Random Acts of Literature

The Walk

noreply@blogger.com (John Eightclip) — Sat, 26 Apr 2008 05:55:00 +0000

(This is an older piece I just came across. As July inches nearer it reminds me of a place I love.)

The door swings open and my eyes are blinded with the first blast of sunshine into the room. The morning is warm with a light summer breeze. It’s as if the sun has been up for hours but it is only 9:00 a.m. I left the house and my eyes began to focus on my destination. Only a block away, but just on the horizon I can see what appears to be the end of the earth. There are a few clouds in the air, just a little of what’s left from the early morning’s fog. The smell of salt water comes and goes with each gust of air. A smell so pungent you can taste it on your tongue. My barefoot feet start to sting from the heating pavement, so I walk on the grass. I can feel the blades mix with small amounts of sand between my toes. The walk is physically short, but this morning it feels like it takes all day. I can hear the roar of the ocean coming closer with each step, yet I can’t see the water. I’m only a few feet from the sand, but I haven’t touched the beach. There are a few short cement steps up and I’ve arrived. The beach has been warmed from the early morning sun. The sea breeze slaps me in the face while I sink into the grains of sand. My feet cool, slightly buried beneath the surface while I squint my eyes towards the water. The sun reflects off the calm ocean like a mirror. The waves are breaking right on the beach, and a few children frolic in the breakers. I pause and soak in the morning sunshine, with a view so serene that even the tight muscles in my back relax for a moment. I breathe the clean ocean air, a refreshing change from what my body is used to. My eyes pan the horizon and peer down the beach. Lifeguards prepare for a long days work, and a few beachgoers set up for their day spent at the beach. Everything turns to slow motion and a bead of sweat materializes on my forehead. I can feel it drip down my face realizing the sun has become quite hot. I shed my clothing, and dash for the ocean and just before I hit the break. I realize that this is exactly what it would be like living here in paradise.

The Calling (unused lyrical content)

noreply@blogger.com (John Eightclip) — Sat, 15 Mar 2008 22:44:00 +0000

The laughs the screams
I wouldn’t give it up for anything
It’s 4:00 a.m. and we still haven’t slept
But when we get to town we just have to eat
3 days straight with minimal sleep

And only friends are waiting
300 miles away
The lines shoot past
Like the years of my life

I’m 24 years old and feel 16 was yesterday
The sunrise was great
But the Montana sky has got it beat
Even if the shows are bad
You know we’ll tear the place in two
Because tomorrow night we’ll be heading home
Sweat stained shirts, dirty shoes
Fucking fast food, broken strings, tired dudes, littered van, same old tunes.

Is there a bed at your house?
Because wood floors are way too cold
But if that’s it, it’ll have to do
We had pizza last night
But we’re there again
And I still can’t find my shoes
It’s a 13-hour drive and no ones slept
Who’s got the bad shift?

Bugs on the windshield
Gas in the tank
I could ask for more
Just don’t take me home
I hate the road, but love the tour.

Banks

noreply@blogger.com (Annie Saunders) — Mon, 03 Mar 2008 22:20:00 +0000

South, West, Left, First National.
Also the children from Mary Poppins, I recall:
Jane and Michael.
An allusion to the profession of the father,
Absent, invisible behind the thick stone walls.
Meaning shoring up, storing up, standing forth, keeping safe.
Protecting.
What would she do, that mockingbird magician, for these other Banks, the ones of the stern BBC broadcast?
Left. World. South. West.
Also meaning edge, perimeter, threshold.
Crossing.
If you don’t scold or dominate us, we will never give you cause to hate us
Their torn appeals reborn in the fireplace coals, mended by her hands
Must be kind and must be witty/very sweet and very pretty
Her carpetbag big enough to pack away all their adolescent wars;
Jane, Michael, World, West.
Banks.
And for each, a silver spoonful of crystal-white sugar
To help the medicine go down.

Prologue Last Show Journal

noreply@blogger.com (John Eightclip) — Thu, 20 Dec 2007 19:26:00 +0000

"This personifies our time in hardcore. The singer, although the center of the band, the main focus, is yet a small part of what actually makes hardcore special. In fact, the five people on stage playing music are actually the audience viewing the spectacular events of what is a hardcore show. They are but only a small part of what makes hardcore so incredible. The juxtaposition of singer against the rest of the audience, and the interchanging roles between band and crowd, singer and hardcore kid, musician, and vocalist."

and.then.there.were.none.

noreply@blogger.com (Annie Saunders) — Sat, 17 Nov 2007 16:41:00 +0000

'in the beginning,' the poem goes, 'you do whatever you can to survive.' i can never remember the rest of the poem. it is, in that way, a 'random act of literature.' because the thing with this site, right, (rhyme) is that i am hesitant to put anything on it that is not random or literary. this is a difficult criteria to stick to. to which to stick. that is. one example of a random act of literature is like this line above, i feel, a line of prose that disconnects from its context and referents and lodges itself firmly in the memory, or more appropriately floats freely in the synapse field, flashing and fading intermittently. 'in the beginning, you do whatever you can to survive.'

here's a little story all about how

noreply@blogger.com (Annie Saunders) — Wed, 14 Nov 2007 14:26:00 +0000

once, maybe even today, there was this dude. eightclip was his name. he lived on a corner where freaky shit went down. maybe not so far from your house. so he recorded these and other phenomena on blogs. one day, not today, or yesterday, or the day before that, he set up this blog for me and him to post stuff on. literature. or whatever. for a time, all was well. then our friend eightclip got a little antsy. in his pantsy. he got a little itchy. and a little twitchy. and he decided to tell me a little story. and the story was all like,

"There was a time a long long long time ago. When we ran a blog together, called "Random Acts Of Literature". It died though, because there was only one person posting to it."

to which i sweetly replied, 'aw hell naw. i hella just posted. it's on, eightclip. on. bring it.'

Worse Off

noreply@blogger.com (John Eightclip) — Wed, 07 Nov 2007 23:40:00 +0000

The sun has burnt into the sea
And day falls to dormant night
And cities lights,
They start burning bright

The summer city turns cold
And unwelcome clouds make me feel old

The cities largest monuments,
Stand reaching towards the sky
And half is lost
Amongst the fog
As the scrapers stretch so high

Fall intoxicated by the smell of the night,
And sounds of the simmering city
For the day boiled over, hours ago.
And the night brings of subdued pity

It feels the pain of the millions of souls
And its wretched movement shows
Straight posture askew
It hears the cries of
Hungry people you never knew.

Forget for a minute your worst dealt hand
And think of the pains of a few
For all the hurt that you may feel
There’s likely someone worse off than you.

Time Isn't On My Side

noreply@blogger.com (John Eightclip) — Tue, 06 Nov 2007 18:40:00 +0000

"Time is on my side, yes it is.

Go ahead, go ahead and light up the town
And baby, do everything your heart desires
Remember, I'll always be around."

by Jerry Ragovoy

Such a lie. It seems like I have NO time. NO time at all, and some of the people around me (i.e. class mates) seem to think that all we have is time to waste, time to spend, time to kill.

I have none of this right now. I have other shit I'd rather be, should be, and am not doing.

Archive: Untitled

noreply@blogger.com (John Eightclip) — Mon, 05 Nov 2007 22:17:00 +0000

This is an old one i found in Allegiance Tour Diary notebooks.

Untitled
My expectations of kids with broken dreams
has finally been brought to its knees.

I've been witness to things
that kids like me
should never see.

Yet we're still living our lives
stuck in the same old closed mind.
Attempting to be ourselves,
and create an identity
amongst these violent times.

One Hour and Fourty Two

noreply@blogger.com (John Eightclip) — Mon, 05 Nov 2007 22:01:00 +0000

I played for thirty minutes with this phone,
attempting to kill the time.
And for thirty more,
I watched as the clouds moved across the sky.

I walked for five,
around this room.
Spent eight in line,
then ordered in one or two.

Sat and consumed for twelve,
then digested for a few.
wasted four or five without anything to do.

And the last seven?
I just sat in silence,
alone, no thoughts.
Just waiting here for you.

Hey: A Response

noreply@blogger.com (Annie Saunders) — Tue, 30 Oct 2007 19:03:00 +0000

seriously? you used to deliver Christmas trees?

He delivered Christmas trees
Santa said he was the bees knees
Eightclip with your headlights bright
Off to chop my pines tonight

ho
ho
ho

hum

Hey...

noreply@blogger.com (John Eightclip) — Mon, 29 Oct 2007 22:50:00 +0000

What do you do? Do you dig ditches? Do you make coffee? Do you work in an office? Do you wire cable? Do you network computers? Do you deliver newspapers? Do you intern at a company downtown? Do you sell clothes? Do you sell and deliver Christmas tree's? Do you intern at a film studio? Do you still go to school? Do you sell old records and shirts on the internet? Do you make corporate video's?

I get paid to make bands look good... But I've done those other things...

I'd like to try and be a short order cook... just to try.

Thought.: A Retrospective

noreply@blogger.com (John Eightclip) — Mon, 29 Oct 2007 22:16:00 +0000

Blog. She's right you know... Its ugly and it keeps those who would normally love the "Blog" experience from enjoying it.0 This is just yet another example of where those without verbal creativity have defined a new word for the English language. Created and coined by the type of person who is probably most unqualified to do so. Thats how we get "Blog", which seeps into our world, and infests the smallest factions of our feeble lives. Until there are doctors and lawyers, CEO's of Fortune 500 companies, and most of all news reporters all participating in... The Blog.

Worse yet, it has started to become common practice that some news reporting information comes from... Thats right. Blogs. So while you sit there thinking that "Blogs" are a worthless bits of information about someone else's life... Think about the social ramifications of the word that is so ugly it makes you think of nothing but Star Trek and fireplaces. Think about the countless thoughts and idea's that come through the mind then die right there, and think about the time, effort, and clever insight that can be shared just through expression of thoughts and idea's over this information superhighway. Then think about the how the blog and this technology has changed the world.

Well maybe your right, most of it is probably just useless information about someone else's life.

Thought.

noreply@blogger.com (Annie Saunders) — Sun, 28 Oct 2007 22:30:00 +0000

Blog. The phonetic ugliness of the word has long hindered me in beginning to do so. Also the grammatic slipperyness, just exemplified, of this icky-sounding verb/noun. Like bog. Or worse still, jog. Derived from web-log, understandably, but personally I would have preferred e-log, somehow more elegant, like elongate, or in fact something without log altogether, a word so strangely reminiscent of Star Trek and fireplaces.

Haiku for J. Eightclip (with silent syllable)

noreply@blogger.com (Annie Saunders) — Fri, 26 Oct 2007 18:41:00 +0000

Random wordplay still
Becomes enough to bind us
Across six thousand. (miles)

In The End

noreply@blogger.com (John Eightclip) — Wed, 24 Oct 2007 18:59:00 +0000

I suppose it was true, because what everyone said
was the choice you made in the end.
and if this is how its going to be, then it'll have to do.
but I will say good bye to this, just like I have said it to you.