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Monthly Archives: June 2005

old music is back  §

Just finished ripping two discs I’ve been trying to get my hands on since I was like 14 years old: an accumulation of Malaria studio tracks before 1984 and DAF / Alles Ist Gut. MMM, mmm is the slimy, jazzy goodness of old school Malaria.

Also got a pile of Lithium batteries for the S1 Pro. Amazing camera, though it lacks the resolution of the current 6mp units. Maybe an S2 or an S3 is in my future. Just so I can catch more crabs. Bogo.

Right now the New School for Social Research sounds particularly good. As does Alandia Bohéme. Woe is me, I’m out. OUT.

not like you can and so you can’t  §

I think I’m hypo or maybe even manic the last 24 or so. I’d better go to bed before I do something bizarre. Maybe I already have. Ugh.

um  §

Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? Jesus, what stupid fucking simpleton said that, and who was he trying to fool?

shalom  §

Sonic Youth and Einstürzende Neubauten: the two most challenging, most amazing musical forces of my lifetime. God save Thurston & Blixa, or at least get them very drunk for free.

deep thoughts  §

For a very brief moment I thought it would be a horrendously good, funny idea for me to break a full gin bottle over my head and be covered in gin and all that. Haha! I reached for it with a smile on my face, then I realized. Duh. Not funny and not good.


song of the moment  §

Is Soundgarden, 4th of July.

Beer of the moment (on lunchbreak) is Rogue’s Dead Guy.

I’m at a loose end in life right now.

I can’t walk on glass, I can’t swallow fire, and I can’t levitate. There are stars in the sky, but I can’t see them for the atmosphere and our own sun.


Sour, sour, sour, sour


Nothing in the world terrifies me so much as other peoples’ secrets.

today  §

please just let me break already  §

I came to and was immediately filled with nausea and dread. Before I even had a chance to try to open my eyes, to see if it was indeed morning and I was indeed conscious, I knew. “Please, God,” I said to myself, “don’t let me be awake. Don’t let this be real.”

But I could feel the fabric on one cheek and the cold air on the other and knew that I was, and when I opened my eyes, my deepest fears were confirmed. Light was indeed beginning to fill the window and it was 5.42 on another Monday morning.

I feel sick, ill, diseased, full of despair. I can’t face this. I can’t do this. In what seemed like a deeper reality, I dreamt about two grammar schools opposite one another in a tiny, lonely neighborhood, each full of drugged, unloved, beautiful, caring children committing suicide one by one, filling the playground with bodies, while Neil Young sang “Only Love Can Break Your Heart.”

Everywhere I look I see regrets right now. Even turning inward, I am filled with regret. Regrets at failing to act. Regrets at acting. The results of regrets. The regrets of regrets. I have tried so hard for so many years to build something for myself, but it’s all been and always has been a house of cards, easily toppled by the breath that slips out of your soul as you sleep or the devastated gasp that issues forth from your body when you wake.

I have just erased a week’s worth of posts. Now I will go drink and have a cigar before going to work, so that I can go to work and have some hope of surviving through the day, of making it as far as the torture of a lonely evening at home in anticipation of the next work day.

I can’t face today, and yet I don’t have any alternative. May whatever God I believe in help me.

All I want is to be loved and to live. Is that so much? I didn’t ask to be born.

No one in the world can make me any promises. Without them, is it sane to continue to labor?

“Beneath swift wind and heavens, an ape’s cry of grief,
At the islet of clear white sand, birds circle.
Endlessly, trees shed leaves, rustling intently down,
Without cease, the great river comes surging on.
Ten thousand miles in sorrowful autumn, always on the move,
A hundred years full of sickness; I climb the terrace alone.
Suffering and bitter regret have turned my temples white,
Frustratingly, I’ve had to abandon my cup of cloudy wine.”

i don’t know  §

i just don’t know

the only thing worse than being driven crazy by not having a clue what a loved one is up to, how they feel, or what’s going on in their life most of the time… is learning more and more each day that as they really don’t mind not having a clue what’s going on in yours

the old saying is true: it’s the little things that matter… if the niceties and thoughtful things are in place, then the problem “big things” aren’t so hard after all; if the little things just aren’t there, then no number of amazingly wonderful “big things” can really compensate

i remember ross used to call it “king kong syndrome” when we were teenagers: the way that people feel that those that they are closest to are the ones they should be able to take for granted and/or be discourteous to the most… because the ones that are closest to you should just understand, if they really care about you, should just cut you some slack… the problem is that over time it grinds down the relationship, the good faith, the mutual trust, until there’s very little slack left when big things come up… and big things always come up, eventually

hey, over here  §

Love me, hate me, just don’t ignore me.

beautiful images printed on poison  §

The million man hunger strike… now that would be an event to behold, to experience.

Emotion does not exist except inasmuch as it is manifest through action. Everything else is just make-believe and advertising in self-interest.

I have been talking to myself, and I fam finally starting to get through to myself.

First person who saves me… gets to be my savior.


feminism  §

I’m tired of women who think they get a pass on decency just because they’re women. “I don’t have to tell the truth, I’m an oppressed woman, you’re a man; lying to you is a survival strategy — I’m entitled to some happiness.” “I don’t have to honor my commitments to you, I’m an oppressed woman, you’re a man; breaking my word is a survival strategy — I’m entitled to some happiness.” “I don’t have to think about your feelings before I cynically exploit you, I’m an oppressed woman and you’re a man; you’ve been exploiting womens’ feelings for centuries — so the balance is nowhere near even yet, and anyway, I’m entitled to some happiness.”

It’s like they think just being a woman is a “do what you want, there are no laws or ethics that apply” pass. The simple state of being a woman means that it is impossible for them to ever do anything wrong or be responsible for anything damaging. If they burn down a building, rape a child, or shoot someone in the back, it’s not their responsibility, they’re just a confused-oppressed miserable being striving for some happiness in a world that habitually “batters” them; the fault for any crime they commit instead lies with the men who populate their world and have “oppressed” them. At the same time, the merest misstep in thought (not even in speech or deed) on the part of a man is grounds for castration or even execution.

Fuck that, what a cop-out.

You know what, women: men aren’t happy, either. We don’t have secret throne rooms where we rule the world with a series of small red buttons and order the torture of 13-year-old virgins in the midst of trilateral commission meetings. We feel and are every bit as powerless as you about the course of our lives in capitalism (the real oppressor of us both) and the things we’re able to have and do and be safe from. Statistically we are five times more suicidal. The difference is that somehow we have to forever be accused by the other half of the population, too, from which we desperately need support, while simultaneously getting blamed for being the abusers and being culturally prohibited from sharing our feelings, accepting any friendship or support, or indeed having any real personal interaction outside of business at all.

If that doesn’t wanna make a person kill themselves, I don’t know what does. And when we do kill ourselves, all you say is “good riddance, fucking men.” And then you wonder why we like you less and less. No one is terribly fond of anyone who hates them and who expresses that hate routinely. Is that so hard to understand?

torn and troubled  §

I am very troubled. I got out of labor and unionism because I felt as though I was surrounded by fanatics. Whether on the right, the left, or in the middle, everyone in America these days seems to live for an opinion, not to simply live first, and have an opinion only afterward. The whole goddamn country is made of fanatics. Pro-choicers who kidnap children. Pro-lifers who kill doctors. Union members who kill “scabs” as though they’re not fellow workers. Anti-unionists who infiltrate and entrap fellow workers, forgetting that they’re stealing fathers and mothers. Pick an issue and everyone on either side is using underhanded, illegal, or at best, very questionably ethical means to fight for their position. There is no dialogue, there is only single-mindedness, the harshness of combat.

Is it any wonder all we do as a nation is make war? We have lost the western traditions of dialogue and dialectic; we ridicule them, in fact, as backward, passive, dysfunctional. The entire structure of our culture, the entire process of individual self-identity and individual praxis in the United States has become steeped in militaristic, radical thinking, on all sides. Everyone rats everyone else out. Everyone shoots at everyone else. Everyone imprisons everyone else. Everyone tries to brainwash everyone else. Everyone is a liberator, fighting the forces of evil all around. Perhaps it is a latent remnant of the Judeo-Christian sensibility, of salvationism, of unfulfilled messianism. I don’t know.

But when every last person in a society justifies his or her own “moral” or “patriotic” or “revolutionary” (read: “personal” in all cases) set of overcompensitive ends with whatever means is most numerically expedient, consequences be damned because some underlying “ethical foundation” is said to be unassailable, what you have, in effect, is a crucible of war and war-consciousness that rests on a universal foundation of unwarranted self-importance. The ’60s did not generate a peace consciousness and praxis, they have simply digested themselves, replacing a reactionary logic of war with a radical logic of war and creating the identical body of self-important moralists. The result is the goddamn fucking same. The “dark ages” half of the twentieth century gave us Vietnam. The “enlightened activist” half of the twentieth century gave us Iraq. It’s the same fucking war and we are the same ass-backward holier-than-thous who accuse, rather than listen to, each other.

We learned nothing and cannot learn. The individualist logic of Smithian capitalism, in concert with the selfish, ultra-singularist ethos of the American mythology, means that we will forever be a warlike people. Our culture is doomed to destroy itself, one way or another. Everything right now turns my stomach. I can’t look at the party literature. I can’t read the political sites. I don’t agree with any of it. I am the last remaining lunatic who thinks that even if someone is an obstacle to change, it’s probably not helpful to blow them sky-high…

I suppose this is a bourgeious, anti-feminist, anti-environment, counterrevolutionary feeling, but I very much want to leave and go to a place where there are no causes, just people.

Everyone is so positive that they are right. Well, I am very proud to say that I have no idea whether I am right, about anything. I am both critical and open-minded. I will listen to all opinions, accept none out-of-hand, and make a judgement based on whatever information is available, from all sides — and I will always be willing to consider new facts and changes in the weather.

But I don’t think that’s enough to ever really be happy.

now i know  §

About a hundred million people have called me over the last couple of days. I didn’t answer the phone for any of them, and I haven’t called any of them back or listened to any of their messages.

“So What” is one of the greatest musical moments of all time.

whatever  §

She holds tight to some normative definition of what’s rude and will only talk to me on the phone when it’s not rude. Of course, then, I become a burden. Every time she talks to me on the phone, therefore, she feels as though I’m keeping her:

– Trapped outside where it’s hot/cold because it’s rude to talk inside
– Trapped in isolation because it’s rude to talk in front of others
– In a position of holding everyone else up because they wait on her but she won’t talk in front of them

So definitely I’m a burden. The only way that I’m accessible is via cell phone, and the cell phone always places her in a position of rude exteriority.

Great. So it’s either minimze contact or be a burden. Sucky choice.

I’m tired.