The Faux Pas Press #54
By Jason Fresh
I have seen the plow break fertile ground like a mother raising her hand to striking an infant – fresh, new, nutritious, almost edible ground. And like the infant, feeling the brashness of a young woman, a young mother discarded by an alpha male and sent to stave off the others in a State of Hawaii welfare line, the fertile ground waits for us to plant our seeds in it. And like the infant, free of guile and tradition, the Earth will give to those who honor it. The infant will begin learning much like the Earth has learnt. “Who will honor me? To whom is fortune due?”
I have been taught. Been taught by the worst of the best – also been taught by the best of the worst. And one thing (I would say ‘teaching’ if I still believed in those), one profound ‘thing’ that I’ve learnt is that the fertile ground will not lie, it will not cheat, it will not steal from you. It spits truth syrup forth from maple trees, it protrudes odors from the Earth’s layers, and it will give back to you what you put in to it. Whether you aim to emulate the valley and let all things flow to you or long to become the mountain, the Earth will show who is honored. One more thing about the fertile soil – it not only gives what you put in - it could potentially give you food for a thousand years.
Place seeds in those you love or desire. Water them. Nurture them. Then just fucking watch as fruit trees break the fertile ground on a human chest, bringing forth fruit to feed you for the rest of your days. The infant that you mistreat today might very well be the “hand that feeds you”. Careful.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #53
The Faux Pas Press #53
By Jason Fresh
If you are convinced, much like me, that the world needs you, needs you much more than you need it – raise your hand. Raise your hand to the ghosts of your past who camp out in the walls of your rented abode (or the abode that you think you own, mortgaged, and entrusted to you in exchange for lifeblood). What I have to say about you will most certainly trouble you more than it will trouble me. I have seen the coming apocalypse, displayed before my view like the prophets of old – while I jerk off or drink a diet, organic, approved soda. The world depends on me to react to it, the frequencies of magnetic coil depend on my mind to respond and formulate. The actions that I take are mine and they will also become yours. So, the beauty is I don’t have to react to it. I can control my feelings. I can control my thoughts. Who then am I? So, we see The Faux Pas Press, the greatest creation in time. Because if the world needs me more than I need it then, most assuredly, I create what suits me and that is it - your creations are the greatest of time, your time. Congratulations. Most are incapable of such an existence.
I am already dead. I can move through the trails of these redwood forests for as long as I please. I am my grandfather sailing through the greenish walls of the Pacific, resting my head on a Japanese bed, and from Yokosuka take a lick.
By Jason Fresh
If you are convinced, much like me, that the world needs you, needs you much more than you need it – raise your hand. Raise your hand to the ghosts of your past who camp out in the walls of your rented abode (or the abode that you think you own, mortgaged, and entrusted to you in exchange for lifeblood). What I have to say about you will most certainly trouble you more than it will trouble me. I have seen the coming apocalypse, displayed before my view like the prophets of old – while I jerk off or drink a diet, organic, approved soda. The world depends on me to react to it, the frequencies of magnetic coil depend on my mind to respond and formulate. The actions that I take are mine and they will also become yours. So, the beauty is I don’t have to react to it. I can control my feelings. I can control my thoughts. Who then am I? So, we see The Faux Pas Press, the greatest creation in time. Because if the world needs me more than I need it then, most assuredly, I create what suits me and that is it - your creations are the greatest of time, your time. Congratulations. Most are incapable of such an existence.
I am already dead. I can move through the trails of these redwood forests for as long as I please. I am my grandfather sailing through the greenish walls of the Pacific, resting my head on a Japanese bed, and from Yokosuka take a lick.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #52
The Faux Pas Press #52
By Jason Fresh
For the home-comings that you’ve never had, for the beers you drink all alone - smelling not the fragrance of a lovely woman but the accumulative stank of your own farts beneath the covers; for the many cheers you’ve longed to raise your loved ones who know nothing of your secret crush – well, then – well, then what is the fucking meaning of it all? When all my yearnings move only a short distance through time, when a growing misanthropy swells like a virus inside, when I’ve fucked every last one – well, then – what the hell is there?
There was a dance choreographer who used to move my feet when my feet were unable. She was known, feared, and revered by any aspiring performer in the Dallas/Ft. Worth Metroplex, and anybody who knew what was good for him would listen to every word she spoke. Why? Because if you didn’t she would make you wish that you had – either by verbally berating your broken self-image or by literally twisting a testicle off, but beyond the fear of mutilation, a student would bathe himself in her words if he could. He knew those words were purchased with sweat. At some point – along the dark and mangled road of love’s labor lost in smoke and mirrors – at some point, I knew that she’d paid her price. Basically, I mean that she made choices – just choices – simple choices. She’d closed out some realities and chose to live in others. That is all I can hope for – just choices – no one choice greater than the next, purchased by sweat.
By Jason Fresh
For the home-comings that you’ve never had, for the beers you drink all alone - smelling not the fragrance of a lovely woman but the accumulative stank of your own farts beneath the covers; for the many cheers you’ve longed to raise your loved ones who know nothing of your secret crush – well, then – well, then what is the fucking meaning of it all? When all my yearnings move only a short distance through time, when a growing misanthropy swells like a virus inside, when I’ve fucked every last one – well, then – what the hell is there?
There was a dance choreographer who used to move my feet when my feet were unable. She was known, feared, and revered by any aspiring performer in the Dallas/Ft. Worth Metroplex, and anybody who knew what was good for him would listen to every word she spoke. Why? Because if you didn’t she would make you wish that you had – either by verbally berating your broken self-image or by literally twisting a testicle off, but beyond the fear of mutilation, a student would bathe himself in her words if he could. He knew those words were purchased with sweat. At some point – along the dark and mangled road of love’s labor lost in smoke and mirrors – at some point, I knew that she’d paid her price. Basically, I mean that she made choices – just choices – simple choices. She’d closed out some realities and chose to live in others. That is all I can hope for – just choices – no one choice greater than the next, purchased by sweat.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #51
The Faux Pas Press #51
By Jason Fresh
The sorcerer who works in the season of fall is sweet enough for all, but compliments often fall – yep, just like leaves – off the back of the great genius Parley Angerbliss. Winter comes as no surprise but it is always clean, glistening white with the Witch of the North. And there he stands, Parley Angerbliss, top hat resting prayerfully in two curved hands, two hands ablaze with the timeless shift, vibrating on VHF. And there I am, disgusted with myself for having such an open mind, sucking on my bleeding thumbs and wondering if my time will come. And then there is a woman asking me to waltz - yep, the sorcerers from the South, all of them, at the same time asking me to dance. There are sorcerers all across the Fold in the Fabric of Night, standing at every juncture, moving me from mundane to mundane event. But I must ignore them, must move past them, must feel the frequency on which I was conjured. I must find the frequency. It could’ve been a joke told by Sriram, the guide from Visakhapatnam. Must have been is way of getting me out of his lounge, a lounge made Crimson. And for this I am grateful.
There is only one node to which I am requested, to which I am called, a place upon which I must fall – yep, just like a leaf. Its color is Topaz and its frequency is constant – not a joke. So, come with me, Uncle, Topaz Traveler, for our presence is requested at the West End of the Fold in the Fabric of Night - yep, lined with golden alabaster stone on frequencies of pure light.
By Jason Fresh
The sorcerer who works in the season of fall is sweet enough for all, but compliments often fall – yep, just like leaves – off the back of the great genius Parley Angerbliss. Winter comes as no surprise but it is always clean, glistening white with the Witch of the North. And there he stands, Parley Angerbliss, top hat resting prayerfully in two curved hands, two hands ablaze with the timeless shift, vibrating on VHF. And there I am, disgusted with myself for having such an open mind, sucking on my bleeding thumbs and wondering if my time will come. And then there is a woman asking me to waltz - yep, the sorcerers from the South, all of them, at the same time asking me to dance. There are sorcerers all across the Fold in the Fabric of Night, standing at every juncture, moving me from mundane to mundane event. But I must ignore them, must move past them, must feel the frequency on which I was conjured. I must find the frequency. It could’ve been a joke told by Sriram, the guide from Visakhapatnam. Must have been is way of getting me out of his lounge, a lounge made Crimson. And for this I am grateful.
There is only one node to which I am requested, to which I am called, a place upon which I must fall – yep, just like a leaf. Its color is Topaz and its frequency is constant – not a joke. So, come with me, Uncle, Topaz Traveler, for our presence is requested at the West End of the Fold in the Fabric of Night - yep, lined with golden alabaster stone on frequencies of pure light.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #50
The Faux Pas Press #50
By Jason Fresh
Lacy Jackson Cambria swiftly moved her fingers across the angry face of her keyboard, perhaps not exhausting all of her inherent faculties – a sense of the common or knack for linear time. She wrote down the entitlement of marrying a man at his worst. It smelled like righteousness in her world that morning. There were pictures of all of her possessions on the wall – that’s right – pictures of her possessions.
A sensible person might ask himself, “Now, why on earth would Lacy Jackson Cambria hang pictures of possessions on her wall? Why wouldn’t she just buy an item – a vibrator perhaps – and enjoy the shit out of it?” And to you, sensible people of the Faux Pas Press, I would say that there are people who want to own you, own you like fans of Justin Bieber demand his signature, own you like a dog owner insists on a trick for a treat. For Lacy Jackson Cambria the possessions of this life are people, people who she will fatten up like Hansel and Gretel, people unaware they will soon become Sweet Tarts or Laffy Taffy for her to chew on.
Look out for Lacy Jackson Cambria. She will start by inviting you to parties, offering you food, offering you wine and frothy beverage, and before you know it, she’s got pictures of you in the Parthenon. She will even claim you as a child. Sometimes it is just better to eat Top Ramen with eggs in the comfort of your own home – or cardboard box - who cares? Beware the comforting gingerbread house in the woods.
By Jason Fresh
Lacy Jackson Cambria swiftly moved her fingers across the angry face of her keyboard, perhaps not exhausting all of her inherent faculties – a sense of the common or knack for linear time. She wrote down the entitlement of marrying a man at his worst. It smelled like righteousness in her world that morning. There were pictures of all of her possessions on the wall – that’s right – pictures of her possessions.
A sensible person might ask himself, “Now, why on earth would Lacy Jackson Cambria hang pictures of possessions on her wall? Why wouldn’t she just buy an item – a vibrator perhaps – and enjoy the shit out of it?” And to you, sensible people of the Faux Pas Press, I would say that there are people who want to own you, own you like fans of Justin Bieber demand his signature, own you like a dog owner insists on a trick for a treat. For Lacy Jackson Cambria the possessions of this life are people, people who she will fatten up like Hansel and Gretel, people unaware they will soon become Sweet Tarts or Laffy Taffy for her to chew on.
Look out for Lacy Jackson Cambria. She will start by inviting you to parties, offering you food, offering you wine and frothy beverage, and before you know it, she’s got pictures of you in the Parthenon. She will even claim you as a child. Sometimes it is just better to eat Top Ramen with eggs in the comfort of your own home – or cardboard box - who cares? Beware the comforting gingerbread house in the woods.
Monday, September 13, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #49
The Faux Pas Press #49
By Jason Fresh
If you plan on living your life as a loner make sure you, at very least, have a contingency plan, some ugly broad who is tired of pleasuring herself, a gay neighbor who might want to make you muffins in the morning, a non-profit organization in which you can lose yourself. What you don’t want to do is tell your wife to take a hike, tell her that you can’t stand the sight of her anymore, and that you want to become a porn star-style bachelor with excess income and phone full of numbers. When you live in a society that is ripping apart at the seams, a place where the Children are calling the Folks out on all of their bullshit, where neighbors fear one another, you don’t want to be the single dude who has got time, money, and bitches – especially not when the rest of the world still suffers in nonsensical mediocrity. Because if you plan on being that guy then you’d better discover within yourself the Will to Power, you had better figure out how to cast spells over others, dance on broadcast television, or run marathons. Yeah, you’d better figure out how to do some amazing shit - do some yo-yo tricks or something. And after learning that you are, indeed, the center of the Universe, you’ll need to pretend like you don’t know – because there is nothing they hate more than a gifted man who isn’t also humble. No man wants to be the Father who can’t also play the Husband – but if you can pull it off, you’re golden.
By Jason Fresh
If you plan on living your life as a loner make sure you, at very least, have a contingency plan, some ugly broad who is tired of pleasuring herself, a gay neighbor who might want to make you muffins in the morning, a non-profit organization in which you can lose yourself. What you don’t want to do is tell your wife to take a hike, tell her that you can’t stand the sight of her anymore, and that you want to become a porn star-style bachelor with excess income and phone full of numbers. When you live in a society that is ripping apart at the seams, a place where the Children are calling the Folks out on all of their bullshit, where neighbors fear one another, you don’t want to be the single dude who has got time, money, and bitches – especially not when the rest of the world still suffers in nonsensical mediocrity. Because if you plan on being that guy then you’d better discover within yourself the Will to Power, you had better figure out how to cast spells over others, dance on broadcast television, or run marathons. Yeah, you’d better figure out how to do some amazing shit - do some yo-yo tricks or something. And after learning that you are, indeed, the center of the Universe, you’ll need to pretend like you don’t know – because there is nothing they hate more than a gifted man who isn’t also humble. No man wants to be the Father who can’t also play the Husband – but if you can pull it off, you’re golden.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
The Faux Pas Press #48
The Faux Pas Press #48
By Jason Fresh
Hawaii is a desert – not a dessert at a Chateau Marmot, not an escape from the meat and potatoes, not a release from your fears but an encounter with the Hawaiian gods waiting to break you. All the world points at paradise for a great release, all the world struggles with space-time to find it - like a well-dressed commoner fighting with surroundings to find lunch in a trashcan. Yes, all the world points to paradise as salvation from the Self. What is paradise for the few is purgatory for the many. What is escape for the West, what is escape for the Japanese tourist sporting western brands made in the East, is a workshop of dreams for those caught in the magnetic center. It is hell for the local, the military man, the servant, hell for the family pumping lifeblood into the machine to build it. Paradise is our construct. It is sand hauled in from the desert. Hawaii is a desert. It is volcanic protrusion covered in the illusion of autonomy, pure culture vanquished by competing empires. Hawaii is the last great stand. So, alas, it is here that I stand, it will be here that I swim, here that die. I am convinced that no free persons exist, and pretend as we might, every man has got pay the devil his due, pretend as we might, freedom is the joke smoked from the pipes of Samoans – desert weed in the belly of the Pacific.
By Jason Fresh
Hawaii is a desert – not a dessert at a Chateau Marmot, not an escape from the meat and potatoes, not a release from your fears but an encounter with the Hawaiian gods waiting to break you. All the world points at paradise for a great release, all the world struggles with space-time to find it - like a well-dressed commoner fighting with surroundings to find lunch in a trashcan. Yes, all the world points to paradise as salvation from the Self. What is paradise for the few is purgatory for the many. What is escape for the West, what is escape for the Japanese tourist sporting western brands made in the East, is a workshop of dreams for those caught in the magnetic center. It is hell for the local, the military man, the servant, hell for the family pumping lifeblood into the machine to build it. Paradise is our construct. It is sand hauled in from the desert. Hawaii is a desert. It is volcanic protrusion covered in the illusion of autonomy, pure culture vanquished by competing empires. Hawaii is the last great stand. So, alas, it is here that I stand, it will be here that I swim, here that die. I am convinced that no free persons exist, and pretend as we might, every man has got pay the devil his due, pretend as we might, freedom is the joke smoked from the pipes of Samoans – desert weed in the belly of the Pacific.
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