BETWEEN OUR PERIODICAL TOUR UPDATES I WILL BE POSTING EXCERPTS FROM A WORK I PRODUCED :

                  Mysteries of the Planet Kürr:
An Introduction to the Customs and People of the 8th planet
            Orbiting the Great Star (Betelgeuse)

Each post dedicated to this spanning reflection of on our history will be labeled "Manifesto" 1,2,3, and 4. 

The Tour Continues

We landed in Savannah and last night, Charleston. We got paid money for those gigs, about 300 dollars for each. Savannah was nice, but with the exception of Addie, I have a hard time communicating with people there. The past tours, both times at the breakfast table the morning after the show, I was silent. The girls and even the guys seem unreachable by conventional means, like they are faraway and I have to strain my voice and brain and expressions to make noises and interact. Nothing I say makes them laugh, even the go-to anecdotes that I recycle sometimes, the real quality ones. Nice people. Against my calls they're equipped with supernatural ear muffs. And I'm not talking about flirting. Just typical speech. Everything else is great though. The tree limbs are hung with green ornaments, long drab green moss; the trees have scarves on them and they hang into the street and you can touch them as you walk underneath. The people dance at our shows; they support us, provide us with good beer and good accommodations. All any band could ask for. But speaking for myself - still, there remains a devil between us.



 My recent bed time habits might have something to do with a pocketed away, dangerous loneliness. In regards to v day, Brett expressed a weak disappointment with his current circumstances - like when I mentioned I had forgotten that we were playing that very hallowed day he said "fuck that, depressing," but with no force. He presented the words with an effort close to a sigh. I countered. I said I was glad some fattened bitch wasn't at my throat, Marshall! Get me some flowers and some chocolates with little nuts in the center! I'm mean and getting fatter - - - some strawberry flavored ones!  

As the night wore on and I reflect on my behavior today, the bed ritual makes sense. I hit on some girl the entire band had already taken some sort of pass at. She was really friendly, a friend of a friend. And she was already with someone. I persevered. Shameful actions - ruinous, offensive, and senseless behavior, all because a void in my brain wants my arms to encircle something soft that loves me; a hole dwells there between my two hands and shoulders, cavernous. Likewise, in my brain a sink hole continues to widen. Just now, it became apparent to me why I do it. I can't go to sleep in my own bed without an extra pillow to hold onto. I must have one to doze off. I must. No need to explain that symbol. It rings true and my hypothesis has been drafted and the tour continues, miles of driving.

Tour #1 - Faulty Drainage

For some reason, every place we've stayed in has faulty drainage. Throughout every shower my feet have waded in a cesspool of my own body garbage, so that by the end, the cleanliness of my feet is questionable. Afterwards, I scrub the bottoms and tops of my feet clean. Sometimes I add an antiseptic. In New Orleans, we observed a neighborhood parade, a brass and wind and percussion band. Later, we were served by a transexual mexican waitress for hire, decked with large breasts and a collar that disguised her male neck. She was a great waitress. 

I've been a lonely bug in a big barren wilderness. The people are dry. They come and go. Chris Darden set up a lot in Charleston. Kendelle might not be so complicated, but more a desperate and kind soul lost in unfortunate consequences, which have nothing to do with that soul. A good one. 

In Atlanta, the doorman almost kicked me out. He claimed that planets were defined by their gravitational attraction. Only that. Magma cores had no significance. I disagreed. The theory of relativity tells us that any object pierces a unique portion of space time, a disruption: so that anyone's comb, perhaps their swimming pool pulls on a faraway nova and expands and stars and even the dying ones long ago extinct and black in black space erodes some dip in space time--- That is gravity. He disagreed. The three hundred pound islander sat up in a frenzy---he threatened to kick me out of the place. Of course, I had three Sparks in the car. Things were fine. Nevertheless, I was concerned. This large man thought anything with gravity must be orbited. Foolish. A thong panty or a bird's guano is so much a gravitational force. (Though negligible beside the rotating mass of earth and jupiter and objects floating from time and place and universe throughout time.)

And tonight, in battle with another band, a weak force. The weakest triumphed. They played late. It's a late town. 

I got a group of love letters from a girl I loved. What a woman. Then again. I read the passages steph wrote and never sent: beautiful things; she is a great writer, I never gave her that big compliment. But oh she is my love and I can't wait to return to watch a bloody movie and have decent beers and love each other once again, tenderly and light, light of being. 

Many more women will come, each will a distinct spark like they were the first ones. And all of them I will cherish in their singular noise, their air of that night.

I can love all of them, but none like Kelly, who anywhere will be her beautiful self, believing, at least to me. 

And the lady in New York, a columbia woman, good and right like clean soil, the heat that I need and I want. I can't wait. My greensboro Woman.

The Making of Space Punk Starlet Featurette

This video was created by Todd Wiseman of Wiseman design. Contact him and hire him.

Photo Journal: The Tour So Far