Boredom is horror spread thin
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y9xfKG8eCbc&feature=related
-for the music while reading; not the video
If I fall asleep in your front seat while you're driving, it is because this feels more like home than any home I've ever known... nowhere, on the road and in the night. And if I snore in your front seat, well I can't control that.
It's as automatic as my desire to touch with you just one more time.
Love, I fear the world is finally reflecting our insides to the last decimal. All our devouring begins to devour us, and I sometimes it's hard to see myself in the distortion. It's all distortion. But when the apocalypse comes, if you ask me to, I will come and find you, though, of course, I might have to find myself first.
Dropping hips to the lull of a jazz bass, let me peel away those eyelids of uncertainty from every pale streetlight. We are soaking in light, dripping in light. Lights on the roads, lights in the bedroom, lights in the kitchen, lights in the boxes of our new age that replace griots and griotes. The night sky crying and swarming with stars, pulsing with the pupil of moon, becomes a secret. We have brought the stars to earth with a light switch, so let me pull the plug for a moment. We can watch your smoke, twisting in beautiful agony like ghosts from a paper tomb. I took a drag and felt my body burn.
In Haiti, they will eat mud and vegetable oil because food prices are too high. The parasites that await in the dirt resemble those waiting in our global circuit as we eat with sharp metallic extensions of our teeth and fingers. I think there are more metaphors to be found as “cars become the new pedestrians” and digitized charisma bewitches our bands and tribes. Our most precious natural resource is irony as my homestead is on the road, gnarling on oil.
Oil... the black blood...death. We create giant teeth and claws to dig the graves of the Jurassic, to dig the graves of our ancestors, from algae algorithms into a rhythmic tyrannosaurus hex. The ghosts of the dead haunt us as our vampiric thirst meets day... Nesting in the hollows of the largest genocide the world has ever seen, we wonder why we are so sick with it. The state is founded on ghosts and human beasts of burden... and oil... Maurice said oil destroys culture. When a nation has oil, it drowns in its production, importing pretty fabrics while its own rips apart. We compartmentalize and run the wheel, samsara, awaiting our treats, unaware that the lifespan of anything decreases in a cage...
...We are bored, oh, we are bored. In retreat from hyperdrive, our disillusions at critical mass, we, like children in front the tele, stare hypnotized by the pattern of lights. Stretched thin as our nerves are shot halfway cross the universe, our spine driven into dust. We are bored, oh god, we are bored. Caught in a screen door held tight by the frame of mouths screaming for retribution,we are everywhere in the world, in the universe, and consequently nowhere at all. In China, in Kenya, in the bloodlines of South America and the pretty spiderwebs of Europe. I am surprised to find I have a body still, as the disembodiment of electric media inside me refuses to tell me the message and instead sends me halfway cross the millennium. So immediate, it beckons my help, but my hands don't reach beyond my limbs. Idols of Hermes in every cornea, my mouths of dripping with data. Bored, all pantheons in cyberspace, we are bored.
But “boredom is horror spread thin.”
Eating the flesh of virgins to imagine innocence, we choke on the bones, on the reminders of our deed.
This is a love story gone horribly wrong.
...I reach my hands, love, through the sunroof. The cold winds peel my skin away into the icy stream of near-sky. Sometimes we feel like angles traveling the stars, though we're crazed primates amongst electric forest fires. You sing as if you're the ferryman, carrying my soul through every Styx, Charon, every Styx. You turned off the lights and held my hand, and brought me through the rare silence into caverns of your thoughts, whispering canvas onto canvas... and I heard the voices of your secrets in the undulating curves of the jazz music, pulsating like a direct current into the air, into my chest... You brought me to your house. You gave me my deepest undercurrent... for a moment, for a moment, I felt more than intimacy and more than affection, more than parlor trick awe and firework wonder, and that which we cannot name we do not pass in silence. We speak with a language we forgot, we speak with a depth, with your ghost pressed into another... it's something worth living for. It's one of the few things that still mean anything.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gNRTjgPktoM&feature=related
You said, once, you liked me because I was a recognizer. Who else hears you? Hears what you cannot say? Who else did you bring here? Whatever incarnations stood with you before, it has been a while, you said, such a long time as you closed your eyes and grabber my fingers close... I've never been closer to anything in my life. In my life, everything is scattered and there is no one voice, only dissonance, even if beautiful dissonance, wrapped in warped static. The pale orange through your glass door, the soft light of your laptop, the empty kitchen, the darkness...
“Come on to my house, to my-y house, I'm gonna give you candy.”
I washed your dishes and we cleaned your room. You have the most amazing smile as you dance across the floor.
But it's as serious as any blood sacrifice. For, my Offerer, I have been often desperate to entertain myself, mostly in silence. I have been often desperate to gaze into the box to watch film-craft, hoping the bones in my pocket will absorb the wandering evil of these atmospheres. I hear eating charred toast every once in a while is good for you, and I never show my true face. When I do, no one is listening. You have heard me before I speak a word. I have been so idle and apathetic, I have been so bored, but my Offerer, boredom is horror spread thin. And it is the longest rising action, the ice, the frail ice that I know will break and emerge me in the freezing waters of loneliness and decay.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HFDdIIITJ08&feature=related
You have exorcised every demon. And whenever you leave, the terror begins again. I write as a prayer to dispel evil. So much evil, we choke on it.
As Marshall McLuhan tells us, Narcissus comes from the Greek word “narcosis” which means “numbness.” Narcissus became numb. He extended himself but did not recognize it. Retreating, he became a closed system. Narcissus never knew it was his reflection... he thought it was something else. The overstimulation caused him to go into shock. We are overstimulized. We go into shock as a defense mechanism. We become closed systems, sensitive to our own egos. Autoamputation. I find myself in a loop. A strange loop. I become numb to it all... to what's happening to us, to me.
And Love, you are one of the few things left that lights me and refuses to leave me numb.
The loop. We are tying in all we've seen begin. And if we all cease to burn the circle is complete. My friend, we have found so many curses, so many swears. Few words are left to bless things. We have spent much time damning, fucking, bitching, dicking, shitting... Through the ages we've been clearing stages for us to stand alone to face God, the mystery, the creatrix, and we have developed no words to say to It, no mysteries to reveal. There is no tradition we have continued, no relic left. Perhaps some of us will offer our space program or our latest synthetic hallucinogen. Perhaps another warhead or a nude (though not naked) model. Perhaps It's share in stock.
We stare back at our culture, seeing only ourselves...
Some say we fall most in love with images of ourselves. I just think there's something between us. In the depths of us. Linked. You can't offer me when it comes. I can't offer you. Perhaps we can offer what we share.
It is the closest thing to sacred I know. I don't expect many others to understand. It's the figure and the ground. More so, it is touch carried into mystery.
That and the latest The Mars Volta album.
Baraka.
http://72.14.205.104/search?q=cache:_Zf0AtEaYKcJ:www.arch.kth.se/poiesis/marshallmcluhan.htm+the+gadget+lover+narcissus+autoamputation&hl=en&ct=clnk&cd=1&gl=us&client=firefox-a
-to help understand the blog
-for the music while reading; not the video
If I fall asleep in your front seat while you're driving, it is because this feels more like home than any home I've ever known... nowhere, on the road and in the night. And if I snore in your front seat, well I can't control that.
It's as automatic as my desire to touch with you just one more time.
Love, I fear the world is finally reflecting our insides to the last decimal. All our devouring begins to devour us, and I sometimes it's hard to see myself in the distortion. It's all distortion. But when the apocalypse comes, if you ask me to, I will come and find you, though, of course, I might have to find myself first.
Dropping hips to the lull of a jazz bass, let me peel away those eyelids of uncertainty from every pale streetlight. We are soaking in light, dripping in light. Lights on the roads, lights in the bedroom, lights in the kitchen, lights in the boxes of our new age that replace griots and griotes. The night sky crying and swarming with stars, pulsing with the pupil of moon, becomes a secret. We have brought the stars to earth with a light switch, so let me pull the plug for a moment. We can watch your smoke, twisting in beautiful agony like ghosts from a paper tomb. I took a drag and felt my body burn.
In Haiti, they will eat mud and vegetable oil because food prices are too high. The parasites that await in the dirt resemble those waiting in our global circuit as we eat with sharp metallic extensions of our teeth and fingers. I think there are more metaphors to be found as “cars become the new pedestrians” and digitized charisma bewitches our bands and tribes. Our most precious natural resource is irony as my homestead is on the road, gnarling on oil.
Oil... the black blood...death. We create giant teeth and claws to dig the graves of the Jurassic, to dig the graves of our ancestors, from algae algorithms into a rhythmic tyrannosaurus hex. The ghosts of the dead haunt us as our vampiric thirst meets day... Nesting in the hollows of the largest genocide the world has ever seen, we wonder why we are so sick with it. The state is founded on ghosts and human beasts of burden... and oil... Maurice said oil destroys culture. When a nation has oil, it drowns in its production, importing pretty fabrics while its own rips apart. We compartmentalize and run the wheel, samsara, awaiting our treats, unaware that the lifespan of anything decreases in a cage...
...We are bored, oh, we are bored. In retreat from hyperdrive, our disillusions at critical mass, we, like children in front the tele, stare hypnotized by the pattern of lights. Stretched thin as our nerves are shot halfway cross the universe, our spine driven into dust. We are bored, oh god, we are bored. Caught in a screen door held tight by the frame of mouths screaming for retribution,we are everywhere in the world, in the universe, and consequently nowhere at all. In China, in Kenya, in the bloodlines of South America and the pretty spiderwebs of Europe. I am surprised to find I have a body still, as the disembodiment of electric media inside me refuses to tell me the message and instead sends me halfway cross the millennium. So immediate, it beckons my help, but my hands don't reach beyond my limbs. Idols of Hermes in every cornea, my mouths of dripping with data. Bored, all pantheons in cyberspace, we are bored.
But “boredom is horror spread thin.”
Eating the flesh of virgins to imagine innocence, we choke on the bones, on the reminders of our deed.
This is a love story gone horribly wrong.
...I reach my hands, love, through the sunroof. The cold winds peel my skin away into the icy stream of near-sky. Sometimes we feel like angles traveling the stars, though we're crazed primates amongst electric forest fires. You sing as if you're the ferryman, carrying my soul through every Styx, Charon, every Styx. You turned off the lights and held my hand, and brought me through the rare silence into caverns of your thoughts, whispering canvas onto canvas... and I heard the voices of your secrets in the undulating curves of the jazz music, pulsating like a direct current into the air, into my chest... You brought me to your house. You gave me my deepest undercurrent... for a moment, for a moment, I felt more than intimacy and more than affection, more than parlor trick awe and firework wonder, and that which we cannot name we do not pass in silence. We speak with a language we forgot, we speak with a depth, with your ghost pressed into another... it's something worth living for. It's one of the few things that still mean anything.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gNRTjgPktoM&feature=related
You said, once, you liked me because I was a recognizer. Who else hears you? Hears what you cannot say? Who else did you bring here? Whatever incarnations stood with you before, it has been a while, you said, such a long time as you closed your eyes and grabber my fingers close... I've never been closer to anything in my life. In my life, everything is scattered and there is no one voice, only dissonance, even if beautiful dissonance, wrapped in warped static. The pale orange through your glass door, the soft light of your laptop, the empty kitchen, the darkness...
“Come on to my house, to my-y house, I'm gonna give you candy.”
I washed your dishes and we cleaned your room. You have the most amazing smile as you dance across the floor.
But it's as serious as any blood sacrifice. For, my Offerer, I have been often desperate to entertain myself, mostly in silence. I have been often desperate to gaze into the box to watch film-craft, hoping the bones in my pocket will absorb the wandering evil of these atmospheres. I hear eating charred toast every once in a while is good for you, and I never show my true face. When I do, no one is listening. You have heard me before I speak a word. I have been so idle and apathetic, I have been so bored, but my Offerer, boredom is horror spread thin. And it is the longest rising action, the ice, the frail ice that I know will break and emerge me in the freezing waters of loneliness and decay.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HFDdIIITJ08&feature=related
You have exorcised every demon. And whenever you leave, the terror begins again. I write as a prayer to dispel evil. So much evil, we choke on it.
As Marshall McLuhan tells us, Narcissus comes from the Greek word “narcosis” which means “numbness.” Narcissus became numb. He extended himself but did not recognize it. Retreating, he became a closed system. Narcissus never knew it was his reflection... he thought it was something else. The overstimulation caused him to go into shock. We are overstimulized. We go into shock as a defense mechanism. We become closed systems, sensitive to our own egos. Autoamputation. I find myself in a loop. A strange loop. I become numb to it all... to what's happening to us, to me.
And Love, you are one of the few things left that lights me and refuses to leave me numb.
The loop. We are tying in all we've seen begin. And if we all cease to burn the circle is complete. My friend, we have found so many curses, so many swears. Few words are left to bless things. We have spent much time damning, fucking, bitching, dicking, shitting... Through the ages we've been clearing stages for us to stand alone to face God, the mystery, the creatrix, and we have developed no words to say to It, no mysteries to reveal. There is no tradition we have continued, no relic left. Perhaps some of us will offer our space program or our latest synthetic hallucinogen. Perhaps another warhead or a nude (though not naked) model. Perhaps It's share in stock.
We stare back at our culture, seeing only ourselves...
Some say we fall most in love with images of ourselves. I just think there's something between us. In the depths of us. Linked. You can't offer me when it comes. I can't offer you. Perhaps we can offer what we share.
It is the closest thing to sacred I know. I don't expect many others to understand. It's the figure and the ground. More so, it is touch carried into mystery.
That and the latest The Mars Volta album.
Baraka.
http://72.14.205.104/search?q=cache:_Zf0AtEaYKcJ:www.arch.kth.se/poiesis/marshallmcluhan.htm+the+gadget+lover+narcissus+autoamputation&hl=en&ct=clnk&cd=1&gl=us&client=firefox-a
-to help understand the blog