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hide in hat. maybe that'll work. why would i need to hide in hat? should i explain this? anxiety but also a feeling of possibility that is scary, that's why i had an urge to hide, co-existing with urge to explore, do something great, and know that this is delusion at the same... time... that doesn't exist.
But it's short-lived. Time asserts its existence in time. Short time. Or it can flow into something else. Notes to self, I guess? Let's call it more notes to self. A new way of being. Short-lived, but convince yourself time doesn't matter. It doesn't exist, say something meaningless like that. Meaningless and true. True and meaningless. Notes to self cause there's no reason to post. When I chose the wrong sound bgp. Which is what I say in my improv notes to denote "but good playing". Can't even write for myself, my self rejects it later. But sometimes loves it later. It's a complicated interface, can abuse myself as audience some times, but...
Happy wife, happy life, someone said in S02E02 of that show I've been watching. We've been watching. My wife and I. Somebody said that saying. The billionaire tech bro guy. There are no anti-heroes anymore. Just villains and the ones who are made villainous by confronting villains. Hey, you math genius who contributed mightily to the sphere of thin copper metal y'all keep banging outwards from the inside to bring about the Great Work: It took all the courage you had to die at twenty. In a duel over some chick, I don't care how comely she was. You stupid fuck. You should have been a coward. You had more stuff to do. Ah, still, it's ok. Someone Else did it. Not you, not me, but Someone. Now we need Someone Else to save this degenerate gambler civilization. Elon is so cringe, he gives ket a bad name, makes mars look lame. Heaven is a place on earth. Baby, do you know what that's worth? We gotta do it Here.
We need the one they call Someone Else. Most assuredly not Me. I joined a communist party so I could larp a bit. That's what I did, that's enough for fuck’s sake. I'm a neurotic addict just trying to cope with this clusterfuck, whaddayou want?
Happy wife happy life. I'm being a good husband I think, pretty good at any rate. I've got a partnership here. It's not perfect but it's got a good vibe sometimes. And it's not masturbation, but it's still sex with someone I love. Sex is not unimportant. And the partnership is also not not music. It's got a lot of Prince, unfortunately, but then, getting me to sometimes sort of appreciate The Purple One outside that Ween song is magically unsolipsistic. And there's the time she said she liked the part of the born and raised beth improv where the vangelis-soundtrack-style chorused piano comes in after six minutes of synths. It sounds less trite to her because she's not conscious of the reference. But to be fair to me, the reference was 90% accidental.
But some times...
We need the one they call Dr. Feel Good. He's gonna make us feel all right. He's gonna make us require adult contemporary creature comforts. You'll rely on AI. When you finally tire of Your Husband they'll have an AI boyfriend that satisfies.
We desperately need Someone Else. Let's call him Luigi. He'll be our OJ Simpson to their Rodney King cops that protect the ruling class for pennyante graft and a pretty sweet pension. The cops seem hard to turn cause they're such piggish assholes.
Now here's something that feels worthwhile. A mood that vibrates. Dirty wurly recalling Rzewski's Cotton Mill. Recurring riff must have been in my head cause of that Blue Öyster Cult song, judging from the 2011. Evoking worthwhile plywood that smells of pine. A pine with synthetic polymer blending like a too-good-to-be-true glue, truly binding everything together beautifully, invading olfactory orifice with a level of satisfaction to keep going. To keep running on the hamster wheel. This hamster wheel I'm making for myself. Why not share? Because shame. The bell of shame will sound. So deafen yourself before it tolls. For it tolls for thee. You see?
At 16:05 it starts to feel really fucking good like when Trenton had to test the heroin. Oh fuck. Should do something with that. What better time than the present? It feels good to write like this and often [between bottomless chasms of meaninglessness and failure] stride the fecund fields of purpose. The lunatic is in the grass. Remembering games and daisy chains and laughs. Skipping over the chasms. God it sounds good. Fuck yeah. But there's a lotta HOM in this sector. Unparallaxed skies in primordial shooter games sometimes became Hall Of Mirror errors in the design and were referred to as such in the level text file.
It's funny how time isn't real, except at 18:56 it's <<< THE REAL SHIT >>> and I'm really spiraling into the singularity of that feeling. Really feeling that shit. Popped my "the shit" cherry and called something "the shit". What better time than the present? To step up and dictate the structure of the type of thing that will bridge state boundaries to assert significance. Like a vocation that couldn't be thought of in any myers briggs grid, let alone what normal systems produce. It's important you see. You see? This is why I'm so intense about it. Look at my intense and intent stare. That proves it. It feels great right now. It's got the charisma of a tyrant rebel whose on My Side, like someone I'd follow into hell with hopes of heaven. Such a theoretical thing is only in songs and dreams. Dreams and songs. The "My Side" part is the cherry on top. My Side doesn't produce such people. What's taking so long, am I waiting for Someone Else? Some guy with an incoherent ideology but referencing Michael Moore in a manifesto? Well maybe I'm waiting but christ, I'm just barely hanging on in this "end times"-feeling era, and here's a delusion I can find purchase on for a second, some messiah? Well, better that than tearing myself a new asshole for not being some kinda fucking storybook hero legend. As if. If there's blood down the lines that does that, it ain't in me.
A lot of performances of music are [marginally] socially acceptable masturbation. That margin is shrinking every day. These times are ever more decadent, and yet, the implied inevitable reaction to decadence grows more stern, monstrous, scary, real. What you deserve. What I deserve anyway. But I still fairly easily reject the specter of a morality I don't like. I hate that putrid morality! I spit on it!
Musical masturbation. I hate that metaphor. Because it's so true. It's such a goddamn good description sometimes. Spiraling thru the gravity well toward the singularity of the N hole. Sex with someone I love. Making love with myself. Which is a better way to say it than the Bowie lyric in Ziggy Stardust.
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