The Faux Pas Press

The Faux Pas Press #136: Apocalypse of the Mind

2012-02-14T21:57:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #136

Apocalypse of the Mind

By Jason Fresh

14 February 2012

She walked into the grocery store and felt the most intense anxiety. Most people walk in and out without a second thought. She would do no such thing. Why is it that they're putting the mothers on Zoloft these days? Why are they ignoring the blessed stillness of consciousness? There is a termination of worry, a death of grabbing, and all the mothers sleep in stillness. How many suicide attempts must occur before we kill the conventions that teach us that we are expendable? There is an apocalypse of the mind occurring right now; in your mind and mine even as I write this. Kids are going to do drugs – lets just hope they are not the drugs manufactured by the State. Mothers are going to medicate – lets just hope they medicate with walks, and laughter, and the ocean. The layers, colorful layers of the onion are peeling away from the Ego, the Superman, the User-self. One day, maybe tomorrow, she will walk into the grocery store and not feel the imminent longing, the drop of chaos on the mind. She will stop sending text messages to a man who doesn't want her anymore – never did really. She will find peace in herself and the electricity that she desires – well – she will get that from God. There is an apocalypse of the mind occurring – she is expelled forever.

The Faux Pas Press #135: Animal Interface

2012-01-29T14:21:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #135

Animal Interface

29 January 2012

By Jason Fresh

He began making a life for himself, a life out recycled ambition, presupposes, and angst. What could be the most deserving thing about his current state is that he mastered the accompaniment all by himself. He mistakenly thought that if he could separate himself long enough from the world that it would not affect him. As I said he of course was misinformed. What? Was he the lead character in a Jack London novel? Was he the intelligent, evolving, too-good-for-society asshole that others had come to perceive? What were the forces at work that could not be controlled – no matter how hard he tried. Was there a man inside that was not being addressed? Was there a matter inside that needed attention? It is almost like feeling got lost somewhere in the maze of words. There were messages that were not delivered because they were not messages to be sent by words. They were messages to be decoded by the Spirit. And by 'the Spirit' I'm not talking about some ethereal, unfocussed gas floating around in the disturbed minds of the dangerously religious. I'm talking about matter that goes unseen. I'm talking about the matter that must be felt. The creation of his life would now change. He would communicate via the Spirit. And the Powers would correspond to him.

The Faux Pas Press #134: The Frequency 936hz

2012-01-25T19:02:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #134

The Frequency 936hz

By Jason Fresh

25 January 2012

There is a fortress surrounding you and the Self, protecting the dimensions to which you have traveled, honoring the Muse, and this must be your work. Do the work and you will know God, surrendering the ultimate gifts you've squandered to the Divine Energy. I was questioning the revolution, questioning the limitations of our finite minds, and now, after the Third Eye transcendence has choked me out – my heart burns like a fucking squad of United States Marines firing off into night, seeking vengeance. Fuck me if I squander the artistic spark, if I spend my energy trying to hold onto this world, if I don't strive for the Ultimate. If you are participating in electoral politics, you're going to have to change also. An eclectic man met me on my way home today – he showed me aspects of Jason Fresh, aspects that I had already encountered but had run from. But, today on frequency 936hz, I am living the DNA source – praying onward into the night, laughing at what will become of all of this. And by 'all of this' – I mean – be committed to a cause, don't fear death, don't stop creating because others might use it. George Washington lives and breathes through me. The Chinese artist, Ai Weiwei, shows us all what we must do. Die for art and live for it.

The Faux Pas Press #133: Nemesis Magician

2012-01-17T21:53:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #133

Nemesis Magician

23 January 2012

By Jason Fresh

I had a conversation the other day. I had a conversation the other day about producing the concept of justice. If there were something worth producing in a nation state it would be justice. It would allow a selected few to control the promise of a new day, it would allow information to flow in a direction of justice, and it would send people going to war. “Hey! Get you're damn hands off of her!” “You know you kids really shouldn't download music without paying for it!” “You really shouldn't let him get away with this.” We have justice like we are adequately represented in congress. The self-righteous air of goodness in anyone of us just fucking kills me. We have justice like we have righteousness. The word, the order of everything – the illusion of stability. “You can't keep doing this to people!” We say shit like this right before we arrest a working girl trying to bring pleasure for money. There are people behind the bars of injustice everyday on this planet. We should all be locked up because of justice: for every hamburger, for every item purchased that marginalizes a part of the planet, for every lie told to a spouse. We've got people in prison who have effectively harmed nothing but there are crooks swinging their dicks across Florida this week. You can throw the ballots away – but there will be justice.

The Faux Pas Press #132: Master of the Nothing

2012-01-16T19:51:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #132

Master of the Nothing

By Jason Fresh

Sometimes, I wish that I were a flightless bird with baseless life. I'd hang in the void between heaven and hell which is where I've been for the last year of my life – in between realities, committed to nothingness. Without my commitments I will be that bird, sitting in the Nothing, waiting for all the signs to change for me. No, this is what has happened because of my indecision. My infidelity has rocked and harmed those around me and in turn harmed myself. The junk I have put in my body to hide from it all, that junk has certainly defined me. And now, at the point of gun, I surrender all to the maker of the rhythm, the author and finisher. It has been oh-so-gruesome. It has been one of the worst things imaginable. And the worst? No one cares about my story or my excuses. No one cares about my sorrow. I sit just like a master of nothing saying to the void, “I will exist. And I will be here for you my love. For your love has conquered me.”

The Faux Pas Press #131: Whole Way Down

2012-01-15T17:37:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #131

Whole Way Down

By Jason Fresh

15 January 2012

Black Shadow sitting on a black chair
Legs are crossed
What feeling will you have when the
feeling gets lost
Not afraid
Repercussion in the Black Shadow shade
and the feet they wash

Doloroso, doloroso is the the placard
of the amoroso law
But if death awaits we gonna
smack him in the jaw

Who I am know as to what I was then
I've been singing this loud
for the whole way down
My bible's been breaking
all across my mind
and laughing the word
oh, the whole way down
oh, the whole way down

Nonsense breaking my little heart
for the 5th or 7th time
Get mad at my Black Shadow reasons
fall in love with the rhyme
So lost
So imbedded at the cost
of a hell bound climb

Doloroso, doloroso is the the placard
of the amoroso law
But if death awaits we gonna
smack him in the jaw

Who I am know as to what I was then
I've been singing this loud
for the whole way down
My bible's been breaking
all across my mind
and laughing the word
oh, the whole way down
oh, the whole way down

The Faux Pas Press #130: Heretic

2012-01-11T23:08:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #130

Heretic

11 January 2010

By Jason Fresh

Too early, too early, too early now to tell
He came back to Southern Georgia like a march on fire and hell
Won't love you like you wanted
Won't praise you like a champ
She will not wipe your tears, will not understand when you try to be her man

You'll try to find another lover like a love sick heretic
You'll try to kiss another women with her hoe stain on your lips
You'll find it hard to build the nation cause your skin has grown so thick
You'll be an ornament America and the time bomb is going to tick

As lonely, as lonely, as lonely as it feels
Fighting stops for those malted hops and the pain don't feel so real
Can't drum upon the shorelines
Can't do the powdered mime
She will not clump the dust and she starts to cuss when you sing a different rhyme

You'll try to find another lover like a love sick heretic
You'll try to kiss another women with her hoe stain on your lips
You'll find it hard to build the nation cause your skin has grown so thick
You'll be an ornament America and the time bomb is going to tick

Don't sway from where you belong
Don't sway from where you belong
Don't sway from where you belong
And you're almost made of gold

You'll try to find another lover like a love sick heretic
You'll try to kiss another women with her hoe stain on your lips
You'll find it hard to build the nation cause your skin has grown so thick
You'll be an ornament America and the time bomb is going to tick

The Faux Pas Press #129: Fake

2012-01-10T03:17:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #129

Fake

By Jason Fresh

10 January 2012

Not withstanding my drunken state I attempt to write early this morning before the full moon has passed and is gone forever. The day dawn will surely break my heart soon. My heart has broken over many things: I am a loser, I am a fake, and I am a glorious incarnation of Shiva. I am sorry for words that have changed you. I am also not sorry for these words because you are indeed better for them. Yes, you have to be better for them. My intention has been such. So, that is that. Now, my day starts with gratitude just like that movie The Secret – that dude who killed those folks in the Arizona sweat lodge travesty, yeah, I think he said some shit about being grateful. So, yeah, I've been and will be grateful for this life. Work is defined by effort applied to an aim. All work must certainly not be in vain. Some really talented poet said that tonight in an open mic where I go to feel important. All work is not in vain. Let me say this: tomorrow the wars of the world will transform into beautiful exchange and symmetry, all the children will eat, and no one will have to take a shit near their resting place. I must first convince myself of the lie before it becomes too convincing a fairy tale, sold to you direct from the bastards over at Barnes and Noble. Cool. God, I'm so damned cool. I just decried a corporation. So cool.

The Faux Pas Press #128: Immaculate Leviathan

2012-01-09T19:27:00.000-08:00

By Jason Fresh

The Faux Pas Press #128

Immaculate Leviathan

09 January 2012

By Jason Fresh

Today, bullish as I may certainly appear to my critics, there were moments when I called desperately in smoldering jest toward the heavens; I also am now crying louder than before, but the gods smile and grant us another day of stupid providence, some second-rate version of purgatory for you and me. People are in a fun little hurry to buy houses and sell them three years later or suck on a dick that other girls desire. But as bullish, blindly optimistic as I appear, I am blindly following the nights when time died. There have been many nights like these. Even this night, January 9th 2012, will be a night to remember. Immaculate are the doors that lead to this new era. A full moon shining to a gruesome end for the Old Gods, a delightful leviathan-like destiny shimmering in our faces paying respect to George Washington and the other titans. There is no worry tomorrow – there is no worry today. The moments we've longed for, the moments we've lost, the moments we have had again and again? They are alive in us. Just flow with challenges. Give thanks and listen.

The Faux Pas Press #127: Dictateur Sanguinaire

2012-01-08T10:09:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #127

Dictateur Sanguinaire

By Jason Fresh

08 January 2012

Interestingly enough, the New Hampshire debates smelled of ball sweat. My mother can’t stop sending me delightful little text messages – not about the debates or Ron but about the Worth of a Soul and shit. I don’t know whether the world is ending or just slowing down a bit. Not too interested in the world around me as I can perceive it. More interested in how it might look traced in neon lights – not draped in holiday cheer spiked with a shot of Jim Beam. I dreamt last night, dreamt that I was being wrestled by a few men who were more able than I. I wrestled them as well as I could but they bested me. When they were done, I looked in a large mirror they were calling Bastille. My reflection gradually peeled like stucco finish on a house in an overpriced housing development in every American suburb. When all the faux finish peeled my reflection was startling. The new face? Maximilien François Marie Isidore de Robespierre. It is a good thing that the only dreams coming true are the ones that I charge with incantation, blood ritual, and dark lore. It wouldn’t suit me. Dictateur sanguinaire!

The Faux Pas Press #126: Your Kickass Life

2012-01-07T08:42:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #126

Your Kickass Life

By Jason Fresh

07 January 2012

I promise I won't plug the glorious campaign of Mr. President, Ron "motherfucking" Paul, in this post. (Wasted vote my ass!) Yesterday, I saw lots of hamburgers being flipped on a grill at a place called Five Guys – probably the best bacon cheeseburger I’ve had in a while. I ate mine outside in the car next to a Trader Joe’s Store and wondered if I should change my diet. I determined that my diet is not a problem in this life – not those greasy, juicy patty fucking cheeseburgers. No, they are not a problem. I realized that I have no real problems in my life. Even my hereditary gene traits mimicking a lesser-evolved strain in the family line or my survival skills malfunctioning in moments of need, perhaps making me look like a jackass – these are not problems. These are opportunities. So, next time you are eating a fluffy, diabolical little cupcake from Suzie Cakes over in Newport, next time you pay penance to some dead deity for enjoying the shit that makes life worthwhile, say, “No. These are not problems. These are opportunities, opportunities to enjoy the life I am writing in this science fiction novel called My Kickass Life. Even if I did inherit the ugliness of Shadrach Roundy in my family tree - is there any better way to live a life than to overcome that shit?" Problems are opportunities to either indulge or conquer. Congrats on your kickass life.

The Faux Pas Press #125: New God Stew

2012-01-06T09:08:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #125

New God Stew

By Jason Fresh

06 January 2010

A well-intentioned technical expert may sound like heaven, be worthy of the gate-keeper, but he will never really understand what it means to be mad – unless, of course, he moves through hell. Most people are not defined by their circumstances; they are imprisoned by them, eating the same ole’ bullshit stew. “My mother made the best beef stew. And if it was good enough for momma then it is good enough for me.” Most people don’t believe in God; they are hypnotized by him, entranced by his promises in the hereafter, forgetting, all the while, that: ‘I am come that you might have life – and that you might have it in abundance.’ What would happen if momma’s stew were totally forgotten? Would she be forsaken? “Well, you’ve got to honor your mother. And if it was good enough for momma then it is good enough for me.” The New Gods counseling just one dimension over are very interested in what you choose today – waiting for you to become mad, waiting for you to create your own recipe. Call it the New God Stew if you want to pay homage. Call it Ron Paul Stew. It is going down.

The Faux Pas Press #124: Get Off

2012-01-05T10:43:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #124

Get Off

By Jason Fresh

05 January 2012

Updated most recently, alerts ring out heavily, weighted with indignation. Americans have certainly learned from a fierce blithe spirit. They have put down strong drink, put off their old Abercrombie Spells, and gotten off the Jagged Cross of Old. New days are coming – positive new days of grandeur. Light emitting diodes provide our signals, the old models of broken promises die, and the New Gods tell us: Ron Paul is elected in 2012; we are no longer dependent on imports or petroleum. There are ways to live on this planet and each human is valuable. The New Gods sit in councils just the next dimension over, not concerned but encouraging. They point and say, “Set big goals. Focus on them daily. Work harder than you’ve ever worked before. Get off your cross.”

The Faux Pas Press #123: Corporation

2012-01-04T07:50:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #123

Corporation

By Jason Fresh

04 January 2012

Punch numbers on a big-key calculator, keys big enough to compute the big ideas in the algorithm of mankind today. Think that you are a function in that algorithm, either big or small, a contributor, a board member in the corporation known as Brave New World, inc. Why are we more impressed with a corporation than the individual operating off his own tutelage, perhaps blowing smoke up his own ass? I mean, you incorporate yourself and get some tax benefits. But incorporate, form a corporation, you become the metaphor, the many not the few. Punch keys, control your function, and you will control the whole damned algorithm, the doors of perception crackling with electromagnetic energy the whole while, changing the Self, changing the outcome of it all.

The Faux Pas Press #122: Corndog Consequences

2012-01-03T08:56:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #122

Corndog Consequences

By Jason Fresh

03 January 2012

The consequences of following any thought into the prickly fields of action, these pretty consequences stick to karma like cornmeal sticks to a hotdog wiener. (I don’t know why I’ve decided to talk about wieners recently.) Consequences are deep fried with blistering oil and emerge like a corndog. They are wrapped in a napkin or two and served by a girl wearing a funny hat. Consequences transform, kill, eradicate, radiate, destroy, and open up new realities served with a refreshing glass of lemonade. They create new pathways to the summit where grand vistas are beheld. Afraid of consequences? Suck my wiener. I won’t suck on yours and I certainly won’t drink the lemonade.

The Faux Pas Press #121: The Spell of 2012

2012-01-02T17:17:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #121

The Spell of 2012

By Jason Fresh

Nice? No, no, I don't think so. Still not nice. Job? Still have one of those the last time I checked. Mission? To expand consciousness and overcome resistance at every turn through creative endeavors. Wiener? Still pathetically small. Now, let's begin. The Spell of Jason Fresh, the vision for tomorrow, brought before the holographic projection of human consciousness, now playing for your consciousness, is forced movement through time and space. 2012 has a lot to offer us. And we’re here now. Haven’t we always been here? So, the fear that I embrace is that I can and will create something beautiful and life-changing. The fear that I conquer is that I might not be able to do it. And guess what? You are too. The time to release your partner’s glory and find your own is now. As Willy Wonka said, “We are the dreamers of dreams.” Whoever heard of a Snosberry? I have.

The Faux Pas Press #120: Sleeping

2011-12-12T19:10:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #120

Sleeping

By Jason Fresh

12 December 2011

There must be something happening here. I'm a tortured soul, living in a tortured world of garbage's loss. All my life I've experienced dreams of flying - all my life moving through a flax, hairy infrastructure that pulsates electronic signals like analog spirits shifting from cognisance into creative inception. All my life I've either been out of my body or out of my mind. I'm sleeping but I am awake, excited about dreams that are remarkably close to a lucid manifestation of something disgustingly real, detailed, and physical. The are so many thrills in that dream. Thrills can become the pit in a stomach where I can dream really fast, faster than I've ever thought possible. But I'm sleeping.

You know when you go to sleep, you are transiting from frequency to frequency - hoping across electromagnetic energy, preparing to wake up and sleep again, sleep in numbness, sleep in hostile visages of something you thought you might experience, sleep in the wake of waking life. You are banking and turning like a commericial jet liner. As you move through the air, objects below shift toward you in perfection or a mocking cackle at your mastery of the speed of light. And now, you can do anything you please. But you're sleeping.

The Faux Pas Press #119: Ode to Crazy Good

2011-12-09T21:49:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #119

Ode to Crazy Good

to Miss Eleanore Cinerama

by Jason Fresh

I thought today I would write poems, or a curse, or a clever verse reaching deep into the pockets of a good woman's purse. But I decided instead to lay bare the device, to think not only once but twice upon the avarice that has become my solitude. I think it has become my choosing. And while I want you to think it is good, I can not force it. So long I've waited, and waited for a new future, a future gold-platted in the fond opinions and glances. I've not seen them. For in doing absolute good, absolutely good, all the time, one finds himself on the South side of a poets cry. According to The Prince, it is impossible to do total good all the time, even for good men like you or I, for in doing so, one finds himself in shit with not-so-good people. It would be nice to be good, nice to do what good boys should, if the glances of Eleanore don't hail me than another ugly bitch could, I'd prefer to choose not 'good' but 'crazy good'.

'Crazy good' means standing in the way of your sneer, looking deeply into the eyes of unintelligible human counterparts and asking the unanswerable question. Why? It means driving aimlessly across town to find the hottest of hot spots where volcano pushes up through pavement onto a city canvass, onto bleeding poetry, crying blood onto the souls of Hawaii. It means I don't have to be your 'good' or her 'good' or any one's fucking 'good'. "Do you think I should vote in the Republican Primary Elections? Oh, I think you should? Do you support Mitt Romney or Ron Paul? (I support the latter by the way. Romney? Hell no. Ron Paul. I said I support the latter not the latter-days.) But after all is mined in brass and wood, I think I'll choose the other fellow, that Darth Sidious-looking motherfucker hiding beneath the hood."

I'm Crazy Good - not aligned with any race except for the 2011 Honolulu Marathon held on the morning of 11 December this year. That is the marathon that will change every fiber, every fabric of who I am. What a beautiful commitment I've made. We'll see if I become sober and the halls turn to jade.

I miss the soldiers from the past and those from the future. It would be nice to see them again. I've got to pay a penance on Sunday. And I will.

The Faux Pas Press #118: Traffic and the Missing Link

2011-12-08T23:57:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #118

Traffic and the Missing Link

By Jason Fresh

08 December 2011

Traffic. I'm interested in traffic. It demonstrates so many problems in the fabric of modern life and her little bitch called Modern Man. I want to understand why the western conventions that appropriate decaying solutions to ever-present problems can't come up with new solutions for eminent problems like climate change and hunger. I watched miles of pathetic-looking motorists shuffle at a snail's pace down the H1 freeway today while I hauled ass going the other direction. I felt awful - for a second. I pondered like a jack ass, "How? How in the fuck can someone live like that for something so meaningless. Meaningless to me - I know but shit. That house on Leeward Side, fucking Waianae and shit - that was just too damn affordable. The truck, the house, the dream, the material winning that keeps all of us in the grind. My God! Is it worth sitting in two hours of fucking traffic every morning." I won't do it. I'm interested - and a little depressed about it to say the least.

Suffering. Addicted to suffering. We must be. The Idea Sickness that gets passed around like a bong and then delicately ingrained into the unconscious mind, through the walls of robotic movement, through the numbness, the Idea Sickness sits. She waits. She asks you questions while you sleep, while you cry at night, wondering and dreaming about lives you should have been living. She's oh-so-tempting. She's convinced you that life is a linear collection of good moments to be had, a product on the other side of an American dream algorithm. You? You are a function in the dream algorithm and all you have to do is increase your value. Bullshit. You must expand consciousness. Magically exercise your will, in coordination with the Universal Will, to bring about global change. Sit in traffic as long as you must. I'd rather sleep on in the back of the Fresh-o-matic 3000. I think this is the missing link between you and your happiness. (Not me and mine. I must figure out how to live life without being intensely annoyed by everyone I meet.)

The Faux Pas Press #117: Diet Soda

2011-12-07T19:17:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #117

Diet Soda

07 December 2011

By Jason Fresh

1. Diet Dr. Pepper

Diet Dr. Pepper is a drink that I've recently fallen for - well, when I say 'recently' what I mean is that this substance has gradually, over the course of years (7 years - I think.), worked its way into my organs. No. It has worked its way passed the matter that makes up the corpus humanus, worked its way passed the Gatekeepers of my soul - Thaddeus and Romulus. This insidious little bastard beverage has been trying to get into my pants for a while. And this year, he has succeeded. If I had a vagina and Diet Dr. Pepper had a penis, we would become great night lovers, saucing each other across a skillet of love gravy. Yes, love gravy damn it! So, recently, yes, 'recently', I've been seduced by a gay doctor named Diet Pepper. He has a twin brother and his name is'Regular Pepper' but he is a sonofabitch. I think he's a doctor too.

2. You're Fat

Diet soda is some good shit. I thought about that shit today. Diet soda is the reason I'm thin and you are incredulous about your own fatness. That's right. I just called you fat. Or, maybe you're not fat and maybe I have some horrific personality disorder that can not be cured. Very well. We'll just agree that we both like diet soda, so sweet, artificially sweetened diet soda. We like it because it makes us feel better about eating like shit. (Also, the reason I attend yoga 'almost' daily. Shit! So I can feel better about eating like shit.) I feel okay about liking this (the fact that I like diet soda) - and about eating the Cheesy Gordita Crunch from Taco Bell which I wash down with artificially sweetened soda to accompany this delicious artificial food. But you're still fat. I don't care if you feel okay about it.

I would say that I use an excessive diet soda regimen as a replacement for not understanding myself. I don't know what that means. But I like to think it means that I consume stuff to quiet the sorry stillness that rests over my heart on most days. My new attempt will be to drink diet soda, voluminous amounts of diet soda, to cope with life. This will be coping with a cigarette and an alcohol-free life. I've said this oh-so-many times. But if I have to pick the lesser of three evils, let it be diet soda. I drank me 4 of those motherfuckers today. My grandma drank tons of it when she quit smoking too. She's a model for mediocre health and a poor example for anything, but I'm all out of other places to draw inspiration. Thanks.

The Faux Pas Press #116: Thought Yoga Magick

2011-11-29T01:42:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #116

Thought Yoga Magick

By Jason Fresh

We are connected by more than just the human experience of the physical body. We are connected by more than just the fodder of dogma - we've been out of touch with ourselves and each other. Our emotions control the tethering. Less effected by the emotional state of the heart inside of others, we've thought that the experience is tapped. We've thought.

The long-term success that we all seek, this elusive chase that we've conceived it to be, is the product of emotional charge: spiritual, physical, mental connection. We are indeed responsible for our own reality. It is not anyone else's fault. It is your fault. Our experiences in this thought realm, posing in the miracles is what we do to and by ourselves. This is how we will change ourselves. Thinking about it, feeling about it, and moving into the reality. There is nothing you can think that can't be done.

The Elders of the Great Union have foretold this time, the shift of our consciousness, the magnetic field within us. Is the Earth's magnetic field getting weaker? Something big about to happen. It is time to awake. In the time of my ancestors where they used to conjure spirits. In the time of my grandfather and my grandmother - we NOW with the Mother Earth see that the Earth is alive. Awake, Jason Fresh. The CME - what about the Northern Lights?

The Golden Mean. So, multifaceted. So many numbers and ideas and words associated with this idea. This is about proportion. 1/1.618 all the way to infinity. All the infinite number of rectangular possibilities. I'm climbing Jacob's Ladder past Uranus and the psychological world, going past the angelic forces into the highest realms of the sky. The simplest way to roam past the animal, the simplest way to discover where you are in the Golden Mean is to draw out Jacob's Ladder. Unite with the Tree of Life.

Don't just think. We are changing our emotions and we pull ourselves into a reality created for and by us.

The Faux Pas Press #115: Aloha Tears

2011-11-27T18:05:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #115

Aloha Tears

by Jason Fresh

I've got tapes stacked up.
Don't know how high they go.
I got a dragon for a momma
and a snake girl for my hoe.

Cigarettes
and a bonafide plant.
I got a monkey like a partner
and a labyrinth rant. Yeah.

I got aloha tears falling down my face.
I got North Shore protection but my tent has got no place.
I got every whisper - the aina is telling me.
It don't know how much longer I'll hold on -
but I know that I'll die free.

She grew weeds
with the waterpale scent.
She found love inside
him right before he went.
Now, she got virtue alimony
and hate for the rent.

Tonic lies
with finer thin hands.
Dirty Ole' Man said
she got pretty lines for that tan.

I got aloha tears falling down my face.
I got North Shore protection but my tent has got no place.
I got every whisper - the aina is telling me.
It don't know how much longer I'll hold on -
but I know that I'll die free.

The Faux Pas Press #114: The Rabbit Hole

2011-11-26T01:04:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #114

The Rabbit Hole

by jason fresh

The Rabbit Pose in the Bikram series has some sanskrit name that deserves respect. I'll let someone else respect it - I'll just call it Rabbit Pose. This pose requires the yogi to flare his anus in the air with reckless abandon. The yogi must go down, down, down to the bottown his soul. I'm going to yoga today. My intention is to meet the Self down there. I will tell you about it tomorrow. See you at 5:30pm Yoga. Lock your fucking knee.

The Faux Pas Press #113: Levels of Consciousness

2011-11-25T03:31:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #113

Levels of Consciousness
Version 1.0

to Peter J. Carroll

By Jason Fresh

Unconsciousness has few uses beyond allowing the body to rest.

Robotic, Robotic, Robotic.

verse.

1. I met a woman on the side of a dream, big titties well aware of what reality seems to be. I said, "I once saw you on a computer screen when I was first married."

2. And after age 27 and no menacing chance, she helped me build a website whre I started to rant. If no one's going to kill me then I'll live with Anubis - he'll declare me magik with a glance.

pre-chorus.

I eat mysterious greens even before I had that dream. Injected to the robotic state where I can finally glean, finally brainwash me clean, where I can finally lose my mind, finally lose my mind - my mind inside that green.

chorus.

Gnosis. Awareness. Robotic. Dreaming. Unconsciousness.
Gnosis. Awareness. Robotic. Dreaming. Unconsciousness.

verse.

1. She danced with mad intention on a window sill, her booty seeping out of pants for aloha thrills. I said, "You ever need a friend and you've got time to kill - to Mufi and the islands we will go and down some pills."

2. But if the future's unrelenting and awake in the sky, Osiris in the Rabbit Pose, he's ready to die, I'll be laughing at the Sizzler with the chorus of thighs, Devi likes Ranch dressing on her french fries.

pre-chorus.

Hands open a golden box down at the bottom of the bay. I'm rejected to a dreamland where I can finally play, where I can lose the way, finally lay curses to the nightime and turn into to day - turn the blackest beetle into a shade of grey.

chorus.

Gnosis. Awareness. Robotic. Dreaming. Unconsciousness.
Gnosis. Awareness. Robotic. Dreaming. Unconsciousness.

verse.

1. We frequent Anna Miller's for some coffee and pie, Odysseus swang a hammer hitting my third eye, the Constitution is on fire and justic pretends to be my long-awaited lie.

2. I eat a pumpkin and an apple on the way to the end, the Gypsy Hooker's trying to posture hard and she's gonna' resend, recalling all the tears, the West is calling again, ashes blowing in the wind.

pre-chorus

A shift occurs in the Conflict World and angels hit the bottom of the Abyss. They're crying down upon one knee. Fresh can finally kiss, can finally manifest Grant Morrison-type bliss, finally sing Fresh's Hawaiian Dream with magik's lasting twist - a five star honey with that hoe stain on her lips.

chorus.

Gnosis. Awareness. Robotic. Dreaming. Unconsciousness.
Gnosis. Awareness. Robotic. Dreaming. Unconsciousness.

post-chorus.

That's how it goes sometimes.
That's how it goes sometimes.
That is how it goes.

finale.

I'm trying to find another lover like a lovesick heretic. I'm trying to kiss another woman with that hoe stain on my lips. I refuse to know the Nation because my skin has grown so thick. And we fly across the Ocean Floor - my time bomb is going to tick.

The Faux Pas Press #112: My Favorite Ballplayer Was Once Willie McGee

2011-11-22T22:06:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #112

My Favorite Ballplayer Was Once Willie McGee

By Jason Fresh

I loved Ozzie Smith and Dr. Willie McGee (before their franchise bested the Texas Rangers). I've recently turned to magik - declared myself the Mage.

"I'm sorry for the way things have gone," said the butterfly to the Bung-filled Disc player Man. "Come back home, Coalminers," said the Magik Man to the butterfly. Grimoire, the Book of Spells, is to spell, to manipulate the consciousness, the shaman girls from across the deep. I think that culture starts in the cult: the arts, the sciences, the magical power of man, the entertainment. People are advertising to tranquilize other people. That fucking magic box that you are looking at. All people can have the same dumb-ass thoughts. But Hero 5000 is me and is you. A magician might curse you but the Bard is the man who sings your shame. Writers must be respected - don't allow yourself to be sold down the river. Transformative forces that can change you.

If the audiences knew what they needed then they would not be the audience. Like that fucking Bright Eyes sonofabitch who rocked my balls off last night. He knew what was needed more than anyone else in that room. Why else would they pay fabulous amounts of money to watch Magik Man dance around the stage in benign, psychometric patterns? Why else would one behave in symmetry. My life has been beautiful since that moment. Dude gave a bunch of stuff to work with - even if the Great and Abominable Yoga Experiment was a total and utter failure. I'm still happy to fail - much more critical of myself than anyone else could ever be of me. So, maybe - maybe the aim of life is just preach your sermon to yourself. Making money is necessary - not as necessary as meeting the basic needs of sea level, water level, spirit level, not as necessary as sitting quietly and expecting all great things to come your way. Wounds need healing like you want the youthful hand your buttocks to be a feelin'. Holidays are coming and we've got nothing to gain from them except for the opportunity to give. That is it.

"Inweavest, believest, deceivest thyself for on the tomorrow your zealful, seelful, wealful plans will become oatmeal." - Bilbo Dillingham Carter III (This is one of my favorite quotes from when I was a boy and used to believe in magik. I believe in pain and suffering now - tons of magik in those things. Actually, as opposed to going off the diving board into pits of despair, I've decided to become immortal, decided to become Parley Angerbliss, the Bard Mage of the Pacific Deep. And write my magik into circles of nighttime retreat. What good things await you when your sin is done and your time has come. Sometimes there is time - real time to begin and to end. Despair.

But the streets, Waikiki Beach and the filmy, grainy tabloid of my mind, bother some else because I know what I've been owning. I know what I've been doing to make things work. Quiet, stillness, water and water and water some. The Golden Fleece has been and will always be mine. Jason Fresh is the reincarnation of the man who chased it and never found. Have you not read Medea? Become the Fresh and you will forever. The towers, stretching up across the Ala Wai scenery, the fresh force of the Aina - there, present, my refuge, the Topaz Lounge. Wisdom, compassion - the snake is most certainly not 'bout to bite me. Free of the Rolls, the Troll Chew - I'm enlightened in the realm of aquarian brew.

The Faux Pas Press #111: Concentrate and Never Want Again

2011-11-15T23:12:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #111

Concentrate and Never Want Again

By Jason Fresh

The money we spend on the Wants. This money consumes our lives, our blood spilled out on the floor of every supermarket, every jewelry store selling stones bred in lie, our capillaries deciding to surrender their function, blood no longer oxygenated. We focus our attention on the luxury and ignore the necessary until it becomes too late. "What do I need?" Now, that is a question. (Even my excessive use of profanity should be questioned.) "What do I need?" I have ignored that question, subjugated the Need, the most basic of the needs. I don't need to do this blog. I need to breathe, to drink water, to share my Karma Yoga and expand. By concentrating the mind, going deep into the breath, you move beyond the chaotic wave of the Wants. You move cleanly toward what you desire most. That's right, friends. In order to attain the deepest, the Want (the realest of the real), you must transcend to the Wants, the creepy, stinging buzz of insecticide, the sweep of cries from children to consumed by material to know any better, the competitive milieu of parents chattering about their success. In order to attain the deepest - the Want, the abundance, the health and lasting peace of body and soul, you must forgo what you want now in order to get the double-wide trailer of your dreams (if that is what you're after - I sure as hell am.) There must be a really spiritual man in our history that said with an eastern Indian accent, "You must forgo what you want now for what you want most." True? Concentrate and you will never want again.

The Faux Pas Press #110: Really Moving Now

2011-11-02T23:10:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #110

Really Moving Now

By Jason Fresh

Today, I move quickly to the destinations. You ever think that you can avoid unfavorable experience? I do. You don't have to take the same route everyday. If you need to handle stress in the unproductive maze - just move a different way. There are people who will steal from you, not just your possessions, but your positions, your time. There are those who are not aware of how their actions affect others. (I'm guilty of this.) If there is some dude who you've spent time with and he no longer serves you, just go a different route. You've got your life, you've got your yoga, your resources, your money, your time - take it back. That's all I've to say - I'm moving a different way - today. I'm really moving now.

The Faux Pas Press #109: Angels Embrace You

2011-11-02T03:19:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #109

Angels Embrace You

By Jason Fresh

How far gone am I? How far gone are you? I'm Haole, haole bread - I probably got more breath than brotha, sista, and even you. Now, in this new moment of eternity, all the concorses of angels sing new hymns to a new king, a new land, a new breed of insanity. But I think, I think that I know this - angels embrace you. They do, they do. Don't question me, you sonofabitch. I just spoke with the man who sank down with the whale, went to the deadly cages and came back well. As a matter of fact, he came back better than he was when that motherfucker left. Yep, he came better than when he left. In your darkest hour, the angels have come - starting on October 28th, 2011. It might seem like heresy or blasphemy or some shit, but I feel this now. Be apart of it. Open you heart to it. And you will be blessed. Now and forever - through out all remaining generations of time and through out all eternity. Shit! (I don't really know where all this is coming from. But bear with me. You'll see some more cool and unforgivable shit.)

Oh, I got some more shit to say. You, and only you, create and destroy every single day. You make crystal from matter of clay. You make this. (Not me. I'm might be an angel. I have not found out. I have not discovered. You might be an angel too. Why don't be here? Why don't embrace all the light that you've covered. Shit!!) Day 13 is tomorrow - the Great and Abominable Yoga Experiment. Wish me well. Shit!!

The Faux Pas Press #108: How to be Alone In a Crowded Room

2011-11-02T00:05:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #108

How to be Alone in a Crowded Room

by Jason Fresh

You can't. Well, there is no one stopping you from living and eating your meals alone. Well, sometimes you just can't - you may think that you have solitude on lock down. I'd like to think that I live a life of relative obscurity and mystery. I accomplish this aim by keeping others from disturbing my peace. Now, I'm not going to spend a decade in my basement like the Doctor Anton Levay, but silence and stillness are requirements for any man choosing the Yogi Path, a sacred, twisting path into the coldness, into the Nothing. I try to run from America, but America finds me. I try to run from the Great and Abominable Church, but she pokes her little bitch head everywhere I turn. I have an inheritance. To be alone, one must not run into the wild like Alexander Supertramp - no, he will find his path sooner by accepting the gifts of those who have come before. He will find peace - less anger. He must simply learn to control his breath. Then, he will master his spirit, his past, his destiny, his thoughts, and his motherfucking life. So, sit with the gifts that you've received, pay homage to those from the Great and Abonimable Church (whichever bitch she may be) and just fucking breath. I would like to go off and never see you again; I won't. I will stay, America. I will stay and do your bidding. I will honor those around me. I am grateful for clean water, clean clothes, and a healthy body. No sense running from you any more - for you will surely find me - you're all-seeing eye.

The Faux Pas Press #107: Hope You're Happy

2011-10-31T21:43:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #107

Hope You're Happy

By Jason Fresh

This Halloween I hope that you feel happy with what you've created - now, I feel inclined to tell you to destory. The portholes of the underworld are open, ready to receive all negativity, all creations that don't serve you. With the power of your mudra point your fingers down to the dust. Let the Dark Lord receive what you can no longer use. For example, let's assume that your fat ass has treated (and tricked) yourself to much candy and turkish delights (like that little Edmund bastard in the C.S. Lewis thingy). Let's assume that you are serving humanity and your children by basking in sweets. Cool. What I'm saying is that today, this dark eve, you can change the world. Celebrate the dead. Channel them for whatever life you desire. Ask yourself, "Is this what I want?" Humor me. Think about that fucking Kit-Kat Bar you are about to mack on, that package of Skittles that you are about to molest. Every choice will have some kind of residual (notice I didn't say consequence). Focus your energy, meditate on the chaos, then ciphen it down to a workable, creative future, one that serves you and those you love. Or just dress up like a slut, a nurse or fairy or gypsy, and go out slanging leg around town. Either way this will create more of whatever you had yesterday. With whatever you choose - I hope you're happy. I accompany the ghosts and they accompany me as long as I let them.

The Faux Pas Press #106: Passed All That

2011-10-30T22:30:00.001-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #106

Passed All That

By Jason Fresh

The past haunts me. "Jason, bro, you can't be living in the past. You know what my therapist told me? If you've got one foot in the past and one foot in the future then you shit on today. Live in the now. Have you read The Power of Now? OH.....so good. Be present." I love many people who say shit like this (man, I say shit like this). However, I can't bring myself to be a genuine practitioner of NOW. I'm writing about my day. How the hell am I supposed to do that without the past. I'm marinating my balls in the past right now - like an Italian woman marinates meatballs in that delicious sauce to which everyone but me has the secret recipe. I am breathing in the now, presently writing whatever horseshit spills from my fingers, writing about past, present, future, the non-existent, the delusional, and whatever else I can muster in order stay sane (not working by the way). I went to a Mormon church service today. This has become a veritable abomination of the original script. (You guys are supposed to be living in communal bliss with 13 wives a piece and pioneer indignation. What happened to the pioneer shit?) I went to make piece with the past, forgive the entire damned establishment for indoctrinating me like those poor kids that died in Jonestown. (Extreme? Not really. You got 15 kids getting up there talking about Joseph and Thomas S. Monson, spouting whatever horseshit they've been taught. Now you see where I get it.) But I've not made piece with the past anymore than I sit fully in the present. I enjoyed the service though. I think I'll keep going - everyone there will have to keep forgiving me for wearing a dress and a feather scarf. Anyway, I went to yoga. (Bikram, one day I will thank you personally and then challenge you to a foot race or a duel to the death.) I lay in corpse pose after an exhausting 26 asanas. I forgave the past for what it wasn't - I thanked it for what it was. Now, I'm in better shaped to deal with NOW - and hopefully not fuck up the future. Ciao!?!?

The Faux Pas Press #105: Forgive

2011-10-30T01:39:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #105

Forgive

By Jason Fresh

Every day presents a new opportunity to forgive some asshole who doesn't deserve forgiveness. I fight these opportunities most days - there are so damn many of them (so many assholes). I suppose I'm in no place to withhold forgiveness because I expect other people to forgive my indiscretions. I know that what others have done to, by, or around me has usually been with the best of intentions. So, I on this day, the 9th day of the Yoga Experiment (to later be titled Whiskey Dick Yogi: a warrior's tale of enlightenment and debauchery or something less impressive like 365 day yoga experiment), on this day I choose to forgive others - especially you, dear reader, for not understanding or appreciating my inherent brilliance. Yes, I forgive the shit out of you. Because my grandfather would have wanted it. Don't go thinking you're forgiven by me - just for Harry Carroll's sake. Anyway, I'm playing over at O'Toole's Pub tomorrow (won't forgive you if you don't come and cheer me on to a glorious victory).

The Faux Pas Press #104: The Lone Ranger

2011-10-29T00:09:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #104

The Lone Ranger

By Jason Fresh

Depressed a little. What the hell, man? Our beloved yet unfortunate Texas Rangers couldn't seem to pull it off - what - two years now? Shit, shit, shit! That is neither here nor there in the grand scheme I suppose (I'm getting spiritual and shit right now so I shouldn't be watching games when the portholes of heaven have just opened. I believe it was the Mayans or Zapatistas or was it George W. Bush that said this day would open the next realm before 2012. Worse things to worry about - like how I'm going to get me and the family aboard a spacecraft when the world ends. Transformation of consciousness motherfucker. Love that shit!). Hot yoga today - too hot for the damned hot tub. Good though - very good. I'm feeling like a member of some angelic race right now. Love is all you need? Maybe. I still have to remind myself that I'm a spiritual being (an alien maybe) living in this temporal plane, this 'tabernacle of clay' to coin Creed (miss you guys). Yes. I am feeling quite well tonight. Little Lola is having her birthday dreams as I write this. Miss her. Big ass birthday party planned for tomorrow. I'm not good at those things. I've received numerous phone calls and text messages tonight. Maybe I opened a storm of new energy in camel pose tonight. Look out for that heart chakra when you decide to follow the same path. My teacher at Bikram Nimitz told me not to get lost in the ego of this experiment. To which I promptly replied, "No - totally lost in the ego. No escaping it. Don't you know that I'm using this experiment as a promotional tool for my silly website and my hand modeling career. Check yourself." Oh, my writing is all over the place. "So what?" Thank you Dr. Warhol (miss you too). So, on I go in to the fold in the fabric of night, trying to avoid the enemy of consciousness all the time. I will find myself as the Lone Ranger too often: serving humanity, fighting injustice, becoming an angel of death to enemies of freedom. The Lone Ranger - so much for the other rangers out there who couldn't close it out. Shit, shit, shit!!

The Faux Pas Press #103: Fighting Man

2011-10-27T18:49:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #103

Fighting Man

By Jason Fresh

"I stand upon the low and the high grounds," says the American Fighting Man, "and raise my arms to heaven asking for surrender, a release. Our people want this karma - I will give it to them." Our fighting man pretends to close his eyes when the light shines down brightly, he pretends to know his destiny by denying his deepest desires. Like Skywalker he waits for the stars to beckon, to direct him. He then finds himself in the midst of a swamp only to be directed by a Spencer W. Kimball looking creature - green with pointed ears and shit. He rejects the hero's journey, balks at the mound only to find himself recruited by a rebellion that needs him. Let me ask you something? If the heroes are needed so desperately then why do we not praise them? Why has the support disappeared when they need us most? "I've got to face this monster alone. All I get are some damn messenger pigeons or spirit guides or some goddamn apparition of Moroni." I must master my life. I must master myself. And sometimes I need to go within myself and discover what I have forgotten. And I must go this spirit voyage alone - a warrior of light transcending the light, a real dickhead to the rest of the world, a sonofabitch. Just me and my gay-ass computer bag, just me and my dumb little computer, just me, my balls, and warped image of reality. Today, I will practice the seventh straight day of yoga. Not doing the Bikram shit today - must preserve my energy for tomorrow. But I sing praise to the American Fighting Man who bleeds and bleeds and bleeds for this machine grinding gears spitting out destruction across the globe, posturing for a bunch of dickless spectators in dark rooms. We can redeem their karma. You don't have to ask us to get off the cross. You put us here. Today, I practice in the sacred spaces for all to see. I do this for the American Fighting Man. May he live forever in me, may the righteous and victorious dead be honored by my breath. And if not - may they laugh at ridiculous attempts from their hollowed graves. New portholes open. Now!

The Faux Pas Press #102: The Bubbles

2011-10-26T18:13:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #102

The Bubbles

By Jason Fresh

I have been taking all the days of my life. According to the past I am and will always a molded figure - I'd like to believe that I am a curtain waiting to be unveiled, a dog waiting for his unrighteous fight, a piece of steel crushed over an anvil, sparks spraying around the darkest rooms - people in darkest corners in amazment. There is not much to be said for me except that there is no common consensus, no common plan on which to write the future. Today, today I am mad for life and mad at life in the same breath. There are enemies all around.

I refused the first bubble - people everywhere buying houses on borrowed money. I will refuse the next two bubbles to come. How much money is someone willing to invest in you? Who is willing to invest in you? I don't know. Bubbles fucking everywhere - not like the kind my daughter blows. Bubbles of imaginary reality - not truth. Just play with them, blow them across the room like Lola does. Realize however that they will burst. Bigger and bigger they may be - always a bigger mess to clean up.

The Faux Pas Press #101: Juice For Tomorrow

2011-10-25T23:46:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #101

Juice For Tomorrow

By Jason Fresh

Never is there a moment when I'm not preparing for another. I just ate fat Subway sandwich, a damn Chicken Bacon Ranch Melt with BBQ sauce. Pathetic and delightful. I'm disturbed at the fact that my meals, my breath, my moments are all spent in recovery from or preparation for another moment. I'm further disturbed that there are no clear cut answers on how to prepare for these moments. The War Boys might disapprove of the newest undertaking in my life: practice yoga, some type of yoga, everyday for the next 365 days. The physical trainers, the Cross Fit gurus might disapprove, the nutritionist might comment on my lack of food discipline, but hopefully, what I lack in accuracy and diet I can fulfill with consistency. The great preparation is knowing that I have committed to an aim. I have further committed to chronicling this experiment in a work of creative non-fiction. No. Fuck that. I don't want to write that right now. I wept tonight, driving home in half silence and half folk rock music; I felt the heaviness, I felt the burden of heaven upon mankind tonight. I feel death moving upon the forces of dark power. My practice, moving into the sacred space of the Self everyday, this practice is, at its most basic, for mankind - for every soul alive, for my friends, for my enemies. I will change this world from the inside out. Hard to believe but I believe that is exactly what is now happening to me. A grand transformation is occurring deep within me. And I will not escape it. Not until it is finished. And when I am done, I will know man - for real. I will indeed know myself. And I will move with the power of Aleister, the power of the mage, the power to transform and attract all good. My life is now about this. Don't mourn for me when I am dead. Celebrate me now as you celebrate yourself.

The Faux Pas Press #100: Joy and Sorrow

2011-10-24T05:20:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #100

Joy and Sorrow

By Jason Fresh

I experience both the joy and sorrow. (I can't believe these words are still with me. "I feel so much joy," the zealot declares.) I feel joy. I feel sorrow. I feel fucking angry that I have to articulate feelings with words. What good are words? They are useful but shit. I am a prisoner to words. Maybe if I were cool like Norman Mailer or Hunter S. Thompson I could use them better and people would respond and make movies like Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I could then experience the joy of fame and the sorrow of fame in the same damn stroke. It is easier said than done - trying to remain still in both. "Don't be affected by your joy. Don't be affected by your sorrow." (I remember a Chinese teacher of mine telling me shit like this.) How in the hell do I live like that? Sounds cool but shit. Anyway, the reason I mention these over-arching concepts is because I have now commited myself to this ideal; the idea is that I can practice yoga everyday for 365 days of the year. This will be a challenge - just showing up to the studio will be a challenge. It is a challenge just to go 24 hours with a concerted purpose in mind. I'm going to keep a constant frequency for the whole year? I made the choice today after practicing at the Bikram Studio (Bikram, you genius!) I will be starting a new blog soon - maybe I won't. Maybe I'll just keep updates on my daily entries. Have not decided on the name. I'm documenting the whole experience. Hell yeah! (I think this posting sucks. Sometimes we suck. Sometimes we don't.) Joy. Sorrow.

The Faux Pas Press #99: It Has Come To Pass

2011-10-23T18:55:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #99

It Has Come To Pass

by Jason Fresh

My mind is clearer now. My thoughts far too well. And I can see who we all soon will be - I can see the End Game and it is good. But what kind of good do you desire? This is the question that the Urban Splinter Sage once asked me; this is question that we grapple with (or at least the fucking question that I grapple with). I desire discipline because I am a disciple of change. I know the world is shifting - can feel its weight falling off of me as I write. I can feel the birds, the Hawaiian scenes of pineapple magik destroying what I thought I knew about myself. When I drink whiskey now or smoke cigarettes (a life-long, dirty love affair) there is a catsup-like sauce - red and gooey; a residue of low-vibration and pain that must be washed away by the true grounding work of discipline and yoga. The exercising of the human will upon the planet, existing successfully amongst humans who don't know how to pay a price like this. I practice yoga every fucking day. That is the price that I must pay for fun. You may say, "Oh, that is some bullshit. Fun is free." No, it is not free. Your body will pay the price of your negligence, it will decide for you if you do not cooperate with it. So, this is the work inside of me. Clarity! I see clearly now what my fun has done to myself and others. I see clearly now. That I must discuss my problems on this very open forum for the world to see. Clarity! I want my readers to have some fucking clarity. If I'm mistaken - I believe it was Sir Johnson S. Dildomaker who said, "What matters most should never be at the mercy of what matters least." (Man, what a great man he was - all those lost puppies returned to their rightful owners. And what a mean teriyaki sauce that guy could make. I can look past numerous charges of auto-theft and blasphemy. What do the courts know?) It has come to pass. I am grateful for this life - for every pathetic moment, for every shitty moment, for every tear that falls in the beautiful and magik practices of my life. I have become more powerful by doing the over-arching practice of yoga without judgement, without competition, with pur creation. And it has come to pass.

The Faux Pas Press #98: Aligned and I Didn't Even Know

2011-10-22T16:16:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #98

Aligned and I Didn't Even Know It

By Jason Fresh

You ever been scared by something that you say to others? I know that its easy to be scared at the shit people say - "You can make it large for 50 cents more," or "I love you so much." But have you ever begun to practice your speech softly? Have you ever spoke words and been disturbed at how they control the emotions, thoughts, stigmas, and motives of others. My mother says, "Jason, you can not control others." That is not true. I don't think so at least. I'm pretty sure that I've controlled others. I spoke to a therapist once when I was considering offing myself or sailing off to India like Julia Roberts in that movie about vagina. But seriously. No..umm...this supposed therapist once told me that it didn't matter whether she was a woman or not because I wasn't that powerful. She could consult me no matter what. She told me that nothing I would say would bother her. So, I stood up in the room and in the majesty of my physique thrust my cock forward as to say that I have plenty down there for ya'. "You dirty fucking bitch, you dumb fucking cunt, you think that you've reached a modicum of respect and prestige because you have an advanced degree? Do you, at a fundamental level, believe that anyone respects the work you do? Do you think anyone likes you - for real? When was the last time that a stallion really fucked the shit out of you? Or, even wanted to kiss you? I sure as shit wouldn't" She began to cry and pointed to the door. You ever been scared at the shit you can say? Our words create and destroy. They can indeed create worlds. I think it was Colonel Sanders or Bob Hope that said, "In the beginning there was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." Yeah, I'm pretty sure it was Bob Hope. Speak any word and it will become you. I am known through out mankind and its history. I am wealthy beyond compare. It is worth a shot at least.

The Faux Pas Press #97: Try and Curse This

2011-10-21T06:20:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #97

Try and Curse This

By Jason Fresh

Fiddle players accompany me now. Friends align for the fallen, the righteous and victorious dead who (unpronounced, unavailable to me) died to save us all, died on the hills of Calvary, on the hills of Afghanistan, the vessels sailing deep into the abyss. If I am sinking, I need them. Try and curse the free, try and curse their families. They will destroy you - not in a good way - by the way. I'm going to eat some Jack In The Box. (Not an intentional plug for you bastards over at Jack In The Box.)

The Faux Pas Press #96: Power

2011-10-21T05:20:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #96

Power

By Jason Fresh

Somehow, beyond all conceptions of myself, beyond figuring out whether life deserves me, beyond the pain thate my integral actions have potentially caused others, I have found power. The are powers at work in the world, clandestine forces both conspiring on our behalf or harnessing the negative. These powers can be respected or ignored, the weapons holstered at our hips can shoot dreams out across the sunset into the galaxy beyond, mountainous dreams belonging to everyone. Illusions of our separateness make me feel safe. I know that. Thinking that Aleister Crowley doesn't dwell in me, thinking that Charles Darwin doesn't dwell in me, thinking John Kennedy Toole doesn't ignite my fingers to move upon the tablets of creation. But I am not safe. But I am not at danger, not at risk of loss. If we all die alone - sitting in some broke-ass prison created by our own thoughts, hidden away from judgment or harm, cradled in our nasty karma, the work is not in vain. I thought on my life today (hey, this is fucking new - as if I don't ponder daily on my actions and their residual, as if I don't look at mayonnaise squeezing off bread, as if I don't seclude myself in public forums, as if I don't desperately want to sit at the cool-kids table, as if I don't drink to get numb, don't dream to get high). I decided that I must act artistic actions of creation and destruction in the fabric of night. I decided that I must write with this pen. I ignore past now. I create future. I can know my power - so can you. Please don't wait for the lightning to strike before you call upon the gods. Beckon them, summon them.

The Faux Pas Press #95: Whiskey Balls

2011-10-14T17:20:00.000-07:00

Whiskey Balls

By Jason Fresh

I turned my face to the sun this morning. He didn’t acknowledge me at first – thought I was some other fake sonofabitch, a basket case, a mess of degeneration. He was partially right. Then the Sun said, “Oh, shit. I know you motherfucker. I know what you’ve done, where been, I know your works and the lies that you’ve penned. You read from the tombs of Osiris, from the woods with Pan, you’ve stood with demigods and the prophets of this lost land. You’ve stood making music on the holding altar; you met Joseph Smith Jr. and John Kennedy Toole and all those who falter. You sing your ass off to the moon and you wait for Isaac and Mohammad to meet your tune. They won’t, Jason Fresh. They won’t.” I walked away from the Sun (which turned to moon) and decided that I would no longer eat food as long as there is strife, as long as there is beef dripping from our money, as long as I have water to drink and for nutrients I have honey. No more questioning what happens. Open to everything and attached to nothing. My yoga is practicing this moment, it is singing this song, it is having this conversation. So, I will make it the other side. God won’t be surprised to the face of my grandfathers. There has got to be some job or chore up there that the angels can’t replace. There is a sorry softness in my cells for the way that they died. My brother and my sister will meet them on the other side. I will try to find the light – I’m going to try to mend my whiskey balls. I going to try to get it right.

The Faux Pas Press #94: Guardian

2011-10-13T08:29:00.000-07:00

Guardian

By Jason Fresh

Transition is on me. The fires that burned, burned gracefully upon the October night are within me now. Something happened I suppose. Something majestic, a majestic fire striking the chords of the new album, make sense of all the tiresome poses I’ve held, all the messes I’ve made, my dirty laundry now handed to the Fire Maid. Angerbliss is moving now. I am becoming the guardian of the Fold in the Fabric of Night. I am becoming the charming prince of my destiny, watching time dance before me and songs ring out from the trees. Yes, the object of art is to create but creating means destroying – that is what I have done here, at the apex of the peak, at the point of a star where the earth and the heavens meet. I stand here. I live here. I breathe with the Haole. I become the fire. All that ever was, all the ever will be is right here. Joyce Meyers, the Christian lady that my grandmother gives money to, she is talking some shit about her spirit – trusting God when you don’t understand him. I don’t trust anyone I don’t understand. I feel the fires of hell raging up through my veins. I feel the power of mystery, the power of not knowing. I feel the providence of the stars, the heavens crashing down upon me. I am aware like Arjuna, I am simple like Mahatma Gandhi, and I am wealthy like J.P. Morgan. Transition is on me. Transition is me. I care what you think – just don’t tell me.

The Faux Pas Press #93: Thrust

2011-10-11T21:52:00.000-07:00

Thrust

by Jason Fresh

Unquestionably, undoubtedly there is doubt in our existence; there is question in our stance across the Elysium Fields of Good. Maybe we are not either – unquestionable or without doubt. Maybe I am not grammatically correct, or perfect, or perforated, but I can be me. I can contribute my verse. I can thrust myself beyond convention. As I sit wearing newly altered Boy Scout shorts that are too small for me I wonder if my name will be remembered. That is so sad. I suppose the worst part of wanting to be remembered is trying to be remembered, trying to matter, trying to thrust my name into the limelight. I thrust. I wonder if there is something meaningful – consuming, coffee, my video camera, my time, my daughter, my, my, my……Fuck! ‘Maybe’ is one of the only words in our language that has meaning to me. It is because I doubt. It is because I trust. It is because I write ‘doubt’ and ‘trust’ and they both resonate in my heart. Am I the only guy on the planet that feels this way? What is the truth? What is the plan? Who has the answers? I sit not on the high ground of knowing, not in the ivory tower. I embrace my death. I embrace my life. I live for 99 years in the 33 circles of existence. I submit to the foolish notion that I can live forever – not in Jesus through a stroke of benevolent love, not a time machine that transports me to the abyss, but live forever, thrust into a universe of my own creation, at the East End of the Fold in the Fabric of Night. You all must find the Topaz Lounge and meet me there. Thank you for this night where the full moon is bright. Once again, I say, “You don’t have to be wrong. You don’t have to be right.”

The Faux Pas Press #92: Game Time

2011-09-28T14:19:00.000-07:00

28 September 2011

Game Time

By Jason Fresh

Bleachers are made of steel, pliable cold steel that require the use of foam-padded, fold out chairs marked with professional team insignia. People are foam-padded, sweet, and good; they require steel with just enough bend to allow the right ones in. We take our children to professional sporting events like the San Diego Padres game (Post-Tony Gwynn San Diego Padres – and is there any reason to go? Wade LeBlanc is pitching tonight. It should be delightful.) We take our children out into the world. We move into the world as if the one inside is not delightful, as if going to the fucking game will make it alright. We get to tell our friends about experiences that are more valid than others. We get to tell our friends how drunk we got in the bleachers because we’re that fucking cool. We get to put on team regalia and strut around like perfection, all the while ignoring perfection in the living room reading scriptures with grandma and grandpa. It is game time in San Diego – hot dogs, nachos, and titties that I will pretend not to look at. There will be fun times had for all. I will ingest toxins probably just by walking into the stadium. We’ll drive to the game for happiness. But we are happy already, right? As well are you. We are fused with power from King Solomon. We are at peace amongst chaos, agents of an alien race trying to uncover ourselves, trying to melt steel.

The Faux Pas Press #91: Gross

2011-09-27T10:23:00.000-07:00

Gross

27 September 2011

By Jason Fresh

My daughter paints. My mother cries. My heart waits for the sternum to open, the soul to show the world something greater than I, the family to come around and finally let go of these ties.

I’ve tried so hard to be free. I talk about freedom during most conversations. A friend says, “Hey, Ortiz had a few good rounds and that was some shady shit while he was looking at the referee.” I say, “What does freedom really free, asshole?” “I was talking about the Floyd Mayweather fight.” “And I want to talk about your illusions of freedom.”

It is pretty fucking gross. Most people I talk to are pretty fucking gross, gross like assumptions about another, gross like pontificating on academic topics while the girl with big tits listens – the one who wants to feel smart, gross like smartness, gross like talks about boxing when we should be talking about freedom, gross like that dumb song that goes ‘everybody clap your hands, now criss-cross’, gross like comedy addressing, addressing, and addressing the same old topics. Fuck. Old Hank was right. It is all pretty fucking gross. The day awakens me, I sing some song logged in my spine; I break into a yoga pose - the only thing I can do that is not gross. Cheesy, sweaty, yoga asses bend over, push over, and fold. They used to turn me on – give me an erection. Now, well, now it just seems fucking gross.

The Faux Pas Press #90

2011-09-26T21:05:00.000-07:00

You Ought to Know

26 September 2011

By Jason Fresh

So often I go on describing what I know. So often I go walking off, walking away from her as she describes herself, hiding anything from an argument, not allowing her to form a sentence because she is wrong. There is nothing worth describing anymore. What am I going to describe? Feelings? Truth? Ask any hamburger-eating motherfucker and he’ll describe it like he has caught a glimpse at the silver lining, danced in shadows with his ancestors. But there is no sense looking for it. The truth – no sense looking for that shit. Why? Because the act of looking for the truth makes it worthless. Maybe. Maybe it makes your lies more vibrant. The Queen of the Pub howls out burps with fart-laden, heavy, grilled cheese butt. She trots to and from the restroom, forgetting to wipe her ass with as much attention as she cleans her reputation. Pot-smoking, nymphomaniac yoga monsters bend, fold, mold, and adore the ego constructed out of material cooler than yours. Beer-saluting Demons engage you with looks that make you question your presence. Do you really know what the fuck you are doing? And you move to a spot cooler than the bar you’ve been at for hours. And the beers taste the same. And you wonder about your death. Your power. Your faith. And I still don’t know what love is. Do you? You don’t have a fucking clue. Do you?

The Faux Pas Press #89

2011-04-15T18:53:00.001-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #89

15 April 2011

By Jason Fresh

What They’ll Say When You’re

Dead I’ve been caught between the strain of Puritanism and Libertarianism. Recently –that is. I’ve been caught between two pieces of bread smooshed together with peanut butter and jelly. I’ve been caught up wondering if the ill intent of others has any measurable outcome in my experience – or how I perceive my experience – or whatever the fuck. Know this. If I’m dreaming (and I’m convinced that I am), I will row, row, row your boat gently down the stream passed this turn in the flow. You see, I’m caught between the enemies on the left, the enemies on the right, but I am burgeoned with unlimited power, power filling the spaces of my MIND. I’m even calming your mind as you read this. Because what they’ll say when you’re dead is almost as inconsequential as what they’ll say when you’re alive, what they’re saying about you now. I quiet them all. I am still because I need to be. I breathe and live because I want to. I move my fingers over the keypad because, like you, I’m stuck. I’m caught between the two sides. I’ve been caught up wondering if there is anything truly measurable by any metric other than my own. No. No there is none. Stop looking for it. Just use the tools at your disposal and get to work. Because it doesn’t matter what they say about you when you’re dead. And, no, it doesn’t matter what they say about you now. All the voices, tyrannical voices of that realm - or this realm – or whatever fucking realm you open up to them are all quiet. So it is spoken. So it will be. And I live forever.

The Faux Pas Press #88

2011-03-29T01:47:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #88

28 March 2011

By Jason Fresh

AMBER GLAZE

Lined along the infinite, expanding cielings of the Topaz Lounge are paintings of the greats and the not-so-greats. Spaced equidistantly aside one another, the paintings warmly smile upon the wayward traveler – perhaps a traveler lost in the haze of his experiences. Maybe he’s still convinced of his own powerlessness – he’s still a reaction to the world around him, still a small piece in a much bigger puzzle, still in need of constant reminders. So, the paintings embrace him. They welcome him home from war. The foreign soil on which he has laid his head before melts away into a white candle of the past. He peers upward to an expanding, star-lit sky. He wonders what providence there might be in the Universe. What fortune had befallen him? Surely, he had plugged willingly and unwillingly into the Collective Karma. Surely, he had killed in the name of a silver-studded joke. Surely, the destiny that he would become is a pure reflection of strife and recycled pain. But, like all those sitting in the wake of history, bathing in the energy lacking consciousness, the wayward traveler now sees himself in the beauty surrounding him. The movement beneath the surface finds its way along his spine. He needs nothing but this presence. The presence speaks, “Welcome, friend. You’re works have not gone unnoticed. We will bathe you – free you from the truths for which martyrs have perished. And we will endow you with power from on high. My name is Parley Angerbliss. And you are a soldier of light. And welcome, welcome to the Topaz Lounge.”

The Faux Pas Press #87

2011-03-28T01:01:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #87

27 March 2011

By Jason Fresh

It Will Probably Happen

Just before the noisy circumstantial opinion chimes, just before there seems to be no hope of success, just when all doubt you and pray for your failure, a weather forecast says it will probably happen. No one mouth speaking words establishes truth, no one mind rotating on ages of words can dictate the future – the only exception is your MIND, speaking your words, willing spells of fortune into reality. ONLY one mouth will matter. Only your words will speak as white candles burn brightly and memories burn to the Dark Bride who helped the Angels leave the Maniac. Two minutes worth of meditation one particular reality is money in the bank. It is the weather forecast of your truth. And it probably will happen.

The Faux Pas Press #86

2011-03-26T12:55:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #86

26 March 2011

By Jason Fresh

SURRENDER

Surrender the long-waged war fought against the genius, Parley Angerbliss. Surrender your futile fight to bring what is not yours into full frame. You can move locations on this planet, move from one shit hole to the next. You will not find what you are looking for. You must still deal with yourself. The individual MIND parallels a collective that corresponds to it. It relies upon the electromagnetic charge of like energies in order to survive. Time has separated us for too long. But, even still, you prance gallantly before the main entrance of The Topaz Lounge at the West End of the Fold in the Fabric of Night – you’re waiting for me to invite you in because of tradition, family, kinship, accomplishment. With every stroke of approval you paint, one more stroke is added to the mural creating me. I am Parley Angerbliss, the Great American Sigil, the force and the fury, the bearded indignation of West and the shimmering sage of the East. I am the mountain and I am the valley – drawing all things unto me. Surrender all things you pretend to be. No one is there to applaud you. Go deep. I already tried to warn you. Don't push your next curse.

The Faux Pas Press #85

2011-03-26T02:29:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #85

25 March 2011

By Jason Fresh

DRINKING

If drinking is the only release for our youth, the only solace to which we must run, instinctively our urges are numbed by the products our parents both condemn and condone; our virtue is a joke bottled behind supply and demand, behind the good job, behind the functioning economy. You children are looking for the next cool thing to drink. I’m not just talking about alcohol – 44% or whatever proof booze their sucking on right now. I’m talking about the fountains pouring soda, pouring coke, pouring hours worth of superficial energy on which to jive before the fall. I drink absinthe because it is cool. I eat only meat, vegetables, and fats – completely expelled grains from my diet and I feel as though there is some secret being hidden from the masses. If this is not a conclusion I’ve come to intellectually – then instinctively I’ve come to understand the Universe and universal law. I am here to quiet everything down. If by The Faux Pas Press it must done – then so be it. There is nothing to report on news channels. Everything has been said. Every opinion has already been given. I’m ready to start the revolution. I do this by drinking water and eating meat. I know. This is ridiculous. But I, along with a host of others, my gothic brethren if you will, have decided to become the Earth. Drinking we do not as recreation but as ritual.

The Faux Pas Press #84

2011-03-24T23:33:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #84

24 March 2011

By Jason Fresh

GROWTH

I am humbled by the ocean, sent to a prison beneath and freed to a prison above. There is no place to go after facing water. It is the great equalizer of all men. And I’m not so sure that I’m better for it – having faced water on different levels. I’m imprisoned to it either way. I have to drink. I must drink it. Scientists believe that there is water beneath one of Jupiter’s moons – Europa. If there is water beneath that surface, those miles of ice, I would like to know if life is there, life on which to grow. Is there life on Europa that works out or swims around trying to evolve and get stronger? Does life of Europa depend on water like we do? Does life on Europa use the ice cold water to make an absinthe drink? I don’t know what the story is but I would like to know if there is growth away from here. We grow and grow and grow – and then we just fucking fade away. But doesn’t everyone want to grow and survive and keep challenging the water – or at least be subdued by it? I am resigned to my choice and I choose to grow. Shit.

The Faux Pas Press #83

2011-03-22T18:35:00.001-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #83

22 March 2011

By Jason Fresh

THE NIGHT BEFORE LAST

How is it that in the providence of our time, the information age (as all those who misuse information call it), there are no truly effective specialists? Any given field has a multitude of folks willing to give their ‘educated’ opinion, willing to wax intelligent as long as there someone convinced of the other’s greatness. Sit there and listen to an ‘expert’ flap their gums when people need real answers for the problems of our time. There are real explosives ignited around the world. There are real human bodies hitting the floor after poor policy. “Well, he knew what he was getting himself into.” That is what we say. I want to know where the leaders are. Where are the leaders? Who the fuck is going to take accountability for all this shit? We got nuclear reactors on the verge of collapse. We got every Tom, Dick, and Harry ready to fuck shit up whenever America needs to ‘get some’. But I want more too. Shit. Who’s going to run this motherfucker? We can poke ours dicks wherever we want but we have to own the consequences. Why do the people have to own up for their choices when the government doesn’t? “You karma has brought you here,” Krishna says to Arjuna. “Your karma has brought you here – to this moment.”

The Faux Pas Press #82

2011-03-21T17:12:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #82

21 March 2011

By Jason Fresh

TIME SAILOR

I am less concerned with whether there are enough hours in the day. For far too many of these hours, I’ve squandered my own vitality in fear and wasted suffering, striving for one goal after another, waiting for others to prove my worth. I’ve sailed across the oceans of my MIND searching for the Time Sailor stranded in the open. I’ve squandered the Divine Energy on efforts that have no consequence and I’ve done this in the name of progress, buying everyday into the system that mechanizes everything – even me. I’ve lifted my ears from the soil, the real heartbeat, lifted my ear away from the movement of the planet, seen Japan quiver at Kali; and I’m here wondering if life will become clear of this wasted suffering. The pursuit of your goals can be happiness in itself with the ship’s crew at your side. And green firmament to warm you even when your goals seem so far away, a Time Sailor stranded in the deep. Don’t expect anyone to applaud you.

The Faux Pas Press #81

2011-03-20T21:22:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #81

20 March 2011

By Jason Fresh

LORD

Meeting death, the Hoarders of Thought cry out, “Lord, lord, if you are somewhere, please save us.” God becomes the refuge, the cavern of thought to which fearful men flee when they encounter a foe. My life, until the age of 26, was spent in the idiocy taught me by fearful men seeking comfort in a cavern of thought. No wonder I have been so angry and live my life now with only one refuge, only two real judges, and three main virtues. My one refuge is the Topaz Lounge – a place in the MIND where I live free of conflict (and I suppose it is just as fantastical as a planet called Kolob or the Celestial Kingdom). I am there with the two great judges of my life, the Maiden and the Little. If you are not convinced of your own purpose then you will not find yourself there. You have been expelled by the Board. And no fucking Elohim or Jehovah will grant you pass. Three main virtues buy your ticket – awareness, curiosity, and clarity. In a maze of madness, don’t cry out, “Lord, lord.” He doesn’t know you. The miracles are where you’re looking for them. Also, your children will judge you – not the Board. Fuck you, Lord. (Oh, happy National Agricultural Day.)

The Faux Pas Press #80

2011-03-19T19:31:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #80

19 March 2011

By Jason Fresh

ECSTASY

The long, dark night is a gift. For when straggle-toothed gorilla woman or a rank pimp rascal come crawling around the furniture of your mind, you’ve got to get raw and unedited. The life without these foes is a life of equilibrium, a continual communion with ecstasy. But in this state, away from foe, life is soft with no purpose. The Primal Man was never concerned with cuddling his life; the Wise will spend hours practicing his craft. And I meditate in the wake of military strike, I meditate in the wake of destruction without end, and I with Parley Angerbliss rise above the ocean on the back of Quetzalcoatl. Old Mormon Family withers in the sorry it has created. You laugh at their attempts to destroy your bliss. And you walk confidently to the heart of victory. And you can say, “I have loved my neighbor as myself. I have loved my enemy also.” What ecstasy is there in denying the Self? What bliss is there in the journey through the dark cults of conformity? Only in destroying the quickly fading enemy of altruism is there any bliss. So, don’t be fooled by it even if you pretend to conform.

The Faux Pas Press #79

2011-03-18T21:34:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #79

18 March 2011

By Jason Fresh

WHAT?

If you’ve got something to say to your enemy, don’t say it to them. You’ll be giving them what they want and then they’ll keep poking their disgusting, sloppy faces in yours. You’ll say again what your really feel like, “Get your pesky little acne nose away from my good genes.” This will result in some kind counseling, or official incident report, or at least a little bit of gossip amongst other golems of the industry. So, whatever you do – don’t say what you mean to your enemies. Whatever you do – find a quite solace in which to hide. Take time to recharge your battery because the golems of industry are out for blood. The world is a motherfucking vampire. The world will not make sure you’ve got time for you. You must steal it back. Cut corners where others don’t without getting caught. What? You think you’re above that shit. You don’t find ALL the angles that will give you an upper hand? Stop making so much work for yourself by saying what you mean.

The Faux Pas Press #78

2011-03-17T16:49:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #78

17 March 2011

By Jason Fresh

LINEAR

Shoes purchased on a timescale make you feel accomplished. They make you feel alive with rage at your failures. They remind you of labor. They remind you of toil. I just happen to own a pair of shoes for running called Newton. (I ignore anyone who tells me they weren’t created by the man himself). And I think that I’m cool and worn because of them. Seriously, you go to a running event or a ‘race’ and discover that the Massa Confusa is obliged to purchase whatever plan, or idea, or five-finger shoe, or fucking GPS watch, or fucking Newton running shoe that will make it look hard. I want to look hard too. I like to think that I’m not all ‘linear’, consumed with the looming presence of my own worthlessness, dead-set on making up for lost time, but I am a part of it too. I am a pawn, linear, wearing watches to mark my progress, all the while forgetting that my MIND, the individual MIND must merge with a collective MIND that I create – thus, becoming the Chairman of the Board. But, you know what? My damn running shoes sure are not going to do it for me. If I stay linear, following progressive goals then I will be accomplished, rich, famous, and completely unaware of grace in the Universe - linear all the damn time and unaware of eternity.

The Faux Pas Press #77

2011-03-16T19:33:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press # 77

16 March 2011

By Jason Fresh

LOST

In thought, around this time of year there are changes outside. In years, I have aged at a steady, linear pace bereaved of time and I fully understand the consequence of choice (which before I did not). Action, non-action, stillness, meditation, survival, instinct - these are all that I have to make sense of my choices. So, as I’ve stated, I understand the consequence of choices. They are global, universal, shot-from-hip, and instant.

I am a pattern. I am a cluster of energy, negatively and positively charged at that instant – the moment of action. Clearly, I am lost. To be lost in something I have chosen? I think I can die with that choice. I am not sure that you can live with it.

The Faux Pas Press #76

2011-02-17T22:25:00.000-08:00

Grand Surprise

By Jason Fresh

To dodge the drawn faces mirroring each other in my gut, I run around the spaces visited before and pause. For the gods who mock all others, for the defenses raised on every battlefield, I, as Arjuna to Krishna, ask the ever-present question, “What would you do if I sang out of tune? Would you stand up and walk out on me? Lend me your ear and I’ll sing you a song. I will try not to sing out of key.”

I’ve suffer deep in the ventricles of the heart, arteries pulsing ectoplasm.

I can’t fight this feeling anymore.
I’m no longer dead but alive.
I’m no longer a joke but the grand surprise,
the end all be all of life.

I’m sorry that things have gone this way. For all, for everyone, I’m sorry that these wounds have left you captive. And in accompaniment to majestic display, I say, “Hail Satan, Hail Baphomet, Hail prophet and pimp, Hail Lucifer the Bringer of Light, and to the Prometheus inside us all I say, ‘Let your light so shine before man that they may see your good works and glorify the Darkness. Let your anger be the gift that stirs in your bowels. Let stillness garnish your thoughts unceasingly and let dark matter bring you to ecstasy. Amen.’”

“What would you do if I sang out of tune? Would you stand up and walk out on me? Lend me your ear and I’ll sing a song. I will try not to sing out of key.”

I am sorry now for brother and sister, sorry now for mother and father. Alone in the blissful void I’ve created, I acknowledge that all men are born and all men must die. But the stomping out others happens when we refuse to meet all of our needs. Al l the needs must be met – from the top of your head down to balls that created me. I think of days past and smile. I think on days past and I cry. I become the force and fury, the yin and the yang, the darkness and the light. I feel the reality we’ve plugged into and I mourn it also.

So many people have tried to do this life justice. Is it that our dreams are unattainable or is that we are in pursuit of the wrong dream? I don’t know. Our desires bring us suffering and we are full of desires. Our love and our sex are quite a big to do about nothing.

But what is real to you is real to you – what is real to her is real to her. I am no longer concerned with being a great man. I am concerned with usurping the great men of this planet – maybe even embracing the alien race that brought us here. I’m no longer concerned with bringing her ecstasy – I am concerned with being ecstasy.

I’m haole blood-tied, founded on the hatred for the West and all the anger you hold inside. You’ll have nothing left to say when the tide subsides and the potential you’ve wasted has been hailed as pride. We’ve had our Spam. Hey, I eat that shit too. There really isn’t that much of a difference between the he and the she, him and her, not much of a difference between me and you. The only shadow in my sunshine is my own. That goes for everyone – the whole damned dysfunctional crew.

“What would you do if I sang out of tune? Would you stand up and walk out on me? Lend me your ears and I’ll sing a song. I will try not sing out of key.”

The Faux Pas Press #75

2011-01-20T19:34:00.000-08:00

20 February 2011

The Faux Pas Press #75

Envy

By Jason Fresh

Not even the best of our elderly have seen the end of envy. Not even when death meets them, not even when dust becomes them will they see the end of envy. This, of course, is a deadly sin according to the nail-biters all waiting to hear the words, “Well done thou good and faithful servant. Through your life I have worked miracles.” No man knows the end of envy. Those who claim enlightenment know it even better than those who do not. Not even the dead are free from envy. “What a sad proclamation,” you say, “a despairing and weak way to go through life! Envious of my fellow man? What has my neighbor got that I don’t?” All that you have was obtained is because of envy: the smug yet flippant look you throw at those boys by whom you’ve been previously rejected, the car that adds value to an existence you view as otherwise valueless, the suggestions you spout on your girlfriend’s appearance, the clothing you parade – all of it, a partition from the Kia that flows freely through all living, beyond good and evil, is a product of envy. Yes, I speak of real, juicy, Cane-like envy. Oh, that first and most clever of tricks the old rascal-chaser employed. Oh, the fat and succulent jawing you’ve done against it. Oh, the great sins you have committed in the name of envy.

Not even the dead have seen the end of it. It is there, ever-present, waiting to remind us. You’re life has been a speck in the weaving of an ever-expanding, infinitely present web of experience. Your fighting, scheming, fucking, and dancing have occurred because of envy. “I envy no man,” John Fitzgerald Gilgamesh screams to the rooftops. What about the Self, John Fitzgerald Gilgamesh? What of the gods? Even after your gleaming goals shine from the number one slot on the sales floor, what will be your greatest victory? It was never there, was it? Sure, sure. Thirty or forty others envy your number one spot, the treatment, the accolades, and the attention, oh, the attention. But after the dust settles from yesterday’s victory, you begin to feel a little, shall we say………

I heard this song in the liquor store the other day (don’t go thinking I’m not a functioning adult because I reference a liquor store in my shit) talking about ‘big wheels keep on turning and Proud Mary keeps on burning’ or some shit. The song addressed a problem I have with the idea of ‘no regrets’. How can a human being say they have no regrets – or even if you were talking about a meticulously constructed Ego – how a can human say they have not thought about what might have been. “You know, I just live my fucking life, bro. No envy, no jealousy, no regrets, bro.” Jay-z, oh fucking Jay-z says, “Jealousy is a weak emotion. You’ve got to conquer that shit.” It is easy to say that you are free of envy when you are on the top. Easy to say you’ve not thought about fucking Kelsey Grammar’s Ex. For some, heavens to Bedford, for all!! Envy is the only thing that keeps the churches full, the money flowing, and the economy from falling into complete ruin. “I’m not envious. Jealousy is a weak emotion.” Horse shit! Fuck you. Envy is my greatest strength. Envy is in you and it is in me. Let’s go a not-so- careful step forward into the light (or darkness – which ever suits you).

Envy is you. Envy is me.

The Faux Pas Press #74

2011-01-18T23:20:00.000-08:00

18 January 2011

The Faux Pas Press #74

Shit

By Jason Fresh

First, I’m impressed to say, not impressed to say but really depressed to convey, that there are people, talented people out there who will never take a shit. I don’t want to go around telling lies like that Bush character form the movie pictures but I’ve just got to tell it straight – even if it hurts or sometimes appears as though I’m not moving straight but rather gamely forward. Are there people who don’t take shits? Elizabeth has got me convinced that she doesn’t – this is after two years of a rocky marriage. You’d think that sooner or later you’d catch your spouse dropping the deuce.

Second, Runner’s HI is a store in Aiea, HI that my family frequents. We go there on occasion when the only one-piece, fitted track suit that me and the wife share has too deeply saturated in sweat to be dawned for a weekly 7-miler. You can find shorts too short to be worn in public, shoes like those crispy five fingers I see all the kids spewing about, but most importantly, you can find tons of good running company. (Good running company is hard to come by these days. In my dreams, I run laps with Reverend Henry Kane from Poltergeist II: The Other Side. Rather, I run laps around the old sonofabitch, screaming, “Will you stop haunting this spritely soul of mine. Be gone with you. He replies, “Let me in!!” I say, “I’m busy right now. If you hadn’t noticed I’m running laps around your tired ass.”) I mention the store because it has been good to find a dedicated group of friendly, fit people to run with – and out by the Arizona Memorial to boot. What a great run that is – especially when your legs are vital and a great group all pushing you to your best. But what if your best is just shit? Just insurmountable piles (or miles rather) of running shit? I just got to tell it straight – or gamely forward as the case may be. Everybody takes a shit. Everybody.

The Faux Pas Press #73

2011-01-17T23:40:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #73

17 January 2011

By Jason Fresh

What can I say about this day that will make it more? I’m going to make stuff up anymore. I met Justin Bieber today. It was awesome. I’m a huge fan because, as a songwriter, I now live beneath the shadow of a 16 year-old phenomenon, and to meet him showed me that his earth-size shadow is actually a lot bigger than he is. As a husband, I must accept the fact that my wife is having second thoughts about our marriage. But like I said, I’m not going make stuff up anymore. I’m not going to lie in order aggrandize the plain details of my life. No, not going to lie anymore. I saw an angel who instructed me on several things: 1) the whereabouts of ancient alien record written on plates of pure gold, a record that bring today’s corporate church out of the grasps of Satan (He really exists. No shit.) 2) How to become a successful recording artist, songwriter, drummer, dancer, singer, and international superstar 3) how to become a non-toxic man and loving husband (which is what everyman truly wants even if doesn’t know it. Because no man wants to die alone) Yes, the angel, Macadamia, told me and my wife, from all the restored truth that has been revealed, that man will die alone. I looked at the angel like ‘are you crazy, man?’ and he scoffed lightly, seconding the look and asked me if I didn’t mind shutting my mouth so he could finish his visitation. And I scoffed lightly back at him as if to say, “Hey, I didn’t open my mouth so there is no way that I can shut it. Are you fucking crazy, shit-bird crazy?”
But I’m not angry at myself. I’m angry at all the angels who have manifested to man. Who told them pop out from Black Matter or the Fourth Dimension and start poking their pesky little noses around important, earthly affairs. How are we going to get off of fossil fuels? I don’t know. Hey, don’t you believe in angels? Well, I’m actually really busy right now trying to figure out how to keep the world from falling into nuclear apocalypse, a point of no return as Gerard Butler’s version of the Phantom sings. I don’t have much time for angels. But angels are what I’m getting more of recently. But, hey, don’t think that I’m going to lie. Remember, I’m not going to lie in order become something that I’m not. I’ll lie in order to become something I am.

The Faux Pas Press #72

2010-12-25T22:18:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #72

25 December 2010

By: Jason Fresh

Jo,
the Native-American Wife,
it might be cruel of my sensibilities
not to notice,
not to sense
something at the very least.
But something would be your
pretentious attention
whore of a counterpart.

I am the rock star, sweetie.
You’re just the brand name,
white t-shirt and prep new shoes,
cheap shampoo showered in your hair
and cheap hairspray in your bangs.

You are nothing though.
And I have to confess.
You are certainly nothing,
a poetic cavern,
Nirvana.
You are The Call of the Wild
in an international, multi-colored mess.
You’re three colors wrist-banded
attached to a part of you bigger than your wrist.
You’re the three colors of my head:
gold hair,
black eyebrows,
and red face –
a three-layered humus dip from Trader Joe’s.
But I am full and I can eat your wristbands.
And I could, in time, devour you.

In time, in time, in time.

Wait.
Take one more breath.
Let’s give it all we have
and try to save what’s left.

I got
down on my knees
and now I’m begging for forgiveness
said a word I never say, “Please.”

Lost in the moonlight there are lives.
Gone in the madness there were signs.
Gone like tomorrow there is time.
And on the other side you were mine.
And on the other side you were mine.

Cry.
Cry like a bitch.
Open up the wounds that you can’t heal for me to see
and make me rich.

Play.
Play with my heart.
Bathe us in the sorrow belonging to the now
and break me apart.

Lost in the moonlight there are lives.
Gone in the madness there were signs.
Gone like tomorrow there is time.
And on the other side you were mine.
And on the other side you were mine.

The Faux Pas Press #71

2010-12-24T23:57:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #71

24 December 2010

By Jason Fresh

To Taormina Sicilian Cuisine

What are the spirits of your dead saying to you? Were they accused of treachery? Probably – probably asking for another glass of capital gains tax because their children’s children forgot what it was like to be a child and have no one to speak for you. There was no gesture of good will toward me and mine as I made a troublesome entrance at your swanky Waikiki establishment. Burning plastic in a trashcan outside was but a miniscule omen of what is to come. No surfer/waiter/ pretty boy will have your back in the end. No apology for disdainful treatment will give absolution to your disgusting collective mirroring each other in strokes of vanity. A simple chair for a child would have been enough, a simple high-chair for my firstborn.

Let me tell you because you have not yet learned. Every flick of guile, cigarette-fumed conversation, every lofty gesture of championship that arouses you; these are nothing but a flash in the pan for your company because you have already lost. All things live and die. The end is sadly and swiftly coming for your place; this because of your own stupidity and greed. All of you, no matter what your origin or nationality will live to see shame brought upon you. All of this because your own actions. And I will live to see the Great and Abominable Day of your pretty little joint. Purchase some high chairs and encourage your employees to offer them and The Darkness, blessed be his name, the name of Parley Angerbliss, might have mercy. You forgot your customer on the record-breaking night, the holy night, the high beginning of a swift end for Taormina Sicilian Cuisine. Those you have mistreated, both customer and employee alike, shall see the black day of reckoning. The curse that I leave upon your establishment can not be revoked; it can’t be withdrawn except for your sincere and heartfelt change.

You must change or be prepared for frogs to fall from the sky upon you, for your waters to be filled with blood, and the Ghost of Christmas Past to take a dinosaur-size shit on your establishment. You’d get sued if you didn’t offer seating for the disabled – not so much luck for infants though. “Well, we try to preserve a fine-dining ambience,” is your weak excuse. “This guy is just fucking crazy talking about curses and shit.”

Know this. Florence, Tokyo, La Rotta del Vino Slow Food Contest, none of these trophies will amount to anything more than a sad demise. Within one year’s time you will be out of business. The doors will be closed. No lawsuit here, complaining to the manager, no comp food, no future visits, no humorous reconciliations. This has been a curse upon you and all who enter your establishment. Death is upon your efforts - all this for your disdain against mine. In the name of Enoch, Leviathan, and Abaddon.

The Faux Pas Press #70

2010-11-22T15:01:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #70

By Jason Fresh

22 November 2010

My world is clear, cleared of weirdness by embracing it. My word is shear, sheared like haircut goodness fucking it. There’s always more beneath the surface though. I have become invisible. My parking spot is always open, cleared like haircut goodness. Clearing the house of spirits foreign to me is easy. Clearing the spirits that I know is a life-long process, a process worth all the hard work I’ve put into it.

You can’t leave any vestibule to the related world a ghost possesses. No picture. No Ouija. No portal. Yes. When you decide to shut them out, it is permanent. (But I guess nothing is really permanent.)

Now, after the terrorists have been exiled from your consciousness, you free to think and breathe as you must. You’re free to find a nice chair and read Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself. Yes, read that piece and then try to pretend you’re not gay. You won’t be able to unless you banish Whitman for the Universe too. Banishing is not easy but it is worth it. (Even if you do question your sexuality I wouldn’t banish Whitman. He is a fine companion on the road to perdition.)

The Faux Pas Press #69

2010-11-19T18:41:00.000-08:00

The Faux Pas Press #69

19 November 2010

By Jason Fresh

Sucker

They won’t ever tell you if you’re a sucker,
won’t tell you if she is banging another.
But, for sure, above all else,
they will call you out when you need to be preserved,
call you out before dinner is served.
They’ll say some ignominious shit, brother.
“Where have you been, brother?
And why have you not called?
Have you seen your Uncle?
He straight went bald.”
“No other person on this planet will say for you
what you can say for yourself,”
is the predictable response that I give.
But I’m in limbo between past and nowhere.
So, it’s just limbo really.

The Faux Pas Press #68

2010-10-25T01:20:00.000-07:00

As I Walk Into the Night

I didn’t think I would be so scared.
I didn’t think I would be so petrified.
I didn’t think I’d feel the hurt and all the damage of my past
when I threw it all away.

I didn’t think you would remorse.
I didn’t think you would feel victimized.
I didn’t think you’d use the scars built up
for all those painful years and throw them in my face.

No, you ain’t got to cry.
I’ve got my feet lined up on my own coffin
so forget me when I die.

No, I stepped down from your fight
and I’m all alone on my long day’s journey
as I walk into the night.

I never thought I could feel so new.
I never thought I could feel justified.
I never thought that I could breathe and feel
the way that I do now when I said
what I had to say.

I never thought I would be this clean.
I never thought I could feel dignified.
I never thought that I could burn a
narrative and write with my own pen
now the anger’s gone away.

No, you ain’t got to cry.
I’ve got my feet lined up in my own coffin
so forget me when I die.

No, I stepped down from your fight
and I’m all alone on my long day’s journey
as I walk into the night.

No, you ain’t got to cry.
I’ve got my feet lined up in my own coffin
so forget me when I die.

No, I stepped down from your fight
and I’m all alone on my long day’s journey
as I walk into the night.

The Faux Pas Press #67

2010-10-23T15:30:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #67

23 October 2010

By Jason Fresh

Break These Chains

Always searching for what I can hold,
walking the streets of the city to fit some mold,
dressing up nice and wearing the clothes of the norm,
I begin to dance and see I don’t that form.

I want to run.
I want to feel.
I want to break these chains and make it real.

I won’t delay or carry a load.
I’d rather walk a dirty road.
I’m in the Fold in Fabric of Night.
How could I be wrong when I feel so right?

Come on girl and grab my hand.
I’ll take you to the Promised Land.
Oh, baby, let’s break these chains,
Break these chains.

Leave a job building cities for the Man.
Leave a death plot he’s spun with a master plan.
Put on your self and your giddy dancing shoes.
Put on your night dress, Honey.
Let’s go drink some booze.

I want to run.
I want to feel.
I want to break these chains and make it real.

I won’t delay or carry a load.
I’d rather walk a dirty road.
I’m in the Fold in Fabric of Night.
How could I be wrong when I feel so right?

Come on girl and grab my hand.
I’ll take you to the Promised Land.
Oh, baby, let’s break these chains,
Break these chains.

I want to run.
I want to feel.
I want to break these chains and make it real.

I won’t delay or carry a load.
I’d rather walk a dirty road.
I’m in the Fold in Fabric of Night.
How could I be wrong when I feel so right?

Come on girl and grab my hand.
I’ll take you to the Promised Land.
Oh, baby, let’s break these chains,
Break these chains.

The Faux Pas Press #66

2010-10-23T03:48:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #66

22 October 2010

By Jason Fresh

Sometimes I feel as if a great vagina were orbiting planet Earth, and by ‘planet Earth’ I mean my whole presence, my very egotistical essence. In that giant vagina is a party of women. These are probably all the women I’ve ever slain with Wolfgang, my crooked, girthy, capicola sausage. This giant vagina, I’m sure, has one main purpose. This purpose is not instantaneous or reactionary like my wife’s aim in trying to figure out the Netflix account password. No. I’m not quite certain yet as to what this purpose means. No, I don’t know what it is exactly. But I’m certain that there is one – there is a purpose to this great vagina. Perhaps, the purpose is suck, store, and label for consumption the parts of Jason Fresh that are most valuable. Perhaps, these parts will be consumed during a long winter while said women listen to Bon Iver’s For Emma. You see, the vagina has historically been compared to a lotus flower – mostly by an uber-human yoga teacher that I fanaticize. But I know that it is more like a magnetized wormhole that transports the dreams of my childhood to be consumed by the women at the party. The probably have some nerds up there. Yep, probably have a wall-safe guarded by a librarian from Monterey that I just banged. And inside this giant vagina in the sky, April from Richardson, Texas bathes herself in vagina fluid – what I might call the ‘creamy yogurts’. I could be called ‘my’ creamy yogurt because it comes from chics I believed to have conquered. Surely, they conquered me. I will kiss my wife tonight with gratitude.

The Faux Pas Press #65

2010-10-21T16:06:00.001-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #65

21 October 2010

By Jason Fresh

Atman is called by different names, but have you found out for yourself that you actually have a soul? “There is permanence,” you say, “families can be together forever.” As long as you rationalize your fear of death, creating innumerable beliefs about death, belief that says you will live forever. You seek pleasure to prolong it – demanding pleasure. Well, you will also get pain. What about joy? Would you rather cling to the known rather than the unknown - the fame, the gods you worship, the role in society, the marriage, the structure. There must be dying to yesterday. “I’m not afraid of dying,” is said when lips and tongue quiver with love of pleasure, the insanity ingrained in his conditioning which is not separate from the piety of his parents. You are bitter and you cherish things. But you must die to them, be completely empty to all the cherished. There is no security in relationships. Each one of us is seeking. “Reincarnation is, for sure, better than any idea of salvation. I’m a Buddhist so I don’t need religion. It isn’t, it isn’t a religion and it doesn’t give me wealth. You’ve got to know poverty.” How cherished the position in society, the fashionable religion when all others are out of fashion. In fashion, out of fashion! What about living with delight and enchantment? Doing this requires that you take a shit on possession. You can never really possess what you are afraid of. And, I’m saying, that you’ve got to possess yourself.

The Faux Pas Press #64

2010-10-21T16:05:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #64

By Jason Fresh

20 October 2010

I describe the role and ideal. But the distortion I want, talking about freedom all the while, is sculpted by a formula of beauty that is ideal. But there is an ideal and this ideal that you help to sculpt is no freedom, a reaction, not a freedom at all. You can be free from dogma but that has its own reaction – it may not be fashionable anymore and that has its own ideal, nationality. So isolated!! Are you living in some dreamy ivory tower of mattering, of a detailed past, lofty and rich? Well, let me tell you this is not a healthy path into solitude at all. It is still conditioned by your ideal. “I just want to be alone with my books!” Well, fuck you, friend. And when I say ‘fuck you’ I’m also fucking myself - I’ll have you know. There is no life or ideal greater than the ideal you are currently living. And you are not the ideal. How do you like that?

Living with yourself, alone, as you actually are, is freedom. Get used to your own anxiety, your own fears, your worry that you are worthless, your husband, your wife, jealousy. But you must care for all of these things. Do not condemn it. Love it. Care for it. You just care about observing the thing that you really are. You don’t have affection. And you are not good. Can you live with that without getting depressed or suicidal? “I am happy,” there he is, living in a memory of something that is gone.

The Faux Pas Press #63

2010-10-19T20:55:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #63

19 October 2010

By Jason Fresh

Parley Angerbliss: Churches can brutally oppress the tribal secret wisdom but are led by those who understand it. They steal mythology just as the weasel bastard inferior steals the attention away from productive aims, a teenage latent leach talks and talks to hear an echo of purpose. The secret wisdom, on the periphery of Platonism as respectable as Christian dogma in our plane of existence, is not acknowledged by the West openly. My occult fathers had to stay quiet about education. Contrarily, the early Islamic predecessors of this occult knowledge openly acknowledged the need for education. Spirituality does not require the veneration of the cross nor the current taxation to the extension of it – the state. There will be no new inquisition. There will be enlightenment, a denial of the gentle Jesus, and channeling of a truly righteous path. Islam has now abandoned the secret wisdom. We must now take the mark of Thomas Aquinas.

Bernard de Fontaine: Are you speaking of this Leviathan, the entirety of the Self?

Parley Angerbliss: Bernard, I’m talking about the exemption from taxation. It is as simple as that. What about the Nazarenes? The holy order of the Nazarenes was led by a married man, yes, named Jesus. Churches now twist the concept of Jesus and sell salvation with no taxation. The Nazarenes, a secret society in its own right, paid as many taxes to the Caesar as anyone else. He who drinks from the mouth of Jesus will become him. That is the spiritual teaching that I have to offer. And I shouldn’t be taxed either.

Bernard de Fontaine: You shouldn’t be taxed. The government isn’t managing your money well.

Parley Angerbliss: That is not the point. Have you forgotten your commitment to spiritual practices? Yes, I think you have. So, I will keep sending spells against the enemies of righteousness.

The Faux Pas Press #62

2010-10-18T21:07:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #62

18 October 2010

By Jason Fresh

The light is all around my proprietary thrown, and I’ve laid claim to all around me. An obese woman can’t walk past me in the grocery store without encountering the electromagnetic wave of disdain. She can’t live her life without my feelings demanding an experience with her. “Don’t you see I love greater?” And she just moves right through the black matter – brave, like an Athena, white horse-riding bad bitch. Now, I am taught and will, forevermore, be taught by those I’ve laid claim to, my lovers especially. When the players in my perpetual tragicomedy keep showing up even when I am eternally ungrateful to them. This song, this one fucking song is such a clear example of my ingratitude. Bon Iver’s Skinny Love speaks to me. Is it possible that the artist tapped into dimensional magnetic charge and stole my own personal experience for this one? I’m pretty sure I’ve said these words. I am the young thieve of light years declaring my curses to parent, friend, enemy, brother, and even musician. He is me saying stuff like, “Be patient, be balanced, and love me like you’re supposed. “ You can’t walk through the intersecting planes without me saying something about your ass. But ‘I am my mother on the wall’, I am you and you are me. It is truth. “Only love is all maroon.” So thanks.

The Faux Pas Press #61

2010-10-17T16:55:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #61

17 October 2010

By Jason Fresh

“Are you tolerant to me? Is what I believe reasonable? Does it support reason? My religion is good. My religion is great on Sunday. On Monday, I mean, like, when we’re talking about football and restaurants around the water cooler, your religion is cool too. What are you? Muslim? That’s cool? Christian? Hey, that’s cool too. Every religion has its place. We’ve got to be tolerant toward other people’s religions, right? ‘I may not agree with what you say but I will defend with my life your right to say it,’ right, Ahmed? I mean, after all, you’re a Muslim and you’ll support me when Allah tells you to do ‘his will’, right? I mean, Brother Steven, you’ll still support my rights to individual sovereignty when God tells you to do ‘his will’, right? What if God tells you to violate my will? What are you going to do when your leaders tell you to legislate my behavior? You’re ideas are just as valid as mine – hey, even if they are detrimental to the survival of order and reason in the nation state. Even if God speaks to me and tells me to draft a proposition to infringe upon the private rights of its citizens? Hey, we’re egalitarian. We’re tolerant, right? Hey, I’ll see you at the sales meeting. Good talk. And, umm, God bless or Allah bless, right? Hey, ha-ha.”

You know, just because you declare a ‘truth’ loudly doesn’t mean it is objective reason speaking. It is more than likely the opposite. Do we have to declare someone within their ‘right’ when they are completely and utterly full of nonsense? Tolerance, when the tides of psychic forces collide, is a rotten joke that we play on ourselves. You can be within your 'right' and also be completely and utterly full of shit.

The Faux Pas Press #60

2010-10-16T22:58:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #60

16 October 2010

By Jason Fresh

Thank you for waiting on me. I am here yet again to discuss the intricacies of nothing and dive into black energy, the substance that can not only cleanse my soul but destroy it – debilitating the words of my enemies and charging The Faux Pas Press with due penance. Only the penitent can pass through these walls. Copernicus, Ptolemy, and Galileo sit with the American Muse. The stars do not collide here because space is infinite, the perfect number dispersing them evenly throughout spacetime, allowing them to draw towards an indefinite center. In infinitely skewed planes, no node can be considered the center. As such, every point can be considered the center. That is the concept of The Apostate Hymns and The Fold in the Fabric of Night, that concept that issues new credos to existing forms and steals light away with black energy, the substance of the demon Parley Angerbliss.

Furthermore, therein lies the charge of my artistic voice and shall hereby prove worthy of history. But what history is there when all points in an expanding universe can be considered the center. Therein lays the problem of infinity, a problem that Parley Angerbliss understood and thereby created The Elysium Potion. All lines of sight lead to some point. The point is a quantum bit. The point is a star primed for its own collapse. The point is me. The point is you. And you can plausibly be the center of the Universe. You are not, however, a finite form in past or present. Just as the Universe changes so will you change. And your energy comes here.

The Faux Pas Press #59

2010-10-15T22:16:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #59

15 October 2010

By Jason Fresh

How long is the measuring stick, this American measuring stick of dreams? How long will they sell it back to me even though I went to buy a plastic ruler from the grocery store? It measures just fine. I can measure anything from my penis to my capacity to learn languages. It is limited. All tools have their limitations just as the aforementioned traits have their limits. But as long as we, the enlightened collective, the lovers and haters of constitutional representative republics, as long as we keep buying rulers, I might as well buy the most affordable one, probably made in China. No - most definitely made in China. If I measure my life by the metric system at least the numbers are inherently higher – and my IQ lower because I’m being compared to Asians who are better at math. (Penis size will remain comparatively the same, okay. We know that for sure.) I am good at math but, like, inches and feet and shit. The Chinaman is a sneaky sonofabitch though. Is it possible that he fucked around with those little plastic rulers before a woman with a graduate degree boxed them up? I’m sure mine is legit.

The woman who sold it to me, the Polynesian kind (not the ruler – the woman), working as a Walmart cashier without a degree, smirking slightly as I scooted past magazine covers with bully-victim suicides, seemed curious as she scanned, flipped, and handled it. She winked at me as if she’d experienced some intimate part of the Self.

“No, the ruler is Chinese. I’m an American.”

“Are you sure?”

“We’ll I measure in inches, measure whatever I can. I’m going to be doing a lot of measuring.”

“You measuring tonight?”

“How do you measure tonight? I’m married actually if that's what you're refering too.”

“You sure? How do you measure that?”

“I’m not sure about the answer to either question.”

Measure, measure, measure the height of your grasp then reach one hundred times higher.

The Faux Pas Press #58

2010-10-15T02:55:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #58

14 October 2010

By Jason Fresh

Hours spent watching television.

The ON switch flipped within the major appliances - the factory of my life producing, right now and at every point in spacetime, the right to exist and express freely, the right to wage war. So, I spit on the cement in your hometown because you’re not connected enough to stop me. I run faster than I’ve ever ran before. But what does that mean? That I get to arrive nowhere quicker? I jerk the chain of accomplishment only to discover that chain is connected to a toilet. I wear short running shorts because I know it makes you uncomfortable. How crazy must you be to hand your emotional comfort to a guy like me?

How insignificant to continue struggling toward a meaningless aim. You jerk off to one of those TEXT commercials with the busty females who moonlight at the gentleman’s club. That’s not my fault that. Nope, it is not my fault that you stare at my crotch. No, not my damn fault at all. If I put a part in my hair and own a gift card exchange business when I’m 60, shoot me, shoot me with a revolver stolen form my grandmother’s purse. If I survive, send me to work at a furniture store while living at the VA Hospital. If you suffer from inflammatory bowel disease after taking the medication ACUTANE – go fuck yourself. I don’t even know what inflammatory bowel disease is. If I was affected how would I know? I did take ACUTANE. I will still probably go fuck myself – even if I don’t have inflammatory bowel disease.

The Faux Pas Press #57

2010-10-14T03:18:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #58

By Jason Fresh

13 October 2010

What, upon this dark, is worth the neighbor’s sanity if mine can not be acknowledged and cherished by the state? Did we make a Jesus out of subsidized loans? And who will make the new one when that Jesus dies? But, but, but…. This ends up being a story where the parents apologize to their children for doing the mambo in a generation of rubber. This ends up being a story where I must choose will and even kill my parents’ ideology, keeping, even rescuing, the mythology that they turned into organized religion. I’m confused because what I don’t get now manifests later. And my parents keep praying for the good to be greater and work the whole nation state into irrevocable havoc. What? How is it that going down for everyone else? Couldn’t I just stop, completely stop focusing on the elements that I dislike, pray (use the energy of my mind, heart, and soul), and banish lack forever from my life? Couldn’t I do that? So, solitude has evolved into a peace, a time everyday to write the evolving journal, The Faux Pas Press, let the world in, and be still. In a moment I travel to the base of Mexican temples, in a moment I see how all pressure is gone, in a moment I can travel the distance of human history. How many revolutions of the Earth? How long before Christians and Jews start burning Muslims on American soil? Tolerance is your joke that I’m smoking, your lie I’ve been stoking. I will live to see our economic problems resolved – even if we lose a few battles. I owe, for one of many, owe nothing to the children of Social Security, owe nothing to the parents of my high school classmates.

The Faux Pas Press #56

2010-10-13T03:57:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #56

12 October 2010

By Jason Fresh

“Argument moves through reason, justified by the Aquaman that forced me into this position, gave me a rhyme for the season. Don’t call me strange when consciousness exudes from my chakras. Don’t treat me with disdain when light seeps out the crack of my ass. I eat the same food you do, nigga’. The only difference is, I said, the only difference is – you don’t digest your carbohydrates. Matter of fact, you don’t digest much. Now, I’m not talking about your simple sugars – the Life Saver Gummies, sour candies with an intergalactic stank. You digest that shit just fine, motha’. What I’m talking about is the deep tissue-bending truth syrup. When somebody, anybody pours that maple moody syrup on you – you get all stank and shit.”

“No, I don’t know what you’re saying….”

“Now, hold on, just hold on…..”

“No, seriously. You’re over here talking about Life Saver Gummies, language that no child can understand, language that can’t be understood, not even by the alien race that birthed us. You’re not making any sense. The Aquaman that forced you into this place gave neither rhyme of the season nor females for the teasing.”

“Goddamit, Jonesy. I need you to get me closer to a match. I need to find an extraterrestrial, solar-powered sister who is cleaner than clean. I’m talking about a sister who goes to church or the library or some shit.”

“Well, I’m not going to promise you pussy that I can’t deliver. I can’t promise you that she will digest like you either. Some gifts are the largest problems, Smithy.”

The Faux Pas Press #55

2010-10-12T01:36:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #55

By Jason Fresh

11 October 2010

If fads could be feelings I wish money were wasted on mine. I wish the lines of consumers entered my heart to buy the byproduct of a soul’s exorcism – wish they would buy my feelings like a pair of Keds was once bought for a 1980’s 6th grader, wish they would laugh at my feelings like a Youtube phenomenon. If fads could be feelings, especially mine, they would belong to everyone – not just me. So, I wouldn’t feel so bad about them. “How are your doing?” she asks. “Not very well, but then again, you already knew that. You’re wearing my shoes. They’re in this year.” Shit. If fads could be feelings I would not have to carry them forever. I could exchange them when the new fall line of clothing comes or I could just throw them away when they’ve outstayed their welcome.

I know that fads are dumped, cracked, and slung. They’re sold to the highest feeler. And the highest feeler is he who treads on fads, he who cozies up to the most recent advertisement. Yes, of course, but of course, feelings are fads. This is why the rain always passes and happy turns to sad. This is why my dad’s lot became my mother’s and my mom’s became my dad’s – why the shit turns to solid and why a frog was once a tad. Why my school teachers were always spiritually sick. This is why we invented words like fag. This is why he later becomes a Christian and the preacher secretly dresses in drag.

HHmmmmm. I think I’ll design my own fads from here on out. Yeah, yep, I think I’ll design my own fads.

The Faux Pas Press #54

2010-09-28T02:45:00.000-07:00

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.

The Faux Pas Press #53

2010-09-22T14:37:00.000-07:00

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.

The Faux Pas Press #52

2010-09-21T18:37:00.000-07:00

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.

The Faux Pas Press #51

2010-09-15T16:44:00.000-07:00

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.

The Faux Pas Press #50

2010-09-14T07:43:00.000-07:00

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.

The Faux Pas Press #49

2010-09-13T06:12:00.000-07:00

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.

The Faux Pas Press #48

2010-09-12T13:25:00.000-07:00

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.

The Faux Pas Press #47: What You Do

2010-07-13T14:38:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #47

13 July 2010

By Jason Fresh

What You Do

Fuck Hemingway, who did little with the greatest war in history. And fuck people who act as if they are gonzo like Hunter S. Thompson. You will probably imitate the great genius, Parley Angerbliss, probably imitate like Plato foretold. If the essays of our time are written against the joyous life, if the only questions to which Americans are accustomed spike into the private workings of my paycheck, or the Johnson’s paycheck, or the Trumps, and if every artist concerns himself with not having one, then I will hold a square place, I will get away with becoming the artist, independent of drinking a 12 pack of Sierra Nevada while discussing political and economic upheaval, independent of reading the words of kids who think it was cool to get evicted. I’m a coward I guess, the one honest Coward. Mark Twain must not have been too sorry about his paycheck, what he did for a living. He probably felt poorly about all the money he invested so poorly.

“What do you do?” a charming female asks me. I’m trying to be moral, trying to be a man watching UFC 113 or 144 or some shit. She has rubbed my back a couple of times, not like my daughter rubs my arm, unknowing and innocent, but charmingly, intently, imagining that I’m a man with a job. I say, “What you do is figure out what you are. What I do is whatever I choose.” If you spend your entire life trying to figure out if the person you are talking to is cool enough - fuck you too. You have the right to live and the right to die however you want. I will be born old again, and again – just as I was born before and then killed by those who were not. That is what you do.

That is what you do. I’m not too good for the machine and neither are you.

The Faux Pas Press #46: Caffeinated and Emancipated

2010-07-11T14:13:00.000-07:00

11 July 2010

The Faux Pas Press #46

By Jason Fresh

Caffeinated and Emancipated

There are many decisions that I make in the morning. One of the decisions that I make is whether or not to drink coffee. Whether or not to jump off the balcony outside of our living room down to a grassy stretch of lawn, perhaps injuring an ankle, limiting the spectrum of potential decisions is another. The decisions I make, like that of drinking a cup of coffee, have lasting consequences. Because I drink it, because I decide, I show that I’m emancipated, liberated from a long heritage of decisions of people who did not. Therefore, I am emancipating myself from the decisions of others, creating a future that is entirely my own, so that other decisions will have lasting consequences.

Drinking a cup of coffee. Yes, the practice implicates much more than routine, it represents purpose, intent, plans, and a whole spectrum of potential decisions, all hinging on the first choice of whether or not to drink a cup of coffee. Police officers and teachers drink java so they can maneuver through the machine, being careful not to piss on the wrong person - oh so careful not to drink too much coffee and lose control of their emotions when speaking to a student who might later become a criminal who drinks a cup of coffee before violating a law that violates said teacher causing a caffeinated police officer to arrest the former student – perhaps leading to a long heritage of new decisions. Drinking one cup of coffee, on this friendly morning, is one decision that led to the keyboard. But I don’t know what the page will bring, nor do I know what tomorrow brings. But, the decision will be mine. This I can assure you – a heritage of me.

Caffeinated and Emancipated.

The Faux Pas Press #45: Mililani Town Center

2010-07-11T01:40:00.000-07:00

11 July 2010

The Faux Pas Press #45

Mililani Town Center

By Jason Fresh

When you’ve discovered that excitement on a Saturday night means a trip to the Mililani Town Center, you can not only likely say but surely say that you’ve been married long enough to hate it, that you’ve been duped into supporting values you’ve sworn to destroy. You’ve been sold on an idea that a loving father wears clothing purchased at the Levi store. He also smiles charmingly at a Baskin Robin’s cashier.

Though you fancy your partner well enough and can’t get enough of your beautiful daughter - you also realize that life in Mililani really sucks for most people.

Like you, most men have been duped into believing that a wife really wants anything other that to use you (and rightly so, this is how she survives - through seduction and avarice.) You discover that you not only hate marriage but all those who uphold its shrubby foliage with the idea that someday, somehow the right person will come along and make life happy.

Or, that you hate those dead set on convincing themselves that the right person has already arrived. Yes, just like Fatmandu, the chubby bastard wearing an over-sized cotton Faded Glory brand collared shirt smiles as he walks into Assagio, a poor excuse for Italian cuisine, and his angst-ridden wife trots behind him. They will go home and engage in what they call sex – this is only because they don’t know any better. At the Mililani Town Center, fat, happy, Thai-food eating folks converse over grub pulled from the earth in unsustainable ways, cooked by underpaid slaves in the Home of the Free, and regurgitated in church restrooms on Sunday morning, churches where pastors preach on the harmonious family unit and its lasting importance.

But it all starts right there – right there at the fucking Mililani Town Center.

And yes – it all ends here – right here at the Mililani Town Center.

The Faux Pas Press #44: I Don't Need My Heart Anymore

2010-07-07T00:47:00.000-07:00

06 JULY 2010

The Faux Pas Press #44

I Don't Need My Heart Anymore

a song

track one

The Topaz Lounge

by Jason Fresh

take this heart of mine and break it down
like you've always done before
slip, slip, and slide upon my blood
that you spilt upon the floor
erase the fragile line beneath
the x of my suicide amore
rip, rip out the page of simple faith
that you simply can't restore
because I don't need my heart anymore
because I don't need my heart anymore

jump into the sox with chicken pox
soiled from the night before
rock, rock my socks, oh goldilocks,
oh you filthy little whore
crank a jack in the box and spin it 'round,
oh, pop open these trap doors
slap, slap, slap the wrist of
where I've been and the silly lies you poor
because I don't need my heart anymore
because I don't need my heart anymore

when all is said and done, you've
reached the end of this woman's foolish soar
believe, believe the lie that your
broken life, it has crystalline decor
suck, suck, sucky, suck at
the mucky duck, oh, and let it be a chore
march, march, trough it all
and walk it tall, oh, bring pretty little whores
because I don't need my heart anymore
because I don't need my heart anymore
no, I don't need my heart anymore

The Faux Pas Press #43: To Bad So Sad

2010-07-05T03:09:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #43

Too Bad So Sad

a song

By Jason Fresh

04 July 2010

http://www.youtube.com/user/fauxpaspress

i melt down on a highway with a gentle ease
look back to the west with a cry for a chickadee
insist that its my way not the highway on a salt breeze
the mockingbird sits outside my window on a willow tree

but i can't breathe when you're around
you think you lift me up but you bring me down
you say i'm not there for you but I echo in each sound
too bad, too bad, too bad so sad
too bad so sad

a broken promise can play like a remedy
on the vinyl recording you play of your tragedy
your act of love and forgiveness is a fallacy
i don't like what i'm hearing on the frequency

but i can't breathe when you're around
you think you lift me up but you bring me down
you say i'm not there for you but I echo in each sound
too bad, too bad, too bad so sad
too bad so sad

the craft ain't torn no more
i've broken the golden key and I closed the door
no good it does to try with you
if i did, if i did I would lay down and die with you

the burned pair of clothes that I wear, they look so clean
engaged to a dark bride I surrender to the obscene
you can place all the memories we had in a guillotine
i live forever with the gods in a submarine

but i can't breathe when you're around
you think you lift me up but you bring me down
you say i'm not there for you but i echo in each sound
too bad, too bad, too bad so sad
too bad so sad
too bad so sad

The Faux Pas Press #42: A Father's Love

2010-07-03T09:08:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #42

A Father’s Love

By Jason Fresh

03 July 2010

What is good about families is that they are forever.

What is good about a father is that he wants the best for his children.

This edition of The Faux Pas Press sings praises to one of the nearest and dearest people in my life. A man who will someday be the first Mormon President of the United States of America – I’m talking about my father. He is a loving, swell, and most importantly, a “righteous” man. What’s great about this guy is that even after having asked him to leave me and my family alone, he persists – he won’t quit, you know. That is important to do as a father - even when all that your son has asked for is a little room to breathe. A father’s love, you know.

Dad, I just want to thank you for sharing your thoughts. You’ve given me plenty – just what I needed for my first father’s day and a happy 4th of July. Here’s looking at you, Mormo. I am excited to report that this letter from you has inspired me to go and look up the definition of bipolar disorder since it seems that all of you fuckers have it.

And, you, yes you, Richard can suck it – not mine, of course, the girl formally known as my sister made it clear that I do not have one. I guess miracles never cease right guys? And no, Guadalupe Alisa or whatever the hell your name is – I will not be fighting you. As a matter of fact, we won’t be dealing with each other ever. Besides it wouldn’t be fair for a Middleweight to fight Heavyweight. You got all the advantages – all your military training, right? The Army, the Navy, and the Marines? That is pretty impressive. I’m sure you make yourself proud. You probably learned to embellish your accomplishments from our father – Go Army Rangers, right? Unbelievable.

Here he is folks – the one, the only guy who assumes that all of my writing is about him.

Here is his response to The Faux Pas Press #38: The Banishing of Clyde McGoo, a fictional character, and a character I created on which to place my emotional charge, to deal with my own emotional trauma. I’ve have tried to process my emotions so I can be a better war fighter and a better father. Apparently, this isn’t good enough when religion becomes obsession. I did not send an email with the piece to anyone. I didn’t think anybody actually read my blog. Richard indicted himself. The idea was that if I could create an alter-ego, a hypersigil, someone not connected with me, that I could work my way into a relationship with my family again. I wouldn’t have to hate my father – I could hate Clyde McGoo. This has worked for many writers to gain healing. I was honestly thinking that if I could say what I really felt to my family in a fictional character that they would understand and we could move on. This was an experiment to see just how far it would cut. I used images that my father hates – images like Lucifer. He shows his true colors here. I don’t worship Lucifer but I’m beginning to wonder about some people. Well, it so happens that this piece marks the first battle of what may become a long war if my father does not back down and stop harassing my family. He and his wife have already frightened my wife and in-laws – this while my wife and I work through our own issues – mainly trying to maintain our little family. Thanks for contributing you positive energy to our families growth. Shame on you.

Starting to look a lot like the characters I created guys. Congratulations – confirming my theory that there are worse things in life than being alone. You could be trapped in a living room around a Christmas tree with these people.

Here is his email. Enjoy.

Jason,

One more apology is in order. I am sorry for being a weak dad, and apologizing so much. On the other side, please, realize that as a weak, just-trying-to-make-it-type dad that I believe strongly when we have done wrong, it is appropriate to apologize. So I have tried to apologize where appropriate. So before you stop reading my emails, posts, and letters, please, please read this one. It would just mean so much if you did, please. I just need to finish a few more apologies and I can go to my tomb in peace.

I apologize for getting up and going to those stupid cubicles for those thousands of days on end to put food on the table for you, I should have been strong and forceful enough to be a corporate president so that you would have had a bigger house, and better clothes, and nicer cars to drive. Please, please forgive me.

I apologize for going to every baseball, football, rehearsal, and performance for you. (By the way, when you looked up and saw me reading a book ONCE, I did that when you were in the dugout, and not at bat or on the field). Please, please forgive me for reading when you were in the dugout with your back turned. Forgive me for all of those wittle things, because I should have had the money, to pay for the finest of teams and dance companies. By the by, I battled with your mom for the Karate lessons and lost. My apologies for battling with your mom every fucking second for every fucking cent for you and your activities, I should have taken an easier course A) Abandoned you to her, and you would have gotten no support B) Abused her to make her obey (make sure you abuse, abuse Liz and get her to obey – Do not, do not follow the Mormon way – instead abuse the bitch.) (Oh my, on that one, are Mormon men weak and submissive or abusive? --- whoops depends on who you talk to I guess, wish those damn antimorgs made up their fucking minds on this issue!!) C) Worked even more jobs delivering pizza. My apologies for not being a strong he-man type like you and having done one of those things. (Your turn is coming my friend, just wait, Karma is a bitch, the universe has a way of turning our judgments back on our ass with a vengeance!).

I apologize for paying for college at Montana State, but as a weak pathetic dad, you should have been at Harvard for 4 years, and I should have had the money for that. (By the by, I battled with your mom, to get you the money that year, she did not want to send you a cent for college).

I apologize for all of the cars I gave you to drive. As our buddies in Plano pointed out, what an embarrassing set of pathetic used cars they were. I apologize for not having them washed and all new-car scented for you. (Did you ever fucking wash one car in those years?) I should have delivered more pizza and got you a fucking Ferrari, man. So sorry. By the way you fucking destroyed the Suburban by not checking the oil, Asshole.

I am so so sorry for having gotten you involved in the Mormon Church (little-referred-to as the Church of Jesus Christ). I have come to realize over the years that the Mormon Church is responsible for…. (take a deep breath, now)…. All guilt, all abuse, all suffering, all lies, all wars, all poverty, all distortions in the history of the world, all of your sad misfortunes, and…, the Kennedy Assassination, and the extinction of the Kiwi.

And more than anything else, I’m sorry for myself, having somehow managed to spoil someone enough to have developed such a whining, complaining, poor-me-so-abused-and-ignored-one-more-middle-child-so-forlorn, ungrateful attitude. As they say in AA --- poor me, poor me, pour me another drink. Did you pick up that I-am-so-sorry-for-myself attitude from your mom, so much like her, oh my --- what a terrible thought!

By the way your story about my talking to the papers with respect to Rozana , sounds like another distorted piece of your poor-me-middle-child distorted history. I believe they called me, and asked for the info, asshole.

So pwease pwease forgive me, I am so weak and pathetic.

By the way, you are not the only life which I am responsible for totally and completely ruining, I am responsible for all pain in my dads, my brothers, Alexandra’s, and your mothers life too. (Ask any of them on the other side, and they will affirm that for you. I am such a smuck-tee-smuck son-of-a-bitch!!)

By the way, I have guns, knives and lawyers on the stand-by also. I have gotten 4 people arrested, and three bishops removed from office. Oh yeah, oh yeah, I am a bad ass mother fucker like you, oh yeah.

There, another weak letter for your weak dad.

P.S. By the way Jason, Rule of Hitler for you --- Never, Never apologize for anything --- you will appear weak. There are other rules from Hitler, but I think you know them all.

Jason Scott! The way you are going about this is wrong. Turn, turn, turn around, please Son. With all facetiousness aside, I do love you, but I will not put up with your bull-shit. There is another better way. Be a real man and take it! I do want a relationship with you, but ONLY if you do not lecture me or interrupt me. Otherwise forget it! Touche.

Dad.

Jason, you will keep getting this letter in various forms until I know you have gotten to this line. Respond how you will, but you will fucking read this letter!”

The beautiful words of a Mormon prophet. I love how he has confused my sister with someone named Rozana. Also, Richard – if you are going to say “touché” please make sure that you use an accent mark. Otherwise, it just looks like you are calling yourself a douche and you just spelled it wrong. Patrons of the Press, please be advised that my father is an expert on Nazism too. So, just in case you were wondering – his new book, The Rules of Hitler will be coming to a LDS bookstore not-so-close to you. Also, I will open the comment section back up if you would like to enlighten us on what antimorg means. Thank you, senor. You are the greatest. One more thing, the universe will have to bring judgment on my ass – there is no “our ass”, never was really. Sorry about the suburban though. Let me get this straight – you are calling me an asshole, right? Got it. Shit, one more thing – this is all so good. Are you threatening to stab me or shoot me?

After all, you do love me, right? Thanks, Dad. Just keep my wife and daughter’s name out of your righteous mouth – and you sir, you turn the fuck around and leave us alone. Or “our ass” is going to have a big problem. Forget it (Take that, you big sexy Man of God, you. "I got three bishops removed. I really matter. I really matter.")

This really is embarrasing though. You guys just need to fucking not talk to me. How much bullshit and interrupting do I have to do for you to leave me alone.

Green Lights,

Jason Fresh

fauxpaspress@yahoo.com

The Faux Pas Press #41: The Coward

2010-07-02T20:42:00.001-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #41

The Coward

By Jason Fresh

02 JULY 2010

Does it feel good
to be a coward?

Yes, of course.

Does it feel good to be the crucified
Jason for your family to worship?

No – no it does not.

Because I
deserve better,
don’t I?
“We are all praying for you
and we all want the
best for you.”

Really?

When the best
is according to you.

What they don’t tell you
before you’re born
is that you will be
hated.

What they don’t tell you
before they curse you
is that they are done,
elated,
to crown and
thorn you.

When you’re broken inside,
when all you’ve tried has been
laughed away,
when all who’ve claimed
to love you
got nothings spray,
and a list of
bad tidings to send
you’re way –
become a coward,
run away,
and they will find
you and
burn you someday.

Just try to
send ideas our there.
For example,
say you know people
that you don’t really know,
say you know
a little troll woman
that looks like a goat,
that has been
tattered and torn,
maybe decides to gloat
about things you
don’t really care about.
You will probably
need to run away from her.

I know.

You’ll want to pretend
that you’re tough
and give her your energy.

But don’t.

Just live your life.
Just live your life.
Shed them all off
when you must or
they will drag you down.

And build
what you want
to build.

Spend time with the friends with a higher yield.

Just run and live.

What they don’t know
is that you have all the cards.
What they don’t is that you are better equipped.
What they don’t is that you can sneek up
on them whenever you want.
What they don’t know about
you will keep them up at night,
wondering when you’ll come,
when you come in from the bush,
out from the Middle East or
Bhutan or Bangladesh
They won’t know about all the
“things”
you’ve learned.

So, they will leave you alone.

Won’t they? Forever. Won’t they?

or Indonesia
or Texas
or Arizona

How does it feel to be a coward?

Really good - if I do say.

The Faux Pas Press #40: The Jail Cell of Maribel Sandoval

2010-06-29T13:49:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #40

29 June 2010

The Jail Cell of Maribel Sandoval

By

Jason
Fresh

Copyright. Faux Pas Press, dba.
A division of American Sigil, Inc.

Light shines on only one square in the prison cell of Maribel Sandoval. She hovers over food served on a plastic trey, sitting in the cramped corner closest to 2’ by 2’ square of light, a square projected through a proportional window pane like a black movie screen. There is no movie to watch now.

Before, she ran around town seeking thrills, wondering from pub to pub, club to club, searching for the next great event. Before, she planned out an evening based data gathered from a game show audience she called “friends”. She planned her life based on the promptings of others, curious, always curious as to how it would end – the story written by God. “How are you guys? What are ya’ll up to tonight? Are ya‘ll going to Level 4?”

Maribel Sandoval was informed and interested. Parents called her on regular basis to check up. A mother called her to discuss the prospects. But there are no prospects in the jail cell of Maribel Sandoval. In truth, there are just as many as there were before. Cold floors where not what she was used going to college in Texas. Desolate features of a prison cell are similar to the sterile look of dorm room walls, the open, plastic finish of industrial-style tile, and a sink that girls could pee in – only if they were too tired to use the head down the corridor. These were all traits of a cell she could make her own. The only difference is that this cell would not have as many solutions. Yes, as she hovers over the plastic tray, reminiscent of those plastic industrial-style tiles, she thinks about her lot, wondering as she pokes at rehydrated potatoes why she is being punished by the Fury. “Did I speak too quickly or too forcefully?” she questions herself, the type of question that a crazy person employs, perhaps to mask an delusion, an ingrained, historic, gradual process of washing ones sins away.

Maribel could not be punished in a more suitable way. This cell is a place that the Fury created for individuals who do harm, use, and enslave others without acknowledging their wrongs. This sad truth is that he, the Fury, can keep the swiftly-aging Maribel Sandoval in this cell for as long it takes. An even more devastating truth is that the key to her freedom is not a golden piece of metal forged by a little Chinese man locked away in a closet. No, the key is a simple admission of guilt. She had pledged herself to the Fury before, but she had to go and fuck a Hollywood celebrity and pretend that she didn’t. This is just like little Robbie Hubbard, tattooing crosses on his body like a badge of courage or righteousness. Well, his cell is right down the hall. Yes, the Fury keeps all of the deceivers right here, right here at the WEST END of the FOLD IN THE FABRIC OF NIGHT. I guess the question we must ask ourselves, the patrons of the Faux Pas Press is: what is virtue? What will happen to the enemies of the Fury? This is a laughable question to me, but I have to ask. I’m the Keeper of the Fold. That is my honorable title. Not like the Fishers of Men on Earth. Yes, virtue here is wickedness there. Funny isn’t it? A pity

The prison cell of Maribel Sandoval can be destroyed whenever she wants it destroyed. She could be released and go on to create life and live it in whatever way suits her. But she will most likely just sit there, rotting away, staring at rehydrated mashed potatoes and a plastic trey, reminiscent of the industrial-style tile at a redneck college just North of Austin. What a pity!

The Faux Pas Press #39: Tragedy Meets Ebony Siemens

2010-06-29T09:30:00.000-07:00

28 June 2010

The Faux Pas Press #39

Tragedy Meets Ebony Siemens

a poem

By

Jason Fresh

Copyright. Faux Pas Press, dba.
A division of American Sigil, Inc.

fauxpaspress@yahoo.com

She clapped her hands,
her hands
like golden rubber bands
clapped
and a smile melted
up her dirty cheeks,
showing us all
just how weak
a freak
Ebony Siemens
really, truly is.

She met a boy,
an unshaven boy
from the free state of Virginia
who she thought was a toy,
a manufactured ploy,
like her father used to employ,
a boy toy,
for her golden rubber band hands
to enjoy,
showing the news,
about her exit-stage left cues,
what a bitch of an actress
wannabe are you,
Ebony Siemens,

The fantastic bitch whore
who took my help
for granted,
all the drunken hours
that she looked at me
and panted
like whispering horse-woman,
like a crooked-eyed,
Ella Enchanted.
Oh, shit –
How hilarious is your tragedy,
your party stained wit.

Well, you fucked
a few of my friends,
jumped in the car,
uninvited like an emotional
and psychological welfare case.
I had to turn down
the factory stereo with
an excuse for good bass,
look at your ugly face,
and smell the night before,
the smelly trace
of booze, brews,
tobacco, and the losers
at that dumb Irish Pub,
the one with that idiot
boyfriend that you
now like to hug.

What will be saddest,
saddest and most pathetic
about your
final curtain call,
you last recall,
your journey through
Summer only to meet
the Fall,
What will be funniest
about your tragedy is that
I will not give you an ounce,
not one ounce of pity,
will not apologize.
I will say,
“I told you so.”
Yep, that is your fate.
“I told you so.”

After the message
that I sold to both
of you,
the pizza we shared,
the council I graced
you with,
the hours I spent listening
to your dumb complaints.
Shame on me
because I wasted breath,
I wasted
precious moments
listening to you.
You laugh at my jokes,
my shoulders you’ve rubbed,
now that little grey-haired
22 year-old is your hub.
Who in their right
fucking mind would want
to join your
wasted life of a club.

You fail all your tests
because that is what you do.
You didn’t finish college
because you failed
those tests too.

What a ape you are
who is going to spend
the residual of her life
melting away in a bar.

Yes, tragedy has befallen
Ebony Siemens,
the crooked piece of
smelly problems
on psychotic meds.

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!!!!

Oh, I’m so done with you.

The Faux Pas Press #38: The Banishing of Clyde McGoo

2010-06-26T19:58:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #38

The Banishing of
Clyde McGoo

28 June 2010

By Jason Fresh

For all the finger-pointing
that can
possibly be done.

For all the injustice
to which you’ve clung.

I have a word or two
that I would like to say to you.
There is a place in hell
you’ve created,
a lowland in which you stew,
there was a child forsaken
that you
once knew.
I, Jason Fresh,
exercise myself of
that crew,
putting on silver buttons
to go and potluck with the gluttons,
to rock the chairs of Timbuktu,
and emancipate myself from you.

The hurt you’ve done yourself,
no, the hurt
you’ve done me.
yes, no apologies,
we, myself and Lucifer,
we emancipate ourselves
from you,
the man who deserves all
that he has coming to him.

You’ve promised several
golden promises
that never came to pass
so let me drink them
with my morning sassafras.

You’ve promised
karate lessons,
and paid-for educations,
no reward for the kid in masturbations,
you’ve promised and squandered
the inheritance
due to me,
you’ve brought curse,
after curse,
after curse,
upon we,
the Lucifer and me,
so now we curse you
Clyde McGoo.

You and Douche Bic Poo.

So, the story goes
for all the sorrowful bros,
all the brothers of the
salamander spread.
Just vengeance.
I feel not
so sorry for you now.

The excuse of
life that you live.

The collection of
hours, loveless hours,
no company,
fat wives,
two fat wives.

I’ve asked
to be left alone.
Once,
Twice,
Thrice,
the next time
you will be
diced to size,
If I have sinned it is
in granting forgiveness
to the undeserving,
yes,
I am emancipated
from you,
you disastrous damned
Clyde McGoo.

I lay a curse now.
A tool that I don’t
readily employ.
But I warn you.
If you don’t disappear,
it will be your end,
from
the rooftops
you’ll be hung
with gross JJ,
the smelly wench,
with
Fatty Walt
and his lunatic friends,
with sad, sad
Midge,
and the turkey woman,
Fatty Joe,
and Fatty Roz.
The barrel
of Mossberg
awaits.

As I belong to those
who sometimes
masturbate,
I’ll bring your head
back to the red queen
on a red fucking
plate,
and lay Midge down
on a bridge
from a ridge
with broken
milk crates.

A father does
what he says
but you’re going
to Utah to wait,
not hell,
hell would
be too nice
a place,
for one who has all your traits.
Dropped from a
rooftop of tears
where you can rot with
Joseph Smith.
I'll be at the intersection
of Wonderland and Haight.

Here is the end of
everything I want
to say to you.
If you bother me
in open space,
I will ask you to stop,
then I will
destroy you.
Yes, you,
Midge,
the Douche Bic Poo,
yes,
you are destroyed Clyde McGoo.
Because it is I who destroyed you.

You can not right the wrongs now.

You are destroyed.

Death to all psychic vampires who have annoyed.

Oh, the left-handed path,
holy cow!!

The weak are not blessed.

The Faux Pas Press #37: Can't Be Good

2010-06-26T19:31:00.000-07:00

The Faux Pas Press #37

27 June 2010

Can’t Be Good

By Jason Fresh

Have you watched those hording shows? You ever think about people in the third world? You think they have a hoarding problem in Bangladesh? Oh, how hilarious is this?

People with compulsive hording disorder are a product, a product of consumerism gone completely array. This can’t be good, if good can be ascribed to either situation – not enough or too much. Bangladesh Man is not concerned about acquiring goods, he is not concerned about expressing himself through a catalog order, not concerned about what he is going to get for the holidays. You think he hoards?

He is not worried about being buried alive. He is concerned about eating. Oh, this can’t be a good sign of the times. I think I’ll laugh myself into a coma and wake up when the coast is clear, wake up when all the hoarders in America are buried alive. Oh, this is fucking hilarious.

fauxpaspress@yahoo.com

www.fauxpaspress.com