adam georgiou's blog

I MISS YOU I LOVE YOU I WANNA KISS YOU I WANNA SEE YOU I WANNA EYE-SOCKET YOU I WANNA LIVE WITH YA I WANNA DANCE WITH YA I WANNA HOLD YOUR HAND AND GO FOR A NICE LONG WALK WITH COLD AIR IN OUR NOSES AND HATS ON AND THE PERFECT AMOUNT OF COATS AND I WANNA JUMP ROPE WITH YA AND I WANNA MAKE PLANS WITH YA AND I WANT TO MAKE A GYM WITH YA AND I WANT TO PLAY CATAN WITH YA AND I WANT BOP AND BOOP AND HOP AND SKIP AROUND THE WORLD WITH

I’m gonna lick your heart. I’m gonna floss your fingers. I’m gonna inhale. I’m gonna read your work. I’m going to pluck your apple, honey; and press its taught skin to the inflection between my nose and upper lip. I’m gonna smell your fields, and doze absentmindedly in your radiance. You’re gonna crack the igneous shell in my head and let forgotten fragrant life seep out in relieving streams of cool viscous purification that flow over my open eyes and open mouth. We’re gonna leapfrog the

I am evolution and this is just one of my forms. The Spirit is the chain of evolution, ever better, never ending. The ideal that all which exists results from. Realized or not, you can think of the idea of a Quality human. That individual represents the best a human can do in making things better, making them persistent and sustainable and harmonious. What might it look like: imagine we are each one of the wholly spirit centipede’s infinite toes moving it forward. The idea of the best append

i trust in the electronic eye. it sees all things and it knows what’s right. crackers and carrots, contemplating chain links and emails. johnny appleseed and john carmack playing tug of war. scratch away the pornohraphic veneer and see clear for the first time in years. love shackled behind brass battled doors of technology and habit. where is george’s tums, he’s got the runs. not fun, not fun. high dynamic range cyborg organic eyeballs to see fluorescent sunlight with. the whole fucking

We kiss and our teeth clink and smash and disintegrate into each other, collecting below our floating heads in a pile of shared dust. We walk over this newfound sand, hand in hand. Eternal desert, endless horizon, two androgynous silhouettes, without nipples or genitals or mouths, pursuing the sun on the surface of mars. I sniff you into me, and your hair is pasta, my mind melted butter. A good dish, like a big broken-in leather arm chair in front of a dusty, ray-laden, library window. Nig

Beerful and joyful, swaying to live music, dizzy and dimpled. I open my eyes, and I where’s-waldo you on the same side of a small basement stage. I’ve seen you before, but only ever as a patron, never as a companion. Do you wanna be friends? Do you wanna dance with me and sing with me and remember that, just because you do this vocationally, doesn’t mean you can’t also do it professionally, confessionally, like me, for free. Ha! Who am I to doubt! Your authenticity was never in jeapordy. You’

Am I tripping or am I oppressed? Are my desperations the ephemeral result of a missed cup of coffee or are they the bedrock conclusion following a hollow narrative? Are my motivations arrested by the contents of my schedule or stifled by its arrangement? What am I missing and where should I be looking for it? Am I a coward? Or an idiot? Or am I just temporarily tired? Am I investing? Or am I squandering, supported by superficial status-quo canon? Am I cranky or am I lucid?

Faces frozen having forgotten themselves in the blinding sound, a flow born somewhere outside of time and momentarily mastered by a fellow patron of the elusive perfection.

Feet buried inches under hot sand; ass planted on a reclined beach-chair, slipping between watching the waves and sleeping; the sepia of dark glasses or the bright black back of your eyelids; optional towel over your head, accommodating if you’ve had too much sun or want to sneak a peak at a neighboring surf-bum’s bathing-suit; cold fruit from an ice-filled cooler; slightly salty lips; the refreshing relief of the right drink; and the pleasure of knowing you have nowhere to be for hours, if not

I have escaped the matrix and am here to show you the way of past misfortune and current wisdom. Let’s have some fun, for the sake of all that is good and great and good. Trust in the banjo and banter. Revel in the bliss of bluegrass and the banquet of breath and breadth and burden, too. Why not?! WHY NOT, GHAD DAMN IT!? It’s good for you. Take your medicine, you spoiled blood-line of mine. Good times. Good times. Long live The Beatles.

Happy. Lover. Fun. Sweet sadness. Sun. Boating. Company. Shallow, innocent, smiles. Immovable, balanced, aimless beauty. Salty rocks and dark, clear, water. Gross, impressive, sail boats. Lighthearted, short-lived, jealousy. Virtuous, incorruptible, happiness. Minimal, intense, natural color. Neighbors. Shipwrecks. Wild, mountaintop, cactus fruit, thorns and all. Those endless clouds again… Fish flowers, dumb and delicious. Everyday a new view. Squinting, purposefully, purely.

Too many people looking for prestige in their performance. Ya’ do it cause you gotta do it, cause it’s the thing you should be doing. Prestige and power is us and them. It’s isolation. More of the same. Music for music’s sake is a reminder that we are more of the same. Temporarily separated, but barreling back at break-neck speeds to the abyss of togetherness. We’re going back there, to where we came from and where we’re going to, to spend an infinite multitude of time, peacefully balancing wi

When the cliff hanging over you is so dense that you’re eyes need to adjust to the sudden darkness, you know you’re in it heavy. A building, in the middle of implosion, falling toward your back, and you’ve got to out run it or die. Each direction chosen in real time, each bump dealt with through a combination of light like reflexes and weathered wisdom, all the while traveling faster than you though you could think. No options, just momentum. Perfect flow. Perfect immediacy. Truly continuous

Abandoned ruins appropriated as valuable, no one asks why they were abandoned in the first place. Typographic diarrhea, shallowly swooned over. Overused, under-thought, in-cohesive spew masquerading as appreciable underneath a king’s cloak of fog and smoke. The same people evangelizing detoxification, living in asbestos lined buildings built on top of broken bottles and cigarette butts. It seems something is wrong, practicing yoga in a town with no trees. Loglo selfishly employed, naively sol

It’s a tragedy to see a show sitting down. Watching some nostalgia machine pump out its product in a room full of dead women and lazy boys. A single suit stands, his tie long gone along with his hair, but he doesn’t care as he dances in the open aisle. Most ignore this dude’s craziness, pretend he isn’t there, because they’ve been dead so long they don’t remember what life looks like and they are embarrassed by the void. That guy dancing in the aisle, though, he’s eternal, he’s the light of