STUDIO AUDIENCE

materializating the potential of all those people in the back of your skull

[mystudioaudience-blog]

In A Similar Vain

I’m eating appetizers, all in color, at a dimly lit atery of the company I work for. A local chain in Denver, Colorado of proper popularity and this was the restaurant of the most pomp and class; a wine menu some five pages long all from far away exotic places. Expensive, too. I think it’s best I don’t state the name of the restaurant at this time. That would be in bad taste.

The lighting is at base a golden yellow with orange bulbs lining the bar and most of the space. An intimitate touch, and the only cautionary in the orange is to remind you to remain self conscious and up your own ass. That’s only a theory, I think mostly it’s to fill the shimmer of sensation that you’re dining with those of a nocturnal elegance, when really it’s only 6 o’clock in the evening. That’s barely dinner. 

The place smells at default, I analyze. I can’t describe it in full, I’m bad at scents unless they’re potent to the point where I can see them, but the music is of an ambient funk so that’s reminder of smell enough. I relate it to the stemless glasses of red wine and ladies dancing to African Heat in a boldly decorated dining room nibbling on triscuits and expensive cheese.

And in a completely different way but in a similar vein I think of the word “FUNK”, the imagery of skate punks or those dreaded Napoleons with bad teeth and no fingernails bitter with flat footed Vans wreaking havoc over their prescription medication and bondering over their jam bands and love of the color purple, bobbing their snapbacks disrespectively. 

Why do these things relate you ask? I don’t know either. I don’t really care, because all I’m thinking about is the fact that I ordered a Chinese BBQ Pork Belly and was handed a tiny cube of meat with a leaf of cilantro on top and an “orange” sauce which didn’t taste orange-like at all, it just looked like Hershey’s syrup or the aggressive dihearea of this clearly anorexic pig. But HEY! it’s on a giant plate in comparison that casts very slight shadows on every edge because of it’s subtle curvature. It was so fucking fabulous it pissed me off. 

And granted, I only paid 3 dollars, actually half that with my discount, for this midget rubik’s cube but ordering anything in the category of red meat you expect something of some density. I think more than anything I didn’t know how to eat it. I can only imagine what people thought about me as I sat there poking at it with a butter knife and fork wondering if it would start moving on the plate. It shredded like paper to the touch so I must’ve HAD to eat it whole. I bit into it, finally, and in fact it was absolutely delicious. It reminded me of my old man’s crockpot growing up, so I don’t know. at least I tasted that. 

(to working)

[mystudioaudience-blog]

Black Ice

baby ohh

these sanctions got me covered in snow

this poem - a new winter written a long time ago -

not the fresh and white and dribbling

snow, fiddling around like kids on

the ground,

no! its more than that -- it's the smell of

burnt engine when i flick my Teggy on low,

it's more shivering than that. it's the snow

on the banks of parking lots and street

intersections black like lungs on a man

with sticks to cover you in a conversational

smog, or even, a glow.

in the clutter let me know,

crimson red to indigo.

i've got all the whistles to blow,

ayo ayo with locks of matted hair

or he with a snapback and his middle

finger in the air. he's got all the answers

there? baby ohhh, baby i doubt it ohhh,

i smell the tree in the Beemer where

minds were fucked and cocks clucked,

the black little tree, Black Ice reminds

me.

don’t slip, never slip on ice,

not there not here in Colorado

i turned the page but creased it at the bind

which is no way to live, some told me so.

i scrap with unease, boxing with a question mark.

in the ring!

heavy weight champions of woe, how the Earth doesn't

stop. i'm running on sentences and walking

on streets to address the queries that make

my body ache and skin break out. The wreckage of

bites in the drunkest of nights -- Matches with

questions aren't really fair fights.  

[mystudioaudience-blog]

edits

something shaping.

a lot of shaping, more than i think. there’s some new ranges to move into here.

but not too much.

[mystudioaudience-blog]

nothing love, nothing is missin that should be there nothing is wrong here everything is delighted with belief, i swear (at Winchester, Virginia)

[mystudioaudience-blog]

IT begged you to question but it never bothered hearing the answer. that's what made it so special, so bold. that, in and of itself made It through the sirens of uncertainty. #sirens upon sirens of external dependencies in the form of #unknown nightstands, tokes decaying lungs and vibrations of screens. welcome mats and #exit signs were all the same. It could come and go as It pleased but really never bothered. It really never bothered. no one could help it take form because it knew #form, it knew shape and balance and #structure. It just explicitly desired an endless flow of greetings and goodbyes that never got cold. It always kept in #mind though, where the door was. it would always advise 'don't ever forget where the door is.' #okayimdone #fornow #contemplative #problems #poetry #coolinit (at Charlottesville, Virginia)

[mystudioaudience-blog]

SOCIOPUNK

an exploration of identity cultivating millennial mentalities, demographic awareness, and empathetic reasoning. Generally speaking, this prototype is probably early to mid 20's, though not unlikely appropriated by those coming into their 30's. They have an enlightened understanding of territorial boundaries which could be threatening to those of elder generations but they do not inflict or act upon judgement as it is not reflective of the cosmic purpose or the wisdom of Time. However, do not be alarmed, as they might have a side swiping sense of humor still pointed at one's neurosis, but it is not psychoanalysis as they act as mirrors of one's anxieties, typically because it is reflective of their own. Call them bipolar and they will eat you. "Punk" to the extent of musical inspiration perhaps, but dig with skeptical eyes as this being probably has a thirst for deeper subjective truth and a well established intuition of marginalization in American society. Or with further exploration (which is likely of this sub-species) of other cultural differentials. You might note an attitude problem, but of course, they are swimming thru their own memory searching for that ultimate sense of self that inevitably exists. In a socioeconomic pickle, and while aware of demographics still frustrated by them. they are inspired by literature, visual arts, and the sociological lense noting carefully the enigmatic nature of their youth. A soul of multitude and spacial awareness, appreciating individualized relationships, and what may be perceived as repression is more than likely a frontal lobe rehabilitation. Communication is not foreign to them, and they are not stupid, they simply feel it should be furthered by creative uses of body and motivations. Do not fear them, they are inherently kind. They don't give a shit what you think, but very much care how. Liberal, you might think, but binaries are still misrepresented in their bustling brain cells. Black, brown, and irregular shades of blue and green.

[mystudioaudience-blog]

just a thought or several: my creativity is a self blown balloon, trapped air. and people have been a common theme before the pop. #6am #thought #imgoingtobednow #leeches #illfigureitout #illfollowback but not too close

[mystudioaudience-blog]

More or probably Less

I saw something neat today, and I was alone. I wonder through my contacts hoping someone at such a ridiculous hour will explore with me the unusual beauty of what I'm seeing. And yet... It is not going to be seen, by other than me. And maybe it's not that unusual, but it's mine to be, god damn it. And I guess that's where the God and the gremlin somehow find peace.

[mystudioaudience-blog]

Bar Bitch

Exploring the inevitable, I rock the potions in my flask. 

I get to a point of visualization where I can almost hear the whistles and lines they picked up from there favorite TV personalities and otherwise. I adjust my attention quickly after that acknowledgement. Whatever there is to know about them after that is up to other bodies of association who may or may not “mutual” that of my own. And then I look around at the ice filled glasses, some drank-most drunk. I grabbed them, halfhearted, with a tingle of confession.

 The smell was Red Bull and pheromones. The taste was sweat, the sound was adrenaline, and the sight was exhausting. 

Water drips through fresh glasses and social classes onto my black shirt that reads "I’m a piece of the staff". The piece in the background sifting through the crowd, sharpening a pose for every familiar face (pong for the rest). The piece running up and down the stairs of the back kitchen, throbbing for a purpose, with six packs of Bud Light and a mental image of myself in a suit and tie, for whatever that means. The piece, observing electric birds singing midnight songs, prosthetic wings flying to the next distraction; another lemon drop into hotslop. 

I pull sweaty high balls from the drying rack and place them back in the ring. I imagined all of the patrons pressed against the bar, each a different stage of intoxicated, as a bunch of seals. They were all seals arf arfing for the bartender’s to throw them a fish. They would wave there hands in the air screaming my name, hoping that because they knew it, they would be closer to grabbing the next block of attention passed out by the zookeepers. 

They never actually got those respects, but entitlement is one of Man’s mating calls.  

You could add color to the waters and assume my observations are motivationally drowning me but I assure you, my reasons are safe with me. I’m relatively unenthused by the Phastbar Philosophy and keeping up with it’s speed. But the night will always wrap up, and I will be released into mopping the sticky nights of their ceremonious booty calls, cleansing the floors of their guilt as if I’m the Father on the other side of the wall. That, even, is glorifying my position, but whatever gets me through. And all of this is done because of money. Yes, money. Yes, I see dollars signs in the vomit on the bathroom floor, and the dollar signs in every stumbling drunk looking for their company. Could I be an opportunist? Is this crapitalist noise blurring my humanity? No, I don't think so. But it's nice being able to drive myself from A to B. It's nice eating a loaded burrito between shifts, and grabbing a drink with a friend, bitching about all of this in a bar.

[mystudioaudience-blog]

Earthworm

[ Somerset, PA on the first of March, 2016 ]

 Please pardon my body parts, i’m a little shy 

the flowing of my jaw, my chiseled hair 

but you probably can’t observe the twitching in my eye --

please pardon me, as you inch closer to my toenail,

i’m a little shy.

           I count every anxiety derailing my worth, the ones

           only seen through the lense of my telescope and

           oh no! the stars are drowning!

           drowning if you couldn't tell!

but who am I to judge the intuition of a worm?

removed from the soil, slugging across cement

swollen and phallic.

[mystudioaudience-blog]

so mirrors give you an idea, but they don't give you any dimension. which is a well known concept by now, but still I surrender my curiosity to man's first reflection. I find it very uncomfortable, however, to reflect when I see my own reflection. I guess that's not here nor there, it's entirely and completely somewhere else by this point. Onto the next.

[mystudioaudience-blog]

brought to you by

this may or may not be the love child of a bourbon fueled conversation and a thick cloud of smoke; the clacking of pool balls and the tapping of shot glasses. i’m sure you’ve been to a place like this where the energy and presentation of the people is usually punk rock and PTSD. i sat with a friend and we split a cigarette and she told me about “blogging.” 

*TO BLOG* or to be *A BLOGGER* i rang alone in my head for a moment. 

i've heard about it and dabbled with it, after all i am a 21st century twenty-something, so i wanted to give it a real shot, with or without the whiskey. it’s weird what happens to a writer’s brain when they aren’t writing. the lonely loner becomes nothing but a decapitated ink pen (or keyboard, to be technical).

i must ring in a dose of self doubt, however, i’m not quite sure what to say. i’m a pretty standard American prototype: possibly unattainable goals, lower middle class ambition, and a McDouble. i take horrible care of my health and i’ve got so many self improvement goals that i end up just watching reruns of Roseanne. (it reminds me of my midwestern family and i love that nostalgia), filmed in front of a live studio audience. 

my friend, the tall and slender Indian girl from suburban Virginia, enlightened me on the liberating qualities of blogging. she blogs mostly for a class which in her description i gathered a good amount of inspiration. she says there’s a lot of free writing that can go into it. i do like a good free write, don’t get me wrong, but in the same frame, i’m a heavy over-thinker. i’ve been called indecisive, but i reject that label. i prefer over decisive. 

i know this all sounds very void of emotion, but i assure you, i am excited to explore this form of self expression. it seems somewhat fitting for whatever my personality and philosophy is at the moment. join me in this if you’re so inclined. i’d like an audience beyond myself and my thought processes. i’ve got some tricks of my sleeve and some entertainment in my reality. 

distract yourself from mortality with me, won’t you? 

Alexander Mark Sigafoose