Saturday, January 17, 2009
Graham Norton rules the BBCamerica world that I so love to live in
My favorite part about this show is when the skits are performed by the audience members as a tie-in to the movies the guests are plugging. Although, my favorite skit was on the Christmas show. A man bought his wife some long pajamas which were pink and supposedly super warm. They showed a pic of her in them on the screen and Graham noted that they aren't very attractive. She agreed and was mad at her husband for getting her the ever hated practical gift. So the wife and Graham set up the husband... Graham asked the guy if he'd check his cell phone reception and was guided to walk outside into the freezing December in London cold. Then the guy was sprayed with water or honey or something, then sprayed with feathers. The last bit was when a wrestler came out and took him down onto a mat. It was SOO funny!! This show always makes me laugh. It's on now, but the volume is down because my honey is falling asleep. awww
Friday, January 16, 2009
Brian Celio Poetry Extravaganza
I met Brian Celio on Facebook and was intrigued by his religious affiliations. He calls it 'christian anarchist.' Cool, who doesn't love Jesus? And religion is not for me... So now he's my friend. JK - that had nothing to do with it. I do love supporting other artists. His links are at the bottom if you'd like to check them out. He has a forthcoming book called Catapult Soul. I wish he had recorded this, it seems like it would translate well into a performance piece.
An anti-ode to bukowski, GINSBERG, AND the smoking jogger
If you don’t have a sense of humor
And always take yourself so seriously—
If you don’t have a sense of common
And always act so annoyingly—
I seriously don’t wanna know you
So stay the fuck away from me.
Now don’t take this as broached elitism
Or fundamentalism for the pretty witty;
It’s just that you abnegated your raison d’être,
And yet you raise on raisin’ on?!
How about I lay your ass down, or out,
Then piss right in your mouth,
Mmhmm,
Vigorously imbibing one of my humors—
Wait, nobody’s sense of humor is that phenolphthaleinic
Nor did anybody get the pedantic puns.
It’s cool; I’ll just piss on everybody’s anti-bush
Since every jocular jungle needs a briney brook:
Helps flowers shackle with better scents.
(Take a big wiff…) Ahhhhh!
New life! new direction! new promise!—
Renewed unconsciousness!—
For the glib-lipped slaves of today!
Plus it would be so much fun to piss on you
Since I hate anybody who doesn’t like to be pissed on—
And seriously loathe girls who completely shave.
Why do some people assume I like Bukowski?
I’m not gonna beat around the bush:
The dude was such a popping penile pseudo,
A wordy wordy waste of wisdom.
Can you taste the synthetic dissidence?
Some swallow it whole
And stomach it with a grand smile,
This brand of dissidence so easy to partake in,
Hence why so many punks and pukes like him.
It’s sad how musical lifestylers have lost their way,
Not to exclude the sorrow
Buried beneath the more-traveled path,
(The plush green one),
Taken by today’s literary writers and poets.
I think they think they’re thinking.
But they’re only sitting and shitting
On all the shit they supposedly shun.
Jeez, I fucking hate people who write poetry like this
And tout it as “creative!” “modern!” and worst of all, “profound!”
(Dear Dead Ginsberg,
Whenever you dressed like a bombed skit,
Smelling like putrid shit,
Jotting down your anti-establishment sentiment
In the manner of an anti-literate delegate,
Did you ever expect non-hippies to buy into it?)
Really, any half-wit could execute this shit.
Perhaps not as ingeniously as I.
I mean, what the fuck has poetry come to?
A lazy reflection of what we have become aggregately?—
For sure, R.I.P. I.A.G.
(Wow! I just BEAT the shit outta my motherfucking mirrors!)
[Sounded like the motherfucking bombs of motherfucking Vietnam!]
{Thunks fur muking me buk my mutherfucking mirrurs, Charlie!}
Oh Buk, why words so gruesome and gaudy
Like the acne vulgaris on your face and back?
Did your father ever knock one of those things off?
I kinda wish my father woulda beat me more
But he died, then my new father only had time
To rap me on the holidays.
Still I never let disfigurements or abandonment
Twist my words into a stark reality of shit
For though a few will relate and be soothed
It will fail to become eternal—
And that’s kinda what I’m shooting for.
But in light of what you had to work with,
I suppose you made it profoundly blunt and cool.
Hey, not to digress
But I’m guessing you made friends up in San Fran?
Well if I ever get unlucky and find myself there
I’m gonna wrap my dick up in a burqa—
To keep their sexual thoughts repressed—
Then drown ‘em all in a sea of piss.
Then steal their stupid drugs
Sell ‘em to brain-dead merchants in Holland,
Then use the money to buy high-quality books
For Californians who want to read high-quality books for free.
Hey, ya know what? Know what I say? I say:
Death to infidel ravers! and death to infidel hippies!
Yesss! Dead is Ginsberg and yesss! dead is Bukowski!
So hang the blessed DJ for my MOZ!
And give the airwaves back to Eternal Joey!
Now that’s what I call anti-establishment, G.G.!
Anyway, I saw this guy jogging downtown today.
(Note: this is where I prove how random and obscure I can be
But with the ability to draw back to a point alluded to earlier.)
Anyway, anyway—
(Haha, motherfuckin’ Holden C, my young O.G.!)—
Anyway, anyway,
This jogger was wearing a one-piece spandex suit
As black as an Iranian bomb, whatever the fuck that means.
He was very old, very tall, and grotesquely skinny
With a transparent water bottle in one hand
And a lit cigarette in the other,
Skiing both arms like a man in need of his crazy pills,
Charging forward like a frontline soldier gone mad,
Leaving a plume of smoke in his dust.
For the fifteen seconds he was in my vision
I didn’t see the half-wit take one fucking hit!
But I’m sure he was making a statement
As profound, clever, and indicative
As Bukowski and Ginsberg—
And of course me.
Brian Celio, © 2009
Through Rich Ness and Wealth
At home you feel like a tourist:
Food, clothes, furniture swaddled in numeric bars,
Which become everyone's lucky lottery picks,
Food, clothes, furniture packaged in polished surnames,
Who happen to be everyone's distant cousins.
Tonight at seven there will be a worldwide draw:
Take your millionth of a penny and go reinvest it.
This summer come to The Family's scattered ball:
Bring a side dish then go eat it by yourself.
Oh, in your home you feel like a tourist:
Objets d'art could be your wife's sullen smile,
Or your children's silly inquisitions,
But nothing else here, nothing that's tangible,
Or sellable on the market.
In your home everything's for rent:
Six months and everything will be junk.
Like walls made of TV guides full of cancelled programs,
There will be nothing worth seeing,
Yet the cost for everything was everything,
Oh, that disconnected drudgery.
Wait, you poor fool—get up—no, listen up:
There won't even be a sentimental smudge on your lapis lazuli vase!
For whose hands fashioned the glass, from the bottom up to the tip?
Not yours, nor your wife's, nor your children's,
Oh, that absent-minded alienation.
Oh, what brutal-hearted damnation.
Rich Ness: that's what they call you, and the million others just like you.
Rich Ness: that's what they call it when you're a tourist in your own home.
Brian Celio, © 2009
DISSIDENCE
They grabbed my hand—slammed it down—fashioning my name…
…At last my vote had been cast twice on behalf of the polar cause.
I screamed, "That's fine!—go ahead!—yes! it's all the same!
For I can see in the Heart of the Beast remain the Holders' laws!"
They grabbed my arms—snatch me up—leading me away…
…Dragging me to a cell where an old man sat with his head hung low.
I said, "Tell me—my sad friend—how long must you stay?"
And he replied, "Until death arrives, for I'll never sell my soul."
They walked away—hit the lights—leaving for the day…
…To shirk the prison air I wallowed on the ground, burning with fear.
He said, "Tell me—my sad friend—why you act that way,
When you should be thankful since you have become much freer in here."
He grabbed my hand—held it tight—showing me the way…
…Gradually the light spread across the ground…then outward…then aloft.
I screamed, "I see!—(up above?)—yes! we're all the same!"
And he replied, "Welcome to Dissidence where souls are never lost."
Brian Celio, © 2009
www.catapulsoul.com
Brian Celio on MySpace
Brian Celio on Facebook
Brian's Blog
An anti-ode to bukowski, GINSBERG, AND the smoking jogger
If you don’t have a sense of humor
And always take yourself so seriously—
If you don’t have a sense of common
And always act so annoyingly—
I seriously don’t wanna know you
So stay the fuck away from me.
Now don’t take this as broached elitism
Or fundamentalism for the pretty witty;
It’s just that you abnegated your raison d’être,
And yet you raise on raisin’ on?!
How about I lay your ass down, or out,
Then piss right in your mouth,
Mmhmm,
Vigorously imbibing one of my humors—
Wait, nobody’s sense of humor is that phenolphthaleinic
Nor did anybody get the pedantic puns.
It’s cool; I’ll just piss on everybody’s anti-bush
Since every jocular jungle needs a briney brook:
Helps flowers shackle with better scents.
(Take a big wiff…) Ahhhhh!
New life! new direction! new promise!—
Renewed unconsciousness!—
For the glib-lipped slaves of today!
Plus it would be so much fun to piss on you
Since I hate anybody who doesn’t like to be pissed on—
And seriously loathe girls who completely shave.
Why do some people assume I like Bukowski?
I’m not gonna beat around the bush:
The dude was such a popping penile pseudo,
A wordy wordy waste of wisdom.
Can you taste the synthetic dissidence?
Some swallow it whole
And stomach it with a grand smile,
This brand of dissidence so easy to partake in,
Hence why so many punks and pukes like him.
It’s sad how musical lifestylers have lost their way,
Not to exclude the sorrow
Buried beneath the more-traveled path,
(The plush green one),
Taken by today’s literary writers and poets.
I think they think they’re thinking.
But they’re only sitting and shitting
On all the shit they supposedly shun.
Jeez, I fucking hate people who write poetry like this
And tout it as “creative!” “modern!” and worst of all, “profound!”
(Dear Dead Ginsberg,
Whenever you dressed like a bombed skit,
Smelling like putrid shit,
Jotting down your anti-establishment sentiment
In the manner of an anti-literate delegate,
Did you ever expect non-hippies to buy into it?)
Really, any half-wit could execute this shit.
Perhaps not as ingeniously as I.
I mean, what the fuck has poetry come to?
A lazy reflection of what we have become aggregately?—
For sure, R.I.P. I.A.G.
(Wow! I just BEAT the shit outta my motherfucking mirrors!)
[Sounded like the motherfucking bombs of motherfucking Vietnam!]
{Thunks fur muking me buk my mutherfucking mirrurs, Charlie!}
Oh Buk, why words so gruesome and gaudy
Like the acne vulgaris on your face and back?
Did your father ever knock one of those things off?
I kinda wish my father woulda beat me more
But he died, then my new father only had time
To rap me on the holidays.
Still I never let disfigurements or abandonment
Twist my words into a stark reality of shit
For though a few will relate and be soothed
It will fail to become eternal—
And that’s kinda what I’m shooting for.
But in light of what you had to work with,
I suppose you made it profoundly blunt and cool.
Hey, not to digress
But I’m guessing you made friends up in San Fran?
Well if I ever get unlucky and find myself there
I’m gonna wrap my dick up in a burqa—
To keep their sexual thoughts repressed—
Then drown ‘em all in a sea of piss.
Then steal their stupid drugs
Sell ‘em to brain-dead merchants in Holland,
Then use the money to buy high-quality books
For Californians who want to read high-quality books for free.
Hey, ya know what? Know what I say? I say:
Death to infidel ravers! and death to infidel hippies!
Yesss! Dead is Ginsberg and yesss! dead is Bukowski!
So hang the blessed DJ for my MOZ!
And give the airwaves back to Eternal Joey!
Now that’s what I call anti-establishment, G.G.!
Anyway, I saw this guy jogging downtown today.
(Note: this is where I prove how random and obscure I can be
But with the ability to draw back to a point alluded to earlier.)
Anyway, anyway—
(Haha, motherfuckin’ Holden C, my young O.G.!)—
Anyway, anyway,
This jogger was wearing a one-piece spandex suit
As black as an Iranian bomb, whatever the fuck that means.
He was very old, very tall, and grotesquely skinny
With a transparent water bottle in one hand
And a lit cigarette in the other,
Skiing both arms like a man in need of his crazy pills,
Charging forward like a frontline soldier gone mad,
Leaving a plume of smoke in his dust.
For the fifteen seconds he was in my vision
I didn’t see the half-wit take one fucking hit!
But I’m sure he was making a statement
As profound, clever, and indicative
As Bukowski and Ginsberg—
And of course me.
Brian Celio, © 2009
Through Rich Ness and Wealth
At home you feel like a tourist:
Food, clothes, furniture swaddled in numeric bars,
Which become everyone's lucky lottery picks,
Food, clothes, furniture packaged in polished surnames,
Who happen to be everyone's distant cousins.
Tonight at seven there will be a worldwide draw:
Take your millionth of a penny and go reinvest it.
This summer come to The Family's scattered ball:
Bring a side dish then go eat it by yourself.
Oh, in your home you feel like a tourist:
Objets d'art could be your wife's sullen smile,
Or your children's silly inquisitions,
But nothing else here, nothing that's tangible,
Or sellable on the market.
In your home everything's for rent:
Six months and everything will be junk.
Like walls made of TV guides full of cancelled programs,
There will be nothing worth seeing,
Yet the cost for everything was everything,
Oh, that disconnected drudgery.
Wait, you poor fool—get up—no, listen up:
There won't even be a sentimental smudge on your lapis lazuli vase!
For whose hands fashioned the glass, from the bottom up to the tip?
Not yours, nor your wife's, nor your children's,
Oh, that absent-minded alienation.
Oh, what brutal-hearted damnation.
Rich Ness: that's what they call you, and the million others just like you.
Rich Ness: that's what they call it when you're a tourist in your own home.
Brian Celio, © 2009
DISSIDENCE
They grabbed my hand—slammed it down—fashioning my name…
…At last my vote had been cast twice on behalf of the polar cause.
I screamed, "That's fine!—go ahead!—yes! it's all the same!
For I can see in the Heart of the Beast remain the Holders' laws!"
They grabbed my arms—snatch me up—leading me away…
…Dragging me to a cell where an old man sat with his head hung low.
I said, "Tell me—my sad friend—how long must you stay?"
And he replied, "Until death arrives, for I'll never sell my soul."
They walked away—hit the lights—leaving for the day…
…To shirk the prison air I wallowed on the ground, burning with fear.
He said, "Tell me—my sad friend—why you act that way,
When you should be thankful since you have become much freer in here."
He grabbed my hand—held it tight—showing me the way…
…Gradually the light spread across the ground…then outward…then aloft.
I screamed, "I see!—(up above?)—yes! we're all the same!"
And he replied, "Welcome to Dissidence where souls are never lost."
Brian Celio, © 2009
www.catapulsoul.com
Brian Celio on MySpace
Brian Celio on Facebook
Brian's Blog
Impatient
Stone mason
stack your bricks.
Shape the mortar
with your trowel
and keep it clean.
I hope you didn't
stick a penny deep
in there. We don't
have time to dig it
out.
stack your bricks.
Shape the mortar
with your trowel
and keep it clean.
I hope you didn't
stick a penny deep
in there. We don't
have time to dig it
out.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
need chocolate
but i have some now and am eating it.
i spend too much time on the computer.
wake up too late.
work too much.
how professional should i be?
is cross polination bad?
i spend too much time on the computer.
wake up too late.
work too much.
how professional should i be?
is cross polination bad?
Upcoming Events
Angel Chat and Energy Games
If you are interested in angels and want to learn more about them come to the Angel Chat! You will have the opportunity to ask an angel, Enduron, some questions and get them answered by him. I'll be translating of course. He's a funny one and I'm sure will be very entertaining. You'll also learn to see your aura, you'd be surprised how easy it is once you know what to look for! Psychic abilities are not necessary to enjoy this night. Please RSVP by Jan. 19 to rachel@sephyrus.com. The event costs $25, you can prepay with a credit card if you'd prefer, just use the 'buy now' button on the left of the blog.
When: 7-8:30 pm, Thursday January 22nd
Where: My house in Oxford, CT (email me for directions)
If you are interested in angels and want to learn more about them come to the Angel Chat! You will have the opportunity to ask an angel, Enduron, some questions and get them answered by him. I'll be translating of course. He's a funny one and I'm sure will be very entertaining. You'll also learn to see your aura, you'd be surprised how easy it is once you know what to look for! Psychic abilities are not necessary to enjoy this night. Please RSVP by Jan. 19 to rachel@sephyrus.com. The event costs $25, you can prepay with a credit card if you'd prefer, just use the 'buy now' button on the left of the blog.
When: 7-8:30 pm, Thursday January 22nd
Where: My house in Oxford, CT (email me for directions)
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Lordy how I love ridiculous fashion and groovy dance tunes
this one's just strange...but I love her green jumpsuit :)
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Late Night Chatter II
that was funny.
anyway, i found a fun picture of myself while cleaning. It's me in 8th grade with my green hair, I Ching necklace from my chinese penpal, my favorite smiley face t-shirt and the lace from my in-line skates that i used as a choker. I was a really bad skater kid... i found out years after i stopped that the kids i always went with just humored me because i was a girl. Once I was at an indoor skate part with them and I fell off a ramp onto my shoulder. It hurt so much but the worst part was that my shoulder wouldn't stop shaking. I temporarily paralyzed it or something. fun times! It really was fun. They wouldn't let me in the half pipe. I probably would have killed myself so they made a good judgement call there. I grew up in Milford, CT and it was somewhat utopian. It's that town where you walked outside and joined in on a game of kickball. Kids were always outside doing something. My back yard was a marsh of several acres. I would walk through the tall reeds, jump over snaking waterways and find little dead rodents. There was a big lake back there that took over an hour to get to, so it was like the destination that we never had time to hang out at. It was really creepy back there but that's what made it so magical. The ground was cracked like you see in documentaries about the dried up dessert lakes. It was due to the super-tide floods that only covered the ground with water once a month. All of that wetting and drying made the ground look space-like. It was also a place my parents didn't like me hanging out in. We had a tall brown fence that separated the marsh from the proper, grassed back yard. So when I was in there she couldn't see me. I found many snake skins back there. Sometimes homeless people would set up camps. We would always find 'rooms' made from tamping down the reeds in a circular fashion so there was a flat place in the middle suitable for a tent, a thrown away couch and a fire pit. When these places were stumbled upon my friends and I would get a rock in our stomachs and get really quiet for a few minutes. Then we pretty much ran as fast as we could to get the hell outa there. It's so funny, because in all of the times we hung out in the marsh, meandering through the paths, we never ran into an adult. We knew they were in there... I think the closest we ever came was when we were on the search for that big lake. We heard two men and then decided to head back home. It's never a good idea to run into strange men in the middle of a marsh, where at the age of 10 or 12, the reeds are taller than you. They'd never find the body. That still plays in my head, the fact that I could have been killed countless times during my childhood and I'm still here.
anyway, i found a fun picture of myself while cleaning. It's me in 8th grade with my green hair, I Ching necklace from my chinese penpal, my favorite smiley face t-shirt and the lace from my in-line skates that i used as a choker. I was a really bad skater kid... i found out years after i stopped that the kids i always went with just humored me because i was a girl. Once I was at an indoor skate part with them and I fell off a ramp onto my shoulder. It hurt so much but the worst part was that my shoulder wouldn't stop shaking. I temporarily paralyzed it or something. fun times! It really was fun. They wouldn't let me in the half pipe. I probably would have killed myself so they made a good judgement call there. I grew up in Milford, CT and it was somewhat utopian. It's that town where you walked outside and joined in on a game of kickball. Kids were always outside doing something. My back yard was a marsh of several acres. I would walk through the tall reeds, jump over snaking waterways and find little dead rodents. There was a big lake back there that took over an hour to get to, so it was like the destination that we never had time to hang out at. It was really creepy back there but that's what made it so magical. The ground was cracked like you see in documentaries about the dried up dessert lakes. It was due to the super-tide floods that only covered the ground with water once a month. All of that wetting and drying made the ground look space-like. It was also a place my parents didn't like me hanging out in. We had a tall brown fence that separated the marsh from the proper, grassed back yard. So when I was in there she couldn't see me. I found many snake skins back there. Sometimes homeless people would set up camps. We would always find 'rooms' made from tamping down the reeds in a circular fashion so there was a flat place in the middle suitable for a tent, a thrown away couch and a fire pit. When these places were stumbled upon my friends and I would get a rock in our stomachs and get really quiet for a few minutes. Then we pretty much ran as fast as we could to get the hell outa there. It's so funny, because in all of the times we hung out in the marsh, meandering through the paths, we never ran into an adult. We knew they were in there... I think the closest we ever came was when we were on the search for that big lake. We heard two men and then decided to head back home. It's never a good idea to run into strange men in the middle of a marsh, where at the age of 10 or 12, the reeds are taller than you. They'd never find the body. That still plays in my head, the fact that I could have been killed countless times during my childhood and I'm still here.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Etsy Updates
The art store now has free shipping on all the drawings in the shop. Free shipping only applies to the USA. Sorry Mexico, I still love you :)
The candle store now has a new candle, yay!
The candle store now has a new candle, yay!
Thursday, January 8, 2009
It's me
I may be too tired for this.
Too ineffectual to redeem my spot.
Just look, really try. for me. Because I hate this shit. Apologizing is like groveling.
Why can't you just meet me half way?
Must you always make me feel ridiculous?
It's not you, of course.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Say hi to Sally
Sally's really friendly and I'm sure she says hi back. She's in a non-mood today. Kinda hangin' around my place. She wants to know where the cool kids hang out so she can have some fun. I think I bore her.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Dali being funny
I'm so dramatic sometimes. Feels good to let it out though. Here's some silly to lighten the fog:
Monday, January 5, 2009
too mad for title
there's nothing ever
there, a dreamland,
where events seem real
and people act without
restriction. to awake
to disobedience and
confusion.
god how this sucks. if i had balls they'd have been kicked. poor grammar, no grammar. defeated.
i have received the fucking point.
there, a dreamland,
where events seem real
and people act without
restriction. to awake
to disobedience and
confusion.
god how this sucks. if i had balls they'd have been kicked. poor grammar, no grammar. defeated.
i have received the fucking point.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
My 2009
In all of the things I have done with my clairvoyance what gets me most excited is helping people develop their talents. Doing readings, while it does give me satisfaction to add clarity to someone's life circumstances, doesn't leave me with a sense of true accomplishment. I've worked with some amazing people in 2008. Having helped them connect with their spirits guides so they have personal communication and helping to develop spiritual gifts in others. Learning I could teach aura drawing was amazing. But through all the self discovery and definining of my own talents I still wondered what my place was in all of this, where my real passion was. As silly as it sounds, the tv show Psychic Kids gave me the answer. I had a horrible time during my mid-teens learning how to deal with all of this stuff. So much so that I left high school and had to live in the spare bedroom of my Grandparents house. It took me about three years to really get everything under control enough to where I wasn't afraid anymore. This year I am going to devote much of my time to helping kids and teenagers who don't know how to deal with their special gifts. I will also help to educate the parents who have landed in a world they may not even believe in. It is so important that people take this seriously in their children. I've seen so many kids sent off to hospitals who just need a little validation that what they are seeing or hearing is real. So if you know of anyone who is need of this kind of service feel free to pass on my email address.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Bend that spoon!
I experimented with spoon bending last night. It was an accident that I found the instructions because I was looking for information on Jack Houck's work with the Stargate project. He was the founder of PK parties, where people learn to bend metal, mostly spoons, with their minds. Anyway, my results were in the 'kindergarten' stage as he calls it. My fork attempt which would have put me into 'high school' didn't go as well as I'd have liked. If you want to try it here's the link. I got so freaked out the first time I did it. I was screaming and dancing around... Here are the pics:
my first spoon
second - a dessert spoon
my not so great fork
my first spoon
second - a dessert spoon
my not so great fork
Thursday, January 1, 2009
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