Box of Paper

Friday night at the office, work has technically been over for hours and yet I compulsively reorganize every inch of the small room which acts as my base of operations during the daytime hours. It’s not that this space had been all that dirty, it’s just at the beginning stages of “cluttered”. The problem with that is really just a personal preference being made to feel negated, but there’s never any time to focus on such an insignificant task. Everything else is so important; the comfort of things being in order can always wait.

Rolling Dice Occupancy

The house next to mine was vacant for over a year, or so I was told when I bought mine in December. Our casual acquaintance across the street says that she’s heard about how the inside is pretty trashed. The owner Round-Up’s the grounds and hacks the boca villa plant to a 24” tall tangle of bare branches. Do we plant a series of our own along the west side of the backyard? Our current boundary is a short chain link fence, and potential conversation may be all too inviting. You never know what you are going to get, at least not until it is too late.

Nursery Ride

We arrive with a short list consisting of organic soil and a plant or two, but leave with a wealth of agricultural knowledge that slowly fades from my own mind as Patty and I head back home. It’s not that it went in one ear and out the other, and not even so much that I’m in a daze – hardly awake at all. When someone is so knowledgeable and legitimately interested in whatever it is that they do with their time, I seem to focus more on an appreciation of their particular world. In this case, our golf cart ride around the premises was just as much a guided tour of potential projects of our own as it was an opportunity for this specific employee to share his own accomplishments and passions. And besides, there’s always something rewarding about scooting across a few acres in a gold cart, isn’t there? Fill yourself up with such joy, and it’s hard to pay attention.

Jpg Deletion

An unintentional nudge towards a significant vacation from working on mail-order at home, the “photo thread” on the “record dork” message board prompts the posting of Samson on my bed, surrounded by unorganized tapes. Spending much time on such unproductive actions is irritating to me, and I obviously was not devoting full attention to what I was doing. This is how an image of my cat and some cassettes instantaneously erases three quarters of the website for my record label, as all html files aside from the “about” page must have been high-lighted as she made her way onto the internet. There’s no undo in a situation like this, just a new found freedom in the evenings (at least for the time being).

Burrito Friday

A morale booster can come in many form, but the weekly trip to Salsita’s kills two birds with one stone. In addition to “something to look forward to”, as to suggest that Fridays are just a bit more casual because we are all consuming various ingredients inside 18” tortillas, this ordeal prompts me to address something else, a deficit, of my own.

Constantly answering questions about which meats are better with the same series of vague answers (seeing as I don’t eat any meat at all), making sure no one is looked past (even if they never want one), dealing with mixed up orders and the pursuit of adequate compensation (which never sorts itself out independently),… these all see me making “non-work related” connections with the various staff at the program. And while I acknowledge that it’s a good thing, on some occasions it’s almost as satisfying as having teeth pulled.

Pluto and Mickey Harsh Edit

I stopped by the adult developmental day program next to my workshop because the ride for a client I used to work with at the group home was going to be pretty late, and he can be a handful and I figured I'd do whoever was there a favor and keep him cool. He was fine, his normal entertaining and hilarious self. I noticed this incredible edit to a drawing of Pluto and Mickey that one of their staff had done on the board. I asked him what had happened and the staff who was still there with them said "what do you think happen?", motioning to my good friend. "Well, Hear no evil, see no evil, right James?", he replied.

Corner

There was just more tension than normal in the Qwik Mart on this particular night. The Puerto Rican woman takes off one of her high heels and lets the man next to her know that she’s 45, not 16, and that she will plant it into the side of his head if she needs to. She also lets him know that she is indeed Puerto Rican.

The man was not phased, he mumbled an unconcerned “mhmm” over and over, which did nothing but further aggravate this woman, who was getting closer and closer to the breaking point, a destination which they both seemed perfectly comfortable arriving at, together, in the suddenly claustrophobic place of business. I ask the man who I am buying my drinks from how he is doing. “Bad, like always. I'm here. Look at me”.

These are the beginnings of a situation that was much better experienced with Gerald Biggs by my side, the corner store formerly just a two minute walk from his house. We'd make eye contact a few times and think "is this real? yeah, it's real". These days, such moments are appreciated in solitude as best as they can be, but analyzing the details afterwards is just so much more fulfilling when you have another solid mind to bounce your thoughts off of.

Audio: James Fella // 02/12/12

http://www.gilgongorecords.com/giveawaypile/jamesfella-02-12-12.mp3

Mouth, contact mics, mixer.

Audio: 02/10/12 // Illegal Kraftwerk Sample Pt. 2

http://www.gilgongorecords.com/giveawaypile/jamesfella-02-10-12.mp3

Patty Boyko: Kraftwerk single and amplified plastic cup with needle through center.

Video: Illegal Kraftwek Sampling

Pigeon Speak

Who’s cares if the body sways if it can make it down to the ground in one piece. Ramble on and on, from one point to another and another and so on. Eighth wind kicks in eighteen hours after it first woke up for work. Some things matter more than a reasonable amount of sleep, gibberish sarcasm, burritos and of course a record or two.

End Night

The weekend flies by, hardly held onto for any substantial period of time. Saturday is a blur of produce in a building occupied far beyond fire code, introversion on a sofa in the back yard at a birthday party, and an expedited survey of Eastside Records. Sunday is a lethargic slump of red bell pepper delivery, casual record sales within the walls of my own home and an hour long nap on the more comfortable of the two living room couches, the red one.

7:00pm is when adrenaline kicks in. I practically run to Claire's house. She is a woman who lives just down the street, having a house show for the first time at her residence. My agenda was starving, but I was determined to deliver the door fee regardless. Pack up one week's worth of mail-order. It had piled up on me, now it is piled in a mail crate and each piece is ready to take a one-way trip to various places across the country (and one to Alemania, thank you).

Clean the car out, every audio cable one might desire found tangled beneath layers of cardboard and clothing in the trunk. Patty and I can now listen to things, all of which are very important, from not only either of our laptops, but from any other device that has an eighth inch stereo output. The bus ride back to Tempe was fast: she was waiting outside, and I was accidentally speeding (for a moment). Everything is winding down, and I am all too energized: private message board banter; attractive legs, lights and lyrics from Washington DC, e-mails which have been unintentionally slept on and do nothing but facilitate my own endeavors.

I have every intention of waking up early tomorrow morning, ambitious plans of accomplishing countless projects prior to anyone else showing up at work. Such behavior would have to occur at 6:30am or so, and here we are at 1:30. Bouncing off the walls and skipping across the house, shoes off of course. I'm the only nutcase that wakes up so early but is running wild so late: Patty in the backroom with the space heater, Samson on the faux wood floor and curled up in a ball of adorable feline slumber. I should be taking a hint.

Ninja Stylee

Slipping in and out of society when nobody is looking, the back door of the high-end hotel: black fabric from head to toe, unaccustomed-to bra. Completely covert, if not for an overheard conversation, perhaps about using a bucket as a receptacle for feces (for example).

One of the things I appreciate about members of any sort of sub-culture, let alone a perceived counter-culture, is the ability to co-exist in both the ideal world and the one in which most day-to-day activities occur. This requires an ability to prioritize your own beliefs in the context of human beings who undoubtedly "do not get it", a character trait that is all too rare. You can't change the world with stubborn-born conflict, sometimes taking a step back and at least attempting to relate is the best course of action on can take.

At the same time, it doesn't always have to be a secret. ...only when acting, as absolutely needed. If stuck in a courtroom, when interacting with a police officer, and without a doubt: while tending to the businessmen who are enjoying the $20 lunch buffet at the most upscale version of a Marriott, safely hidden from the peasants who know no better.

Video: James Fella - Mutant Punk Mix #1 ('77 Classics)

Cooked Down

Cucumber caught beneath the blade and once partitioned into fifteen or so cross-sections of itself, cautiously slid into the bowl of salsa. A small container housing a portion of the plethora, slowly cooked down while the man and his cat had passed out in the other room; a calloused mess of red if not for the saving, graceful stirs – compliments of my guest in the rear room. This batch was better than ever, actually.

Secret Cog

Another missed connection slips in with a font that the naked eye sees right through. An umbrella of unfounded commotion sheltering two words that spark significant intrigue for those who dare be caught in the vacuum of "everything else". Such momentum finds you deep below the surface. That is to say, there is a period of time where the internet glossy has a precursor, the mail-ordered cassette. Karma covers the door charge, communication kills the cat.

The Politics of Proximity

The mutual friend in the red barn seems to go on ignored, but the complete stranger who is just another two minutes of walking is delivered home-made salsa in a jar. on first introduction. The woman on my plot, but one street south - I would prefer to go through life and never see again, even though aside from one negative observation, I don't have much to personally frown on. Drew on the other hand, an old peer who I respect and believe in, yet can't seem to exchange ingredients with: I'd give him anything he needed, any time.

I see no consistency in my choices, but I try to be honest. ...to myself anyway, which is ultimately most important. You can't be honest with anyone else if you can't be honest with yourself. You also can not love thy neighbor unless you love thyself.

Low Priority Transfer

The things that people do sometimes, in the pursuit of money, I just don’t understand. I’d say wealth, but no one with a head on their shoulders would consider a couple of hundred dollars per month to be worth possibly go to jail for, at least no one who’s head contains a working brain. And yet at the same time, the parallels between the mess that I am trying to clearly document in the context of my work and the ones that my peers willingly engage in, ones which I try not to directly involve myself in and am consistently perplexed by, seem sadly similar to each other in their irrationality and focus on the immediate, in the most self-centered sorts of possible ways.

Video: James Fella - "Allicin" 01/28/12

Chair in Pit

Granted, I would enjoy things almost as much from home - the tangible destruction condensed and robbed of potential harm, pressed into a playable disc rather than vibrating through my body with everything else that comes along with it: the all too familiar trouble bunch in war paint and flailing, the frail younger lads - one sarcastically reading a newspaper in the center of a room full of people aiming to take each other out, and the other riding a chair propped up by two or three of his peers, the few girls who decide that they will go for it and ultimately may find their heels puncturing some unsuspecting bystander's stomach, and me - trying to watch both the band and my back. ...and to think that when interviewed just a few hours earlier, I had a difficult time giving anything but a broad and vague definition of punk. The chaos in the room would dare anything else to claim a right the term.

London, Calling

I compare and contrast my working relationships with the two companies which distribute the releases that I put out on my label, and the difference could not be any more night and day, black and white, good and evil, etc.

Delightful, understanding, enthusiastic even when my new product is one man screaming and another doing far worse but on a saxophone, a check cut every month sales break triple digits vs no replies to e-mails for months on end, no sales statement since March 2010 and an apparent inability to sell a single copy of an LP, one which I had four different stores write to me about making a wholesale purchase direct for, because this particular distributor had not returned a single one of any of their e-mails. At least I know I’m not the only one being ignored. Send me back all 50, yes please.