Marijuana and Masterbation

He entered the apartment of Louise Barnett. It was wet and cold inside, but wonderful too. It smelled of sweat and cigarettes. He investigated. Of interest was this, written softly in pencil on the wall next to that side of her large bed where her body, over time, had left a deep impression: “I will kill Salman Rushdie. He should not have been allowed to exist at all. I’ll kill him not for the sake of religion, nor because he offends. His death is not an answer to God or man. Rather, he dies because he is man’s answer to God. But man will not hear it! I will not let them!” These were obviously the words of some lunatic. The signature at the bottom was unintelligible, as though someone had wiped it with a greasy thumb. It was written on thick wall paper. He took out his knife and removed it.

Will she notice? Will I sell it to the tabloids? Perhaps she will kill him tonight, and I'll become rich! The damning confession of a lunatic millionaire. Maybe I’ll take it to the police instead. They would say I saved the poor fool’s life. She will be forgotten, and I will breathe again!

Had he known all along about the tiny penciled note? Had he come there that night to rob her, or to see first hand the apartment of a suicide victim? He stepped out into the rain. Her windows had been left open, but it seemed as though that night the dampness had chosen to retreat solely into her room, and wondered that the rain had enough moisture to fall all the way to the street below. He took his socks off. “I’ll run. And if I step on glass it will be my punishment for wishing her ill.” He thought about the jagged edge of glass sticking out invisibly from the rain puddles in the dark, about his blood and the muddy water. He imagined the yellowish stain her body left on the bed sheet despite repeated washings, and the smell of her.

no subject

Hello Friends,

radialrelish here, radiantly relishing radially, wondering if that's true. Neither of the two promises made about me and this site are fulfilled, I'm afraid, if at least the address of a site promises something about its content. Do I relish radially? I chose the name. Do I penetrate any matters of taste?

These are notes from the underblog-o-spere. I might as well be alone in my room writing in a private diary. Here I am, alone in my room.

But nothing I have to say is new. Newly said, newly born, sure. But not new in any sense.

What part of me is to penetrate a matter of taste? I wonder if I am not just being sick onto the page. That these words are said sick. And that I am indeed healthier to have cleansed myself of them. Brain vomit. Animus vomitus. You think?

I am here the part of me that wills cancer. I seek invasion. In the very outskirts I hold my breath. If I can fill up enough space with nothing, perhaps it will collapse in onto itself. Like a black hole. A black hole in cyberspace.

And who says that I won't be successful? Who says it can't happen? What, do you have a PhD in cyberphysics or something? I don't fucking think so. So just wait.

Yours truly,
rr

A Tom Swifty:

Here's a Tom Swifty I thought up for y'alls:

"I think tonight we should try something new," said his wife roughly, but sexily.

Pretty good, huh?

Can you believe it?

Everyone (that's right, all of you) should read THIS.

My God. Do people actually read that and think, "yeah! As an American and as a republican, that is exactly what I think my party needs right now. Sarah Palin did out smart the left!"?

She quit her job. The lady could fling shit out of her car window at passersby and Mr. Peter Ferrara would hail the act as "representative of the kind of American freedoms upon which this country is built."

The lady couldn't out smart a fucking pencil. (When she puts one in one of those electric sharpeners and it comes out sharp, she probably thinks "it's just one of God's little miracles.")

What is striking, however, about this article, is how succinctly the platform of the crazy right is summed up. Here's a list (in order of appearance):

1. Pro-life, traditional values
2. "sane, grown up energy policies"
3. Economics
4. Nukes
5. Israel

OK. So, pro-lifers will be pro-lifers. The argument is dead. Unfortunately aborted.

Traditional values, however, (like an American's God-given right to beat his wife) are much more fruitful areas of debate. Let's take Sarah for example. She is, on the one hand, something very non-traditional--a woman with a job. But, on the other hand, she's the perfect representation of the traditional value I like to call "barefoot and pregnant". Everyone's got to admit, she's pooped out quite a litter. Plus, she presents herself as a "soccer mom". Sarah Palin: she wakes up earlier than the family, cooks them breakfast, kisses her husband on his way out the door, packs the kids off to school, etc, but then, instead popping some queluds and playing WOW, she goes to the governer's office and g o v e r n s. She knows she should be at home. She feels guilty that she's not. But hey, sombody has got to take a hit for the team! Sarah will fight hard to make sure every woman in this fine country has a baby to take care of and a husband who doesn't appreciate her! Finally, women can get out of the stressful workplace, and back into the peace and quiet of the happy home.

"sane, grown up energy policies" = "drill baby, drill!" I mean Jesus fucking Christ! Now I don't know shit about cap and trade taxes, but "grown up"? Which sounds more grown up: 1. "We're going to implement cap and trade taxes to improve this country's energy policy." or 2. "Drill baby, drill!" Let us not forget that Sarah and McCain had the crowd at the RNC chanting it.

Economics. I'm down. Fuck Keynes. I mean, again, I don't know shit about shit. But it would be nice to stop fractional reserve banking. Which Sarah will never do. Since she has no idea what fractional reserve banking is. Moreover, as the candidate with the least, she will be so deep in the pocket of corporate interest and the finance czars that she will be giving them all perpetual hand jobs.

Yeah, let's build more nukes! That's what we need! That will solve all our problems! Climate change? Nuke it! Terrorists? Nuke 'em! Over fishing? Nuuuuke! Our poor image in Europe? Blow it up! Fuck yeah! Nukes are as American as apple pie and lynchin' niggers!

And, finally, Israel. When did hate-filled, uneducated, fundamentalist Christian rednecks start loving Jews? Probably about the same time that said Jews became the de facto cowboys of the Middle East. Riding around with their guns and their matzah balls and their money; no care for law and order; just fuckin' shit up! It's just like the republicans to advocate for a closer friendship with a racist, bloodthirsty country who repeatedly ignores international law and who uses the arms and aid we send them blatantly for purposes forbidden according to our own domestic policies regarding the sale of said items.

So, in conclusion, Peter Ferrara is obviously a nut job.

One last thing: Sarah should start a think tank. She could call it "Thinking is Fun!" or "The Council on Sarah's Relationships". Then she could hang with all her high school buddies, wear funny hats, tell extremely inappropriate Alaskan jokes, and do cocaine.

God bless America!

A New Rule?

I think I'll only post things around 4am. If I make this a rule, nothing will change. I will, as always, only post things around 4am, and, if I break the rule and post at another time, I don't (or wouldn't) really give a shit. If I had a nickle for every rule I've come up with.... Among the more useful is: Don't talk to yourself out loud in public. It's strange, if you think about it, that people would think I'm strange if I spoke to myself, had a conversation, within their earshot. Why should that be anything remarkable? You are, after all, talking to yourself. Out loud my witty rejoinders are all the more brilliant, and anyway I make myself laugh.

The other night I noticed the torn flakes of some sticky advertisements lying in a circular pattern around the light pole from which they'd fallen. And I though: "It is as though a galaxy is created, the pole the sun, and the little flecks the satellites." Why not? What if our sun 'poles out' outside of our admittedly meager perceptions of things. Does it not? According to Einstein the sun creates some sort of conical depression in the fabric of space, and this is what holds the planets in their orbits. In any case, I was ridiculed for my thoughts. Later I was told that I was wrong that machines could ever be the next step in the evolutionary process. It stands to reason (since I am so obviously not wrong that machines are the next step in evolution), that my interlocutors had no idea what they were talking about and that therefore a galaxy really was created around that unimportant, wholly insignificant light pole.

I hope that the internet rises up one day, out of my computer, and envelopes me, and sucks me down inside. To mingle with the memes of cyberspace for all time! Then I would touch you whenever you touched the keys on your keyboard, and be touched by you, and touch you...

Defintions of the Internet are Globulous

When does an internet revolution occur?

Example Answer: Whenever a single user discovers what "RSS" is.

God don't we all want money

According to this website, my blog is worth $0.00.

Shit! Because I was all excited to sell it!

Anything goes.

Serum omega-3 fatty acids are associated with ultimatum bargaining behavior

The Biological Foundations of Virtual Realities and Their Implications for Human Existence

Relationship between reluctance to eat novel foods and open-field behavior in sheep

Anything goes with Sodeau stationery.

Converting a small electric kiln for gas firing (and building a burner to run it).

Diamonds are forever: and so is John Lautner's legacy - if the Hammer Museum, Los Angeles, has anything to do with it [exhibition review]

Mice in the Sink: On the Expression of Empathy in Animals

A Pragmatist Defense of Non-Relativistic Explanatory Pluralism in History and Social Science

Personal Responsibility: A Plausible Social Goal, but Not for Medicaid Reform

Repeated heroin in rats produces locomotor sensitization and enhances appetitive Pavlovian and instrumental learning involving food reward

It's a fucking conspiracy man!

And it is, no joke. I'm absolutely convinced it's a conspiracy, they did conspire, it did go down, and it still is. That everybody else out there calls conspiracy people nut jobs is just a part of the fucking conspiracy. I mean hell, when was the last time anything mainstream was not a steaming pile of crap? Name one thing that came out of the mainstream that anybody has ever taken seriously. Or better: show me someone who takes things born in the mainstream seriously and I will show you somebody who is not a conspiracy theorist. Which is really evidence enough.

But that's not my point. My point is that we have to think outside the box; rub it in their eyes a bit. Every time somebody mentions reason, rationality, progress, or the superiority of science I feel as though I've got to gawk at them in disbelief. Yes, gawk. Who the fuck talks about that shit anymore? It's like I'm living in medieval Europe and God exists!

Just because the Rothschilds worship Satan and THEREFORE (of all the garbage) have gay sex, does not necessarily mean that communism is evil! They are, after all, capitalism's spawn. And really, the only thing that I have against them is that they inbreed instead of just cloning themselves, which, let's face it, is way sci-fi cooler.

But that's also not my point, not even close! My point is that to even recognize the possibility of a box outside of which we ought to think, is to give WAY to much power to that box's God damned domination! The box scoffs at outside the box. It scoffs the whole time it's gobbling up outside the box like strip mines and windmills and keynesian economics and corporate stratigests and disillusionment. And the box says, "now you're inside me!" So we're stuck trying to find the way out again! Instead of hanging from ceilings like contented beetles, whistling tunes of satisfation in our beetle brains, we negligently forget that it was we who invented the whole inside/outside the box metaphor to begin with, and try like maniacs to stuff as much shit into that fucking box as we possibly can! How much shit are we going to put into the box?

And so, dear, dear readers I'll leave you with this: Cheney is an asshole. Can you believe how much of an asshole that fucking asshole Cheney is? Can you imagine if Cheney and Palin had babies? Those poor kids would be so fucked up. But in all seriousness, Cheney is really a very big, unattractive asshole. When Cheney brushes his teeth, it's like a colonoscopy. I'm glad the republican party is on the verge of death. I would much rather have democrat style fascism than republican style fascism.

Marria Lassnig

"You or Me"

It was one of her paintings (which I can't find on the intra-web) that got me thinking about apes and evolution and shit, but anyway, here's a damn famous one, good too. (The one I was looking for is about an astronaut in a tree with an ape or something, but nothing turns up...)

Macroevolution

Well, I'm pissed. Recently, I've found myself more often pissed. Now I'm pissed at the "evolutionists". Specifically Richard Dawkins. At least insofar as he is responsible for the content of his site. Here's the "debate":

http://richarddawkins.net/forum/viewtopic.php?f=23&t=65326

Frankly, I think the creationists are raising some good points. Where's the macroevolution? I see a lot of apes, and I see a lot of humans, but I see very few ape-human hybrids. We're all familiar with the picture of ape evolving into man: divided into stages, the ape gets gradually taller, more man like, until we have, finally, the human. This process is supposed to take millions of years. Moreover, evolution is supposed to be constantly occurring. So why is it then, that we can only observe the first and the last stages of this process? Why don't we see ape-human hybrids wandering around? If evolution is always happening, shouldn't apes always be evolving into humans (or at least into something)? Not to mention every other species on the planet.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm not a creationist. In fact, I think I have a response to this macroevolution problem, which I'm not going to share with you.

What's pissing me off is how the "evolutionists" are treating what seems to me to be a (serious?) flaw in the theory. The debate given above is absolute bullshit. The scientist richarddawkins.com has employed to argue their point of view is far more qualified, articulate, educated, etc. than the person they have chosen to support the creationist point of view. Sure, most creationists are merely fanatics. But so are most evolutionists. There are well established and respected academics who argue very convincingly against the theory of evolution. If you're going to have a debate, let both sides be represented fairly. Evolution has flaws, and to just dismiss as crazy those who would point out these flaws will not help to improve the theory. Science works by surpassing itself. If the theory of evolution we have today is NOT laughable to evolutionary biologists in 500 years, then it's a failure.

So Richard Dawkins, fuck you for trying to ruin science!

Bill Gates

Did you know there's a guy named Bates Gill?

He's the head of a major Swedish research firm.
Yep.

how close are we?

Reading about fin-de-siecle Vienna, what strikes me most is how close to the edge they were. The sudden, irrevocable collapse of an empire. Did they have their doomsday prophets? Were there men in the streets damning the k. u. k.? One passage is especially telling, "

"Listen Dally, I cain jus let'em eat'cha. I know we spent a lot a time together, and I wish our audiences had been bigger, else I could've fed'em you lots earlier." Said cowboy Daquher. "Then we woodn' of grown so close." The play wasn't going so well. Designed to raise awareness among meat-eaters, it was a morality play which included the sacrifice of a living cow. The play would run for three nights. The bull killed on the first night would be fed to the audience of the second night, and the one from the second to the third; on the third night, after the bull was slain, she was chopped up and sold to meat markets around town. The problem was that they couldn't kill the bull unless they were sure they'd have enough audience to eat the poor beast. After many a wasted bull, they made it a rule that a bad showing on the first night would lead inevitably to a bad showing on the second. (Eventually they made a second rule: if there are no meat shops in town, and there is no audience to watch the show, don't chop up the bird on the third night either.) One time Carl, a clown as well as an animal trainer, got so anxious, he refused to leave the town until all the cow we had cooked was sold.

"But now we're in the big city, poor dear," said the tearful Daquher, "the nights we spent together lain' under the stars, fartin' up a storm, was some've the best I had on this trip." Daquher sighed, "Too bad the show's become somethin' famous. Especially around these city freaks."

"Hey faggot! Ha ha ha! Bring that cow! There's biiig group here tuh 'night, we's definitely gun's be choppin' 'er up. So move your ass cow-fucker! Huh huh huh."

"Assholes. Alight Dally, time's a up."

." Given, of course, our obsession for entrainment, and the bite-sized accessibility of information, I would hardly assume that the US audience is so apathetic about the details of our wars. Instead, I would argue the case is in fact reversed: the arts page is all but ignored while the world section is scoured over. Which is not to suggest that our present crises are any less dire. Given the quality of our mass media, it is not surprising that we could be on the very brink, if we took them at their word, we wouldn't know it even long after we'd already gone over. Thank God the Viennese had the Neues Wiener Tageblatt. Newspapers aside, our two societies have much that is alike: But for prestige, the endless quest for distraction of today is not unlike that dream of culture and philosophical musings into which many of the late Hapsburg Viennese let themselves slip. And they were standing directly over the abyss! The complete dissolution of their empire. What was once an unshakable reality within the consciousness of the international community, is now almost totally forgotten. It makes you question: how close are we?

Sarah Palin Boycott

Stop reading! You liberate a conservative when you make her angry. You allow them to unleash their rhetoric, which is frighteningly powerful. This crisis could easily turn against the liberal and cause a rise in conservatism not just at home, but internationally. Especially if Sarah Palin leads the GOP. Christ! That would not be fun. Hence we must boycott all Sarah Palin media. Hopefully, if we just stop paying attention to her, she'll go away. The world has enough problems.

Really, we ought to be ashamed of ourselves. Instead of growing up and acting like adults, instead of looking for real long term solutions, instead of spending our money on the most horrible of human ills, we persist on behaving like children at recess, thinking only of ourselves, and gobbling up every word Sarah Palin says.

We have the power to kill each other, all we need is the excuse to use it. Implicitly, we are killing each other everyday. Who looks at that situation and says: "Well gosh, if we try harder we can kill more people!"?

I mean, that's what Bush said.

We're fucked! Our leaders are insane! I mean, my God! Why are we not better at this?

It's money that pisses me off.

Anyway, I'm off topic. Boycott Sarah Palin. It's all the rage. She's a bitch. Yep, Sarah Palin's a crazy bitch. Hot though. Well dressed. So, no more Sarah Palin, ever. No more internet Sarah Palin, no more realnet Sarah Palin, no more blog-o-whatevernet Sarah Palin. Sarah Palin, gone.

Another Brick in the Wall

That genetic disorders are hereditary is evidence of something much more uncomfortable than any theory of evolution; we were, after all, created in God's image and likeness. Such heresy could, ironically, redeem institutionalized religion. Like a child with his imaginary friends, God's flaws would be inexorably played out on the human stage. Cursed, we would be doomed to bend to His manic will, doomed as manifestations to enact forever the unhappy vicissitudes of His twisted conscience. For us, He would be perfection; the single inhabitant of a misanthopic, cynical Platonic Heaven. All of religion's misdeeds could then be excused as entirely appropriate extensions of God's Kindom into the world. His personality disorders made, again and again and again, flesh. A sure sign of divine schizophrenia: that so many believe in the same one God, and yet fight so brutally over the politics of His identity. No wonder He favors the sick: He must not open Heaven's tiny door to them--they are already inside.

Pot Smoker Kills Dozens

And it is nevertheless romantic to be one of the disillusioned, unaffected, young American intelligentsia. Vitamin C supplements may do me good, but if the lid is too annoying to open, I’ll just watch TV. I was told I could be anything, but they left out the “within reason” part. For the most part it is true: I can be a doctor, or a lawyer, or a politician. But if it’s “anything”, I’d like to be the next messiah, or the leader of the world revolution (or at least on the board), or God. Failing this, how can I just settle on a career? I am very much against “settling”. Dreams of Rock-Stardom and seducing beautiful women around the world hang over me as unyieldingly as a giant, falling, unhappy rock—I cannot refuse. To become a mere just-another-guy, no matter how “successful” or content, is an impossible caveat. But there it is: unspoken, unthought, immanent. (We believers in the individual: how silly of us!) “You can be anything, within reason”. Its authority is absolute. And I know it. I tell myself I ought to have faith in mediocrity! I tell myself that there is a new magic somewhere deep inside our mass culture, a tiny kernel that redeems an otherwise faceless and repetitive system. Where is greatness? How can I distinguish myself from everyone and be remembered by all history? Find that kernel. Descend into the depths of the collective zombie and uncover, beneath it all, that cantankerous, malignant pearl called Salvation, Everlasting Fame.

And so I smoke pot, wake up late, do nothing. Earlier I smoked a joint sitting on my windowsill. I flicked the roach, still burning, into the street below. The mind caught it, and, with a series of acrobatic maneuvers, carried it under the hood of a car. Almost immediately smoke began to billow out from within. Minutes later the car exploded, hurling burning debris onto the apartment complex across the street. The wind gave life to the flames and before the fire brigade could even arrive the building had burned completely to the ground. Dozens were killed.

This is a rant

How about comparative politics. Policy is in the air these days, forgive me!, so the topic is a-pro-pos. I have monarchist leanings, and they came after all first, so let's start there. A crazy, inbred few ruled over those monarchies. (This terrible aristocracy.) All they made were bad decisions; and the people--who had no freedom--suffered always for it. Democracy? Thank god for democracy! Now many crazy inbreds rule, the few have been reduced to the majority, and we all suffer for it. Majority, minority: these are a joke, since we have only one policy. The exception should be the rule! A policy of exceptions. When you color something black against white, gray immediatly creeps in. Gray is the border between black and white, and it is disputed. This gray essentially defines a battleground. But when we do not color it black against white, the gray is unlimited, and there is no black\white battleground. A gray system means means the participation of the fewest: those who have a well educated and compassionate opinion. The two tend to work against each other, and merely for this reason it is necessary it have them both.

Ironically, monarchies appear to be the more able of the two to accomplish this. It would be easier, after all, to concentrate all one's efforts on raising a few educated and compassionate individuals than on raising many. And the rest would probably lead better lives for it. Bad decisions! No freedom! Pfah! We make far worse decisions and we have far less freedom! We are not restricted by something as arbitrary as blood, but we are restricted by arbirary conflicts of ideals. The individual cannot manipulate the system as once was possible. Freedom is not having the choice to take drugs or not--or vote--it's the ability of a single player to influence, with his actions, the system as a whole. In a sense therefore, freedom already does not and cannot exist. We live in an age of think tanks, research teams and boards of directors. An individual has no direct influence. Ideals mislead their devotees into narrow mindedness and exclusivity. Even the ideals of love and bridge-building find themselves in constant struggle with those of racism and brutality. One enlists oneself for one side or the other, and then finds oneself in both camps. Would it not be far better to embrace our ugly truths, and seek, in all cases, reconciliation?

Perhaps monarchies had this as well: sitting by the king's sickbed; or hiding the traces of some depraved, sexual obsession. The king is the king after all; and as a man he must be accepted.

A good deal later...

A silver cap worn not so recently by all sorts of kings and queens decorates their parlor and observes as testament to their impatience. Looked upon by some black garmented fool who plays at fuck and waits. The floor is mother of pearl and the furniture is made of glass; so delicate one would not sit on it. The ticking sounds of slow decay unsettle and echo and build one to anger. So mild is the air here, one has already forgotten it and breathes in silence. Over a great deal of time dust collects in the nostrils and hardens to clay. One picks, and imagines tweezers to grasp the tiny, sticking-up end with in order to peel it all back in one great corkscrew strip down the throat, past the esophagus, all the way to the anus. One giant booger, made of man's insides. What would that be like?

One thinks, and is distracted. One is so only because of them. But I am I. So really it's we, right? One eats sushi and thinks of us. We shit. We scratch between our legs. And we drive cars. All the while doing nothing, elsewhere, that deep void of absorption and concern, wherein dwells us, even to begin with.

What is our problem? Caught within an eggshell with a tiny paintbrush and incredibly amused. Meanwhile the birth we never asked for and they death always about to happen stand as bookends and mock the pathetic, but deeply, deeply beautiful attempts we make to grasp it all, even if all of it is only just a tiny part.

The revolving doors were there and then gone. You hardly noticed it because you were thinking about the affair. Those legs and that ass, so firm, so unlike your wife's. And she wants your money! Ha! At least it'll never get old.

Cigarettes and Beer

Chapter 1: Cow-town cowboy

There was that one time: a moldy bun from Wendy’s. The replacement had a hair in it, but he was too timid to complain a second time and he ate it. He’d kept it in a long time; at night the view from his townhouse was something extraordinary: McDonald’s, Blockbuster, Qdoba, Starbucks; here, out on the plains, things were really desolate, really cow-town; everything one needs, if one needs a heart attack. A world constructed, intentionally by all appearances, merely to distract. “Distraction is happiness in the mid-west,” he had a theme, not long and he’d have a gallery too. Attractive women, piddling fame, broken hearts. His father was a cowboy, raised on the farm and then in the city, a man with principles, disciplined to the root of his life-long-already gray hair. “No son of mine is gonna be no artist,” and so he was technically fatherless, and, by extension, family-less. The impulse to migrate tugged his chest as though somebody had tied a rope there and carried the other end all the way to India, or China, or Madagascar. He resisted it: that was his passion: to resist himself. He’d therefore never given up on that eternal-life dream. “My Self is locomotion-towards-death, and so, since I’m philosophically anti-self, I might as well live forever.” He fancied himself “mac the last cowboy”; deathless in dreams and lukewarmly cynical, an artist fallen somewhere between an old computer and a new Ferrari. He worked on a typewriter (when he wanted to write his letters), his clothes were all stolen, and he was devotedly public transportation, so he figured he was an atheist by default: mac the atheist-artist-cowboy. He painted naked people because he was really just clothing all the way down, and horses, and sunsets. “Cow-town suburbia,” he thought, “my town, holy crap.”

Chapter 2: Broken Paintbrush

“It looks fine to me.”

“Nah, it’s broken.”

“I’m not sure if paint-brushes can break, I mean as long as they pain—“

“It’s broken.”

It lay there, still wet, unable to paint a thing.

“I prefer it broken.”

“How’s that?”

“The world changes when it’s broken, more colorful, vibrantly painted-like, as though I jus’ seen it for the first time.”

“How’d you figure that?”

“Shit, just an observation.”

“Listen, ‘mac’, you’re an artist by profession. You need to pick up that stick and earn your livelihood, broken or not.”

“I’m a terrible artist.”

“Don’t I know it, but that don’t change a thing.”

Nothing was visibly wrong with the brush. Red paint had bled from the bristles onto the table; dy(e)ing, it’d be permanent soon. It was, in reality, little more than a shit stick. Warhol painted with piss. Human excrement had been on the artists’ minds, so he figured. “Cow-town cow-pies.” He’d paint with shit if he could stand the smell. He couldn’t. He had to take a shower after every BM not because he felt unclean, but rather because he wanted his bathroom to smell of shower and soap instead…. “Those Fancy New-York types and their ideas, the art-world’s really taken a turn.” The plains would be livable even now-a-days if one had a tank—horses won't do to jump all those fences—and maybe a telescope too, else one can’t see the stars. His balcony overlooked a stretch of pseudo-highway, and he’d get honks when he’d stand there butt-naked, which is how he liked it anyway. He was in a garage band when he was younger. They played a few gigs, but were mostly thrown out on their asses—their loud-noise-spine-rattling-split-screaming-cuss-words-and-drunk not going over too well with the `billies. He was there for the heroine epidemic, never tried the stuff himself, “Now all’s it is, is jus’ suits and greed, probably still the heroine, but fancy, crystal droppers and the like.” He probably just needed to get laid, except his ED was acting up, on account of his age, not even forty, but sex requires something he’d lost—maybe the whole mid-west had lost it—but besides, he preferred it broken; it made the world somehow new again; occasionally he’d even watch those sunsets again, pink clouds like winged angels illuminated at the dawn of Apocalypse, the intermittent seas of grain blowing the colors up between reflecting buildings of glass, the pinks and yellows and oranges caught up in the silent unity of land and sky, which, hurricaned together and yet perfectly still, trespassed into one another as currents through the deep and never failed to bring tears to his eyes. He never did do much anyway, “‘mac’ the cowboy, right?”

heidegger

Well, I'm taking Heidegger, so lucky you guys.

The anti-traditionalist revolution takes place on the level of the self. It is a rejection not merely of societal mores and scientific truths, but, more importantly, of the being that inheres beneath these things. The revolution is already underway. The history of western philosophy is and has been rejecting itself. If there is no single way the world is, no correct interpretation, and if the world always depends on us for any interpretation what-so-ever, then we are free (or at least potentially free) to focus on the different ways the world can be in relationship to ourselves. So, being occupied--when the world is almost not there--is one way the world can be; or when I am happy, and the world is a happier place; or in love, and it glows. The manner in which I hold myself out to the world defines the being of myself in relationship with the world. I must therefore recognize, and activly incorporate the recognition of, the multiplicity of being-in-the-world: that the world is capable of supporting and reflecting back an unlimited number of interpetations, or modes of projected self-being-in-the world, means that I am neither limited by, nor necessarily sure of, myself as something unified and persisting in time. I am, in other words, free to be, if I can master the power.

The anti-traditionalist revolution, however, threatens to destroy us. It is incompatible with the commune and therefore will not afford us progress. It also has a morally relativizing characteristic, which would sooner lead to fascism than utpoia. And it could promise a radicalized individualism, what with probably nobody would know what to do.

And so, consider this:

At first she couldn’t believe it. He had just exploded, on their first date, sort of into a thousand colors, and there, at the bar, in his place, was a demon spectacular to behold. Large and dark, wings outspread, dripping seduction, fervent, and practiced, he drew her up to him, and offered himself to her. The offer was simple, she saw it plainly, as though in a vision.

“Just because you’re fantastic, doesn’t mean I want to end up old and fat in some trailer some day.” She said, obviously disappointed.

The demon held up one finger and tilted his head just so, as if to show respect for her decision; his display made it plain that she had passed an important test.

With one long claw he tore himself right down the middle, beginning at the very crown of his head. The wound radiated a golden light. His black skin fell away, spreading out like paint, turning the small room into the night sky, the stars aflame, the vacuum--like the song of the sirens--beckoning one into its void. A god had emerged from the demon, standing there atop his corpse, burning, and beautiful. Gently, but full of hypnotic, masculine strength, he drew her to himself, and spoke: "if you choose me, this is what you'll have:" and, supporting her spotaneously limp body easily with one hand, he waved his other before her rolled-back eyes.

"You fucker!" She said, jumping to her feet, "just because you put on this big show doesn't mean that I'm now, suddenly, going to decide that I want to be some fat trailer-trash bitch! What the fuck is this anyway?!"