B O N D P H O N E.
Words and pictures by Chris Lamb.

WAVE OF MUTILATION

Three days. Guitars clang like fire alarms of the insides of my skull: Pixies, Clash, Costello and The Thermals. A dash of TV on the Radio for mad love and ragged breath, some Rufus Wainright for perspective. Tom Waits and Mates of State records spin like tea leaves, entrophy pulling them towards prophecy. It's all so much smoke between fingers now.

Three days. Time start-stop-starts in broken waltz steps and days wreck and bend like Dahli against the pre-flight slippage, lending each moment the weight of just before rushing out to meet the Mexican army. A rush of last drinks and talk over cigarettes with enough casual breaking and entering to keep things interesting. Tonight is riding shotgun for two hours for whiskey with my best friend. Tomorrow, Friday, just more trying not to fall down. Still life with echo, waiting to catch up with the rest of me in progress.

Three days. Pop music abandon as chemical reaction, burning through veins like sunlight through fog. This is what it means to cresendo, to move frictionless along the speakers-push-air swell of a hundred-strong choir drenched in feedback and hammer drums. To be held together by speed and trust. To define and be defined by velocity.

Three days. Then air, then summer, then everything. Strummer Effect go.

posted by chris  # 4:17 PM 0 comments

LIFE AS DUST AND LIGHTNING.

I'm running ninja logic over kid energy lately, the results leaving me a stuttering mess of recklessness and passion. Thinking in broad, sweeping strokes. Moving in precision blows that kill three days later and make it look like a heart attack. I keep throwing myself against problems and laughing when one of us falls over. I keep raising my voice and narrowly dodging fights over true things. I feel like vapor, like red food coloring dripped in water. I am the long slow walk towards the camera: Bruce Willis, Affleck, and the big black guy who went on to a successful career of playing big black guys. I am all of them and the asteroid too.

The trip to New York has become the move to New York: in just over a week I'm cramming clothes and music and books into some suitcases and going. It isn't easy, it isn't fun, the reprecussions of up-and-leaving bite like needle teeth... but it's necessary. A number of opportunities, some good advice, and Huntsville's constant feel of Five Minutes After The Party Was Good have lined up like star signs and wonLt do so again. Time to be someone else.

My writing has pretty much stalled around this,which is fine, as it had already stalled around the idea of spending any more time in Huntsville. Don't know how frequent posting will be hre until the dust settles. I've got a week to get through before Action happens. Maybe lots, maybe silence.

If anybody knows a good haberdasherist in the Lower East Side, drop a line, would you? I need a hat.

posted by chris  # 12:41 PM 0 comments

Test! Test!

posted by chris  # 11:18 AM 0 comments

"As Ledbelly says about the blues, he says in the first verse use a knife to cut bread, and in the second verse use a knife to shave, and in the third verse use it to kill your unfaithful girlfriend. It's the same knife, but the stakes change, which is exactly the way a play or movie is structured. You don't want to use the knife in the first verse to cut bread and in the second verse use it to cut cheese. We already know it can cut bread. What else can it do?"
--David Mamet, ON DIRECTING FILM

posted by chris  # 3:38 PM

They wouldn't do this to Cusack.

This is jury duty: Waiting.

Caffiene pushes through veins like drain-o: sluggish, breaking up the tired crap to open worn out passages. We're all sworn in and kind of hanging out in the lounge-type place. Just killing time, judging our peers by our reading materials. The Two Faces of Islam. The Purpose Driven Life. Veiled. Chicken Soup For the (__________). Tuesdays With Morrie.

I'm riding with On Directing Film and The Cheese Monkeys. Because a sign saying Don't Fuck With Me would have been too obvious.

When they told us there would be no captial trials or chance of being sequestered, the mood of the room visably dropped. Suddenly everybody had something else to do, wittling us down to the few and the brave with nothing better to do for a week. Somebody killed somebody, or might have killed somebody, or whatever, and for a little while things were very exciting. But that trial was bumped, and nobody want's to play anymore.

It's paid time off work to catch up on my reading and listen to Married With Pony Tail flirt with Oblivious Hick Girl. I'll do my duty, thanks.

posted by chris  # 11:21 AM 0 comments