G0T THR33 CH1LDR3N H4LF-F1LL3D W1TH...

got three children half-filled with 
my genes, each blessed with better 
sense than myself already 

B0RN FR0M TW0 3N1GM4S, BVT...

born from two enigmas, but 
helped give birth to a trio 
of creative impulses 

SONG OF THE DAY: 100 Years Ago (Piano Demo)

Over a century ago, the house I live in was some sort of supervisor’s house for the soapstone quarry down the hill. The old road is my driveway, and I can walk the dog down paths back there still that go down to some abandoned and gutted buildings, plus a lot of debris. This was one of the first places with electricity in America, apparently, and the smokestacks from two defunct power plants are visible a couple stones throws away, both of which got washed out in hurricane floods in 1969. The area itself got washed out economically by the Great Depression though, long before that. This quarry operation used to employ thousands of people, had a local narrow gauge train line that ran between quarries, and ran to connect to north-south mainline a few miles west of here, and the east-west mainline a few miles south of here. There’s an old stone church a half mile away, which used to be Episcopal but is not occupied by Mennonites, though not Old Order because there’s cars parked there on Sundays, not buggies. Houses everywhere are old company houses, strings of them identical looking still, even though a hundred years old, in varying states of care or disrepair. And there’s soapstone slag everywhere, giant rocks piled here or there that got blasted and cut but wasn’t up to snuff to be used back when it was used. It’s all a really neat and beautiful place, but one that was literally built and blasted by business, left to rot for the most part, and has gradually become one with the Earth again, though full of litter. I find old bottles all the time on my walks through woods and along the river, and have been writing poems on the more appropriate bottles.
The river right below my house, where the bridge and one of the power plants got washed out in 1969, still flows like always, diverted by the dam that’s still there but not powering anything now. I wonder what the river’s decline in this area was before the dam, how steep was it originally? Seems like the land slanted hard there, so I imagine there was a natural waterfall at one point that caused them to put a dam there. A hundred years seems like such a solid slice of time, but it’s similar to flying to Chicago, in my opinion. The years are still relatively arbitrary chunks of time, although the days represent one cycle of sun and night, and the year is meant to mark a full circle around the sun in our little corner of infinite space. But all the minutes and seconds get lost, and you just end up a hundred years away, like landing at O’Hare, missing all the little pieces and parts that got you there, from point A to point B. Chances are I won’t know “one hundred years” personally, at least not as this collection of molecules as their currently arranged into a dirtgod raven mack. Humans chase “knowing” more than their fair share of space on the timeline through reciting history and writing shit down like mad, but when I get lost in the tiny steps of walking along the river and through the woods, not keeping track of them nor wanting to, it seems like I might be happier as a human if I let that shit go entirely – all the minutes and hours and days and years, stop fretting over age or wasted time or grey hairs signifying failures of fulfilling mechanistic checklists of being a “productive” member of society. I ain’t got to do shit really. Time is a goddamn chain, tying me up in the yard of my life, leaving me stuck there, barking at the river down the hill that I want to go run to and dip my bare feet in, because I’m trapped. My oldest kid has a concept they always drive home called Time Destroyers United, and I’ve come to love that concept – just destroying time, not in some big revolutionary explosion of cataclysmic change, but just little pokes and stabs and monkey wrenches, sabotaging our concepts of time wherever we can. So I hope you destroyed some time today, and also enjoyed yourself, free from clocks, or phones, or clock phones, or phone clocks, or anything.

TH3 P0W3R GR1D W1LL N3V3R...

 

the power grid will never 
completely choke the human 
spirit to reimagine 

SONG OF THE DAY: Racism 2.0

This past Sunday I had to drive my eldest and their friend to DC to fly to Asia. There is a long stretch of United States highway 15 – the same highway I grew up along mostly – that once you get past the Wal-Mart Supercenter and distribution zone by the interstate, and the couple of subdivisions sprawling from said interstate’s diamond exchange with 15, it turns to dilapidated farmland along the Blue Ridge foothills, and is straight as fuck, so you are tempted to go a thousand miles an hour but you also know police lurk like copperheads in the bushes, waiting to strike and inject poisonous revenue tendrils into your already depleted financial body. As I was fighting the urge to go a thousand miles an hour, and had withdrawn $350 from an ATM which had been transferred by my ex-in-principle-but-still-legal-wife from her paypal to a bank account we still shared, so that I could leave an envelope full of cash on the kitchen counter for the wood guy next week, we saw a bald eagle at same level as the car, dragging the entrails of a recently hit deer along for a meal. I thought to myself, as my now adult child prepared to get a passport stamped in southeast Asia again, “wow, that’s like, a metaphor or some shit.” And then I kept driving along, as doomed as ever.

M1SS1NG L1F3'S 34RL13R S1D3...

missing life's earlier side,

when I still had dreams, ambitions,

and destiny could be good

Z3R0 T0 31GHT33N T0T4L...

zero to eighteen total

blur; somehow made a human

and they lived to be adult

0XYM0R0N1C TH1NK1NG...

oxymoronic thinking

involved with "adult children" -

letting go while protecting

0FFSPR1NG FVLL-GR0WN, BL0SS0M1NG...

offspring full-grown, blossoming

into non-manufactured

human, being in this world

almost eighteen years ago,

my firstborn came to be in

cheap Oregon Hill rental

spices and dirt make colors

for cinderblock canvas piece -

eldest daughter expressions

genetic puppetry beat

by environmental change

through ex-patriotism

"appropriating" culture

while influenced by culture

while creating new culture

neuro-ontological

lights flame up from consulting

the ancient masters’ word lifes

without light, darkness can feel

completely uncluttered by

accumulated madness

spring scatters pink dust of fresh

hope, blossoming potential

new harvests of survival

contemplating the futile

nature of explaining "youth"

to the young - eyes open slow

it is raining on my camper dreams

I guess for the time being this is the new style of posting here, where I put a few of my pictures up that I tooked with my old ass digital camera that looks like a homemade bomb of some sort, and then I rimble ramble in between them.

I am okay with that. This site has existed in about 19 different incarnations, and my eldest offspring has started a siteblog herself, and I've tried to sell her on the fact all your crazy shit collected in one place over time is a good thing. But ain't nobody believing that on the interwebs. We spread it out like mayonnaise.

I want to live in this thing. No joke. Or at least write inside it. I can tell it's got spirit.

J.J. Krupert June '12 #5: "Mother Earth" by Blue Globe Beats

can't wash it clean in water, there's grime on my soul

!∞--☈℧⌡℧∏∑Ж☋--∞¡

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown - July '11 #12: "The Deadbeat Heartbeat of a Hobo" by 1000 Feathers

Not much to speak on this song because it is my own song, done in pitch shifted Ancient Hobo style out in the camper a couple summers ago. I had started writing a hobo left his family song in the truck while riding around, playing this Edie Brickell loop constantly, and was getting tired of it, but my daughter Gypsy was riding and enjoying hearing me work these concepts out loud while riding to and from ballet or soccer practice or whatever, and she actually asked me to finish the song to hear how the story ended. That's the only reason I finished it, because I was starting to hate the song. That's why there's a dedication "to all the gypsies out there" in the beginning. And I really love the first pair of lines: "It's so hard to get lost along roads you've already been; I'm so tired of gathering moss with these so-called friends." That's a real ass lyric right there, and I've always been proud of how those two flow, and what they say, and how they flip metaphors around, and I've always wanted the world to know what the fuck I'm doing. Except I don't know what the fuck I'm even doing, so how can the world know?
I've been writing song lyrics lately a lot, with people other than myself in mind to ultimately perform them. Also been playing a lot of Boogie Brown's more twangy beats from the 39 Blue Globe Beats CDs I've gotten over the years. I've not done hardly any music recording in the past year, which on one hand sucks, but on the other hand makes sense because I haven't had the music wanting to explode out of me like some of these other word demons have been fighting to get out my brain. But I've been feeling the songs welling up inside me. And plus, our youngest - River - tends to sing really loudly about whatever is on her mind. Last night she freestyle-sang some crazy song about "You're not a teenager! You're not a teenager! You're not a human! You're not a human!" and it was hilarious to see this little sassy toddling 3-year-old make up words to a song she was creating in her young little mind, and she sang it as loud as she called, with feeling and the appropriate body movements, and I'm stoked I am the father of a household where that is what happens, and what is appreciated, and encouraged, and even expected. So I guess I'm not so tired of gathering moss along these roads I've already been.
STEAL "The Deadbeat Heartbeat of a Hobo"
NEXT: No thanks, Willie; brown liquor makes me fight people!