I'm not there yet. But I'm less scared. Sure, there's the decrease in physical and mental capacities, the smell and spectre of death, but there is also the chance to one day completely and utterly bow out of the contemporary and any wish for a public, engaged, even prominent life (which I still haven't achieved so maybe I can't be old yet). Given the endless churn of everything at all times, I think, sadly, that the most subversive gesture available will be to retire to my study (which I still haven't built so maybe I can't be old yet) with a compilation of Beethoven's Late Quartets, a few cases of fine Scotch and a DVD set of some British TV series that is meant to take place before rock and roll came along and destroyed everything. It won't be hard to cultivate the sense of haughty disdain with which I will address others; all I will have to do, as I look up from my biography of some famous historical figure, peering over unfashionable reading glasses, is repeat my typical critiques of society, people, politics, and contemporary culture, with contempt and passionless incredulity instead of anger and thwarted hope. Who are we bombing this year, dear? Of course. Is the tea ready?
(I'm getting ready a bit too soon by watching episodes from the above series, but I figure, as long as England is bursting with self-serious theater majors who are unable or unwilling to work in Hollywood, there will always be some nearly-retired detective, wandering somewhere around the pastoral England of Morrissey's dreams, using his expressive eyebrows and understated wit to badger people into confessing their crimes.)
Not sure when yet, but it's certain at this point. Everything is bullshit, and everywhere is bullshit, but at least some places make good kabobs. At this point, that's the only standard by which I can judge anything. I can't depend on myself, I can't depend on others, but at least I can depend on the rice.
Why do I keep forgetting to lie?
If this post seems obtuse or inscrutable in any way, then I envy you your day job, and I envy you your friends and lovers.
i'm just wondering if I'll even like home without Pharmacy. Only one way to find out…
EDIT: waah, waah, waah, yeah, but these last few years… everything I know about life tells me that the only way to make good things happen in life is to leave the house, and yet, here, now, that's the only way to ensure that something bad will happen. I don't get it. I don't even talk politics with people; the only opinions I have that would alienate others are the ones I keep to myself, and yet I feel more alienated than I ever have. It's insane. It's like being 16 again but with fewer friends and less hope. This is the last time I bitch about this place online. I promise. And if you ever find me sharing a drink with you and you find me discussing this place, just remind me, gently, not to, and I will do so. Because discussing this place ever again will be a waste of our time. The only thing worse than a bad situation is a bad situation that provides no opportunity for insight. Unlike the vast majority of experiences I've had, music I've listened to, books I've read, people I have met, whet it comes to Providence, I've learned nothing and have no good stories from my time here. I just wish I had my time back. That's all.
...and not in reality. Whenever I think of going back to New York, I realize that the phantom image that reality has yet to completely disabuse me of still exists as a mediating force.
In other words: here's the dramatic reversal to Guliani and Bloomberg's policing policy wrought by the new "socialist" mayor. Or not.
I'll admit it... I wasn't always in the mood. Especially in the morning (though, really, it was only ever preachers in the morning). But even when I felt vaguely annoyed, when I had to pause my conversation or my numb staring at the floor after another day of exploitation, I always supported the dance.
Read the comments section. See the fear, the "freedom from", the outdated conceptions, the veiled classism and racism, the self-regarding aesthetic critiques, the denizens of what was once the most vibrant city in the world looking to lock all creativity into those mausoleums of "culture" from which no ideas escape. All that you take from others is all that you deny yourself. To hate the dancers is to admit you'll never dance yourself.
THE RULES OF BLOGSVILLE STATE THAT ONE IDEA WOULD SUFFER IF TWO WERE POSTED ON THE SAME DAYA SEW...
Love me as if I were already the person I would be if you loved me.
It's been 32 hours since I have last slepta. The anxiety I have been feeling over the financial ramifications of being almost completely unemployed have caused massive disruptions to my sleep schedule. Oh also not having a job to go to has played its parta.
I woke up just past midnight Sunday morning and patiently read meaningless Guardian commentary (that the Guardian knows it is a bit left of the Times somehow makes it both almost more correct and certainly more insufferable) for hours upon hours, or, to be precise, from around midnight until 2pm, before heading to the shower and then to work. After my eleven hour shift, I tested the old rule I posted here a millennia ago (pragmatism is the valuation of the body above the soul) and took the opportunity to head to the fucking beach. This was the first time I had gone to a beach in Rhode Island since I have moved here; I have actually gone to the beach in New York more times than I have gone to the beach in Rhode Island and all of the times I have gone to the beach in New York have occurred since leaving New York.
I think I like the world more when I am suffering from sleep deprivation. I am more the person I could be if I could be.
My knees are bleeding and my feet are purple and black and I feel no pain.
The wounds of submerged rocks mark upon me a testament to the boundaries that prove my own existence,
(as a feminist, I reject all notions of male entitlement,)
and yet the silence;
of you removing your trousers against the silhouette of a cloudy sky not yet awoken to its radiant blue role of scenery,
set against rocks so perfect they could almost be fake, of the
little patches of redness
set against the creases of skin that could only be and will always be yours…
like those rocks
the boundaries imposed only prove that there is a body to set against them, a mind capable of overcoming them
I'll never kiss you. By (who's) design: immaterial.
I'm not in love, not even in lust, not even suffering, in any way, from the impossibility of a future I have never desired (and may never desire).
That there is a future not to be had, that the redness of your skin will never prove the result of my action, only shows: there is another future.
I've been a longtime lover of music who is serious about making it, but I feel like I have hit a wall. I guess I expected to go the regular route of house/techno producer: make mostly instrumental tracks, DJ out, etc., but I am sick of my scene. And every other one for that matter. There is only one solution left: to attack.
I can make good sounds, am almost decent at arrangement, can write words, and value ideas above all. You should be able to deploy your voice in a musical and distinct fashion, and should also have musical knowledge. You should also read books. Lots. If you are an ideal match for me, you should be just as infuriated with what's going on in politics (i.e. just more of the same bullshit) and, especially, culture, which has completely dropped its oppositional stance towards drowning itself in a miasma of inter-referentiality, complacency, haircuts, and tasteful consumption.
The goal: write and perform music that upends all existing systems and causes riots. Or die trying. What else is there to do? There are no good jobs. By definition.
Let's be clear: this is a pop group. I don't mean dance moves and fake tans. I mean that the underground is dead; there's no place to hide. I want to force our poison pill down the throat of Western Civilization so that it may finally perish in senile misery.
Influences: Anger, dread, existential angst, lust, fear, melancholy, Marx, Gramsci, Malcolm X, Fred Hampton, Charles Mingus, Curtis Mayfield, Public Image Limited, Soft Cell, Birthday Party, Associates, Cybotron, Frankie Goes To Hollywood, Jaime Principle, Cupid and Psyche '85, A.R. Kane, Cocteau Twins, The KLF, Public Enemy, Insides, St. Etienne, Achtung Baby, UK Hardcore circa 1993, Pulp (please note I have no interest in actually sounding like any of the above).
Fell off the World Cup wagon for a week - have seen a few games, but I've been pretty distracted by real life. I will get back to it. Watching World Cup games, at the very least, makes me feel connected to the world at large, relieves me, at least momentarily, from my perpetual alienation, and I really need that feeling, especially now.
I quit one of my jobs recently. It was the one that was causing me the most unhappiness, the most stress, and the one that was distracting me during my free time. This job was also the one that provided me with the bulk of my income.
Over the last few weeks, I've been through a lot mentally. I've been hyperactive, jubilant, relieved, relaxed, complacent, lazy, worried, and consumed by despair. This job took up a huge amount of space in my mind, and leaving it has unleashed a lot of emotion, both positive and negative.
The process of self-discovery is ultimately the process of figuring out what can be changed and what will always be the same. It's not easy. Because, theoretically, everything could be different, but so could nothing. To what extent are characteristics truly fixed, and when does one choose to try and change oneself versus changing external circumstances?
I may never know all of the answers, both generally, and specifically, but I am starting to feel sure of one thing: I am not one who can keep work and life separate. I have to do something I would do for free for money. Doing something I don't like to pay the bills... it's always the same: I am unhappy, I push myself harder and harder to be more disciplined, to stick with it, etc., and the harder I push, with more and more pressure, the more I retreat, the more I dissociate, the less I am "there". Towards the end of my time at my previous job, I was so vanished that I didn't even recognize people I knew when they would come in to the restaurant to say hello.
Ultimately, I am better off. But now I have to face the consequences of my actions. Between what was my second job and existing money in the bank, I can at least eat in perpetuity. I have at least another month of rent. I will find another job soon. There is no need to be concerned about me eating, about me facing homelessness, etc.
While I can merely survive, and will eventually thrive (relatively speaking - I'm still single, in a city I don't like, working in an industry that doesn't pay that well, far from making a living doing work that enriches my life, and far from most of the people, places and things that I care about), it will take me a long time to catch up to the damage I have done to my discretionary income by quitting a job without having another one (yes, an impulsive decision, but: see above, see the last year's worth of bitter, angry posts).
Now, "discretionary" is a hard word to define. Well, not really, but the size of a residence, the quality of food eaten, the amount expended on goods and services; the line between essential and indulgent is defined differently by different people.
This is all a preamble to the following: I have placed a donation button on this page. I could use some help right now, but the help I need is very specific and it might seem, depending on where you see the aforementioned line, that what I am asking for is too much or too little.
I have a very small bedroom music studio. I have some nice equipment, and some cheap equipment. To some, it would be seen as an excessive amount of gear simply because it is possible to compose and record music without using all of the equipment I have. To others, it would seem to be a pitifully small studio. To me, it is almost exactly the amount of gear I need to make the music I want to make.
Because I have never made that much money, virtually everything I own was purchased used. In some cases, it was because a certain piece of gear was the only one that would make or process sounds in the way I wanted. In other cases, it was because purchasing used would provide me access to gear that could perform at a high level without compelling me to spend at a high level. Finally, in other cases, it was simply because I didn't have the money to buy something better.
Virtually every single piece of gear I have has been in for repairs. Maintaining my studio has been like a game of whack-a-mole - as soon as something has come back from the shop, something else has needed to go back in. This process, of constant research, of bargain-hunting, of searching for parts, of endless trips to repair shops, has been emotionally draining to say the least, and I've been going through it for five years now. For the most part, I have skipped vacations, avoided nights out, etc., just to try and realize my dream of making the music I hear in my head, and this process has almost convinced me not to bother making music anymore. It's only because I am finally, mercifully, almost done, that I can even continue to hold on.
I have placed the donate button on this page to obtain assistance in finally completing my studio because completion is almost in sight. Sort of. Ultimately, I will never be finished. There will always be another cool pedal to try out, another synth to play with, etc., and yet the list of essentials, the things I simply need to be there when reached for, is almost complete.
So… what do I need?
Well, there are two things:
1. Realistically, I don't expect a lot of donations, but it would be nice if I could pull off getting the three pieces I have in for repair out of the shop. I have a synthesizer, a sampler, and a delay unit waiting for me eight miles away, and I don't have the cash to retrieve them. I also have another sampler (soon to be sold, see below) and another effects unit that need to go in. Total cost is around $450, not including the repair of the second set of devices (just the deposit).
2. In the fantasy-land that exists in my head, a world in which I actually feel like I could matter to a lot of people, I imagine myself actually getting enough money to buy the drum machine I have my eye on. Drums have always been the weakest part of my studio, and, so far, none of the machines I have used have provided me with satisfactory results. My most recent solution was the purchase of a vintage sampler which has a great sound but, besides the fact that it is now broken, it is a hassle to use. If you ever find yourself romanticizing the days of floppy disks, well, don't. The drum machine I want will make sampling and the storing of samples much, much faster. It costs… wait for it… $1,550.
I don't expect to make $1,550. There are, also, many, many much-worthier causes out there. I guess I just mentioned option two out of ludicrous hope, and also the knowledge that at least a few people out there have gotten large amounts of money together with crowd-sourcing. I'd much rather get 100 donations of $15 than a small handful of large ones. The way my mind works, if someone were to actually give me $1,550, I would feel guilty. Towards that end, of conserving my sanity, and also because I can't promise that anyone will get anything in return at all beyond a thank-you email, I want to specifically request, on the off-chance that someone would actually consider making a larger donation, that no donation should exceed $77.50, or 5% of the larger total.
I feel weird even doing this, but I need to move forward with my life. It's unfortunate that that has meant leaving another job. I'd rather work and have the money. Beyond equipment, there's travel, there's clothing that fits, there's an apartment with enough space for a sofa, there's, well, the future, and it all has to wait.
As for the donation button, assuming everything works out for the best, well, it may stay up (there are always more books and records...), but I can't foresee ever asking for a large and specific donation again.