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?!"

Kissing you

HE went online to learn Spanish one day. “What a magnificent tool,” he thought. Unfortunately, he was an idiot. He exercised powers far beyond his control, wielded them with fearful sincerity, shaking under their weight. Under the influence of his excitement, he managed to successfully learn Spanish. Although he struggled with but the simplest problems, he had a knack for languages. Soon he had conquered them all, and he spoke each one with verve and confidence. His mind bent under the strain—like steel beams crippling—and he went mad.

One always loves an idiot; their docility, their humor. Then there is the average person. He is fat and stupid, just believes whatever he is told. He sits and he thinks, and he understands the reasons why he believes the way he does. And you and I ought not exclude ourselves from this group. After all, has our life story been much different. One may substitute sitting around for working one’s ass off, lots of us do that; thinking happens however pretty much as frequently in one of us as in another, and so it may stay. And we all feel wholly justified believing the way we do.

(And even if we are biologically fat and stupid.)

This is, in truth, an easily forgivable sin. None of us is biologically programmed to be a fascist or a democrat, we are brought up to be the people we are. Can you really blame another that she or he is a fuckin’ retard? Indeed, must you not either blame yourself, or God? The average man is us; we are he.

A mad man is not so easy to love. Insane, he commits crimes. They, rising up inside him, throw him about and smash his arms and legs, as though he were caught on the reef of some island in stormy waters, until the thrashing becomes too loud and he thrashes without—always careful to sink away afterward into oceans of guilt and paranoia.

IS the average man not in his own right mad? Mad that he is destined to be ultimately forgotten? Mad that he does not know? Mad that he knows this and never stops believing?

Probably, since those of us who are mad are actually the sane ones and etc. It’s perfectly true.

No Smoking

Shake your skinny fist at the sky
Jealously rides on the back of my lust

A nihilistic reason to quit cigarettes: If one has nothing to believe in, then one is left with nothing but the immediate and perhaps an occasional back pedal into memory. One does not believe, and, so shed of this burden, one has no choice but simply to be. Cigarettes, if used habitually, define a person. What then if one chooses not to believe that one is a smoker? One quits, naturally. “I am not a smoker: I be.”

Live on the coast, and quit for sure. Jesus!

("I wish I were just slightly off. Like the toilets in the south that just flush straight down too quickly to go the wrong way.")

Scrabble blast

Tonight I got beat at scrabble by two Germans. For those of you who know me, this is shocking news. We were playing in English. I can't believe it.

Also, I want to recommend everyone the film Magnificent Butcher. I can't seem to get many people to watch it, but I rank it with They Live as best film of all time.

One of the Germans, Markus, got a score of 185, which is pretty damn high. I formed the word "no" twice. It was cock shit.

The Germans (it's Markus and his girlfriend Carol) also refused to watch Magnificent Butcher, even though I did a very captivating dramatic reading of the synopsis (luckily, I had the movie on hand). Another friend of mine, Gail, was captivated by my dramatic reading. Maybe they just don't like kung fu movies.

Even though I lost, I had a lot of fun. We were at Southern Sun. We drank beer, and the Germans bought about three pounds of food. I took the lead early on with "badly", but was soon confronted with such gems as "revoker" and "scientologist". It was really incredible.

Anyway, I just wanted to let everyone know about this. I must sleep for now, because I have much to do tomorrow. The Germans are nice people. I'll probably never play scrabble again.

God! I wish somebody would make a website where German women in bikinis destroy electronic devices!

I really like this one, so fuck it.

It took me awhile to learn, but now I’ve got it down:

That God is dead means only that metaphysics is dead.

Nobody reads my blog!

I would hope that it’s not too heavy. Really I have only a very poor (impoverished) understanding of things. I know very little; I am no authority; I would only please; and it is you I would please. I shout into the void: so is it romantically put; I am reminded of that painting in that high school textbook of mine—I suppose it was a history textbook. We all have our little recollections, and these also play a part: listen (I love to tell people that), I have something to say.

(Emphasis.) God! I just wish … I could put commas after exclamation points. They always seem so good there.

Impoverishment: a romantic English word.

Listen well. I’ve felt this way before. It is force; I force myself to do things. What force it requires! Just the bare minimum. But to muster such is almost already asking too much! It is better to muster no force. It is better to muster nothing. We are but nothing, we are but a dynamic experiment. Let us just see how we can be.

Let’s speak of love. Love. I have mentioned it often, as you may have noticed. But was I really just playing for the crowd? Or do I love? Well, the answer is yes—and it is my own fault for bringing up the subject—but my love is actually only a dawning. The people have finally learned how to love. It is after all very pretentious of us, you know; and we ought naturally to have been punished for just mentioning it, but it is nevertheless true.

What wickedness, however? What tainted love? One is wont to salivate and lick one’s lips. We have our debauch; and we have our love. The two must be kept separate. When kink and love play two individual parts, both may do better for themselves. Love should be allowed for all, and love means (entails) certain things.

It is no use stressin’. What you want others will want; and want is endemic. We, especially now, love to want. We want. And want follows want, and so are we subjugated. They give it to us; we already wanted it.

But with love it is different. Love is an opportunity to resist. Because love is reserved, and holds itself back. But nobody is incapable of being loved, hence the possibility, always again newly renewed, of loving and being loved.

We are weak in the face of our own excuses, and because they are so beautiful, let us have them! Never was there a better excuse than love.

The nihilist loves at will. So … let us loosen our own restraints, and be willing to love.

That’s the last I should speak of it.

I was one of them, I was and I stand by that.

I was one of them, I was and I stand by that. But they left me here, and so here I have remained. Now you are here; what should I name you? Seeker? Lost One? Fool? Ask of me what you will, and I will endeavor to answer.

I’m sorry sir; I don’t know what to say. You see, I’m from the lumber company, and we happen to have purchased this little strip of jungle and, well we had no idea you were here! Now, it’s come to my attention that you stubbornly refuse to move. But the trees must be cut! And so we must beg you to move! Please, sir, don’t make this any harder than it has to be.

Don’t you see! My legs have become part of this humble stone, my hands have not felt the rush of blood since before you father’s father was born, I feed off only those insects who wander down my throat, and you suppose I can just get up and go! Why not just harvest me along with the wood? My body will burn just as well.

Sir! That would be murder! The firm I represent doesn’t tolerate such accusations! We humbly request that you, well, up root yourself I guess.

And if I refuse?

Well, perhaps we’ll cut down every tree around you. Watch out when they fall though! Is that what you’d like: if a whole city grew up around you and everybody just left you alone? You’d probably love it, so many “seekers” with whom to speak.

And you think I fear obscurity, after the life I have lived?

No, I think you fear society, human company!

No, I fear only night, and hence my simple purchase.

Is that some kind of allegory or something? I don’t understand.

Let me tell you a story: once upon a time there was a man, who, tired of having the sun in his face all day, held up his hand so as to block the light; and he was so absorbed in this that he fell down a well.

So the shadow from the hand is night, or the darkness in the well? And you sit here in order to avoid potholes?

No! The story is not yet finished: The man was lying at the bottom of the well on his back when his hand, empowered by the sun, began to leap about, like this! Like a fish flopping out of water! And do you know what his hand did then?

What?

He got a job, got married, invested in the stock market, had kids, the usual story.

Are you crazy?

Oh-no! Not me, it was the other hand that was crazy! Crazy from jealously. You see, this other hand: the fall down the well left it permanently disabled, ironically because it was kept out of the sun and left in the pocket!

OK, old man, so you’re gonna move or what?

And so the jealous hand murdered the successful, enlightened hand. But he didn’t stop there; he murdered his children and his wife as well! Finally, ashamed of his crime, he chopped himself off. And you know what?

What?

Just think how the penis felt!

Art Post (pierogi gallery, pictures linked)

It is true that hernia

It is true that the world appears exactly as it is. There is no denying this because there is no other way for it to appear. However, it appears to each of us differently, and radically so. For while in fact everything might appear very similar to each of us, there is no way of qualifying the difference. Therefore, the world might as well be something vastly unique seen through the eyes of vastly unique things and at great distances from one another.
But this is not so profound a thought. One cannot even disagree. My world simply is very different from a dog’s, regardless of my “special capacity for perceiving”. What I perceive nevertheless appears true to me: If I perceive that I am unhappy, then I am unhappy. If I perceive that I am doomed, then I am doomed. If I perceive that truth exists or does not exist then it will or it will not. Likewise, if I perceive that I am Napoleon then I am him. And further, a dog afraid of being beat acts like a coward. The way I perceive the world shapes the person I am.
Let us look again: Perception is paradoxically both of the self and of the other. It is of the self because the self is projected onto others, and it is of the other because they have great influence on one’s self-perception. The relationships between these two aspects of perception are indiscernible; they are in fact the same; their influence is simultaneous, and neither ever has more of one thing than the other. In short, they are unified—a single, fluid stream of consciousness: As soon as we make an impression on someone, they are immediately impressed upon us. We might see them only in passing and project but the tiniest fragment of some concern upon them, but this tiny impression helps to articulate, in some unfathomable way, said concern and we all become more alike.
The more intimate the relationship becomes the more mutual influence is shared. Projections take the shape of barley understood, but deeply moving ideas, and one’s world is then changed. One also wants to please them and so changes one’s world. Or one wants to struggle with the other, or make them angry. This relationship is dynamic and persistent; we are ourselves only because we ourselves are each a little of the other.

In drowsy moods

In drowsy moods such as these one hardly finds the motivation necessary to lift a pen, let alone to move the world or maintain one’s obstinacy. It is this, more than anything else, that I have come to miss. Not in the way the one misses a dearly departed pet, but rather in the way one misses sunshine at night when the leaves seem, paradoxically, more green. Or perhaps not at all. I miss it as I miss my childhood; justifiably so, because what is obstinacy but a child’s illusion?
Anyway, staying on topic is so easily and pleasantly ignored that I suffer under the weight of it; drowsy moods eek the only color from my flesh and pin it up against a billboard for all to see. And even then I am filled with the presentiment that it is naught but duplicity, an excuse in other words. These never make sense, whether they are about moods or obstinacies or what; and I am each time surprised anew that nobody sees beneath the fumbling words I use to frame my reasons for being the way I am. But still, most of the time, I myself am not aware of them either.
Illness would not suffice. Although I wish that I were ill, because that would imply a convalescence, and there is nothing I need more than the reassurance that I will someday, tomorrow perhaps, get up and see things they way that they really are. Or at least become as great as a comet that passes once every seven hundred years—so great that half the people wouldn’t even know of my existence, while the other half would maintain that they had intended to watch me except that so-and-so had then prevented the meeting on account of some well-to-do grand uncle. The same grand uncle, I’m sure, that had also wanted to go and see the comet, but then waited too long for his grandniece and her friend. And even this, even this would inspire me to do it all over again; I might even take a backseat and enjoy the ride from a distance.
But to return to the topic: these moods are no illness. They are something else entirely, something from which there is no convalescence, but only the promise of more of the like. And even speaking of them becomes dry and boring and I find myself wishing to be someplace else. Yet I cherish my most embarrassing memories because without them I would not be the person that I am. So is it then love for myself and despair for my fate? This must be the answer; or at least it will suffice as an answer
Pierre had notions of fate that even he realized were romances. But that is as far as he got. It is better to assume that everything is just the way it must necessarily be, because then one can maintain the impression of being a man. His hope was that his fate would hold something for him besides death, and so it may said that he had little hope. There was, of course, the woman with whom he was in love. And there was the position in the firm, which he had been almost promised; the bowing servants, etc…. But still, one cannot hope alone on these things, because—however pleasant they might be—, being separate from oneself, they cannot help. And it is help that we all require. “I’d ride on the mystic’s back all the way to nirvana if I believed that his legs could actually carry me there,” said Pierre, “and likewise I would eat the brains of Germans or Jews if I thought I’d live a little longer.”

I was recently asked what post-...

I was recently asked what post-modernism means to me, and I've decided that the concept is best clarified in a lyric found in an early collaboration from Boa Bei Da (hope I spelled that right, bitch) and Chris Komar:

I'm fillin' my gas tank, psych!
I drink your blood into my gall tank,
Fly kites!

The meaning of this rather enigmatic lyric is of course obscured under layers metaphor, allegory, Derridian differance (I don't know how to put that French apostrophe thing over the a), what have you, and can be interpretated according to Marxist-Hegelian dialectics or Historical Materialism (gall tank as antithesis to gas tank, ending in bloody class struggle and of course the promise of redemption), Freudian analysis ("filling" the gas tank as drive for sexuall fulfillment but hindered by illusion produced probably by a carnivorous unconscious and promise of freedom from / unification of the self (did Freud say that?)), structuralism (the unnatural as prototype of the natural, each tied to the other by this process of sinking or going-in-to, offest by height attained by kites; the going-up as contrapunkt to the sinking-in -- I'm just making this shit up), deconstruction (there is no difference between gas tanks, gall tanks, and kites), and what have you. Anyway, this post sucks.

Must not slack off and keep wasting all my time

The power is everywhere. It is here and there, within and without. It is in the body and the mind, as well as in the world outside. It is everywhere. But the truth? The truth is worse; the truth is you.

Nosogood, I put the lock in the key, I turned the key, for a second, after the door was opened, I became a skeleton; my teeth, my brains. Nosogood, see, listen good, nosogood, he is my man, he comes, after a fight, and approaches the, the -- listen good,.

Let’s start from the beginning. Nosogood said do good in life and you will be rewarded, do evil and be punished. But no! said nosogood, I say no!. Still, he was abolished, and rightfully so: to really control, we must not believe we’re in control.

Listen good: so broke are we, so emptied. This is our degeneration. And so we must rejoice for it.

Broke. I love you. But I feel that we’re broke.

Bloß und Maennlich

It began with the tiniest sound. Carlne heard it, thought it was nothing, turned around and resumed her work. It finished with a bang, and she lay there dead. You probably wouldn't've though she was a she, just by looking at her, but she was, to which a number of unfortunate persons could testify. She looked then like just an old, dead guy—beard and all—as she lay there on the floor of the cave.

“Well, I’ll be,” said Wilfred; thick tears, themselves reflecting the harsh electric light dazzlingly as they rolled, seemed as though in play, frolicsome, and were absorbed into his stained beard—it only grew in dark patches, however very thick, about his cheeks, chin and neck. He must have loved her, of that there is no doubt; although, in general, it might be said that he was rather too simple to love a woman, and thought of Carlne as more of a mother. Nevertheless, he cried for that poor, ugly woman. Indeed, he was the only witness to her death.