Things drop through on occasion. You catch the sparks in your peripheral in time to watch the sky rip.
Like waves crashing in reverse.
Something over the hills has a glow, you never notice until it reflects off the froth spilled from atmospheric entry.
Wonder what that's all about.
***** says she met a guy, says he came right out the sky. Broke his fall in the Ivory Tars where he'd be to this day if it weren't for an edlergunt with eyes bigger than its mouth. ***** says he left his skin in the clouds and he pointed it out to her and she thought she saw it but wasn't sure.
Frankly, I'm not sure about *****.
If some skin's in the clouds it's only
because she put it there.
And we will
never ever
get it out.

Love,
the dead minotaur

Labels: vistas

You know it.



Doo-wop doo-wa,
forever.

Love,
the dead minotaur

Rumor has it that Mongrel's making their first feature. Well now, let's not get carried away with the gossip and what-have-you. But frankly, this production blog business is somewhat incriminating.



I wouldn't read too much into it, but I'd keep my ear to the rails if I were you.
Another thing:
How's your mountain? Is it? Isn't it?
Let's go see if Quinn knows.



As for my mountain?
Sure is.
Firmly.

Love,
the dead minotaur

We brought the temple down, for a lark. Firing blessings up the pylon, manifest density.
Intent like a cold blade through desire and delusion, lapping up the serration.
On down our knees, resume, recite, repeats
and defeats the purpose
and we all stand up, triumphant.

Love,
the dead minotaur

Labels: vistas

“Let the future tell the truth and evaluate each one according to his own work and accomplishments. The present is theirs, the future for which I really worked, is mine.” - Nikola Tesla


Mongrel Digs Nikola Tesla.
Anybody who can make their own ball lightning, Mongrel digs.
We're kinda sluts for ball lightning.

Love,
the dead minotaur

They're our future.



Our future!

Love,
the dead minotaur

Here are some new things for you to digest. You know... chew like a good cud. I think cows have like four stomachs or something. I don't know... just what I "herd". Get it? Right, anyway.

Read my latest blog entry over in "Notes off Key" and don't forget to check out the new "really good reason" in the video section. Stay tuned for another "Mongrel Sound Show" featuring yours truly, it'll be up in a few days.



And now onto the rumors. I've heard a lot of buzz floating around about a Mongrel Studios movie project that is sure to cause waves and I would like to publicly state...it's all very true. Big things are coming as we march forward onto the set of one of the biggest projects we've embarked upon yet.

Want to know more? Too bad, you have to wait.

If there's a martial art that teaches double-jumps, sign me up.



I am all about the double-jump.
I am over the single jump.

Love,
the dead minotaur

Things growing on other things,
off of them, out of them, into them,
growing up and falling down and gobbled up by other things.
Somebody said sex is violence but I don't know if they were speaking generally.
They were speaking loudly though, so it's all the same to me.

Love,
the dead minotaur

Since they found the Engines Under and switched 'em on permanent there just hasn't been much need for the wires. It all goes out on the waves now that our glands got the tuning down sharp.
So the wires all went cold and dead and still
and over time we almost didn't see them
draped between stripped trees and mausoleums.
The vestigial tissue of our outer neural network, webbed with moss,
once humming with energy and now?
Rubber rot, cringing in the wind and carrying
something else now, strange and cold.
Corinthian syllables bound tight and gasping.
I used to know someone who could get the old Receivers working, the ones locked in cases high up the Posts. She'd break the locks with her fist wrapped in rags, blowing orange puffs of rust carried on wind and sprinkling down on our heads, and she'd poke her head in and from down here she looked as if her head had been nailed into the Post, body hanging by blue harness straps and safety-chains.
She'd said if we could hear what she heard up there, we'd have torn the wires down years ago.
Last time we saw her go up, she almost spit,
"too late now"
and she never came back down.
Gathering moss and orange dust and shining detritus, just another locked case nailed up the Post.
Just another old Receiver hearing something we'd stop if we could only bear it.

Love,
the dead minotaur

Labels: vistas

Writer, director and all-around cool dude Fred Dekker shared words with our own Jared Yanez.

Check out those words right over here and see why Mongrel Digs Fred Dekker.

The two chat about Monster Squad, Night of the Creeps, filmmaking and what-have-you.

It's pretty sweet.

I think I'm gonna go read it all over again, that's how sweet I think it is.

Read along with me.

Do it loudly though so's I can hear you.

And harmonize.

Love,
the dead minotaur

Today let's just pretend there's a new Smiling Bag-Time Jamboree.
Let's pretend you clicked on it,
stared at it for a few seconds,
and thought,
why the hell are they still making these things?
I hate these things.
Close your eyes
extra-tight
and imagine that.
Wow.
It's almost better than the real thing!

Love,
the dead minotaur

Let's trade some horrors.



Share our disorders.
Let's do some of that.

Love,
the dead minotaur

If you haven't taken a stroll by our Music section in awhile, well, I'd recommend it.
New scenery. All new scene.
Haven't seen this scene, it seems.
Seeny-way.
Here's the guy that composed the original music for Lucky John and made a brief appearance in Getting Off At Three AM.
These days they call him Jayce Winters.



And over here there's some guys that contributed a bunch of songs to the aforementioned Lucky John as well as Leftovers.
These days and those days, they's Nice Day.



So, if you're looking to augment your own personal soundtrack, have a listen to these folks.
By clicking on-a-their-faces.
Come on. Click-on-a-them.
Click-on-a-faces-now.
Come-on.

Love,
the-dead-minotaur

Don't let them stand in the way of your *****.



Never let go of your *****!
If ***** try to make you?
Well, ***** them.

*****,
the dead minotaur

It's got its hooks in again,
cords taut scuffing the window frame.
Whatever it wants it can have,
if it can get it out of me.
Over and repeat the trailing after-images of my body torn through the window
over and repeat the trailing after-images of my body torn through the window
over and repeat the trailing after-images of my body torn through the window like an echo in reverse.
All yours, over and repeat,
if you can get it out of me.
Pull I'll push.
(scraping the rust from the roots and saving it)

Love,
the dead minotaur

Labels: vistas

A way bunch of years ago you'd figure it'd be hard to imagine this whole internet schtick.
You'd've figured wrong though.

Tor Bronson, part-time thespian and full-time puppy-hurler, figures you ought to know that Mongrel Digs William Gibson.
I figure you out to check that out.
Do you figure?
Let's figure together.

Love,
the dead minotaur

Like, for bag.




Totally for bag.

Love,
the dead minotaur