Thank gad I found this:

You can catch Karl, Saul, and I in quite a few scenes, though Saul’s close-up around 00:49 is not to be missed.

Artificial Flash Mobs Found on Craigslist For the Win?

this is the way
birds sing
tiny tongues beating
hollow wooden beaks
pumping puffs of air up
from tiny lungs
this is the way that
we sing

[Date unknown. Found in a notebook last night.]

There is a kind of defeat that comes with evening.
A settled silence: when the wind takes my hair back
off of my forehead, it’s like the cool lips of my mother
soothing but with no pretense of solution,
conclusion,
Just, “Hush now. No more to be thought about it for today.”

And so I remain quiet.

**
My senior year of college, I longed to leave My Secret behind
to write one of those beautiful Joan Didion confessions
one of those stick-to-your-ribs memoir pieces
something that would package up my mess so that I could
hand it off to my English professor, sneak it under her desk,
Could you watch this for me?

It was the wrong motive to write; like the time in middle school when
I tried to work the awkward slant rhymes of my awkward, awkward poetry
into a story about war.
Got called in to the principal (my ‘pal’!)
– Lauren, are you feeling suicidal?
– Missed the point.

**
What are you supposed to say about the person you used to be?
Or do you say anything?

We often sit in the same room together, looking over the same things
She’s pretty quiet these days, but I remember her younger
– rowdy, asking me all these questions. Did she
look fat
sound stupid
still matter?
                              Could she
live to 21 (22, 23…)
run away
have a glass of water?
That kind of thing.

I’m not your mother, I’d say.
She was such a whiny bitch: I know, but who else am I supposed to ask?

**
Tonight I’m grateful for the breeze
that carries ash away from skirts and smoke from faces.

I’ve heard so many smokers say that the taste of smoke is really like peanut butter
Which is weird, because the real taste is too ashy hot
to be anything like peanut butter.
But I get what they’re talking about: The aftertaste. The taste aftertaste.

It’s a trick of the mind, I think,
this peanut butter phenomenon.
Another way of justifying burned taste buds, like the way I justify black coffee.
Don’t get me wrong: black coffee is superior
but to enjoy it you have learn to love the flattened feel of your tongue after three sips
The char.
Then, after that, you get the smell of the roast.
It’s something you create, almost out of thin air.
And so, while you sip
you get to think, you can tell yourself,
that black coffee tastes roasted. Not charred.

Peanut butter is comfort food; cigarettes are comfort sticks.
Burn your tongue flat with a cigarette
and let the smoky smells come to you
Then, remember: the picnic sandwiches that stuck to the back of your throat,
younger hands rubbing bloody knees, PB and saltines for the nights
when my stomached locked and the world turned fever black
and I thought that I would never make it to the morning.

I almost convince myself I can taste it.

I’m so happy I don’t have to think about bears anymore.

Despite the ursine siege on my brain, this video was fun to make…The opening scene is actually from the end of our adventure. Last minute inspiration by Nicko was incredibly well-timed to a street musician playing just off camera. Kudos to coincidence.

NOT THIS

THIS

The product of collective madness. Follow the money? Pfft. How bout Follow the HONEY, amiright?

I love the physical sensation that comes when you are literally struck by an idea.

This woman’s Halloween costume is so inspired — Ben-Day printing. It’s brilliant. Click through the image for more shots of make-up preparation.

It’s about time I used it. So far, the only complete album is one from this past Fourth’s trip to Minnesota. (Lutsen, Grand Marais, and Minneapolis for any of you mid-westerners lurking out there.)

Feels good to share:

This past July, I was sent to West Virginia to look into the role of government data in the explosion at the Upper Big Branch Mine.

Then I made a movie: