|
|
i was sitting in the back room today at work, just thinking. then i stood up and said you know what? fuck this. and i left. and I went home where i will be writing resumes and cover letters for the rest of the evening.
i didn't quit or anything. i got the manager's OK, but still. I just can't do it anymore, and I hate myself for requiring this sort of extreme discomfort before i do something about it. but i'll do it now, tonight, and keep doing it until hopefully i one day get something that's worth my time.
i have most of tomorrow off so hopefully my mood will gradually improve.
i've begun to embrace a certain frame of mind once again, where everything and everyone outside of the space that my body displaces is fucking useless, and can fuck off, and the people and things that prove me wrong are what i cherish.
i bought two music dvds yesterday- kill your idols and skinny puppy live 2005. I wanted to see kill your idols because of all the people in it that i admire, but when i first heard about it, the person that saw it mentioned a part where Michael Gira walks up to Lydia Lunch and jams his cock in her fat fucking mouth. I heard that and I was sold. So i was watching it last night, waiting for that one golden moment to happen, and then there it was! Only it wasn't Michael Gira at all, it was ...... Jim Thurwell!!!
NNNOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!
But it was a good film, dry heaving aside. it's about the new york no wave scene in the early eighties. the second half is about all the current brooklyn bands in the hipster community that cite them as influences (more dry heaving), like black dice, a.r.e. weapons, liars, the yeah yeah yeahs, gogol bordello, etc. though there was a clear effort on the filmmaker's part to remain objective, all it really took was for these people to open their mouths to reveal how truly dense they are. and how pretentious, shallow and fashion, market and ego driven the whole thing is. embracing irony, because they secretly have absolutely nothing important to express at all. the low point was an interview with the chick from the yeah yeah yeahs. omg, braindead. of all the people interviewed, the guy from gogol bordello was the only person possessing any intelligence (ukrainian, of course). he rocks, and i like him. it ended with all the no wave people cutting into today's scene. which made me happy. i thought i was the only one.
then i watched the skinny puppy video, and it reminded me of the reasons why i hate what they've been doing lately. at this point, they are nothing more than rock stars making bank off of nostalgia. there's a bonus part, which is all home movies of their 1986 and 88 tours, which was very good. this is me falling for the nostalgia. dwayne goettel was fucking hot.
i also bought birth for seven dollars and a book called it happened in boston? about a guy that is losing his mind and sits on a bench in boston commons and time travels. it was written by russel h. greenan in the sixties. its an easy read.
so in summary; things make me angry, and trying to appreciate them is difficult to the point of soulsucking, so i'm reverting back to my old, polar-opposite outlook where i think most things are useless and if you don't like it you can go away. and if you do like it, then maybe i will like you.
|
| nimal egret | 2006-10-14 22:03:52 ET |
Once, in elementary school, there was a house with a chain link fence on one side of the playground. A golden retriever guarded the backyard and barked at any child that got too close to the fence. The playground substrate was sand, probably imported from the beach, which was not too far away. One day I walked up to the dog and kicked sand in its face. It ran away whimpering with what must have been a truly agonizing amount of sand in its eyes. I don't know why I did that.
Once, in middle school, there was a freshwater pond right next to the parking lot. One day I was walking in the adjacent woods and found a female turtle who had dug a depression in the dirt, and was about to lay eggs in the soil. I picked her up and threw her, smashing her carapace against the sharp rocks that jutted out of the shallows. I did it with an urgent feeling devoid of thought that resided far beyond my own comprehension. the second it was done, i instantly felt sick and ran away. I don't know why i did that. Sometimes i often hope that i no longer own such a feeling. Sadly, i know i do; it is that of the absolute indulgence in the hatred for all things.
Once, at the same pond, I spent a summer fishing with a close friend. We would collect the fish that we caught in a bucket half filled with water. In the mid afternoon we would take our catch and lay them in a line, still alive, in the middle of the scalding hot road, and sit and watch cars run them over. Once an eighteen wheeler came and kicked up all of them, flattened, into the air at least twenty feet, only to have them slap back down onto the pavement as pink scaled pancakes. I know why i did that. i no longer find it amusing.
Once, I was walking along Russian Beach (adjacent to Long Beach) when I happened upon a washed up sea turtle, one of only two i've ever seen. It was dead, and enormous, about two feet long. The side of its upper carapace was pierced, most likely by gulls, and its innards were spilling out of the hole. I took a similarly shaped stone and pushed it into the hole to cordon it off from any further molestation. The smell was sickening. I don't know why I did that, yet I do. I think it marked some kind of turning point in my life.
|
| COLOUR-SOUND-OBLIVION | 2006-10-14 18:32:09 ET |
deciding on a color to paint my room is going to be next to impossible. i went to home depot and brought home a four inch stack of color samples. i went through them one by one and just stared forever and ever. color for color's sake is so maniacal. i want a color that is disarming, yet inciteful- comforting and enraging. HAH!
then i thought of painting each wall a different color to divide up what i need into neat deliverable sections. realizing the headache that would ensue brought me to think i should just bomb the whole room safety orange, a color which has been a dirty pleasure of mine as of late. even better is if it should get soiled and scuffed, or worn down- "wilted"... placed against that 3m reflective silver material... holy visible decay. why the industrial music community never picked up on the potential (i've seen some dabblings, but i'm talking about on an anthemic scale), i don't know. they should. and credit me for it. "The godfather of safety orange musick"
take that gpo.
speaking of, i'm about to buy an MC-909. once again, I challenge you now:
WHO WANTS TO TOUCH ME!? I SAID WHO WANTS TO FUCKING TOUCH ME!!
|
|