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Showing posts from February 5, 2006

Evening For Bianca

(© 2004, Scott A. Josephson. All rights reserved.)


Carried across a soundless, mediocre caressed Friday evening rushes a young man hurried -- brown-tinted glasses slightly stained, loose fitting slacks a light blue denim, caramel overcoat slung over left arm, then right arm, then flailing upwards, destined toward near reaches of the high 40s, where stood a rainbow sherbet scooped fantasy itself wrought in the infinitely colored passions of the once impossible -- an image of myself, able-bodied pedestrian striding streetcorners at galloped cavalier pace, brilliant boyish eyes ashimmer, young ever still in frightening shine -- remnants of these 24 years aching, wrinklelessness revolving over the terrible melting that is youth waxing.

There awaited, slumped she, in beautiful languish -- form fitting top matching jet black hair, skirt aflow -- captured not in landscaped Italia, skyscraped metropolita -- not Milano nor Firenze, Napoli, even Roma Almighty. She the 1940s, the 1990s, bl…

An Open Letter of Gratitute to Dave Matthews

Dear Dave,

As a fairly intelligent, sober representative of teenagers and twentysomethings from every corner of American suburbia, let me say thank you. This is not nearly another fan letter where I'm going to gush and relive how "Lover Lay Down" was sprinkled in the background when I lost my virginity in the backseat of a Chevrolet at the age of 16, or how your live performances inspire me to find the cure for AIDS.

Instead, I express the gratitute of millions of youngsters across this mighty nuclear nation, for crafting a soundtrack to which we can screw. I know, crass it as it may sound, even you cannot deny the impact of your tunes and how you have worked with your fellow bandmates, lifelong chum, and talented producers to refine a sound that is, essentially, fuck rock.

You have filled our childhood bedrooms and our cars, our not-so-nearby arenas, and our headphones with tunes that make us want to get downright freaky; many interpret your lyrics as a call to drugs, that…

Blog Changes Welcome!


So, if anyone would like to be made an administrator, let me know.

The way we ran things on cyberpols was that anyone could add whatever they liked. If you want to delete, ask the group. If you want to change the template (look and feel) of the site, go for it, but save the XML from the previous. If anyone has a strong objection to the new look, we go back.

Right now, me 'n' Scott are admins. Let me know if you want to be (it means you can change stuff around, basically).

I just picked this template for the heck of it; I don't mind, for my part, any change.

Also, just to be clear, just cuz I started this doesn't make it "mine" -- it's ours.

So, rock on. Like all the activity!

Mourning For Bianca

(© 2004, Scott A. Josephson. All rights reserved.)


There sat we beneath the canopy of tented table, enclosed and sheathed by white linen, sharing weighty words five years in the making, or perhaps five years ago. This felt unlike Manhattan or 2004 or even Spring. It was simply time together and that's all it should ever be.

Shoes removed, inhibitions lost; a prix fixe menu with prices meaningless, detaching ourselves from any external world -- the anxiety band subsuming my mind for 6 months previous, melting in the proximity of this woman with whom I, perched on Egyptian couch, tiny table, a boundless feast of conversation, beautiful eyes, and long hair (I still love long hair), shared every ounce of the essence of my being.

Simon and Garfunkel's music never made more sense than tonight. Not when writing DM, not when cavorting across Washington Square Park (when dreams were youth and disappointment present but still able to be overcome), or alone on icy January night, closin…

An Ode to Tarnopol

(© 2004, Scott A. Josephson. All rights reserved.)

"It all changed when The Beatles recorded 'Rain'," offered the man who cooked me dinner -- who, since I started working a full-time job, I have considered my sage.

Pour another trothful of wine -- better yet fill my glass halfway, otherwise I will spit to spill volumes characteristic.

Nestled we were in mile-long suburbs, sprouting train stations across lush, tree-stretching swamplands -- there eternal shared a man and a woman and a newly 25-year old boy, one duplex, voter registration, raw fish weekend loaded down in nostalgia burdened not by the weight broken by a thousand iconic Helens of Troy, or Flemington, as it were.

Hearken a time in my life when my friends were still in college, my cynicism less dry, my eyelids torrential less dry -- East Village emptiness, ice walks slippery -- bound West for A, C, E train and West 4th and the gaping disappointment that would be the Summer of 2001, despite the light illuminatio…

A Cup of Tea

One could write a poem about drinking tea.
About drinking tea and looking into the reflection.

"Drink away my friend," I say.

I wait a bit longer.

And I look a bit closer.

A nose slowly in focus. Shadows the highs and lows of a contrasted detail.
Then an eye. All seeing?

On the brink of time-space, images curve
A mouth, neck and motion the warp. The nose reaches the other end of my universe.
Shaking, vibrating, pulsing pores. It could be horrid or beautiful. Frightening?

"What you see is who you are," my friend whispers, "Drink away."

And I drink. I drink every last drop till the cup bleeds no more.
Because I like my Fruit and Almond tea.

But it's just a cup of tea

I just scribbled this down about two minutes ago. I actually had these thoughts while drinking a cup of tea. I've meant it to be like drinking my reflection, "myself" as society and even I see myself ("What you see is who you are."). At the same time, the p…

Thoughts: An essay of music and the world's functions

In this essay, I imagine meeting Charlie Parker, one of the Jazz Giants for Bebop. One of the metaphors lies in the fact that it doesn't make sense until after the first couple of reads.

*Hint: If you get flustered or annoyed, just realize that you're an example of the people in history that have come after the creation itself.

PS: This isn't exactly a final draft. So, if anyone's got suggestions, please feel free to criticize.

Directions: Just Read It Like There’s Music In Between The LinesIt’s the nonsensical matters.That’s what they are.The balls dropping, plank bounces, plop on pot.Rebound, swirl, land.They make that sexy double entendre of jazz different for everyone.Beautiful?Nah, better.We know that.Can’t you feel it?Fike n’ pop da yah WAM!Yea, that was Max Roach; his drum sticks are magic guns on the pickup.Russell, Gillespie, Haig and Bird join in.A Night In Tunisia.Nobody can miss it.Now, you might ask, “What the hell are you talking about?”I’m talking about…