Monday, December 20, 2010

in response to "the voice of the heart"

This is a reply I got from Noah, in regards to my last written post. It's really very beautiful. It implies that my thoughts and feelings of a quiet, peaceful heart is in fact hogwash and the heart has no centre, no constraints and perhaps, if physically possible it would burst outside of one's ribcage and explode all over this side of the earth's face. It's a much more violent (in the best way possible) and ardent view. I have no intention of proving anyone wrong on their take on the heart or spirituality or lack their of, etc. I think that Noah must be highly tolerant and personally, if I possessed this view I may very well go insane. Forgive me Noah... and thank-you.

Blogger Noah said...

nah. don't believe it for a second. all that being in control, remembering the essence of your life, etc. is just some bullshit that middle management wants us to keep swallowing so we can love our prison cells and our wardens. way i see it, your heart is a beast that does the best it can to put up with the shocks of life. and the shocks keep coming. keeping your perspective is a good thing, but your perspective will never be reality, because we're all just monkeys with big prefrontal cortexes. sure, we can think and love and scream and bake a cake and wiggle our toes, but we have no centre, except in people's perceptions and memories, which are always fucked. that centre was cut out of all of us when we were born. it's an expanding universe, more chaotic, more complex, and there's no escape - your heart isn't a metronome, it's a blind, hurt and angry bull with a borrowed drumkit. and yeah, sometimes the bull calms down a bit and even smiles and starts grooving on an idea. but he's no more in control than a battery's in

but i don't mind if you prove me wrong, i don't mind at all.

December 16, 2010 1:48 AM

This actually reminds me a lot of this song by Danger Mouse and Sparklehorse feat. Iggy Pop off the Dark Night of the Soul album. A VERY good one. If you haven't yet claimed it, I highly, highly recommend.

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

the growlers

check out this band.

the voice of the heart.

Why is the voice of the heart a mere whisper while the voice of your head is shouting; constantly, insistently. Your head is forever jumping all over your heart (and always on behalf of your ego.) I think that the heart's voice is so quiet because it is calm and still. It has no reason to make a scene. It's more than content to keep doing what it's doing and it's up to you to shut your head up and listen. It's like the Leonard Cohen concert I saw recently at Hanging Rock. My first reaction was to turn up the volume up ten-fold but as he continued to play I began to appreciate the subtlety. It forced the 12,000 spectators to shut up and listen. To be still.

I've always been told that I follow my heart too much... That I let my emotions get the best of me. I can't argue with this. I have been known to let my emotions engulf any rumour of rationality that I may possess at any one time. People would say, "you're not called Sunni Hart for nothing," when they really meant, "you're a fucking crazy bitch." Today I've come to realise that it isn't my heart that causes this at all. It's easy to mistake "feelings" as characteristics of the heart but it is in fact your head that tells you that you're losing, whether it's an argument or your grasp on life. It's your head that is seduced by the exterior "things" that effect your ego and make you mad or sad or disappointed or whatever. To listen to your heart is to be still and in control. To keep your perspective on it all and to remember that something good has happened to you at a point before this bad one, and will again in the very near future. Your heart is your metronome. Keep in time, don't loose control, listen to the beat. Remember the essence of you and of life. Nobody and no thing should knock that beat out of time.

More on that later...

4th January 2011.

I realise now that this perspective is a very small part of what the heart is. In the time of writing it I was trying to embrace these raw emotions of hurt and also try to understand somebody else's behaviour. In that vain, it makes sense to put it down to ego...the head, but it is also self-seeking. It does not encapsulate the entire arena of the hearts abilities, however. The heart can rage and scream and be euphoric. It can be overwhelmingly loud. We've all experienced this. Perhaps it happens when you aren't competing with the white noise of the world. When you're away from the traffic and the buildings and the other players in the game. When the world is quiet, your head has no reason to yell and your heart can sing. 

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Things slowly curve out of sight
Until they are gone
Afterwards, only the curve remains.

-Richard Brautigan
I just want to tell you, that I've always loved you
I just want to tell you, that I've always loved you

I just want to tell you, that I've always missed you
I just want to tell you, that I've always missed you

When the sun don't shine, you aren't mine
When the sun don't shine, you aren't mine, mine, mine

Monday, November 29, 2010

jukebox cruci-fix

by patti smith

[from CREEM, June 1975]
I was at this party but nothing was happening at all, a lot of chicks were leaning over a pale neon wurlitzer jukebox. the way dead voice boxes rolled up it came on like a coffin. it was the kind of party to leave behind. 8 millimeter footage of Jimi Hendrix jacking his strat. girls sobbing and measuring the spaces between his fingers. I went out in the hallway and stood there drinking a glass of tea. "riders on the storm" was rolling from a local transistor. the boy slipped on some soap and the radio fell in the bathtub. I gulped my tea too fast and some of it went up my nose it made me choke and stammer and my lungs started pumping like erratic water wings . . .

I woke up and the room was gone the radio was playing "riders on the storm" and the dj cut in and said that Jim Morrison was dead. I reached over for my air rifle and took shaky aim. ducks with musical notes etched in their little wax skulls were revolving on the ceiling. Camus said that it's death which give gambling and heroism their true meaning. but me I prefer another french saying -- better a live scoundrel than a dead miracle. I kicked the shit outa the radio and when looking for a heavy handed game of chance. local bingo -- fascination -- or when the chips are down handle some poker . . .

Johnny Ace was cool he came east from texas to knock "just a dream" off the charts with "pledging my love." "dream" was tender but who could imagine humping it up to Jimmy Clanton? all the girls would oil their nylons when Johnny came to town. white girls. there were no black girls in the fifties. flashes of pony tail hair. girls with chiffon triangles tied tight around their hot soft throats. girls with flesh like wonder bread. and Johnny Ace sang for them. a hero with no R & B no spanish blood no sweat. ballads tender as boston lettuce, more soft spots than a baby's head. until he pushed his own finger in. one christmas eve the black velvet Sinatra was a little long backstage. Ace was playing solitaire. he took a 45 calibre outa his tux rolled the barrel like his own hit record and blew his brains out.

some say Vladimir Mayakovski was the first rock n roll star. russian poet adolescent anarchist handsome 22 years old rushing the streets howling blue face. a guy with huge piano teeth and a marshall amp installed in his chest. he was always crashing church meets bars parties pool halls. were there pool halls in russia? who knows. but if there were he hit them all. he was the seven feet tall poet bully with the amazing megaphone mouth. did god know about revolution rhythm of the painful promise of a poem? well Mayakovski knew and thousands of kids rocked in russian behind him.

until one mornin while the crowds were waiting our hero was penning his last booming aria; "me and life are quits" he write. and like our own Johnny Ace he held the wild card. he put on a clean shirt swaggered to the window maybe glanced in the mirror russia's Marlon Brando cocked the lever pulled the trigger and blew his heart out. russian lit was in the red. the funeral was like after the pop festival. you know -- those last shots of monterey -- no sound -- minds blown. all the women wore black cloaks. russia was a rainy nunnery. cause Mayakovski -- a god unto himself to say nothing of his fans -- had pulled the rug from his own life.

you take a chance when you put your stakes on somebody else. like a horse race it often pays but sooner or later you're gonna be left standing in the rain. genius is meant to peak and pull out or be wiped out permanently. we is a fickle lot. the champ ain't champ unless he keeps on winning. the minute some flash knocks him outa the ring or outa the charts he's thru. like pabst beer says "ya don't get the blue ribbon for being second."

see it's like this. first let me move outa metaphor. there was no poker game I'm lousy at cards. there was the dream though and I got splattered. we been creamed up the ass since Buddy Holly Kennedy. platinum porches miniature airplanes switchblades poisons saturday night specials motorcycles hypodermics pills thrills old fords. ever see Jackson Pollock in motion. that bull ballet and dipping blue poles. premeditation was his action he didn't believe in accidents. his blood spattered like his own pain cause like most heroes he was a crazy driver. it's okay though it was the rules of an old game. and me I got to admit I like the photographs. the twisted steel the outstretched hand the broken neck of a fender. the instant replay of Lee Harvey Oswald getting dead live on television. they were the assassinating rhythms of our generation.

but rhythms like rules shift. something new is coming down and we got to be alert to feel it happening. something new and totally ecstatic. the politics of ecstasy move all around me. I refuse to believe Hendrix had the last possessed hand that Joplin had the last drunken throat that Morrison had the last enlightened mind. they didn't slip their skins and split forever for us to hibernate in posthumous jukeboxes.

they are gone and we're still moving. I went to Jim Morrison's grave and there was nothing. a dirt site in section 6. I sat like some jack ass sobbing in the mud all alone in paris when there is so much work to do so much flesh to consume. there is nothing there -- not headstone no vibration no flowers no feeling. just a little plastic plaque with the word AMI friend the only thing Jim Morrison ever wanted.

I went to paris to exorcise some demons. some kind of dread I harbored of moving forward. I went with this poetic conceit that we would meet in some melody hovering over his grave. but there was nothing. it was pouring rain and I sat there trying to conjure up some kind of grief or madness. I remembered this dream I had. I came in a clearing and saw a man on a marble slab. it was Morrison and he was human. but his wings were merging with the marble. he was struggling to get free but like Prometheus freedom was beyond him.

I sat there for a couple hours. I was covering with mud and afraid to move. then it was all over. it just didn't matter anymore. racing thru my skull were new plans new dreams voyages symphonies colors. I just wanted to get the hell outa there and go home and do my own work. to focus my floodlight on the rhythm within. I straightened my skirt and said good-bye to him. an old woman in black spoke to me in broken english. look at this grave how sad! why do you americans not honor your poets?

my mind moved before my mouth. I finished the dream. the stone dissolved and he flew away. I brushed the feathers off my raincoat and answered:

because we don't look back.

Copyright © Patti Smith 1975

Sunday, November 28, 2010



Wowzers. So this caught me slightly off-guard! I listened to this for the first time last night on vinyl without even being aware of it's release and god damn, there's no denying, I love this band for everything that they are. This E.P, apparently released with a hand written note from (baby baby baby) Christopher Owens is a thank-you to listeners for the past year of Girls mania in which the San-Fran duo have sky-rocketed. While insisting that his band's latest isn't the sound of them "all grown up," he described the six songs enclosed as a "LETTER OF INTENT," a "SNAPSHOT OF THE HORIZON," and a "step up" from its predecessor. I'm really very impressed. The hand-made production values of Album have vanished which would usually be a let down for me, however, it has made way for the devastation and yearning in Owen's voice and the curvy, power-licks of Chet "JR" White's guitar to really shine through. My highlight is psychedelic closing track "Carolina" which is the closest they've come to sonically unveiling the many highs that they've been known to romanticise. Enjoy. 

Tuesday, November 23, 2010


This little Brooklyn outfit is not slacking around when it comes to being AWESOME!


Alright so, by no fault of my own (imagine if I actually tried!) little shits and pieces are happening all over this world wide web that I've been lending my (slender) hand to. So, as a result, I'm going to vowel to be good at this thing. Keep it up to date! current! NOW! So that the few of you that do meander this way every now and then will not be disappointed.  If I do happen to let you down (it's to be expected) you can come over this way and see if there's not something that grabs you:

I only have to write this so it's been said. Then at least I'll feel guilty when I'm not doing it and that's something, right?

Sunday, November 14, 2010

...and loves are like empires: when the idea that they are founded on crumbles, they, too, fade away.

-Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Sunday, November 7, 2010


I wish I could make the background of this particular blog because I'd really like what I'm about to say to illuminated in a pearly white font... Unfortunately I don't possess sweet interneting skills and as such, it's just going to be just how it usually is. 

Check out this little 3 piece made up of type a astro babes:

and while you're at it, swing by keys fiddler Cass' sweet photograpghy website:

That's all! x

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

home sweet home.

Richard Alpert, who took the spiritual name of Ram Dass after his conversion experience in India, was born in Boston, MA on April 6, 1931 at 10:40 A.M. according to his birth certificate. As discussed in the article on Applewhite, Ram Dass shares a cardinal cross with the rest of the cohort born in that year. Instead of having close to a “natural” zodiac like Applewhite, Ram Dass has most of his occupied signs in houses that create natural squares. That is, his Aries factors are in the Capricorn house, his Taurus factors in the Aquarius house, etc. Such combinations intensify the potential for conflict, but Ram Dass seems to have managed to handle the conflict reasonably well most of the time.

Following his acceptance of a Hindu guru, Ram Dass became a guru himself for the counter culture of the 1960s. He reportedly struggled with relationship issues, including sex, alternating between celibacy and bisexuality. Pluto’s conjunction with his Ascendant for many years of his life highlights the potential for tension. The first house calls for freedom while Pluto shows the desire for a mate. The first house seeks spontaneous action but Pluto demands inner analysis prior to action. Free self-expression confronts self-knowledge and self-mastery. The Aries emphasis, especially the tight Sun-Uranus conjunction in the sign, reinforces the urge to be both free and unique, not bound by cultural conventions in love (the Sun), close relationships (the lunar node), or career (the tenth house). Juno (the marriage asteroid) opposite Ceres (the parent asteroid) square Vesta in 6th house (the details of the job) and Jupiter in the 12th house (the search for the Absolute) repeat the theme of tension between the areas of home/family, career, and idealism.

Since both the first house and Pluto show a desire for personal control, when we add the stellium in Aries in the tenth house, the squares from the first house to the tenth house, and from Aries to Saturn in its own sign, the power issue is a major statement in the chart. The issue of self-will meeting the limits of self-will is as strong as I have ever seen it, but in the case of Ram Dass, he seems to have focused totally on personal freedom, resisting any control by others while avoiding trying to control anyone else. I suspect that many if not most individuals with such an intense power issue have had periods of trying to control others in order to assure their own freedom. The first house Mars adds to the emphasis on personal freedom, in addition to the Moon in Sagittarius and Venus (pleasure) in the house of Sagittarius. Sagittarius also reinforces the idealism, while Sagittarius in the 6th house and a Pisces MC connect it to the work. It is an appropriate chart for an unconventional guru, with the trine of Mercury to Neptune (shared by Applewhite and Jim Jones) testifying to the creative imagination and persuasive ability. As usual, the extra asteroids provide icing on the cake. Richard, the personal name asteroid for Ram Dass, is in 21 Pisces in the 9th house closely conjunct Urania for the unconventional spirituality and Icarus for the possibility of overdoing it.

like the look of you
moving easily in the street
stopping to notice the clouds
the flowers
the cut-price clothes

in store windows;
eyes slipping stealthily sideways
to catch your own image in the windows
as you pass

to make sure you look
as good as you feel.

i noticed you yesterday
and a time or two before that
but then
i was in a haste
doing my thing
and you just flashed into my mind and vision
looking GOOD

but today
you look good
and available.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Print is not dead, it's just having it out with a cheeseburger (a piece I wrote for Spook mag.)

We Homo sapiens are living in an age of technology in which we need not do much to obtain the things we want. A report released last year by researchers at Stanford University in California suggests that we spend 90% of our day staring at glowing rectangles. Everything we need to know is just at the tip of our fingers, in front of our eyes on the rectangle screen. News headlines break as they happen and who needs WHO’s pap snaps when you can watch a live streamed video of Lindsay Lohan sobbing tears of filth in court. Lusciously convenient and conveniently accessible. Because of it we have come to like things simple, to the point, on demand. It’s brilliant! It’s undeniable. It’s a cheeseburger.

I know for a fact that you’re just like me; you don’t care for cheeseburgers all the time. You sit and read this magazine in which you happily and willingly spent your money on taking pride in the fact that you enjoy the real things in life. The things you can touch and appreciate for the layout or the stock or the independent mindset that embodies print publishing. Now stop for a minute and reach for the oldest book you have access to. Pick it up, smell the pages, realise the importance of what you hold in your hands.  It’s alive and it’s breathing with you. Reflect on Sunday mornings with a newspaper, ink-stained fingers and coffee stained pages, being read to as a child, or the first time you ever connected with that one writer who has effected you right up until now (eg. Wilde, Thomas, Blighton.)

Call me a romantic but I for one, do not see how such moments will ever die. It’s in the spirit of nostalgia and integrity that print publishing will achieve longevity and it’s up to you and I to keep the flame alive. Let the masses have cheeseburgers! That’s what they’re there for. Treat yourself every now and then if you must. Let your eyes linger over the shiny screen, in that standard Internet tangent where too much is possible and hours seem like minutes. It’s what we have become and that’s okay. Do remember however, that we are also a passionate race. We are human for a reason. We make love and we fight and we create and invent and fall over in fits of laughter and tears. When we're punched in the face, it hurts. You gettin' me?

I’m currently reading Woody Guthrie’s autobiography Bound for Glory. It transports me to a world of a life under the big sky, train hopping, brawling, singing to make a dime. I can’t imagine turning to a blog to understand a generation past. Or to a website to read rich and colourful storytelling. To open a book is to enter into another time and space different from our own but where we can still exist if we only let ourselves. To open a website is look at a subject through a wall of wires. It’s uninvolved and informative and thoroughly entertaining (no doubt.) There is no question that an independent paper could ever compete with the Internet for breaking news headlines but it’s an independent paper that can deliver insightful, creative coverage, independent in its mindset. Emotive, thought out, virtuous. Let us not forget, however to take the time to reconnect with what makes us human in the first place. Print is not dead, print will never die. Print is alive and well and existing with utter integrity as a testament to what we as a race, a species and conscience.  

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Karen Dalton

How is it that this only just came into my life? I'd like to make a special shout out to Max Turner for opening my ears and heart. I'm a changed woman. This is mother earth.

Monday, September 27, 2010

Sunday, September 12, 2010


Poor Lazarus/Dig Lazarus

This is a follow up to the earlier Guthrie and Cave post a few weeks back. I think someone my have a little influence on his sleeve...

and before all that, there was this...

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Heartbreak Hotel

Photographer- Abby Varney
Stylist- Sunni Hart
Model-Miranda Sharpe
Creative directors- Abbie Davis&Dominique Chaleyer