24 Jul 2007


I tell you. The Band. They’re opening up a whole new world for me. Amazing what you can do with three chords. Helpless. For me, it’s to music as robert anton wilson was to thinking. I’d always kind of recoiled from old timey folk rock sort of things. Or not really recoiled, but it’s taken me quite a long time to hear it as anything other than white noise. Which is kind of unsophisticated of me, but there you go. Ironic that my initial introduction into music was the ultimate in “sophistication”, classical, initiated via the freemasonic stylings of sigismundo celine, down in old napoli. No, not dead nalis with a nail gun. Took a while for the sophistication of the emotional to sink in. Well, it’s just a different starting point, a different path. It’s good to have both. The intellectual can be emotional and the emotional can be intellectual. The line blurs. And it is amazing what you can do with three chords. The platonic ideals of musical orgy, eschewing spotlit isolation for a three-way mic. Helpless.

The scary thing is that this trajectory will ultimately have me liking country music. Ah, taste is such bullshit. Gives me that funny wave of stupidity, the giggly existential nausea, the shiver of absurdity. I was more hip to that when I was doing tryptamines every week or so. Then it seemed natural that any feeling would be quickly followed by subversion in its laughing antithesis. But now feelings have more Weight. I can’t be so flip about flipping. So I flip out.

Just gotta have a little in my glass for psychological effect. Haven’t flipped on sickness yet. I’m healthy. Justified. Hmmm… all this “eschewing the intellect for the emotion” stuff… I wonder if I just found thinking too hard, got tired, and decided emotion was more easily comprehensible. Dropped algebra, and banked on “emotional intelligence”, the easy way out, the short bus.

Stage Fright is one of those albums that’s gonna have to sink in for me. It hasn’t yet. Cause I have to get to know them. I’m in the infatuation stage, it isn’t intimacy. But getting there.

Well, finally watched The Last Waltz in its entirely. Damn. Now I want to quit my job and play music for a living. But I can’t. But I can still play music. Be King Shit of Fuck Mountain. Was expecting it to be a total hatchet job on everybody but Robbie, and it was to some extent, not nearly enough Manual, he’s the funniest one (“chocolate subway, marshmallow overcoat”) but now the whole controversy is looking a little petty. Cause all is subservient to cinema, and cinema needs a star, it’s pretty arbitrary, could have been anybody, but it turned out to be Robbie, I mean, this is Marty we’re talking about. Marty is the meta-master, we must serve Him. Well, when egos get into it, things get fucked up.

Had a big blow out with the berry. Oh well. Oh, neuroses. Everybody seems to be compounding neuroses. So much of that to look forward to, iterations on existing neuroses and new forms entirely, previously unimaginable, novelty in neuroses, that’s where the new things are, in sickness, neophobia. What is neuroses? I should try and define. Fear, anger, bitterness, sadness, negative emotions, related to something that is removed from the real world. Something in your head. Your demons. Maybe demons are in reality though, maybe neurosis is being aware of the real world, the demons that are in the real world. No “demons that are in the real world” are me projecting, like I was wondering if that cat felt awkward about “hanging” here in this vaguely nostalgic and yet dark 4 am streetcorner, lit orange. No, that’s me who feels that, and THAT, is a fucking CAT.

Cause people collect neuroses. I guess people shed them too, that’s a time thing, things that happen over time. But it seems with neuroses, for most people, certainly me, it’s one baseless worry shed, two baseless worries heaped on.

And someone’s gonna have to have the balls to initiate, and I wouldn’t fuck with a friend, even if he has an open relationship. And I’m me for god’s sake. What is me going to do? Probably not a damn thing. Buy some coffee maybe. Talk to someone maybe. An ounce is thirty two grams. A magical number.

23 Jul 2007

15 Jul 2007

There Goes Your Karma

There goes his karma, crushed like a bug. The bug is more than figurative. It was real. It was living once. A centipede. A nelson centipede unfortunately found her way onto the porch of a Nelson rental home on Silica Street. I don't even know who she was, that killer of the centipede, but she figured it was something to kill, a matter of course. It mattered little to me. The supposed crazy guy who felt that working at the co-op was like being kicked in the balls every day... he got a good line out of it. There went her karma.

There goes my karma. Like the energetic company of a scene that dissolved. They were right to leave, those folks. But they took my manna with them. Well, it was irreplaceable naïf manna anyway. What could I do with that now? I can't chill out in simulated schizophrenia now, can I? Well what can I do then? I can write about what I can and can't do, I guess, with a can't do attitude, second-guessing myself. I can rent a residence, perchance, start some crazy experiment, like a schizophrenic sysiphus with recently built pecks, still with a ticklish splinter in my business finger that is also the everything finger, that feels sore and is possibly corrosive metal that will corrupt my body.

My fingers are getting cut up. Is it because I work fast and efficiently, or is it just cause I'm clumsy? It hurts to play piano now, but I put that into the improv, the pain, sometimes when I play piano the alchemy can turn something into its opposite, but then later I impose awfully artistic regimes on the thing, in retrograde, try to illegally transport merit across state lines, state boundaries are there for a fucking reason.

There went my karma. But the vallies are lasting. They're almost a year old. They're weak, but they've probably saved my mind some wear and tear. Now that I'm back at work, maybe I can get a soma script again. I've even been popping drams as a matter of course. Delirium's fine with me. Because my headphones keep failing, might as well mis-hear lyrics with hallucinogenic intent. I ordered koss online, got enough karma left for that, maybe it's a karma enriching activity.

I had one of those dreams that was so funny, I woke up laughing. Ponies, gliding in artful auras, trailers of trajectory, with a stately, and pretty, and ridiculous ornate luxury drift, were the arbiters of taste and dignity and distinction - unicorns of the tailored apocalypse - they were tailoring it for our most mannered and manicured instincts, what drove us to build suburbia, so these ponies, not mine, but rather large, drifted in, trailing psychedelic comet flange iterations of themselves in rainbow splatter - and one by one, smacked into the sliding glass doors of yuppie townhouse entryways -- that's when I woke up, marveling, giggling, remarking allowed, how could I dream that? Then I went back to sleep, and continued the narrative. But there went my karma. With the grace of God. That old thing. Gee Oh Dee. Three bloody useless letters. There is no God, we killed him, cause the concept has been done to death. What a dull fucking word.

I'd leave with a rhombus mourne. It's all been said, but it hasn't all been rendered in rhombuses. Bejeweled Plink Poundings, that three work combo is the key to ___. Or maybe it was, but I wasn't around for that. I'm Johnny come lately, speedwalking my way to crusty revelations. Yeah.