jasonvalley

[jasonvalley]

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[jasonvalley]

For the pressures built beyond thy ribs. I pull at teeth one last time. My palms can only carry the weight of these words ever so much. Yet, actions alone have screeched volumes greater than words ever could. I've heard the roars of thunder while dancing and stomping on the heart of this world.

This might not make sense to you, but I am stuck in a dream on the hill. It makes sense now thinking about how my friends and I were able to levitate when we were young. There are time loops from the energy that we release at some moments in our lives. Think, déjà vu. So look, I realize my words could be convoluted and jumbled, as are the memories I spoke of here. Like puzzle pieces, read carefully, as these are not fables. But enigmas in text. And I do mean, read carefully. I might spell things wrong & sometimes skip letters. Dots and dashes can only go so far within a file of images. Like stepping on the glass shards I'd once bitten into. It possibly upon a few re-reads out loud, makes more sense. I now know how to levitate again. These are snippets of what I wrote to create my new album. The full of the writing spans over 50 pages currently.

I'd wanted to float behind those walls. Heavyweight among the pressures of fuel and air. Under the rust in front of a quarter-inch wire. In the dark before my thoughts. I'd play through without perfection. To get my words out quick. To hear those words out loud, speaking back to me, to not let go. It felt like a dream. Driving through the nightlights for hours on end to rest on the floorboards as a party played out. Headfirst into a world of concrete slabs. People watched tears run through the tunnels daily. One Valentine's Day, I'd come across a body laying lifeless. Red roses carried my view unto a bolder where tears would shed uncontrollably. The waters ahead of me and that bridge to my right within my blurry view. Sometimes, I still feel it. What sense to have of perceiving empty spaces? I loom through the tunnels of rats and heat. The odds to be on one's side. Torn to shreds on the wide pavements of the night. Pulled by the pushes straight out of dread. Places of pits, smoke, and sweat. I linger thin as ice. Melting in the lights of an avenue while the shutters close. Faint, my words rumble in a distance. As ink is spilling what I wish I'd wrote. Pages under the blue painted skys. Where no food is allowed, where you are hushed from an echo. Ode to the air beneath my heavy walk. Stories of Salt Creek and violence beyond my walls. Just after settled silence of when I'd pull him off the concrete slabs with a bloody palm. He was hospitalized for such a time that'd we'd lose contact during the aftermath and repercussions of a car hitting him on his bike. I pictured it as it happened on the same road I'd see a body lay at my bus stop on New Year's Eve. The reasoning behind my fear for driving on that day. I remember the stains on the ground where a hat was lost within shards of a broken windshield. Screaming scenes among the joys of being a preteen. Faces of remembrance from whom I feel for. Peace withers in the murky waters. I remember when. I remember when he crept into the abyss of the sewer drain. Double dares and snakes surrounded our denim. Multiple shouts with points of dirt filled nails. Bloody lips to smile at me. I see all. Archive the waves and soundscapes of envy. Passed out joy arriving to meet the roads where once repeated. An empty seat beside me. As one passes through the trees, collecting winds I would breathe out. Crisp slow taunts. Candy Cane cries. Children of electric boxes. Hallways of recession paths. Pillow-talks of pen pals. Depths of water as the elders yelled out a name. Lost again with the rust. David spoke of plastic bottles in a bag. Wrestling friends on both asphalt and carpet stains of Lemonhead fragments. Twisted words out he whom breathes basement hazes. Kind but oh his name fit the picture we'd witness. Sharp his words. His tongue, a sword of sorts to threaten one's brother. Never had I ever felt so at loss than in that cornfield maze. What's a boy to do with a blade to his chest? Like a candle before my gut. I'd see haze turning into dust in the house of cigarettes. I'd know that he'd go overboard. I'd tiptoe among the overflow. We climbed those fences. We balanced on the train tracks at 12. To meet echoes of one whom his friend would soon pass in her sleep. The halls felt silent. I feel for her and her friend I'd meet. Smoke climbed up to the level were I would run from the police. Out of breath but out of mind. I gasped for fresh air into my lungs in the shadow of a dumpster. Our long hair drenched in sweat. All I wanted was a friend. I'm pulled apart as I re-meet them words. Pulled apart, I'm aching.

Sometime later, Jenny was actually a friend of mine. Spoke of hot topics and purple nail polish. Ode to Aim, to bite one's adolescents. Doors would creep open. Doors would slam shut.

I still picture ***** with the rolling backpack. Two girls would make fun and called out a prep in a negative way. Not knowing of ****** deep interests in underground music movements. Our friendship had grew as quickly as it had ended.

I often wondered if they were also dragged and pulled into the ether. It was like moments of particles being pushed into the next episode of a everlasting series for educational entertainment. I asked another if she also understood this feeling. Like these moments are within your palms. It seems like there is a common understanding regarding what I hold onto. As if these were passed but shared experiences. Remember when? Remember when this, that, and this person did this and that? We could ask those on different ends of the world, yet something does meet at a point in time. I could tell something was off within those years of adolescents. I could just tell. I hadn't told anyone as it makes no sense. There is a group of those to be asked. Sadly, some are out of reach in this dimension.

I know one who has taught how to levitate. Do you remember the feeling of a spider crawling on your skin? It's close to the same. Sometimes you'll hear witness of them through the glass. Sometimes, I levitate too. There is a bridge where I once stood upon the water. There was a sunset.

I miss the glow of the pixels. I miss the glow of text behind the glass. Recalling when I first met the glass. It was placed on wood in a basement corner of a friend's home. It belonged to his older brother. He ate cicadas on record to upload on the Internet. My friend was joyous. Was often asked why he'd smile a lot. I spoke very little of him throughout the rest of my life. As though I'd wanted to forget what we'd face. Shocks of scenes where one layed on a wooden board on the water. Panicked as we all witnessed anguish. There, I recall why I'd dismiss pretorn jeans. I remember now. He belted out his lungs as metal met his skin. We all stood silent. We ran across the woods as we carried him to his mother. And to those whom hath surrounded our friend, I miss them still. There are peaks where I would witness why we must have not spoken again. I picked at the thoughts during evening loiters in the Midwest. I cry for the boy I'd give a high-five the day before his death. I remember a friend giving me a bloody face on my birthday. I remember a friend giving me bloody hands at six. I remember watching the flames from across the yard. The sirens shadowed the screams. I can still picture their pain. Matt and I would often dig holes in the muddy pits, we wanted to dig a hole to the other ends of the earth. After school, I watched that house engulfed in flames. I'd never see him again after that day. I remember bloody knuckles at lunchtime. Curses through chapped lips. Pacing through the halls during the aftermath of a humiliating incident in front of me and a friend I'd never see again due to a violent attack in his home. I remember notes from the school being sent home. I remember what she'd said happened in an apartment below. She told me and her friend but we were young and didn't understand. I cry for her still. I cry for another beyond my wall. My guess now is that we couldn't hear her gasp for help under the weight of her husband's yells. Details come back more often than before. Like as the guns layed on the glass as we ran in the field and stood on the seats of a swing set. I feel bad for their youths. Of plenty. Yet, I remain in awe at the questioning as to why. What's a boy supposed to do?

To be honest, a lot of people would talk about those like us in these rooms, tucked away in a place behind a curtain. I wish I told this person how much they'd meant to me even just knowing them as a teen. Not even distant yet old close friends know of whom I speak of here. I don't think anyone does. I believe at the time that I was pressured to shy away from this person who I looked up to as an artist. This person had expressed kindness and openness to different mediums and forms of expression. This person was a year older than I. When I felt I had to shy away, I was devastated. I'd written about a conversation that I believe we would had held within the dark room we would sit in during our lunch hours. I'd been grasping at all the words within my throat for nearly a decade.

I rip apart those memories of **** without ease or fault of blame. I hope this world has not come close to eating away at those that'd been left after the experiences I'd hold witness to. Formalities can go as far as unnecessary after situations like we'd share. Question to ask if I'd dreaded unto the weight of another who'd fallen to death too soon. Was there a reason I was met with reports? Had I burdened the mind of one who'd been troubled beforehand? I will never know. Sad to say I was genuine within my curiosity of making a friend. Years later I'd find a peer who'd share musical interests in. I'd later find that he'd pass away a couple of years after loosing touch. I'd see his birthday wishes from loved ones shared and posted.

The cool breeze drives and breaks in the parking lots. Isolated in leather under a negative wind chill. The nights went from feeling so empty to finding a friend who'd share tones and whispers throughout endless nights. Cloth to share on one's back. Cloths to shimmer in the streetlights. Sunrises to feel like nightfall. Compressed MP3 streams across I-55. I wish I'd been taught to bite myself to a lesser extent. I'd bite my tongue when I had my tooth strung to a doorknob. Slamming it shut, the waves rattled my jaw. I'll never forget that letter. I cried in the back of a car wondering if there were cameras always watching my every move. I'd look for the cameras as a child. I'd struggle with this within my adolescents until I could remove myself with those that would surround me. I'd never mention this to others. I thought my whispers were being watched as a kid. Summer never felt so alive. And yet, as pushes meet closer to the edge, it still doesn't. Cold, my nerves tremble as I view the steps we'd pace. Burns to the touch, your eyes pierced back at me. I pull at my teeth ever so often. I never knew I could have a friend like that. There are many of those who wouldn't have been spoken about again. Why wouldn't one attempt to contain growing pains? Second guessing the weight of the words within my throat.

I remember cries on an avenue. Reminder to when I worried for Marie. I teared for her fall on the road I once skated on with those boys. I could still feel the bass of the drums across the street in the attic of a home I was dared to drink water out of a dog bowl on the floor. I stood up to see an old friend choking in a bathroom doorway. We soon became neighbors but hadn't spoke again since. But what was my life witnessing? A garbage bag full of bottles that'd be hidden under a bed. I cried for her. It was like watching dominoes fall. I do regret jumping out of that window. It was a harder pain from the time I'd jump off of their garage roof as a kid.

I hold remembrance that I wish others could know. The complete opposition of screaming aloud on 26th street. I recall the vomit spilling onto the cold leather seats when I was thirteen. Though, the air felt colder in twenty seventeen. I felt the negative of this feeling sometime three years later. It rushed through the waters and spilled into the roads that I'd walk down at a 5am night. The air was no longer cold. Can you remember the time you once felt bliss? Strangled at the paragraphs I knew I would place upon somewhere eventually. It takes more tons to bury one's feelings. I'd felt as though they were in a hold that my friend and I had dug. The pit of a heart in the yard that flooded. You must reach for years in order to grasp at those wounds. It takes swimming lessons to find the way to that place. An area were I would climb a tree. As a child, cried when it's leaves would fall. I'd later read in a book handed to me by a loved one that it's branches were reaching out for help. They reach out their arms like I should have earlier. Other trees will reach one another to ensure it's longevity. This is what should be taught sooner than later. It's not easy to levitate for a long period of time. During a short timeframe in my life, I would levitate with my friends in a forest. I wrote a short story about it in highschool. I was constantly trying to find a way to share the experience but no one seemed to care to understand. When I was away for summers I would attempt to levitate on my own. There is a weightlessness to the unrest. Reaching out to the branches in the distance could lengthen the longevity to grow.

I found butterflies around that tree. Where I would travel to in a colder place near a lakeside, there was an old concrete building with large steps. I'd walk past a glass panel where they were propped up for knowledge. I almost cried to see these. Only one knows of this incident as it isn't shared often. I remember the winds near the water of the lake. I'd wanted perfection after the pressures of this world would set upon us a great distrubance for years. I tear for missing the smiles I'd only witness within the smiles of those eyes.

Why was his face bloody? Who followed him? I remember the gold chain around his neck. Where is it now? I cry uncontrollably when something reminds me of those that I feel pain for. I remember those kids sitting on the wooden planks that would be consumed by the oxygen of their grandfather. I wish I could take it away from them. I can still picture my view from my window. And as days go by, I miss more people. They'd all been on my mind for so long. These memories weigh on me terribly. I feel horrors taunting across like a sweeping skyline clawing at many moves of misdirections. I wish to pull the sorrow out of them. I should have pulled ******** hand higher. I feel like I'd let him down. It wasn't his fault, he was just a kid. I shake being cornered by the surrounding sound waves of being held under that blue sky tarp. I once looked up above to the pale diffused blue light. Under the gym lights as a bell rang loud. And to witness a dance like no one else. I'd dance on a heart. Pressures close beyond the rust. There was something in the air. It hollows it's way through some. Please don't forget it. Don't forget that feeling. Always yern for it. I feel for you and you are loved.

[jasonvalley]

Armor Glove–A Collaboration Between Jeweler Shaun Leane And Daphne Guinness–Encrusted  With 18-Carat Hand Cut Diamonds.  

“The detail in its design is hugely symbolic. The birds with which it is embellished denote freedom from the material world. The gold from which it is molded was thought to have magical powers. Like the knights of my childhood daydreams, this beautiful glove is resilient and beautiful, strong despite its finery.”

[jasonvalley]

Chanel Haute Couture Fall/Wint 2008

[jasonvalley]

[jasonvalley]

Dries van Noten for i-D Magazine (2003)

[jasonvalley]

[jasonvalley]

Maison Martin Margiela: ‘Kiss Shirt’ (2007)

[jasonvalley]

various rings by Vivienne Westwood

[jasonvalley]

lun’na menoh in addressing the century: 100 years of art + fashion - hayward gallery (1998)

[jasonvalley]

Chrome Hearts Jewelry featured in Kera Mag. circa 1998-1999

[jasonvalley]

John Galliano - Fall 1995 RTW

[jasonvalley]

Gilded fingertips created by Claude Lalanne for Yves Saint Laurent’s AW 1969 haute couture collection.

[jasonvalley]

For the past 4 years, I've written an album titled Crescendo. It's about painful childhood friendships, conversations in closed spaces, family dynamics from the perspective of a child, and battles with overcoming life obstacles when nothing feels worth it years down the road. It's been a journey within myself just to create it. I plan to release it soon.

[jasonvalley]

🎻 to imagine how i must feel

[jasonvalley]

[jasonvalley]