dance society
records “little”
father dies
off to california
meets harry dean stanton, victoria williams, giant sand, bob neuwirth, van dyke parks, etc.
marries tina
paternal grandmother dies
opens 100 shows for bob mould
band with tina and drummer jeffrey(hazeldine)
“west of rome”
speed racer documentary
tours with victoria williams
opening tour for soul asylum (and goo-goo dolls)
“drunk”
allen ginsberg calls vic an idiot
opening tour for live (and angelfish)
mom dies
“brute” with widespread panic
tours europe with giant sand
“is the actor happy”
funny conversations with james dickey
coma
“slingblade”
more european tours
sees nina simone perform
signs with capital
meets joni mitchell
sweet relief
“about to choke”
from the edge, BBC
the end of violence soundtrack duet with michael stipe
“salesman and bernadette”
meets kevin coyne
sessions at w.54th street conan o’brien
“merriment”
soundtrack for “rough south of larry brown”
“left to his own devices”
coma
“Josiah Meigs and Me”
meets wim wenders
“co-balt brute”
“silver lake”
The Late Late Show with Craig Kilborn
produced liz durett’s first record, “husk”
hal wilner’s randy newman tribute project
meets bill frisell
re-released first 4 albums on new west with 28 extra tracks
“ghetto bells”
produced liz durett’s “mezzanine”
blogged on huffingtonpost.com
undertow orchestra
open shows for rickie lee jones
daniel johnston tribute queen elizabeth hall concert
cowboy junkies trinity session 20 year anniversary project
conference for the book, Ole Miss
song on “Just One More, A Musical Tribute to Larry Brown”
dropped from New West
“North Star Deserter”
“dark developments”
honored to play guitar and Turkish pop songstress Nazan Öncel’s album 7′n Bitirdin
composed soundtrack to director Sebastian Schipper’s “Mitte Ende August”
Carnegie Hall R.E.M. tribute
on Dangermouse/Sparklehorse album “Dark Night of the Soul”
“At The Cut”

Blue Juice pt. 1

2010-10-08T12:57:00.000-07:00

Billy was eating an apple one day when he accidentally swallowed a seed. A few days went by and nothing happened. On the third day his stomach began hurting very much and he lay in his bed doubled over. Suddenly, he noticed his stomach stretching outward and it didn't show any signs of stopping. Before he knew it, a whole tree had emerged from his abdomen. He thought this very peculiar and noticed the green, fleshy fruit hanging from its branches. Hardly able to move, he reached out and snapped one off and took a bite of it. There was a weird looking jelly inside the fruit that shot out of the sides of his mouth when he bit it and Billy noted the very sour taste it left when he swallowed. After a few more bites the only thing left was a mangled core that Billy threw on his bedroom floor. The core on the floor seemed to melt away into a pool of carpet and disappeared completely. This was also very strange, Billy thought. His head began to feel fuzzy. In the time it took him to blink once, an owl emerged and stood perched on one of the trees branches directly in front of him.

"Whats happening to me?" He asked.

The owl sat perched, blinking, and then replied, "My name is George. You must've gone and swallowed a seed. Please tell me you haven't eaten from the tree yet."

"Yeah, I just had one. It was a bit sour."

"How much did you eat?" The owl asked.

"The whole thing."

The owl, who's name is George, looked very startled. Shaking his head he said, "not good, not good. I'm afraid it's too late."

"Too late for what?" Billy asked. "What's going to happen?"

"Well, it would've been better if you would have waited for me to arrive before you tried the fruit. Now you must go on without me. I was sent here to help see you through."

"See me through to where?" Billy asked in a horrified voice.

"I may have a few minutes to explain." George said. "Now, I don't know where you got the apple or if you were even supposed to have eaten it but you did, and a seed was swallowed and now there is a tree in your stomach. In some instances you're very lucky and in others, you're not so fortunate. You even went so far as to eat from said tree and therefore, only you, yourself will gain understanding from its fruit. What color was the goo inside the piece you ate?"

"Uh, blue." Billy answered.

"The blue flesh is a powerful hallucinogen. Since you ate the whole thing, it's hard to tell what you will experience. The important thing to remember is that it won't last forever. Eventually you will return to this room and the tree will reemerge into your stomach."

Billy was staring at the wall behind George.

"Are you listening to me?" George asked. "Okay, I'll be back in two days to see what you've learned."

. . .

The Bukowski Effect (WVa 2006)

2010-09-28T23:00:00.000-07:00

“The Bukowski Effect”

What can a person say about Charles Bukowski that hasn't already been said? It would be crazy for a scholar such as myself to think that anything I have to say about the man would hold any relevance whatsoever. I am merely a student. But before I delve into this cesspool of madness and the creative act, I have to ask myself: What is the purpose of this little article? It is only that I wish to describe to you a process that I have deemed “The Bukowski Effect” and this is it.
About a year ago, I was lurking in the shadows of my local library, looking for something to hold my interest, if only a spark. I wouldn't say that I was a non-reader, I just didn't read regularly. I can't tell you what exactly I was looking for but I knew I had to find something. Salinger's “Catcher In The Rye” was where it all started. I remember walking through the halls of my high school...not wanting to be there at all and planning that great escape. A friend of mine said...read this book. Well, I didn't think much of it but somehow stumbled upon it anyway. I remember reading the first few pages of the book and thinking “Jesus, this Holden Caulfield guy says “goddamn” more than I do”. So I took the book home and crawled into bed and laughed my ass off. That was the first book I ever read.
A little while later, I got my hands on a copy of Anthony Burgess' masterpiece “A Clockwork Orange”. I was a huge fan of Kubrick's film and knew a little bit about the nadsat language, so needless to say, I breezed through it. After that, I didn't read for a long time.
It was on an Internet message board that a friend of mine said to check out a guy named Bukowski. I had no idea who or what he was talking about. Hell, I couldn't even pronounce the guys name right. “Bukowiskey?” I had no idea.
I found a copy of “Post Office” for five or six dollars and ordered it without a thought. A week or two passed, no packages, but finally, there it was. I opened the book and read the first line.
“It began as a mistake.” Well, I had felt the same way about my situation so I read on. The line was tight and flowed with a sort of ease that damn near ran off the pages and onto the floor. It was simplistic line after simplistic line. This book was different than any book I had ever read. The man had a way of taking me out of my body and putting me right there in the streets of Los Angeles, delivering mail right along side the books protagonist, Henry Chinaski. I was hooked.
Immediately I went to the book store and bought as many books of his as I could afford. “South Of No North”, a collection of short stories also titled “Stories of the Buried Life” was my next introduction into Buk's world. These stories were dark and intoxicated and very different from his first novel. It was as if a different person had written them...but yet, the similarities were there. I finished the book and moved on to an early collection of poetry titled “Mocking Bird Wish Me Luck”. I was reborn again! With every new book I read, I saw a completely different side of Mr. Bukowski. I became obsessed.
Slowly but surely, my collection and knowledge of Henry Charles Bukowski Junior, grew bigger and bigger. His works uncovered this hunger inside of me. It was a hunger for creativity, a hunger for originality, a hunger for Literature. I might as well have dropped out of school for all the good the English teachers did me. They were dry and boring. Bukowski brought me into a world of madness and drinking and street life. It was the life of the downtrodden. It was the life of a man without a care or a worry in the world except...weather or not his next short story would be accepted or rejected.
What struck me the most about the writing was how easy it was to read. It was simple, yet genius. You could breeze through it without thinking too hard about what you had just read. That's what makes a book good. Bukowski said it best himself when he said “The creative act is done on that goddamn machine. That's where it's done.”(Pounding the keys of his typewriter.)

The next book I read was “Ham On Rye”, the autobiographical account of Henry's childhood.
“It's a horror story.” Bukowski said. “With a capitol H.” I don't know if I would describe it as a horror story but if you've ever been beaten with a razor strop, then you may have a different opinion. Needless to say, the line in the book was clean and tight. Same Bukowski, different story. With every novel, every collection of poetry, you see a different side of this man, with so much to show you. I could sit here all day and tell you about all the things that make his writing amazing, but that would take too much damn paper. I'm just trying to express to you the effect one man's writing has had on me.

Take a person with almost absolutely no interest in literature, give them any work by Charles Bukowski and watch them take off. Since my discovery of Bukowski, I've found many other writers who have had the ability to put down the line, D.H. Lawrence, Ezra Pound, John Fante, Hunter S. Thompson, Herman Hesse, Earnest Hemingway, and so on and so forth. It took me reading Bukowski to find out about Earnest Hemingway. How does such a thing occur? I continue to read everyday. Bukowski is always on the top of my list and I can't go two days without reading him but since my introduction to him, I have gobbled up as much worthwhile literature as my brain can comprehend and this I say, can only be described as “The Bukowski Effect”.

-Ryan D. Zirk, 2006

Skinny Hips, swaying w/ thee ship

2010-07-14T13:18:00.000-07:00

When I started reading Skinny Legs and All, by Tom Robbins, I was a little taken aback by the premise: an Arab and a Jew open a restaurant across from the United Nations. That didn't sound too appealing to me but after I read it I thought for a moment and then decided to give it a try. Skinny Legs and All is very much an extension from Robbins himself, and like his other novels, the characters still very much feel like they're all stuck in a web inside of his brain. They all have their own shit going on and equally care for their own personal endeavours. Ellen Cherry Charles, the main character in Skinny Legs, is an artist struggling with her craft and looking to find stability in the New York art scene, galleries and exhibits. Her estranged husband, Boomer Petway builds a rolling turkey out of an airstream Winnebago, welding giant turkey legs to its sides, as a token of his love to Ellen Cherry Charles. Being the piece of art that it is, the airstream wins boomer the affection of Gallery Curator, Ultima Sommerville and the turkey is sold to the museum of modern art. Meanwhile, going to work at Isaac and Ishmael's, a new BOOMING! hotspot eatery right across the street from the united nations. Ellen Cherry works to make ends meet. The owners of the controversial food establishment are seeking to calm her worries with stability and the ability to show her paintings to the world. Still, she is reluctant in every aspect of her life that is possible and a huge psychedelic universe in unfolding right before her very eyes. Strange things are happening. How will it end? What a wait, we'll find out.

NO SPOILERS HERE.
KEEP READING.

Thee Silver Mt. Zion, triple header (baltimore,DC, nashville)

2010-06-15T23:30:00.000-07:00

first show @ thee ottobar, charm city baltimore.
first taxi ride ever. jamacian bar up the street serves good food and red stripe. good show, lots of energy, shaking the foundations of the building.
set list: i built myself a metal bird, i fed my metal bird the wings of other metal birds, there is a light, god bless our dead marines, there is a river in the valley made of melting snow, collapse traditionals(thee olde dirty flag, for darling, bury three dynamos). second taxi ride ever. bus station blues. arrive in DC early. sleep in a bus station isnt easy. second show: washington DC, BLACK CAT. arrive early. jessica puts me on the guest lists because i run short of money. sound check was fun. blindblindblind. thee setlist for black cat: there is a light, metal bird, god bless our dead marines, black waters blowed/engine broke blues, 13 blues for 13 moons, one million died to make this sound. great show. long ride, 19 hours DC to Nashville.
days later, show three: @ the mercy lounge. dave greets and puts me on the guest list + one, the ascent of everrest opens, local band from nashville. set list for thee silver mt. zions noisy trolley: god bless our dead marines,there is a light, metal bird, 'piphnay rambler, 13 blues for 13 moons, microphones in the trees. efrim was tired, no talk between songs. still a great show.
please come back. i miss you already.

picture postcard floating in a bottle

2010-05-28T13:28:00.000-07:00

its all on the inside
like
a pair of dirty trousers
left out on the porch
just before a cold thunder shower
or
a fine fixed fillled up pint
in a cool, dimly lit, hole-in-the-wall
place like Ryes....
or
your hair in tangles,
never to come un-done....
or
my fingers, lightly brushing
against your skin
or
a pair of dirty shoes
in the corner of our rooooom
or
a phone call telling you
that your grandmother has just passed
or
a tiniest best laid plans
falling through the cracks....
or
a toothache like a dull
humm that won't go away or
even let you sleep...
or
burnt ziti left in the oven
for far tooo long...
or
a warm shower turned cold
just before you've rinsed all the soap off...
or
ripping the ass out of your
favorite pair of jeans
or
your luggage getting swiped
in the bus terminal in Washington DC...
or
the cat that ran away but
didn't really run away, only,
was found dead and stiff under the tree in front of your house,
or
us, at once,
together.

Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra live @ St. Georges Church, Brighton UK, March 27th, 2010

2010-04-06T14:14:00.000-07:00

sweatin' pink bullets for Sammie Lou

2010-03-06T11:16:00.000-08:00

it still feels
like we just started out
speakin' riddles that
turn into shouts

I smell like
cold coffee
mixed with your perfume
rubbed off on me

I miss your smile
that held my eyes
and
the memory on file
got lost tween all the miles

apart,
we're miles apart
lifting stones
that got flipped over
atop my heart

and

it makes me cry
to think that your life's
better off
without the me in 'I'

I'll try not to be
too selfish to
let a luckier and more appreciative one
have you
cuz'
I never meant to
take you for granted
and
this receipt that I've been handed
isn't the same ,
that at least, I know as true

I miss you.

man with no heart

2010-03-03T12:29:00.000-08:00

parasitic elliptical

producing constant hums

between intervals

of three or more

now with religion peddlers

at the door

I shut them out

cuz' I don't need it anymore

faith is what you make it

devine intervention

when you can't mistake it

at least contemplate this

proposal between opposing dimensions

parallel to ones in hell

near the end of the road

and

ringin' them bells

participles hang like

Icicles

in the corners

of my eyes

and

it looks like

I could cry

but

your eyes

aren't like mine

there's still a little light in them

yeah, I'm fine

call your doctor

and

pitch a fit cause' youre too proud to whine

...

while back at home

and in my mind

we're watching the metronome

back and forth

resounding

of course

and

things to come

will get better before worse

...

According to eye-witness reports

you've been breaking hearts

with all your rustic cohorts

but

I will stand

for none of the sort

and

counter yours

with my witty retort

keep your thoughts to yourself

cause'

I've got my fair share

and

you've moved on

so why should I care?

I think to myself

'I've been here before...'

looking through the discards

and

avoiding all the eye-sores

maybe investigate

an old piece of folklore

about the man that had no heart

who didn't take shits

and

only let farts.

straight line...as the stork flies

2010-03-01T15:16:00.000-08:00

for your enjoyment...
AS A TRIBUTE TO YOUR GREAT TASTE

we filed in by handfulls
kept warm our great selves
heard the heat from fresh bells
and shook the hands of tiny elves.

we'll
start fresh
amisdt the rest.
we're cast asides
or merely discarded jokers
at best...
and one cannot say
or even guess
how many times I've tried
carving your name in my chest.

my heart weeps.
it's a tired old fool
and I've not much left
to give to any such
creep.
thats meat!
-near swamps,
sweet with
murk and trudging deeps,
our eyes don't see
anything worth setting forth
towards.

albino bambino

2010-02-28T18:12:00.000-08:00

a friends trailor burned down yesterday/lost a good pair of pants and a pair of shoes.
wee heard sirens and called home/basket case made a lot of mistakes/
/My Ears still make that ringing sound when I'm sleeping and under my pillow is reading material/ suddenly your eyes don't seem so inviting. andI'm sleep-walking along electric fences and holding onto thin wires of a farce...//I park the car in an idle stark and jump start some sparks that were left in my heart/heating instructions on the side of this microwave dinner tell me I should wait/

;

they tell me I should wait.

this winter will break your heart

2010-02-20T16:40:00.000-08:00

did i remember to tell you
of the blizzard here
that ripped on through
and touched down there
inside my heart with ribbons and flare
an' them things
they cast' a glare
from here to allllll the wayyyy over there

but even in such times
I still feel the need to
listen to those old wind chimes
hooooked to the porch and sort
of hangin on icicles
they humm to me and also they whistle
and they're singin'

'please be well. this harsh winter'll only be here for a spell
and once shes gone all will be right with the world. yes, all will be well.'

-Ryan D. Zirk
mfldWV7:41pm feb202010

Arctic Gargoyle Oil and Andromeda Flashes

2010-01-19T15:02:00.000-08:00

I keep everything in a place, most of which I find and embrace.
I have barricaded myself in the middle of these four walls, only to find sanctuary in this fathomless fall. Tattered and obscure, of many pilfered corners keep my company, I'm sure. Most nights I don't feel safe, throw the extra matress against the door and build a fort under the covers on the floor. Mostly books line my walls, everything you can think of to captivate and enthrall. from Bukowski to Hemmingway and Dostevsky, and everything in between, in disarray. Christmas lights cling to the ceiling, bringing much comfort to all my feeling, put together in constellations, bright and inviting inside my control station. Some nights I lay in bed, look up at the sky, wonder where I'm going, and ask these walls 'why?'
In the far right corner, the makeshift desk/workspace, brings much wonder to ideals and visions upon which I care to ponder. and There, most nights I sit and stare at blank pages filled with flare and blast my way to where I see fit, to sit and think in an enviornment that looks real to me.
If I Please, ask these questions and get the answers to set worries at ease.
I smoke lucky strikes as my lungs fight
to stay afloat in this murky moat wherein most of us SINK AND CHOKE.
and At the bottom, dirty sea monsters soak and wait for unsuspecting swimmers to row boats amongst the tiny flowers that line your throat.
How many cigarettes have you left to smoke?
In the lefthand corner of my place sits a tiny television with a blank face. It measures six by eight and keeps me company so as not to contemplate upon thoughts that ache. But never too hard, never oh so hard that tiny shards find their way into my heart and its enough to give this engine trouble, everytime it tries to start.

///...*Andromeda Flashes*...///

part anxiety
part gas
flashes of light
that come to pass
fix this tall boy
and
fill my glass

Honestly,
I must be
part wildebeest
because I'm not sorry
no, not in the least.
I stand outside in the rain
while all the fortunates
FEAST AND COMPLAIN

half carnivorous
half un-realist
seventy percent of the time
tolchocked into submission,
a conformist.

Still,
I do find time
to wake in the morning
as others stagger to tired feet
to meet the daily grind.

constantly unaware
of what's been hidden
to find,
organic rolling tobacco
0r a moldy orange rind.

Help me please
for my tiny restorations
'by the seat of my pants"
cough disease
and
my insides are going,
as specks of blood are showing,
no signs of ebb and flow and
I hear constant ringing in my ears.
but it's only when I sleep on my right side with artificial tears to grease the gears and I have nightmares of my Baby Brother acting like satan and no other.
It's enough to make my soul hover with tiny wings and whisper comforting things that finally bring me some relief and I stare at the ceiling hoping for more than a feeling of disbelief.

IN THIS VILLAGE
I AM CHIEF!

I make everybody wear feathers in their hair and the only thing the children care about is where their next adventure might share with them great feelings of fantasy mixed with extasy, or maybe even a brief escape from reality.
We hunt wild berries for game and leave the furry animals to tame
so that we may have friends with other things to share besides degradation and shame.
Tell me, whos the referee in this game?

-Ryan D. Zirk, Jan. 19th, 2010

Splendidly Full Of Life

2009-12-28T13:06:00.000-08:00

The ground is frozen here. Snow covers most of it. Last night I said my piece, stuffed a candle down into the snow, hidden from the wind, and watched the sun go down. North Star Deserter is throwing himself at the cut, just west of rome. Most of his life was a play on words. Always thinking of the best ones, and using them to solidify his place on the top shelf, there with all those specks of dust. Not too many people can say the same for themselves. Most of our struggles are menial compared to that heavy sack Vic had trouble haulin...but, he did it with such style and grace that it made most of us jealous.

The first time I met him, I talked to him for some time without even knowing who he was...but when his wheelchair was lifted up onto that dimly lit stage with him on top, I soon found out exactly who Vic Chesnutt was. I was literally moved to tears, as he sang with such conviction, the sides of that brick building shook in the epically crafted sinking weight of it all. Never had I seen anything like it. I walked away forever changed, a fan for life.

We cannot begin to imagine the sorrow he felt, and could only be sympathetic to a certain extent. Sadly, I was unable to catch him this last go round' of the United States. He just didn't come close enough. Being a bit discouraged from the last time I missed him, it seemed like this was just the goddamn icing on the cake.

It was summer, 2009 and Vic was playing a show in DC at the Nine Thirty Club, opening for Jonathan Richman. I had decided weeks earlier that I would hitch-hike if I had to but I was going to make it to that show. I made a sign and everything. It read, "Vic Chesnutt saved my life" and a few bums in the black part of town, asked me if he really did save my life. When I told them how, they laughed at me as I walked off. Fuck them.

I was twelve hours early for the show. Mick drove me there and we arrived at about Seven in the AM. After making our way around the area, we got bored. I decided to wait at the club and just sit on the sidewalk until it was time for the show. I didn't even have a ticket or two pennies to rub together. -Thought I would just go on the bum when other people started to arrive. Certainly somebody would be sympathetic to my cause. Unfortunately I never made it that far. One thirty in the afternoon rolled around and the owner of the club showed up. I was the only one standing there.

"I'm here to see Vic." I told him.

"Well buddy, youre about six hours early. I spoke to the band and they said they wouldn't get here till about six. Have you been here long?"

"Since seven this morning."

"Jesus!" He said.

"I came from West Virginia. I don't even have money for a ticket." I replied.

"Well, good luck." He said and started laughing as I saw him turn back into the doorway.

The friend I was with had hurt his hand from punching somebody the day before and had a boxer's fraction. He told me it was hurting too bad and was really cold. So I asked a fellow walking by if he knew where the nearest hospital was. He told me that there was one right up the street about three blocks. I looked at Mickey's hand. It was dark purple and kind of black. Something told me he was going to lose his fingers, if not his whole hand, if he didn't get it looked at soon. Sure enough the doctor told him that if he didn't operate RIGHT NOW, that he would most surely lose his hand. Afterwards, it all seemed too much and Mick was ready to pack it in and go home. Fuck it. I thought. I don't even have any money for a ticket. At least I tried.

And I did. I tried hard. Sometimes it's just not in the cards.

-Ryan D. Zirk, Dec. 28th, 2009

photo of little Vic by Ryan Z, summer 2008

fight the good fight

2009-12-27T08:30:00.000-08:00

merry new year

xoxo

Memorial Service

2009-12-27T07:41:00.000-08:00

VIC CHESNUTT 1964 - 2009
Athens GA Memorial Service
A memorial service will be held at Bridges Funeral Home, 3035 Atlanta Hwy, Athens, GA, 30606 on Sunday, December 27, 2009, from 3:00-6:00 pm. Following the memorial service, family and friends invite you to join them at Cine, 234 West Hancock Ave., Athens, GA. In lieu of flowers the family is requesting donations be made to Shepherd Center, 2020 Peachtree Road NW, Atlanta, GA, 30309 or Nuci’s Space, 396 Oconee Street, Athens, GA 30601. A tribute at the 40 Watt Club in Athens, Georgia, will be held some time in the near future. A private interment ceremony will be held later in Pike County, Zebulon, GA.

tragically Vic Chesnutt dies

2009-12-26T11:59:00.000-08:00

VIC CHESNUTT 1964 - 2009

Surrounded by family and friends, Vic Chesnutt died in Athens Georgia this afternoon, Friday 25 December at 14:59.
In the few short years that we knew him personally, Vic transformed our sense of what true character, grace and determination are all about. Our grief is inexpressible and Vic’s absence unfathomable.
We will make more information available according to the wishes of Vic’s family and friends.
Don and Ian, Constellation

“The most important story to report now is not Vic’s death but a life and work overflowing with insight, humor, and yes, resilience. This, after all, was the man who wrote: “I thought I had a calling, anyway, I just kept dialing.” Sixteen extraordinary albums, five in the last couple of years; countless live shows so powerful and sublime they deeply altered the lives of those on the stage with Vic and those looking up, yes up, at him. The second most important story here has to do with a broken health care system depriving so many of the help they need to stay around and stay sane, and a society that never balks at providing more money for more wars but fights tooth and nail against decent care for its citizens. Vic’s death, just so you all know, did not come at the end of some cliché downward spiral. He was battling deep depression but also at the peak of his powers, and with the help of friends and family he was in the middle of a desperate search for help. The system failed to provide it. I miss him terribly. "
Jem CohenFilmmaker/photographer/North Star Deserter producer
“We have lost one of our great ones. His songs and his story remain.”
Michael Stipe

I flew around a little room once. A line from Supernatural. He was just that. He possessed an unearthly energy and yet was humanistic with the common man in mind. He was entirely present and entirely somewhere else. A mystical somewhere else. A child and an old guy as he called himself. Before he made an album he said he was a bum. Now he is in flight bumming round beyond the little room. With his angel voice.
Patti Smith

“in 1991 i moved to athens georgia in search of god, but what I discovered instead was vic chesnutt. hearing his music completely transformed the way i thought about writing songs, and i will forever be in his debt.
Jeff MangumNeutral Milk Hotel

“Years ago upon discovery, West of Rome consoled me when I was going under. A life saver with the straight story. I followed since then from a distance. Vic was a unique being, mind, voice. No one spoke or made music like that, with that particular timbre, vocabulary and perception. Fierce and direct or levitated, whimsical and ornamental, he always cut to the bone. And past that, to the soul. Its a shame. A national tragedy, when you look at the issues being faced.”
Mark McElhattanFilm curator, New York Film Festival

Bury Three Dynamos

2009-12-18T23:14:00.001-08:00

The Comic That Frenches Your Mind

2009-12-17T15:46:00.001-08:00

motion pixure traditionale

2009-12-16T00:08:00.001-08:00

Kollaps Tradixionales

2009-12-14T16:02:00.000-08:00

The new record from Thee Silver Mt. Zion Memorial Orchestra is set for a Feb. 16th, 2010 US release date. The four sided deluxe 2x10" LP is titled Kollaps Tardixionales.

Fans of this gallant steamtrain will be familiar with the first three tracks, which the band has played for years, There Is A Light, and the now split title that was originally I Built Myself A Metal Bird, I Fed My Metal Bird The Wings Of Other Metal Birds. The other four tracks that comprise the hour long album are: Kollapz Tradixional (Thee Olde Dirty Flag), Collapse Traditional (For Darling), Kollaps Tradicional (Bury 3 Dynamos) and the epic album closer, 'Piphany Rambler. Now, many fans have been skeptical about the band losing some of its depth after former members Ian Llavsky and Beckie Foon left the band. They picked up new drummer Dave Payant and are now active as a five piece with core members, Thierry Amar, Sophie Trudeau, Jessica Moss, and Efrim Menuck.

These members also recently toured in support of fellow Constellation artist Vic Chesnutt for the release of his new album At The Cut. All five members played on the album as well.

With the release of Kollaps Tradixionales in Feb, the band then plans to tour Europe and then finally return to the United States in May-June of 2010.

This is great news!

Sincerely,

Ryan Z.

constellation records

Listen to the preview of the new album here:

http://www.tra-la-la-band.com/preview/

Pennsylvania to Germany

2009-12-07T17:26:00.000-08:00

Sonze,

So it goes, and, I can barely hear this symphony music over the sound of my chattering teeth. Holed up in a makeshift studio with a few desks and work spaces that I've seemed to fashion out of odds and ends. In that space sits a few bars of clay, a sharpie or two, pens, pencils, and various ink supplies and a little old record player to spin a few fuzzy warbles on. if that makes sense? if not, oh well.

Speaking on cents, I've got a few to rub together so all is not lost? or waiting to be found? galloping around the idea of a trip out west again, maybe to California? Bukowski's monument? Hopefully. In need of a new camera or image capturing device as animation has stopped for the time being, just making clay figures, whatever I can muster. Writing still seems to be one of the only ways I can express myself these days. Poetry to say the least, or rather, verse, well-versed influences like William Burroughs or Sylvia Plath, been reading her poems lately. She really could put down the strong, TRUE, line. Drinking too much coffee, I find my hands shaking much more than usual, even with a cigarette between my fingers. Not much drinking, its become only something I do when I have nowhere else to turn. Asparagus is my new favorite food and as though it should be, very delightful for everyone! Two new Vic Chesnutt records, At The Cut and Skitter On Take-Off, keeping me sane...or a little less crazy. Surprisingly optimistic one minute, and gravely pessimistic the next, mean as a hornet sometimes, and then agreeable as it gets. Taking photos has been something I find myself doing as I found a camera to use from time to time. I sneak out at nights, listening to dogs cackle under moonlit clouds with my breath rising up in front of me. There are somethings that just need to be documented. Instant coffee is gross and not too bad if its the only thing you got. Nina Simone is good for your blues too. She could really wail and moan, a weepy sort of blissful enlightenment. I like her, indeed. There's a big river here and large barges travel up and down it all day, moving mass communication and mounds of coal? rocks? socks? or tiny piles of shoes? This I am not certain but sometimes at night, I watch them go by. It really is too cold up here, makes you feel alive with warmth on the inside and takes most of the feeling in your nose off to somewheres else. Watching too much television is something that I need to tighten up on, for I have become obsessed with quote unquote, cold case files, or msnbc specials on horrible people who snuff out the flames of others only to satisfy some unknown urge or animalistic instinct that says we are simply not good to one another anymore. People are fascinated with violence, as long as it isn't happening to them. They like to watch from far away. Its true. I seen it.

Tell me how you are and something new I should know.

Send word soon,

Ryan Z

Go Slow

2009-09-30T01:52:00.000-07:00

Go Slow Current mood: Sinner Man
cigarette smoke
into
blows
that gather
into
slow
winds of
growth
and
change.
nevermind
these
groundhog
minds
kept underneath
sheets of
grief
instead
of
leaping out
of
doubt
I seek shelter
in words that squat
between
wonder
and joy.

Can anyone see
the steam
that rises
from life experience
and surprises?

No
it seems
as though
these people
leave
life to others
and
smother
hope
inside
their status
but
in our eyes
it maddens us.

Will
it keep
on a' growing
in times of doubt
and
surely knowing
or
have I
been wrong,
left alone
too long,
instead of
leaping in tall bounds
to find my place
above ground?

I
can only
HOPE
things
that teeter
on tight ropes
are destined
to shine
amongst
all the grime.

"Nobody wants you when youre down and out."

Ryan D. Zirk,
Nashville TN 2009

From where I'm sitting...

2009-09-30T01:03:00.000-07:00

I can see
steam
as it rises
from the pool above
and
into the atmosphere
it gathers
into a plume
that speaks of
ghosts
and
the reasons
why they are leaving
this place.

currently listening
Nina Simone
Take Me To The Water

Nashville TN, 2009

from within...

2009-08-15T16:11:00.001-07:00

systems seem
I am trying to need
all the things
our desires retrieve

and
understand
the way I'm living for these
I think
I believe

I know where I should be
insist the must
in every gust
of wind that blows

through leaves in trees
and up her nose
we see
this place
as an industry

but
something tells me
we're all just thirsty?

Spark The Sun

2009-08-15T00:17:00.000-07:00

in this big ol' sky
I see things
I can't deny
as life grinds on
and
stops slightly
light gone

after
final ignitions
leaving startling decisions
distance
keeps mushrooming
downward spiraling
into
the room

your crazy deeds
go underlined
to think more lonely thoughts
can't honestly lead
to better things
we need more space
this crazy place
keeps me at ease
please
explain these
parts of release

we need
a better disease
to increase
and cease

please

Safehouse Grounds

2009-08-15T00:05:00.000-07:00

underneath the big ol sky
my shadow
keeps in stride
and never faulters
close behind
my
change jingles
inside myself

part ways
these days
people seem
far behind the lights
of glory
spelling out
all these stories
up front
lightning spark
finding self
inside my mind

stay behind
such as this life
i hold in my sight
i find these few things
shining in light
gonna wake up
and
realize all these memories
that make haste
in my brain

and in these walls your
shadow lurks
awaiting the day
instinct dispurse

so longing my eyes seem
heart shaped
and mystical senses
post camp near the base
and
forthright
indignant exposed
everything
the night hadn't shone

made themselves all
known

can you hear?
I'm alone in this night
and I hear these sounds
and remember those sights

I've got this lamp
I'll keep it shining
ever lo
oh
i'm alone...
to feel
these callings
that send lights
going out
into
safe house grounds
lifting
sound.

I'll speak these low
light sounds
that plow
their way
through tiny holes
and
the strength to show
always

alone.

Eyes Like Flowers

2009-08-07T00:07:00.000-07:00

I planted a flower as the river moved on and in an instant of clarity, I saw your reflection in the ripples that came out from the rock I threw. It was quiet down there on that riverbank and with the exception of my friends, the birds, the only other things that were alive were the trees. The leaves of grass, which I felt bad for standing on, your grass, and all the rest of those things, they were good company for this tired heart. But, I didn't want to keep you too long, so I left that place, went a walking down the street, looking at the lights and thinking about how pretty they were. I thought about how pretty you were, and then, I thought about how much prettier the flower I planted for you was, much prettier, prettier than the ugliness of this world.

"Humanity, you never had it, from the beginning." - Charles Bukowski

Sincerely,

Ryan Z.

Vic's New Album: At The Cut

2009-08-05T14:08:00.000-07:00

http://www.cstrecords.com/releases/cst060/info

^ info on the new release. ^

atomic scribblings mission statement

2009-08-04T19:14:00.000-07:00

of refined ideals on the current situation and it's bleak misgivings aimed for mankind: to categorize these pistolwhipping parchments on thee blunders of our bumpkins.

Rely on the farce with a yawn.

2009-07-31T14:54:00.000-07:00

and

apologize

for my

demise

and then

despise

these wings that

rise

into

an enveloped

sky

of mystery

and

at last,

reprise.

Like A Puppy On A Trampoline, What Do You Mean?

2009-07-28T06:30:00.001-07:00

Like
a puppy
on a trampoline
whistling
briskly
in bounds,
to and fro...

My
mind it's
on a bone machine
breaking
brittle
in shards
too far...

Your
eyes match
marble sacks
blinking
watery
droplets descend
your face...

We
see our
lives recede
bottom of the barrell
knees
deep drowning
in chicken feed

Mine
is one
of many
too sharp
and
dull enough
to tease
these
movie screens

Front
line point
and view
overhead
metal birds
glue
petals on flowers
leaking colors
onto you.

Circumnavigate the Toilet, Spiraling

2009-07-26T18:19:00.000-07:00

Circumnavigate the Toilet,
mood:Morally Challenged

we set into
downward spiraling,
seeming nowhere in sight
our frightened faces
gaze up toward the light,
as fateheld true,
the scrolls enveloped
and
the fountainheads spew,
engaged with rage,
unfortunate existentialists,
propelling the waves of existence
for free-thinking minds to
contrastingly bind,
the works with silly jerks
and run-on sentences.

circumnavigate the toilet,
spiraling,
every mile then,
hit the half way point,
disjointed and anointed,
a little king amongst everything.

a back spasm
must've grabbed him
by the wayside,
it had him,
and led him astray,
he's circumnavigating,
circumsized,
left alone, contemplating.

the canning jars
are way too far
for a poor soul to set aside
a schematic time machine,
blueprint to abide
circumnavigating the toilet, we ride.

Sadness and the Like

2009-07-26T17:54:00.000-07:00

sardonic & sonic
hand in hand
this
marching infantry
infants
are we all
and
boasting of grateful
triumphs
spilling,
outward appearing,
silhouettes
are broken dreams
floating around
our atmosphere
in limbo
libotomize
sterilize and falsify
your
miscreatic stare
in clouds of roundabout ways
to change
what isnt set into stone
car crash into mine
mind
spark
madness
intentional
pathetic
inards inside inward
snarky
barks
in
tiny tart
seeds
that spit
in faces of
the greats
like Albert Einstien
and Ernest Hemmingway.

The Current Condition is thus:
hung out to dry
in
turby twisty ties
and
thinking
of wonderful
blunders
that cause camotion
in
bastardized debaucheries
of
tiny
silver explosions of light
that seem fantastic
and
at times
make believe,
have bombarded
my eyes,
at times violently
wisk me away
into
tremors
& sweaty palms.

Spellbound and Perplexed

2009-07-26T17:47:00.000-07:00

drenched in pouring
light
these eyes speak slightly
of
better times and experience
blightfully
broken by misleads
spoken
dreadfully tendered
in a breeze of topping
snow caps
enveloped
in mind blown mornings that
set to walking on
foggy streets
propellerized
by winds from
her lips
clean
and
free

truthfully
overwhelming.

In An Instant Of Clarity

2009-07-22T11:08:00.000-07:00

I thought in colorful dreams,
extensive monolithic schemes,
bouncing bed springs,
astounded beatnik
blunderings
left in a full-tilt swing,
sidecar wings
and
seahorse glistenings
of
wimpering leaves

characterize
these sloping sides
with half-cocked smiles
a million miles
from any guides,
where wolverines reside
with slippery hides,
clenching pride
and
coveting brides

in altercation spots,
near parking lots,
smelling raindrops,
and
sniffin snot
acres of nose,
sneezing shadows
from the hose
round your center seats
and
regreting retreat,
affording attention
inside resenting,
persisting printings
against lime green listings,
eyeballing and flinching
on the ropes of mystery

were you beside me?

of course,
Ryan