tomorrow night

tomorrow night will you remember what you said tonight?  tomorrow night will all the thrill be gone?  tomorrow night will it be just another memory?  or just another song that's in my heart to linger on?

your lips are so tender.  your heart is beating fast.  and you willingly surrender to me but, darling, will it last?  tomorrow night will you be with me when the moon is bright?  tomorrow night will you say those lovely things you said tonight?

so, if, and this if is like the sperm whale of ifs, if a person, let's say a young man, glimpsed the future, not to see the end's catalyst or trapped folks screaming on a tumbling bridge, but the scenario that he was to find himself let's say 18 months post-pre-cognizant-vision.  He might be troubled by what is glimpsed. If he's partial to his current lover, then he's gut-punched to see her life tangled with another man's and dried out by seeing his life overlapping with a different woman, perhaps the lady at work who digs british invasion bands.   the importance and pay of his job have not inflated.  his apartment is the same, but more neglected and messier by a measurement of a year and a half.  physically, he will not be statuesque.  his stomach has spread to meet every corner of his shirt.  his head hair population has largely emigrated to his apartment's carpet and his shower's drain pipe.

he returns to the present and looks at his life the way a third party member looks at donkey-elephant democracy.  his candidate is relatable, his platform persuasive and realistic, and they are each a lost cause.

eighteen months later he's done caught up and he's allowed the prophecy to fulfill itself.  the woman he had loved is an acquaintance, a dark memory like a long play on a drowsy night.  the new one feels right, she feels like the woman he ought to know.  he's gotten good at his job; wise in its lore, suave in its performance.  he hasn't noticed the weight gain and he's become taken with the wearing of beanies.  even the vision he had had is like an R-rated movie snuck into as a child and revisited with a more sophisticated interpretation.

your lips are tender.  your heart is beating fast. and you willingly surrender to me but, darling, will it last?  tomorrow night will you be with me when the moon is bright?  tomorrow night will you say those lovely things you said tonight?

In the 9 pm walk

Arent you tire...so tired
walking off like that
like honey equals sexy times,
sloshing through and captive,
have you figured,
or asked
certain things, oh certain things,
give it up sometime

in heat of all nights...

Could it be, as you trip over your tongue in eagerness to confess, that waiting til you meet the Boatman was waiting too long?

I'll confess to occasional aggressive driving.

You always pay for cheap whiskey twice.

I am so fucking tired of being tipped a percentage. What the hell does it matter to me if you order three pizzas or one? It's the same address, the same traffic, the same bumbling through the dark peering futilely out of my fogged window because someone didn't turn on their porch light.

Or because some genius put black cast iron numbers against a brown facade. Or because I was given an address that didn't exist in the worst part of town.


Lies. It was all a pack of lies, and they're the type that move too quickly to be outrun.

-love mitch olson

Whaling Ploys

to tani

in the other bed we'll see it out.
playing, cramming on the soft cool side,
and english afternoon, in Hoboken -
We're at a loss for undercracked,
menthol breaks, mustard stains,
and all the polished aftermath,
whistling pail and humble

Believing a version of the truth

hello,

so i drove to chicago a couple days ago to see Modus. It was for the Chicago Underground Film Festival. The car itself isnt doing that grand and it kind of sputtered here and there. I'll get it fixed tomorrow.

Tanya is going to Alaska for a while. Thats nice for her, she's a good egg.

It rained all the way back from chicago and it was scary for a while. couldnt see anything. Nicole said 'thank god' when the rain let up. i think she meant it in a literal way. maybe not. either way i didnt say anything. I didnt want to jinx it.

Then i went to a graduation party in Newton after i didnt get home till almost seven. It was cool though. i slept at Tanya's parents house for a minute or two hundred forty. then i ate some sandwiches and cheetos and drank ten soda's.

House Of Will is available for download at the low price of 5.00.

its alright. its going to be alright.

goodnight everyone
sean

Last Night!

Thanks to everyone who came out to Frank's last night. It was blustery.

Good music and reading. fun times.

The tornado last night leveled a bunch of houses in Eagle. It just so happens Eagle is pretty close to where i grew up in the town of La Grange. Everyone seems OK. Its strange to think i'll remember that night for that, what i was doing, who i was with.

You have to wonder what you'll remember.

New circulars came out this week. Email your mailing addy for FREE subscription.

Magic Power

Watch your libido and your bank account swell up.  Learn to find soul-explodingly rollicking coitus so boring that you count the stacks of money on your nightstand to keep your eyes open.  Swindle your friends into selling doofuses sacks of chemical powder that come only in bulk and lead to serious health problems.

I love coffee.  I have been on a coffee bender for several weeks now.  When I was broke, I'd drink it all night because it was free.  When I was even broker, I used to dump sugar in it because it was free nutrients.  Now that I'm all but broke instead of just broke, I drink it every morning, every afternoon and all but all nights.  It's that good.  It has imposed a chemical dependency on me and I'm tired whenever I don't have it. Working two jobs, I couldn't write or read or do many of the other things I like to do in the hours that are not listed on my check stubs if it weren't for that lovely bean.  This post would never have been born if it weren't for that bean.  You are reading the consummate child of coffee and dicking around.

I first learned of Magic Power Coffee on MSNBC, where it was reported that the FDA was issuing a warning that the product has been shown to cause dangerously low blood pressure.  Their logo sums it up: a heart-shaped steaming coffee mug, the world's first aphrodisiac coffee blend.  It makes men "perform harder" and gives them "enhanced confidence" and "improved endurance."  For any of you people who happen to be women, there is finally a product out there to increaser your libido, that gives you a "stimulating buzz" and "multiple releases."

The best part about Magic Power Coffee is that it can only be bought in bulk from an MPC Associate.  Once you do that, you yourself become an MPC Associate and the amount of money you can earn as such is practically limitless, both positively and negatively.  Every new Associate is placed in  3x9 Matrix.  Fill up that Matrix and you can earn $25,000 per month, for selling a product that practically sells itself.

Experience in my life so far has lead me to devalue many words that once were great sultans of imagination for me.  "Evil" is one of those words.  It always made stories better when someone was evil.  The Nazis in Indiana Jones were evil, the Sheriff of Notingham was evil, etc.., etc.  I don't mean to baby my readers and pretend that I have something to tell them about the existence of evil.  It's either something you believe in or you don't.  It's a magic word like "love" or "God" or even "magic" that, whether or not you believe in it, has a conation that cannot be spelled in letters.  I don't believe in a thing such as absolute evil.  One person hurts another for a reason, and that reason is rarely, if ever, pure malevolence.

It is possible that something could happen that will change my mind about evil, but this is getting off the point.  The Magic Power Coffee people aren't evil, but they are smart enough to realize that foolish ideas can be profitable.  Theirs is a grandly foolish idea because it combines two great Western goals into one self-sustaining bug zapper.  Get laid and get rich at the same time.  Maybe these are actually the same thing in the end.

The people that buy this stuff are more of a mystery to me than the people who invented it.  The name "Magic Power "is an admiringly conspicuous promise of attaining the unattainable.  The minds who calculate the purchasing of a gram of unobtainium for a bargain price as the solution to any problem in their life are completely obscure to me as I attempt to x-ray them with my writers imagination.  I can't do it and so, I'm going to keep working on it.  I probably just need a run or a cup of coffee or a hit of something to get me there.  Anybody selling?

ATTENTION OTHER SEAN WILLIAMSON

An open letter to the other Sean Williamson:

Hello there other Sean. I know you exist. I’ve seen your web page. I know you are a guitar player and have even seen you play somewhere.

A lot of my friends add you on facebook on accident and in reality: we have some of the same friends. For real. So that’s great,
you do your thing, I do mine.

There’s just one problem. This name isn’t big enough for the two of us.

I don’t now how we’ll decide. Will it be a battle of brain or brawn…or both? I don’t know. Time will tell.

It would be different if we lived in different town. I mean, there must be a thousand Sean Williamson’s out there. But we don’t. unfortunately we are too close.

Be it an initial, abbreviation or (worst case) a name change, something has to give.

I’m not saying I win, or you win. In the end we’ll both win.

I say we have a challenge. Do you agree?

Love Sean Williamson

Hoowee, Baby

Yesterday I drove my parents' Pontiac Vibe off the road and put into the ditch.  On Highway 59, on a clear yellow day, with train tracks on my left and and a low green crop field on my right, I was thinking about last Sunday's episode of Treme.  I'd been thinking about the last two days since I'd seen it and the story still lingered with me.  John Goodman, it was so sad.  He didn't seem sad.  He moped a lot and he was upset, but hell.  And it was sad to me because I saw that the show was looking likely to be a tragedy.  Six months after the floods in New Orleans, all these people still there because they're survivors, but they don't realize the water's still creeping up behind them.  So, there was John Goodman, drowned on a clear sunny day like today, and Kim Dickens, the roof of her house caving in after another storm.  And I knew there was a third storyline from the episode that resonated with me the same way, but I couldn't remember it.  I was a little tired, had rolled out of bed just in time to drive to my counseling appointment in Janesville without showering or eating and I felt exhausted, knew that hoowee, I was tired, and I was just outside of my hometown now, on my way back through before heading to Tosa for my job.  But I couldn't remember that third storyline.  And then I'm going off the road and in less than a second realize that I'd been sleeping and jerk the wheel too hard back onto the road.
This is how a friend of mine caused an accident in high school that lost him the use of his legs for most of a year, took an eye from a friend of his and ended the lives of two people in another car.  He was choppered out of the scene and we thought he was going to die for a night.
What happened to me, as best as I recall, is this: the wheels locked and I skidded 360 degrees in the highway.  First I thought I might flip the car, but then I felt that it wanted to stay on the ground.  Then I thought I was just going to end up on the other side of the road.  There was an oncoming car, but it was a safe distance away.  The Vibe kept its skid up, now going backward and then I sunk off the road.  Without lurching, nice and easy, the back of the VIbe hit the bushy far wall of the ditch and then stopped.  The car turned off.  I didn't even have whiplash.
The car started but it wouldn't pull itself out of the ditch.  I got out and two cars pulled over immediately.  I told them I was fine and sat on the hood.  I was fine.  I thought to myself that I ought to feel scared, but I didn't.  I just wanted to get out of there and the tow didn't take 15 minutes to get there.  He took a look at the car after he pulled it out.  He said the fender might be cracked, but maybe it was just a mark that would rub off.  The car was perfect, not even a dent or a scratch on the body.  The Obama/Biden sticker was slightly torn off the bumper.  I drove home in the same car.
My counselor had told me, a little less than an hour before, that he was proud I was doing so good.  I'd taken up two jobs, started and nearly completed the first draft of a screenplay about high school, and was taking my blog a little more seriously, doing these circulars, which he called "rectangulars."  He asked me if I was sleeping well and I said that I wasn't sleeping as much as I should, but that's because of all the things I want to do in a day.  I want to read half a book, watch a good movie, write ten to twelve pages, work an eight hour shift, and hang out with my friends in a perfect day, but there is no day long enough.  I said I slept like a baby in Sean, Tanya, Pat's hideaway bed, though its too small for me.  He said he could tell I was doing better, he poured me a cup of black coffee, my drink of choice lately, he shook my hand, I talked to his secretary to set up another appointment in a month.
I got scared last night, thinking "right now, I could be in a hospital.  Instead, I'm eating Honey Bunches of Oats.  I could have killed someone.  I could have fucked my life up for good."  I thought about the empty spaces on 59 and gave the chance of fucking my life at something like 5% when falling asleep behind the wheel.  I'm glad I didn't, but I'm not scared anymore.  I should have written this last night.  It would have been better, but I was thinking today that since we're circulating these fliers, we should probably post something on the blog.  Someone asked me what the focus was today.  I said we'll see.  A guy I work with looked at the flier and said, "You know Sean Williamson?  The guitar player."  Hahaha.    I wonder if there's another me out there too.

Heavy Hands in June

So things are moving along and i just finished shooting the first 16 rolls for Heavy Hands. Now, i'll try to get some money together and put together the first section of the film. We shot last weekend for a long time and finished the rolls yesterday.

also there is an open mike at Franks Power Plant on Mondays nights. ya'll should go. it was a good crowd yesterday. lets keep it up.

FTT is playing their last show on October 1st in whitewater. if anyone is around they should ch-ch-ch-check it out.

Modus is playing in chicago on the 28th. that should be fun!

Tanya is also going to alaska for a bit so if anyone sees her, hug her up.

all lovin-all times
sean

You Know My Name (Look Up the Number)

My mother has a teaching partner in her science class named Tony.  Tony loved this radio station out of Brookfield, 106.9, that played soft jazz.  Last week, it stopped playing soft jazz.  The company that owns the radio station decided to switch to a different format.  The funny thing is they didn't pick another format. So, for three days that I'm aware of, they've played the Beatles catalog from A to Z, probably in a package kept behind a glass case at all Clear Channel stations in case of an emergency.  There is no disc jockey commenting on the program or any commercials.  When they get to the end of "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away," they play "A Day in the Life."  It's never ending loop while someone in an office somewhere gets around to choosing a new genre for 106.9.  All they know is that they don't want soft jazz.  Meanwhile, they're losing money on the station.  The songs aren't free.  They have to pay a half cent to Michael Jackson's estate or something for every song they play and there are no commercials.

"You.  You know.  You know my name.  You.  You know.  You know my name.  Look up the number."

I don't remember ever hearing that song before today, but I just found it on my iPod too.  Another one I never paid much attention to before the last few days was: "For red is the color that my baby wore, and what's more, it's true.  Yes it is.  Yes it is.  Oh, yes it is!"  Dumb lyrics but a real emotive song.

"They took some honey from a tree, dressed it up and they called it 'me.'"

"Free as a Bird" was played, because it was released as a Beatles song, but it sounds like a solo Lennon song from the seventies crossed with a Harrison song from the eighties, and its not that great either.  I wonder why they did it.  They just missed old times, I guess.  Probably they weren't hurting financially.  Poor McCarthy's lost three writing partners and a wife.  He is maybe the weirdest of the four.  Lennon pulled them forward and he tugged them back.  Did old timey music: Rocky Racoon, Honey Pie, Maxwell's Silver Hammer.  He was a genius but his heart was tied to old lost modes of expression, which I can empathize with.  Maybe he felt out of place in the modern world, which is strange since he helped define the modern world before he even turned 30.

"Born a poor young country boy: mother nature's son."

Starkey, not appreciated as much.  I went on the Magical Mystery Tour in Liverpool.  Lennon's old house is a national preserved monument.  So is McCarthey's.  George's has a plaque on it.  Ringo's is condemned.  No shit.  They didn't even pull the bus up to it.  They parked at the corner and pointed down the road and said "It's ninth one down on the left."  Really.  But he was the most charismatic of the four, had a lot of heart, it seems.  Probably still does.  I didn't know "Act Naturally" was a cover until today.

"It's so easy for a girl like you to lie.  Tell me why."

Paul's my favorite but I think I'm most like John.  He's moody, arrogant, seems to struggle more for greatness than the other three, who just kind of eased into it.  In interviews, he's real quick to dismiss any number of his songs as garbage and I don't think it's humility.  He was rarely satisfied and I think he really wanted to be satisfied.  You, you know, you know my name...  Look up the number.  Why don't we just do it in the road?

Don't have much to say about George.  He was cool and all, but he brought the sitar into the group, which annoys me a lot.

I know I should call you but I know what you would do.  You'd say I'm putting you on, but it's no joke.  It's doing me harm.

Fucking Quarryman.  They telepath their 60's thoughts to me still.

Hey Everyone!

if you came to this site because you found a World Wide Dirt circular including new works by me and Parker, then awesome!

they will be left all over wisconsin.
If you want to receive a monthly subscription to World Wide Dirt 'Little Ole Magazine" Send you're home address to:

worldwidedirt@gmail.com

it is Free! and on real paper.

if you found the "Little Ole Magazine" email me to let us know what you think!

love Sean and Parker