An arbitrary flipping of the calendar boxes happens, where I’m
like everybody else – somehow convincing myself this means a difference, that
this year will be a new beginning of realizing my artistic ambitions and
cultivating a more stable financial life, that last year was a bad anomaly in a
long string of reflections of my own outlook, that the fact the calendar resets
actually means something magic. Many days, I feel like I’m no closer to where I
was dreaming of being than ever, like it’s this unattainable mountain peak, and
though I’m not in the same valley I began, I’m just meandering sideways around
other paths, avoiding obstacles, finding new ones, and I’m literally just as
far as I ever was. And when I think about this naturally as mountain metaphor,
of course the myth of Sisyphus comes up again, that I’m pushing these dreams up
a hill when they’re just gonna tumble back down again, no matter how right I
push them. Fuck it y’all – life life.
Monday, December 31
RVR4L M1DDL3 CL4SS DR34MS 0F...
rural middle class dreams of
having that backyard RV
for warm weather getaways
Sunday, December 30
N0M4D1C N4TVR3 R3DVC3D...
nomadic nature reduced
to dependence upon foods
engineered and grown like slaves
SONG OF THE DAY: Finding My Way
Watched Trailer Park Boys all the way through current day,
which wasn’t easy but I sort of settled into this lowered expectation of what
the show should be, and it became enjoyable at that level. But it inadvertently
tricked me into listening to Rush more, who I’ve never really liked. I guess
maybe I lowered that expectation too? Expectations that shit should be good or
fair or just or right is usually what fucks up our perceptions of life. The
lower your expectations, the happier you’ll be.
0LD3R, BR0K3N, 4ND M0R3...
older, broken, and more
mangled than ever; and yet
still able to find a match
Saturday, December 29
SONG OF THE DAY: Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos
-->
An unlimited war on terror, but never no war on psychic
terrordome constructed over top us all like invisible bubble, filtering what
information is fed, feed lots of fear and loathing and self-hatred, fattening us
with lethargy of spirit, then being told to consume a fresh identity, over and
over, rebranding ourselves as if that’s how nature works, as if we aren’t
natural beings, as if a new style of clothes corrects the essence of who we
are, which we mistakenly believe is flawed in an abnormal way. The welcome to
the terrordome sign faded and old, because it’s nothing new at this point. Children
having grown up their entirely lives inside the terrordome, to where they say, “you
don’t understand, that’s just how it is,” because the notion of there not being
a terrordome no longer exists in the human brain. “It is what it is” I say to
the mirror, and I wonder if my eyes really are duller than they used to be, or
if I’m just seeing things. The terrordome is the full realization of the prison
in all metaphysical space. I’ll go back to my feedlot desk next week, after the
“holiday”, after a new year where I resolve that somehow it’s all going to be
different, but the steel has expanded – there is no great escape on the books
in the immediate future. Not that anyone can see. What will spark that moment?
What person in the street who just happens to light a fire, perhaps of
themselves, immolation of self in final act of frustration, and we all go, “yeah,
yes, YES” if we are there in person and see it happen, as the flames dissipate
the illusion of all this. And it won’t circulate as viral sensation, because
the revolution will not be digitized, the algorithms are pasteurized to conduit
you unto the fear and loathing and self-hatred and purchasing of new identities
through consumption. But live in real life the moment will flash bang into a
tiny grenade of chaos that will begin a trigger like long string of human
firecrackers, and a great escape attempt will be made. Might not be successful,
at least not for everyone, but we shall see how many dents we can put into this
terrordome when it happens.
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