on the self:
"All that "growing up" means is that if you are lucky you learn how to better cope with who you are - who you are doesn't change. In fact, that is probably the very definition of who one is- that which doesn't change. Living and identity are a kind of artform. You have this material- yourself- and the challenge is to explore or present it, to find a language or style for its display, its manifestation, that correspond to and are suited to tracking its nature. Anything seen in its fullness is beautiful. Or that's the only hope we have anyway."
on music:
"The power of music- what it gives you and does to you, where it takes you- seems impossible, like sorcery or subatomic physics, considering its simplicity. It's like the sun; and then the moon. How does it do that? I guess it must have something to do with the way music comes to you, you don't need to go at it the way you do with words. Then it encompasses, more dimensional even than light, instantly, and not by force but sympathy. It changes everything. And songs: The series and combinations of notes and how they are played and the nature of the instrument producing them, those sounds, are direct emotion itself; unlikely as it seems that that could be, there's a pure correspondence, you could probably analyze it like a scientist, and something in the design is in fact mathematical, giving you purely abstract pleasure too, and then that's all mixed with the possibilities of the message and purposes of the words, and the rhythm physically taking and compelling you, the whole mess shooting all around bruised and popping and breathing, threatening and begging, projected in miniscule waves that carom and vibrate so you literally move inside it and are penetrated by it. And that doesn't even touch on the appeal of a given person's voice and how it is a friend or not, or a sex thing, or an oracle, smart, sweet, honest, or angry or tough- all the character that's carried in a voice exposed to where it gives you something you get nowhere but your most intimate intense relationships. It seems amazingly good of them to do this for us.
-And it can be produced by one person holding a guitar. And you can have it all and all the different kinds for a few dollars worth of tape and a cassette player. Push a button and there it is."
4.09.2006
4.07.2006
pittsburgh spleen
perspectives from Baudelaire on crowds:
"-it is not given to every man to take a bath of multitude; enjoying a crowd is an art; and only he can relish a debauch of vitality at the expense of the human species, on whom, in his cradle, a fairy bestowed the love of masks and masquerading, the hate of home, and the passion for roaming.
-multitude, solitude: identical terms, and interchangeable by the active and fertile poet. The man who is unable to people his solitude is equally unable to be alone in a bustling crowd.
-the poet enjoys the incomparable privilege of being able to be himself or some one else, as he chooses. Like those wandering souls who go looking for a body, he enters as he likes into each man's personality. For him alone everything is vacant; and if certain places seem closed to him, it is only because in his eyes they are not worth visiting.
-the solitary and thoughtful stroller finds a singular intoxication in this universal communion. The man who loves to love himself in a crowd enjoys feverish delights that the egoist locked up in himself as in a box, and the slothful man like a mollusk in his shell, will be eternally deprived of. He adopts as his own all the occupations, all the joys and all the sorrows that chance offers.
-what men call love is a very small, restricted, feeble thing compared with this ineffable orgy, this divine prostitution of the soul giving itself entire, all its poetry and all its charity, to the unexpected as it comes along, to the stranger as he passes."
"-it is not given to every man to take a bath of multitude; enjoying a crowd is an art; and only he can relish a debauch of vitality at the expense of the human species, on whom, in his cradle, a fairy bestowed the love of masks and masquerading, the hate of home, and the passion for roaming.
-multitude, solitude: identical terms, and interchangeable by the active and fertile poet. The man who is unable to people his solitude is equally unable to be alone in a bustling crowd.
-the poet enjoys the incomparable privilege of being able to be himself or some one else, as he chooses. Like those wandering souls who go looking for a body, he enters as he likes into each man's personality. For him alone everything is vacant; and if certain places seem closed to him, it is only because in his eyes they are not worth visiting.
-the solitary and thoughtful stroller finds a singular intoxication in this universal communion. The man who loves to love himself in a crowd enjoys feverish delights that the egoist locked up in himself as in a box, and the slothful man like a mollusk in his shell, will be eternally deprived of. He adopts as his own all the occupations, all the joys and all the sorrows that chance offers.
-what men call love is a very small, restricted, feeble thing compared with this ineffable orgy, this divine prostitution of the soul giving itself entire, all its poetry and all its charity, to the unexpected as it comes along, to the stranger as he passes."
4.02.2006
scene and veneration
[Published by Encyclopedia Destructica]
David's dead. her voice has taken on an edge of older and I know it's never going back. he's been fading for awhile and just sort of faded away all together. We all thought he'd die years ago, that all the drugs would finally kill him. Maybe they still did. At least he didn't overdose. I'm so sorry mom, how are you handling this? I'm... I'm okay. I miss my brother. It's okay that he's dead, you know? What hurts is not having him around anymore. The funeral's saturday if you can come down for that, but if not, I understand. I hope you're doing okay, I know you always are.
Yeah, I'm okay. history just slipped a little bit, but it does that. I remember watching David play guitar, his arm was broken then, or his spirit, and he was just coming out of one rehab program before the binge that would really knock him down. I don't even know what his fix was anymore. Coke, booze, weed, life? It doesn't matter. I was young and mesmerized by his fingers plucking away at the nylon strings and thought to myself, I can do that. I got my first guitar that next birthday, but I never got to play it for him. Though I guess, every time I play, it's for him. Because I'm still young and full of life and not crushed by drugs and society. refuse to die under the thumb. God it must have been hard being one of the true hippies and seeing the world set up to fulfill all your dreams of love and peace and happy endings and then to have it crash down into modern capitalism and war machines, punk rock the funeral dirge to the age of light, the clarion call to the apocalypse.
The house is filling up slowly, and Matty's getting anxious that we should play before it gets too late and the neighbors consider calling the cops. Stacking up amps inside the small garage and a rudimentary sound check nervous shifting. I played some pinball earlier to work up my endorphins and was ready as I'd ever be. Always ready. You can't second guess just getting up there. I didn't cut off a finger at work, and the cops drove by without stopping, so nothing can stop it now. So they pack in and we tear into it offkilter and hesitant, by the third song have built up enough momentum to really rock out. slow building blues. reality ends in the feedback and I'm floating through it, burning the high notes and banging my head off the carpet. Ecstasy. Nothing else matters. all the politics and evasions. love, dreams, highs, heartbreaks, anyone. I succumb and music rides me.
Afterwards Spat says, well, your band's official, but I can't answer. playing out hits harder than any hallucinogen and language makes no more sense. I'm riding off the coffee and alcohol and smoke, standing by the keg with no clue how anyone can just stand there and talk. Dana curls up that was incredible. all I can do is smile and nod and give myself to the evening. The more people there are at a party the less I can talk to any of them. Not antisocial, but overwhelmed, sensory integration dysfunction acting up again, all the talk just builds around me, every conversation happening at once, blurs into the chirping of birds and a general howling. who needs drugs when sensation is already so immediate? I drink anyway and run back into the garage to dance to Fangs of the Panda, my whole body following Mike's fingers on the strings, making sure they play their Eno cover for the few who actually care to listen at this point.
get swept inside between sets, all the punks and posturing. Too much stimulation. This has all happened countless times before in different variations of frivolity. Lay on Lorraine's bed with Dana and Joy in my arms. Continue the obliteration. Brad has set up his lights up in Lacy's room and is documenting the evening in portrait shot shoutouts. I drag Dana up there for a shot, but she's nervous until Nikki says I hate it when beautiful people won't get their picture taken. we pose, she asks me to kiss her on the cheek. Then Nikki and I grab Carry and Joe and we do some band photos, laughing and thuggish and that was the shot. the memory of the times. no matter what happens, where this band goes where we go, we can look back at this photo and say we were there. Two shows under the belt and ready to take on the world. always ready to take it on.
Pony Pants takes it on, rearing up in the backlights and shaking the floorboards. Lorraine grabs me, there you are, now get over here and do your thing. get over here and dance. I dance. It's the next best thing to playing. Riding the soundwaves shaking out the soul. I think of that Dead Milkmen lyric "you dance to anything." I do, if there's a shred of passion and a solid rhythm. It's either that or be bored and critical of everything, and where does that get you? I wander out, ruing the needs of the bladder and belly, and end up upstairs heckling the snotty young punks to front for the camera. Stop to consider, I've accomplished everything and can barely stand up. Looks like it's time to go home.
But not yet. Alexis calls, she was there earlier but I was so swept in the music and madness to pay much attention. she wants to come pick me up. let me do this? I feel bad about how I treated you the other day and I think if I come get you we can go lay down together and be quiet and you'll understand. I say no. but why? because I want to go home and puke and pass out. by myself. but why? she whines and keeps repeating that line, like banging your head off a wall will change your opinions. Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. aren't you supposed to get over that when you're young? what is wrong with society? I remain adamant. Why? because that's what I want. But I don't think you know what you want. That does it. Where do these people come from? My imagination. Listen, don't tell me I don't know what I want, this is what I want. I know you want me to bow to your will, but I won't. Just days ago you told me you wanted to destroy me, and maybe that was just the solar eclipse or your fears talking, but you tried and I came out of it stronger then ever and knowing just what makes me happy and keeps me going, and if I go with you now that will really destroy all that. So no. I don't particularly like being set on fire ...but why? back to square one. I don't think you're listening here. I'm sorry but that's it. why why why?
click.
the word still echoes after the connection's severed. it's written on everyone's faces buzzing in the drunk haze. that's it, that's the horror, the sucking, the eternal need to find satisfaction. that hollow spot in the gut that nothing quite fills, no drug love toy, money memory or civilization. all the need to not feel empty and alone. what's your fix? does it fall flat? look around and all the needs pulling everyone from their bellies into the howling, stuck in the grooves of the record the scratched habits of our parents. we are here partying against the night, decadence dancing on the edge, the end of all meaning all future. this is all there is left. A crumbled masque binging itself into oblivion. I laugh and step out the door.
The alley is unbearably quiet after all the noise. I adjust and there are birds in it, the call of the jungle, the faint rushing of traffic like a distant river, peace. I sway in it, stumble up against someone's steps and breathe for a bit, wondering if I could bottle up that feeling and drink it whenever I forget the simple beauties of just being here. yesterday's rainbow made the front page like it was the most important news to report. for a moment it seemed like everything was right and made sense. bear up and throw on some mental armor for the main drag, but it's empty too. all the dealers caught wind of the major bust about to go down up here. all the cops and cameras around and it's scary to walk on the street anymore. if you have something to hide or hold onto. i have nothing but my drunken feet and a big grin. so what if they stopped me nights ago and told me if I didn't want any trouble I'd get off the street? so what if I'm white in the wrong part of town? This is my home too. my streets, my city, my life. You can't be guilty for existing. You can't let them make you live in fear. It's a power struggle, and if you accept the game, you've already lost and have to fill your needs in all the prescribed options and opinions. That's what ultimately defeated my uncle. the fear just builds up and builds up and if you don't get it out of your guts however possible it will reach up through them and strangle you. he sold his guitar to buy a bag some year past, and the rest was just inevitable fading. it's always the end of the world for someone.
I know I can't pass out until I get it out of my system. I know I'm not satisfied with my day unless I look all my fears in the face and laugh. that's why I continually put myself in these impossible situations. There are rituals for this sort of thing. writing, playing guitar, howling at the moon, running forever in the streetlights. tonight I pray to the porcelain and with a quick finger flick let out all the poisons until the world stops spinning and settles with heads up. What did I accomplish? I lived. and will live again tomorrow and the next till there are no more tomorrows left. the specific events just garnish that feeling. I lived.
end of record. the faint center scritching soothes me to sleep.
David's dead. her voice has taken on an edge of older and I know it's never going back. he's been fading for awhile and just sort of faded away all together. We all thought he'd die years ago, that all the drugs would finally kill him. Maybe they still did. At least he didn't overdose. I'm so sorry mom, how are you handling this? I'm... I'm okay. I miss my brother. It's okay that he's dead, you know? What hurts is not having him around anymore. The funeral's saturday if you can come down for that, but if not, I understand. I hope you're doing okay, I know you always are.
Yeah, I'm okay. history just slipped a little bit, but it does that. I remember watching David play guitar, his arm was broken then, or his spirit, and he was just coming out of one rehab program before the binge that would really knock him down. I don't even know what his fix was anymore. Coke, booze, weed, life? It doesn't matter. I was young and mesmerized by his fingers plucking away at the nylon strings and thought to myself, I can do that. I got my first guitar that next birthday, but I never got to play it for him. Though I guess, every time I play, it's for him. Because I'm still young and full of life and not crushed by drugs and society. refuse to die under the thumb. God it must have been hard being one of the true hippies and seeing the world set up to fulfill all your dreams of love and peace and happy endings and then to have it crash down into modern capitalism and war machines, punk rock the funeral dirge to the age of light, the clarion call to the apocalypse.
The house is filling up slowly, and Matty's getting anxious that we should play before it gets too late and the neighbors consider calling the cops. Stacking up amps inside the small garage and a rudimentary sound check nervous shifting. I played some pinball earlier to work up my endorphins and was ready as I'd ever be. Always ready. You can't second guess just getting up there. I didn't cut off a finger at work, and the cops drove by without stopping, so nothing can stop it now. So they pack in and we tear into it offkilter and hesitant, by the third song have built up enough momentum to really rock out. slow building blues. reality ends in the feedback and I'm floating through it, burning the high notes and banging my head off the carpet. Ecstasy. Nothing else matters. all the politics and evasions. love, dreams, highs, heartbreaks, anyone. I succumb and music rides me.
Afterwards Spat says, well, your band's official, but I can't answer. playing out hits harder than any hallucinogen and language makes no more sense. I'm riding off the coffee and alcohol and smoke, standing by the keg with no clue how anyone can just stand there and talk. Dana curls up that was incredible. all I can do is smile and nod and give myself to the evening. The more people there are at a party the less I can talk to any of them. Not antisocial, but overwhelmed, sensory integration dysfunction acting up again, all the talk just builds around me, every conversation happening at once, blurs into the chirping of birds and a general howling. who needs drugs when sensation is already so immediate? I drink anyway and run back into the garage to dance to Fangs of the Panda, my whole body following Mike's fingers on the strings, making sure they play their Eno cover for the few who actually care to listen at this point.
get swept inside between sets, all the punks and posturing. Too much stimulation. This has all happened countless times before in different variations of frivolity. Lay on Lorraine's bed with Dana and Joy in my arms. Continue the obliteration. Brad has set up his lights up in Lacy's room and is documenting the evening in portrait shot shoutouts. I drag Dana up there for a shot, but she's nervous until Nikki says I hate it when beautiful people won't get their picture taken. we pose, she asks me to kiss her on the cheek. Then Nikki and I grab Carry and Joe and we do some band photos, laughing and thuggish and that was the shot. the memory of the times. no matter what happens, where this band goes where we go, we can look back at this photo and say we were there. Two shows under the belt and ready to take on the world. always ready to take it on.
Pony Pants takes it on, rearing up in the backlights and shaking the floorboards. Lorraine grabs me, there you are, now get over here and do your thing. get over here and dance. I dance. It's the next best thing to playing. Riding the soundwaves shaking out the soul. I think of that Dead Milkmen lyric "you dance to anything." I do, if there's a shred of passion and a solid rhythm. It's either that or be bored and critical of everything, and where does that get you? I wander out, ruing the needs of the bladder and belly, and end up upstairs heckling the snotty young punks to front for the camera. Stop to consider, I've accomplished everything and can barely stand up. Looks like it's time to go home.
But not yet. Alexis calls, she was there earlier but I was so swept in the music and madness to pay much attention. she wants to come pick me up. let me do this? I feel bad about how I treated you the other day and I think if I come get you we can go lay down together and be quiet and you'll understand. I say no. but why? because I want to go home and puke and pass out. by myself. but why? she whines and keeps repeating that line, like banging your head off a wall will change your opinions. Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. aren't you supposed to get over that when you're young? what is wrong with society? I remain adamant. Why? because that's what I want. But I don't think you know what you want. That does it. Where do these people come from? My imagination. Listen, don't tell me I don't know what I want, this is what I want. I know you want me to bow to your will, but I won't. Just days ago you told me you wanted to destroy me, and maybe that was just the solar eclipse or your fears talking, but you tried and I came out of it stronger then ever and knowing just what makes me happy and keeps me going, and if I go with you now that will really destroy all that. So no. I don't particularly like being set on fire ...but why? back to square one. I don't think you're listening here. I'm sorry but that's it. why why why?
click.
the word still echoes after the connection's severed. it's written on everyone's faces buzzing in the drunk haze. that's it, that's the horror, the sucking, the eternal need to find satisfaction. that hollow spot in the gut that nothing quite fills, no drug love toy, money memory or civilization. all the need to not feel empty and alone. what's your fix? does it fall flat? look around and all the needs pulling everyone from their bellies into the howling, stuck in the grooves of the record the scratched habits of our parents. we are here partying against the night, decadence dancing on the edge, the end of all meaning all future. this is all there is left. A crumbled masque binging itself into oblivion. I laugh and step out the door.
The alley is unbearably quiet after all the noise. I adjust and there are birds in it, the call of the jungle, the faint rushing of traffic like a distant river, peace. I sway in it, stumble up against someone's steps and breathe for a bit, wondering if I could bottle up that feeling and drink it whenever I forget the simple beauties of just being here. yesterday's rainbow made the front page like it was the most important news to report. for a moment it seemed like everything was right and made sense. bear up and throw on some mental armor for the main drag, but it's empty too. all the dealers caught wind of the major bust about to go down up here. all the cops and cameras around and it's scary to walk on the street anymore. if you have something to hide or hold onto. i have nothing but my drunken feet and a big grin. so what if they stopped me nights ago and told me if I didn't want any trouble I'd get off the street? so what if I'm white in the wrong part of town? This is my home too. my streets, my city, my life. You can't be guilty for existing. You can't let them make you live in fear. It's a power struggle, and if you accept the game, you've already lost and have to fill your needs in all the prescribed options and opinions. That's what ultimately defeated my uncle. the fear just builds up and builds up and if you don't get it out of your guts however possible it will reach up through them and strangle you. he sold his guitar to buy a bag some year past, and the rest was just inevitable fading. it's always the end of the world for someone.
I know I can't pass out until I get it out of my system. I know I'm not satisfied with my day unless I look all my fears in the face and laugh. that's why I continually put myself in these impossible situations. There are rituals for this sort of thing. writing, playing guitar, howling at the moon, running forever in the streetlights. tonight I pray to the porcelain and with a quick finger flick let out all the poisons until the world stops spinning and settles with heads up. What did I accomplish? I lived. and will live again tomorrow and the next till there are no more tomorrows left. the specific events just garnish that feeling. I lived.
end of record. the faint center scritching soothes me to sleep.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
