BrodyBlog

One is
my brother
standing on the hill
overlooking the town.
The sun goes down & he stands
there silently as the clouds flicker
between him and the moon.
The shrooms have worn
off and together we
walk down
the hill.

He loves someone who does not love
him, the same way I love
her.

Two is
my brother
caught in a spiral,
gold comets helix around
him, & surround us in heavenly
water. This must be what heaven
is like, seven trumpets singing
while waves break
on the beach,
break like
bodies.

Mother loves him though he can not love
her the same way she loves
him.

Three is
the apple tree,
glimmering wings of
a dove, sweet bloody rose
petals, sickly child cough & hope.
We will need hope in the days to come,
hope & bravery & courage & love.
Three was and always will be
the apple tree, where I
met brother, twin
feather.

 
Brother speaks in riddles but I can hear
them, the same way he speaks
them.

Four is
my brother
standing on a hill
spiraled in gold & broken
feathered. This time he flickers
alone under the moon with no tree
under which to seek shelter.
The rain that falls is not
heaven water but
sand, desert
sand.

I speak in riddles but who can hear
me, the same way I heard
him?

Five is
me crying
brother, come back
home whether in flame,
in talon’s clutch, on the back
of an elephant, or as a drip in a
faucet.

You must
drip
drip
drip
your way back home.

If not for
me, than for
mother.

Posted by Lui at 06:19 AM | Permalink

Brody Mulligan | AP - Distributed Worldwide | Aug 12 2006

SANTA MONICA, CA. - Voters will decide in November if marijuana should become the lowest police priority in the city, as city council members reluctantly ratified a ballot initiative filed by Santa Monicans for Sensible Marijuana Policy earlier this month.

"This initiative, in short, will remove the handcuffs from our esteemed police and allow them to focus on violent and serious crime, rather than persecuting law-abiding and otherwise harmless citizens," said Luciano Hernandez of SMSMP.

Signed by over 8,000 residents, the initiative requires police to answer all calls-for example loud music and parking violations-before dispatching an officer to handle a complaint about someone smoking pot. This does not make marijuana legal, however it severely limits how officers can enforce the law.

"From a practical standpoint, it would be virtually impossible for police to enforce…because there would be other calls that are in a pending queue. Officers would no longer be able to develop probable cause based on observations or [smelling marijuana]," an officer representing the police department said at a meeting weeks prior.

Many council members voiced strong objection over details and language in the initiative, one pointing out that officers on the beach would have to cite someone smoking a cigarette before citing someone smoking a joint.

There is no smoking on Santa Monica Beaches.

A month prior, West Hollywood City Council Members bypassed voters and immediately approved a similar resolution. However, that city is without its own police force, and contracts with the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department for civil services. They have no legal means of ensuring that sheriff's deputies follow the policy, because state law only allows the use of marijuana with a doctor's recommendation.

If voters approve the initiative, Santa Monica will become the first city in Southern California with its own police force to instruct law enforcement regarding marijuana, prompting other municipalities to do the same.

Located 16 miles west of downtown Los Angeles, Santa Monica (Pop. 103,000) is known to be progressive. It was the first city in L.A. county to outlaw smoking on beaches, which is now commonplace in the region, and was the first city in the nation to pass laws protecting workers laid off due to decreased tourism from the September 11th terrorist attacks.

A recent poll found 65% of registered voters in Santa Monica support the initiative, which is expected to meet little resistance at the polls this fall.

A year ago, I spent the balance of several days inside and out of City Hall in Santa Monica, chasing leads and quotes, finally piecing together something my first distributed piece. A year later, the measure is in full effect, and the election passed by the exact percent I quoted in my article: 65% in favor.

I'd be lying to myself but there is nothing better that I can see.

Posted by Brody at 01:19 AM | Permalink

When does it come, and where does it go?
I thought these things out in advance,
Dragons with lies relying on chance
Only for me, and just me, to know.

There's only one time that is really the last.
A friend of mine once got there so soon,
Lost in the darkness of youth's new moon
The days and the weeks were coming too fast.

Once is a start of it, not to be forgotten.
Twice is a part of it that moves along some more,
Then again, who still counts anymore
Just old, washed up men with pieces of cotton.

If one should choose between the other and that?
Former and proper and corrupted and used,
Hopelessly waiting for a light in a fuse
To burn slowly like wicks leading in black.

I'd claim an ending just for myself.
A waiting game of time and envy,
I know that something will bring me
To the last time, kept out on a shelf.

Posted by Brody at 07:19 AM | Permalink

At a rock concert, in a standing-room-only venue with barricades before the stage holding back hoards of youthful fans, your best friend becomes just another person having a good time; and any other person having a good time becomes your best friend. Sometimes, things will just explode. When that song is played from that album everybody likes but never talks about, or maybe at the hint of the opening song. Or the closing one. People in physical elation in such a large number and in such a particular concentration is difficult to describe in words. It's better kept by song. Movies you can watch once in a while, books can be circulated, and television is always changing. A song stays static but could be listened to eternally, over and over, yeah? And then it's hard to look at a recording the same as after the it's been played live twenty feet away, but easy to listen to--like before--but now with added memories; And memory is an interesting thing, it can change over time, and so can a song, but some songs are just too hard for me to forget. Some concerts are, too.

Posted by Brody at 06:18 AM | Permalink

It was mostly by the hum of a fan pumping some air into my stagnate apartment, built in the postwar boom near the coast; made of stucco that could soak up the California sun even after it went down. My landlord was an old man, with a european accent I never could pin down. He came by everyday, walking a mile or so from his house further along the tree lined thoroughfares. He said he liked me. We always talked of things. My roommate had a habit of not paying his rent on time and growing pot, and I frequently ferried messages of the sort, on occasion. He gave good advice and was a good man.

People moved in and out so often, I figured he must've been too nice a guy to really put someone out hard if they needed to leave before a lease was up. Like most things in L.A., it was less formal and older than in San Diego--he owned the building outright for a while, and did alright for himself.

Before slipping asleep I often heard the tin crankers out back picking apart the trash in search of aluminum and glass to trade in the morning light for nickels and dimes. Most of the people in our complex just set empty six packs in the carton beside the dumpster, and I did the same with whatsoever glass I had. I also heard arguments, sometimes, because nothing in that town was ever heard by only two.

Sometimes I heard a girl with a baby cry herself to sleep too many nights for me to think about now.

My favourite sound was the undeniable passing of a skateboarder, coasting down the smooth alleyway. Most of the streets had a thin lining of sand that added a rasp with the clanks over the cricks and crags in the concrete, and it was clear when a krew was around.

I had big dreams then, crazy dreams. I dreamt more when I was awake than asleep, and it showed. Everything was falling apart just as I'd pieced it all together. But in the night, a lonely stroll sans shoes on the Autumn boardwalk to the pier and round and a sleepy bus stop with a quiet walk past the latch and my roommate seemed to work forever--if I could just sleep through the night, the morning would come.

Posted by Brody at 07:41 AM | Permalink

Posted by Brody at 11:42 PM | Permalink

Last weekend, I headed north with my krew to accept an invite to a party thrown by a friend. Of course, the main attraction was alcohol and Guitar Hero. It was a small kickback, really, but fun nonetheless, carrying on into the early morning.

But I must admit I was somewhat bored and uneasy while I was there--don't get me wrong, I like to have a good time--but one of my closest friends wasn't there on account of an ongoing feud between him and my friend, and with the medication I take, I can only have one or two drinks--not enough to really get loose, but it's for the better.

In the past I've tried to mediate these petty squabbles, I'm a pretty good negotiator, but I'm done trying to solve other people's problems--I can't even sort my own shit out anymore. It certainly does upset me, though, because I'm stuck in the middle of all this...every day, my love, and when I come home, I'm always there alone.

As the party wound down, with two people passed out on the floor near the curtains, one member of my krew off at his girl's apartment a few blocks away, another passed out on a couch, and my car an hour away, I needed a place to crash, and certainly didn't feel like sleeping on a couch--I simply wasn't drunk enough to compensate for the uncomfortable bunching of my legs an head between a sofa's end.

Luckily, my mate Andrew had an apartment within walking distance that he shares with a girl who was at the party. So I ask her if she's going to sleep there, or stay and sleep with what was once her boyfriend...she and him had a brief discussion that I felt guilty about--were I not there, perhaps she would've been able to stay over as she really wanted to do, and I would've been fine with taking the key and dropping it off in the morning.

But she decided to sleep at her apartment shared with my mate, and we took her car there. Along the way, she and I talked about the feud between her, the host, and my friend. It's all so hard for me to understand and even harder to try and offer advice.

I don't stop hanging out with someone or stop talking to them just because another one of my friends does--that's not me--but it's a shame that we all couldn't just hang out together, and that I have to split up my time when I could be merging it together.

But I was still stoked to crash on my mate's Ikea foam mattress. It's a very odd experience to sleep in another person's bed...almost as if you're experiencing a part of life through their eyes, albeit unconscious. Every person has a scent unique, and it filled my dreams while I slept. I left a note at his bedside in a small notepad that he must keep for late night musing.

There's nothing to report from my unconscious thought; Forever falling short.

Sleep hasn't come easy to me for the last few years, and day by day it's only gotten worse. I've thrown out the syrups and sleeping pills, they've just lost their touch, and I really would like to be able to sleep without them. And what is strange is that when I'm away from mum's house, I'm able to sleep peacefully without the use of drugs.

But maybe it's just me. Places are just boxes in my mind built with walls that I create, but can't seem to tear down.

But it's always nice to know that I'm welcome for a night or two in so many different places.

Posted by Brody at 07:11 AM | Permalink