7.29.2014

Everything I Love Exists Only In My Mind...

...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 See the fear, the "freedom from", the outdated conceptions, the veiled classism and racism, the self-regarding aesthetic critiques, the denizens of what was once the most vibrant city in the world looking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.

7.21.2014

Part 1: Throwaway almost-genius bullshit Part 2: My headza Part 3: Po 'em

THE RULES OF BLOGSVILLE STATE THAT ONE IDEA WOULD SUFFER IF TWO WERE POSTED ON THE SAME DAYA SEW...

Part 1: 

Love me as if I were already the person I would be if you loved me.

Part 2:

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. 

Part 3:
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.

There is another life.

There are other beaches.

There are other trousers.

7.09.2014

Let's Start A Band

Producer Seeks Collaborator

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).

Fuck: indie, punk, rap, techno, house, noise, country, "experimental", Pitchfork, The Wire, Resident Advisor, FACT, The Quietus, flannel, naiveté, ambiguity, guitarists, drummers, amateurism, technical proficiency, you, me.

Success would be defined as: everything that now exists is over.

Too ambitious. Yes. But, why not.