February 26, 2012
Ron Jude “emmett”

I don’t see the past when I look at these photographs. I see freedom, youth, maybe, an energy around these pictures, taken about my age, I feel a connection; there is no nostalgia, I feel no nostalgia — some sentimentalism, again, but a living sentiment: “The past did not exist at all. Not even at all,” or, rather, the American, “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” 

There is a jolt the viewer should feel of self-creation, the desire to, like The Band, in the basement, find history and sing it out across the American landscape with its mountains and rivers… and the myth of the lone man driving across forgotten roads, re-writing his past with every second, or third, glance. 

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Filed under: Jack Jean Photo Upstate NY Book 
February 26, 2012
Porches “Scrap And Love Songs Revisited”

"July 16th, 2:19 PM, Lady Asks Us For A Head Shop In Pleasantville, Outside Dragon Fly Cafe…"

Lying on couches in the august golden sun with a girl already gone. If we were smoking, it would shimmer. A hazy memory. Songs & pieces of words can make sentimental images. A nostalgic presence bursts—beers on sunlit roof & on porches. “Scraps And Love Songs Revisited” sitting on the cold ground in the morning sun, with headphones, listen & seeing two red cardinals. If I still smoked cigarettes, now would be a good time. Life is too short the water & the dirt become mud.

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February 26, 2012
The First Issue - Sunday, February 26, 2012

"I’ll be careful not to read between the lines
& I promise to never grow so old again.”

Filed under: Jack Jean Introduction 
February 26, 2012
Screaming Females “It All Means Nothing”

"I’m on a mission to smash the mirror."

The Judgement of Reflection And The Perceived Value (“It All Means Nothing”)

All shredded into the broken glass & spread out. “Do I like this song?” Show me what you’re worth (“A broken hand”).  Sometimes, this song sounds like a thousand shards of glass being thrown around — if only so that the singer can show she can stand in it. “I want to buy everything that you sell.” It’s as if she doesn’t always want you to hear everything she is saying. She twists words around words, bending her voice to be close to incomprehensible at one moment, and then a phrase sticks out & into you, gone before you know. 

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February 26, 2012
Sex Cult “Plain Jane”

Easing into insanity, forcefully. Madness, or trying to be mad. Buzzing with intent and intensity. “She got nothing to hide.” Who was she? “I remember Plain Jane, she had everything.” Oh, yeah. “I remember Jane.” Slippery slope theory, not beginning or ending fast enough. “What’s wrong with Jane?” Stand up for your shit, son. Rock & roll blast. Anger and energy contained in a glass jar of some swirling mess. Over before it began. Ex-cult, not sex, no real sex.

Filed under: Jack Jean Music Song Tennessee 
February 26, 2012
Useless Eaters “The Moves”

Trying really hard to be hard. Like electronic, known & automated. Not “auto”-matic. Fading into sun set, maybe it never started. “Take Some Action,” he says but I don’t know how much he means it “you got the moves,” yeah, you got the moves, You Got The Look, I don’t know, man. 

Live show had the energy, moves, but had to keep pressed against the wall because who knows what else is out there? Scared? Heavy garage. Out the door, sneaking, dark nights, “it’s getting hard to be more realistic because everybody is so futuristic.” Yes, but then should we just keep our selves in a box because it is easier to understand, or what? Rejected, stoned & dethroned, fast times.

February 26, 2012
Mikal Cronin “Mikal Cronin”

Things falling apart, slowly and barely noticeable, but once you notice, clearly, indefinably slipping away until its in pieces, in different times, splitting, but without disrupting the play until it all dissolves into laughter. Oh, comedy & fun, where have you gone running off to and why can’t you sit down and talk with sadness more often, with tragedy and just get along? Humor can be slight and draw you in closer. “Is it all right?” Alright. 

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February 26, 2012
Mad Men Season One

And then Bob Dylan’s voice drops in like a nuclear fucking bomb, drink yr whisky and water, drink your whisky & water, everybody will be ok, somehow, no wonder why, don’t think twice, it’s alrite. Man, I just don’t know, really, if it’s alright. He says the things that just sit on the line of being true, eternally, maybe, but I usually think twice, at least.

I can only give you my heart, my soul’s too hard to find, to give up… whisky blood buzz Ohio, “I owe money to the money I owe.” Goddamn, Stephen Shore, WIlliam Eggleston, color & January Jones just losing it, silently. The greatest sin is when we refuse to speak, hiding all the terrible things we think every secret wells up, ready to burst, sometimes it does— but, lord, why do it got to stay under the surface, still? And I know, it would be horrible, just terrible if it were to break, but god, how far can we go like this, not talking, not wanting to explode, letting ourselves act out, do what we want. We are a country build upon men, afraid; to look at themselves, afraid; to look at their wrongdoings, afraid; to look at their women, afraid and, fuck, we are sad about it, always.

"Why don’t you make something of yourself?" Make something up, tell the world your story, but it’s there, my friend, still itching to get out — a moment or two of sentimentality will ruin you, blow your cover. Because what happens when we take off the mask? Another mask? Take it off, too. I don’t care, no, no, no, play the fucking game RIGHT.  If you don’t, the games gettin’ ruined. So what? Will we lose? What will we lose? At most, our lives. What we thought it once was, maybe, maybe, at least, at least. God, "the universe is indifferent. (Man, why did you have to say that?)" Why didn’t you just keep quiet what everybody knows, thinks, feels, why even say it? Just to see what it feels like, don’t be cracks, that’s it, don’t be cracks, crazy, you know, that’ll throw everything goes, gone, no — nothing just goes, we will watch ourselves crumble. We could only pray of the greatest fears we wish we could have. If it causes, pain, well it must. I don’t know how else, a little pain usually… the world is a rough place, but it’s all we got. You can make a new man, yes, but a whole new world? Leave it to the movies, kid. Whaddya think, it all comes together like that? Just like that. Just like… THAT!  No, son, you make it, sell it, market it, and at the end of the day, hell, it’s fucking yours. 

"Why won’t you let me have this job? I want it, I deserve it.
-Pete Campbell

"Why, because your parents are rich?" 
-Don Draper

"Lean my head on the hood of your car. I take it too far. I still owe money to the money to the money I owe. I never thought about love when I thought about home…"

"What kind of man are you?"
"I’m on a bloodbuzz, God I AM, I’m on a bloodbuzz."
"You don’t want to run away with me, you just want to run away."

And it ends, again. We are on the roads outside Brooklyn, in Queens, on the Expressway. I’m goin’ home.

—These wars will come back to kill you, “I’m too tired to drown…” — I am an American man, why would you want to be something like that? It’s not about want, it’s about what I am, not desire, it’s fuckin’ destiny, damnit. I’m not losing my brain. Getting tired to save anything — I won’t run — “We’ve got another thing coming undone.” Honey, I don’t know what you think… I think we’re all hoping for a flood, get us out of this life we’ve been handed, scared to stand up and say I am what I am, it’s the unclarity, the bleeding, we desire to be opened up and searched, what secrets could we hide? What past must we run from? Look at history and flow, flowers, & floods. 

"Loose lips sink ships." Cross the ocean & find paradise open arms & confidence, a woman to pour your soul shitty thoughts into, like a movie, break up, water, wonder, "Who cares? This country was build upon worse stories that you couldn’t imagine." "You got yr whole life ahead of you. Forget about that boy in the box." Oh, carousel by Kodak, Faulkner, Yeats, John Cheever. 

Nostalgia means “pain from old wound.” The inescapable, irreplaceable, irreparable fact that we are alone, so very alone. “I don’t even think to write directions,” or “make corrections.” 

"Leave your home, change your name…"

"A man is whatever room he is in,"

"Though the waters are rising, still no surprising you…"

The room is the train… “Man, it’s all been forgiven, the swans are a swimming…”

A whisper, a whimper, really, and it starts over. Nothing ends. But clothes tear, skin rips, blood spills, eyes tear, we lose, always, we lose something, sacrifice or offering, what gods other than the monsters that rage inside? That we hide, in the closets, those “monsters” who could birth, who could create, who could play, with a friend, a game, that would save us, be free, of guilt, of sin, no longer trapped by fears and desires you can’t control. A dream, a television show, a movie. 

Good luck. 

Filed under: Jack Jean Television NYC 
February 26, 2012
Cymbals Eat Guitars “Why There Are Mountains” Side Two

"This Record Is Dedicated To The Memory of Benjamin Whibley High…"

Spaces of golden fuzzed summer’s gone haze. “Tell me this is we need fighting for.” Woods behind parking lots, sun glistenings through windows on car roofs, tiny voices pillaging around the trees like rabbits, “when the police bring me in… I’ll tell them this is what we need secrets…” 

Kingston, NY, by the Hudson River where we threw a glass, half a soul and turned back, towards a world that comes out of the cracks — it’s Death looking for us from the rattlesnake speedways to the New Jersey dreams, land & hopes of fear and desire. No one is innocent in a town like Twin Peaks. Judgements by the hand of man to man, “dark matter was illuminated.”

A mystical expression of life between death expanded to see those little burns, cuts, nicks, bruises, pores exploded, ah the teeth — shattered, the pebble ground hidden, now. We turn to spring, and dance! Horns announce the fall of Jericho, but my walls still stand so far I can see. “exotic vision… decked out in IKEA finery.” 

My proper name, say it right. The rivers, mountains, of this album traces the blood of American hands, across weed enhanced around-the-edges glow. Claustrophobic in the back of a car, pillows and a girl on my lap, baby. Maybe a dog in the back seat, too. If I am up against a wall, I’m pushing, and then walkin’ around, don’t want to get too tired. 

"In the last moments… I could have never have dreamed of being responsible."  Watching the death of a loved one, writes Lester Bangs, might be easier than seeing them young and in love, knowing you will never have them. But time goes and goes, Mr. Bangs, smoke the first cigarette of your life on Death Row, waiting for the chair. Couches and wind, scraps of words of memories like Grady Tripp’s second novel disappearing out a car window while somebody — Tobey Macguire, or Iron Man, or Katie Holmes, watch — like the ashes of Steve Buschemi flying back onto Jeff Bridges. It’s the last picture, the Last Picture Show, where sex is on top of the surface, or it tries to be there, returning to a world where all was supposedly hidden and re-playing its guilt, devastating the spaces it has build up to see what it feels like, re-casting the shadows to turn the eyes — How do you know if you’ve gone too far? How do you? "See Jane passed away the first time in June, last time last night in Warren… like blood does from faucets in pitch black bathrooms during adolescent summoning rituals." Start becoming a man.

February 26, 2012
Van Morrison “Astral Weeks” Side One

"If I venture into the slipstream between the viaducts of your dream…"
Would you kiss-a-my eye
lay me down in silence
easy to be born again..”

Reflections off of record players, purple & yellow & green, Reflections — not Judgements ”to be born again… I’m standing in your silence, trying to do my very best, looking straight at you, coming through, darlin… to be born again… in another world, darlin, another time. ain’t nothing but a stranger in this world. in another land, so far away, we up in heaven…” 

Slidin’ up there possessed with a fear so strong, desire to fall, bounding step across clouds, lookin’ to the sun and sweat, bouncing light, capturing the un-seeable glow — across fields of green — fog & rain. Typewriter clanking, til broken keys spit out half-cut up words, “every scrap book stuck with glue and i’ll stand beside you.”

"Oh, child, to never never wonder why love, it’s got to be, it has to be, way across the country where hillside, dynamo, barefoot virgin child, go along, past silent easy high on you high-flying cloud as ecstasy surrounds you, this time it’s found you and  I’m beside you, to never never wonder why, no.

— Marks & gestures across pages meaning — nothing? I’m all alone — No, there’s a man next to me, on a mountain, make — forcing me off, it’s all a dream…

"I will never grow so old again, I will walk & talk in gardens all wet with rain, Sweet thing. Visionary bottles with unconscious prisons, singing princess vision, "I shall drag my chariot," open yr throat and spill yr golden virgin blood will I come back to earth, though, pained? but the moment is wroth it, to read and be read, woken up and sleeping. my, oh my "I will raise my hands up in the night-time sky, the stars that shine — not to wonder. I will be satisfied not to read between the lines; I will never ever grow so old again… sweet thing, oh, oh, oh, sugar baby, sweet thing."

Kiss me close to the edge of the world, with yr champagne eyes. Scraps, printed on index cards, trying to catch the wind between the words and let it fly, across Cypress Avenue and “in a car seat, nothing I can do… I may go crazy before that mansion on the hill.” Climbing mountains & rivers, American Kids, Runaway Dreams, Fires in the backyard of my heart, stolen memory, but every time I try to speak my tongue gets tied, my inside shakes like a leaf on a tree.

"Walk down that railroad with my cherry, cherry wine. Lonesome Indian," Love in Vain, Rainbow Ribbons, caught against blue bright sky, up on Cypress Avenue, a mind in Chinatown, that last picture will be captured in a car seat lookin’ straight at you way up in heaven. Leading me into the end, through the darkness door, so young and glow, life knows no bounds like this one, fast and buildings after buildings… All gone, shuts off and the words become marks on paper, pen, in hands, dreams, visions, dance on the plane, ink dripped blood, lust, love, mist.

There’s a bunch of soldiers coming over here. Ah, there just kids.