Fair Use

Qutb ruined Islam, Phelps ruined Christianity, Stalin ruined communism. The past is a shitpile, there's no use clinging to labels.

Paul Fussell's introduction to Robert Grave's WWI memoir: Good-bye to All That

Tragedy presupposes guilt, despair, moderation, lucidity, vision, a sense of responsibility," none of which we have got:

"In the Punch and Judy show of our century ... there are no more guilty and also, no responsible men. It is always, 'We couldn't help it' and 'We didn't really want that to happen.' And indeed, things happen without anyone in particular being responsible for them. Everything is dragged along and everyone gets caught somewhere in the sweep of events. We are all collectively guilty, collectively bogged down in the sins of our fathers and of our forefathers ... That is our misfortune, but not our guilt ... Comedy alone is suitable for us."

The hell with Mohammed

I hardly ever agree with the right wing, but the whole rioting over disrespect of the prophet idiocy makes me want to hurl. No, I DON'T respect the prophet. Can you deal with that? Maybe there are more important things to worry about - like, say, the fact that no one in power seems to give a shit about what we're going to do when the oil runs out, or the war in Iraq. Freedom of expression, it's the future, get used to it:


















Oh, and fuck Jesus too.

the life amplitude modulator

Did the aquafilter filter out the failure?

Somehow I don't think so.

No, you drink your floating white chunks of flesh failure straight from the paranoid pulse of your tesselated stroke cycles, strolling down the streets of a convenient ideal NY, dreaming of life's amplitude modulator.

The dealer of this excessively dandy device gives you a good sales pitch: haven't you ever yearned to control the amplitude of your life? Well now you can - OBSERVE! (Idle ideal NY alley transition):

Walking walking, fine and dandy, but the texture you thought a smooth sharp seamless searing painful pastiche of unrelenting emotionally-sinewed intensity... the edge flakes off in scratches, consciousness garroted into the void... you feel a twist in your spine, your nerves short - clik cliky clikkkkkkkkkkk k k kk kk- and we're back, WTF?

What the fuck was that, you think? You felt a twist in your spine and you were gone, dead in the head for millisecond intervals, several hundred of them, spread over a deadhead deca-second - your life's amplitude modulated, you felt, in superposition, a binary bedspread of deadhead, you felt the void in juxtaposition, a bankrupt yin purred across your wheel of fortune - you felt it, in and out, the life amplitude modulator...

You like to carry that spine severing pattern around with you like a hole in your pocket, useful for dealing with meanies. You've accepted the fuckup money because you're not an idealist or a principled radical. You'll burn it up, put it into the economy.

You'll dream of crack again, and you could go for another klicking flick of that life amplitude modulator right now: klikkkk kkk kk kk kkkkk

kk

k kkklik Click, and we're back:

Wow, that was a long one.

The flotsam of failure still floats in your glass. But who cares, you've got the life amplitude modulator, you can klik yourself momentarily out of your value system... mmm, that's the lipsmacking klikfactor no one can lipsync to.

Cyclo'd - there are worse fates

Staring at the side of a desk, ancient woodgrain, carbon-dated back to the wildes of the child I was. I've gouged countless holes in the wood. My desk has character. He's a wounded, bitter character, still bearing a load that grows heavier every year.

When did I stop being a writer? When did I stop verbally improvising like I do on my fake-ivories? Maybe when I started trying to make sense. Trying to bring information across... to the others. That was the real quixotic mission, wasn't it? The lunatic escaped the asylum.

I think I'm still feeling that last hit of cyclobenzeprine. Don't worry folks, it's mild prescription meds and I've only got four pills left. I've been saving that stuff because they're the best downers I've ever had. They're for the sopoheads, the sleep connoiseurs.

I like being apathetic. I hate being dramatic. No, I don't deal with drama. I can't cope with it. I don't like extremes. I'm done with e, I know no good will ever come of that. I'm probably done with psychedelics, because they lead me to the same psychodrama every time and it's just no fun. I don't know if I can salvage any sense from this brain of mine.

"Behind closed eyelids" was a buzzphrase stiched into a well-worn mitten, insulating an arthritic hand. Who needs cutup when you've got introvision? I think I'm cyclo'd and I like that. Nothing is worth doing. I take the Dao's lardful lump of leisure where I can get it. The funny thing is I don't feel sick right now. Not very sick anyway, although saying that jinxes it like it always does - a little bubble of bile rises through my throat - but still, it's not all a malicious placebo malady - there is a calm I've been allowed to feel, remaining. If there was a drug that guaranteed this effect, I'd probably be hooked. Can I outwit my own brain? Maybe, he's not as smart as people think.

Fuckup Money

Well I got through another breadpacking Shakespearian drama. Five hours, but it felt like fifteen. I did what I had to do. I did it my way. Well sorta. With my style anyway. With a flourish, a flanged flourish. I wouldn't do it any other way. No way. No sir.

Now I've got some Fuckup Money.

Easy, hard, not exactly pointful. A symbol.

Nah, forget that. Who cares? Fragmentary.

Sedimentary. Elementary my dear. Nah. Nobody.

Cryptic dust desposits hardening to marks, brands of... nah. Forget that.

Music won't do it for me. Maybe cyclo will. Have I earned it yet? I can't decide.

No, I'm not far enough removed yet. Still seating in the serrated dealings of cycles.

Icy cycles, the whims of the sick cyclical centrefuge.

Some nostalgia might work. Erpland by Ozric Tentacles. Yes, a nice slice of the past. Hallucinogen remixed Pteranodon, that's how I got into this outfit.

I'm actually enjoying this. I feel no pain. No fevered ego flange. No, I absorb it and it absorbs me. The flavor of enlightenment nearly feels real again. Nearly.

But my agenda was to perhaps shut my mind off.

Life amplitude modulator. Maybe it's time for some modulation. Some hardcore blink. Maybe routines have grown ravenous, devoured reason. Or maybe not. I can't quite say.

Well I got through another breadpacking Shakespearian drama. Five hours, but it felt like fifteen. I did what I had to do. I did it my way. Well sorta. With my style anyway. With a flourish, a flanged flourish. I wouldn't do it any other way. No way. No sir.

Mario Circuit three, open for srelickintendure...