In perspective - (We lucky apes who paint our toes).
I talk about the origami universe. How it dynamically manufactures meaning for the least of its subjects. In such a way that the so-called god doth have infinite mercy on hith thubjects, even though he must putteth them all to death, or else we would have no universe to begin with. So. Lets take an objectivist view of all of that and just say that nothing gets out alive, so why even bother: It is all just a complicated ball of chemicals.
I talk about the universe being shaped like a Maltese cross - I am talking BIG here. Big galaxies clustered together with millions of big galaxies in big clouds of massive stuff which look diminutive compared to other clouds of massive other stuff. All together, it forms a Maltese cross, so we say. Somewhere, somewhere to be found in this silly little X is our own supposedly vast galaxy, and then our own little world, which we are killing with pollution, and wherein we extend all our meaningful gripes. Ad infinitum. We lucky apes who paint our toes.
How, I ask you, how shall I ever convince any among any of you, that the horrors of my ignored illness are superhuman? Believe me, today, I have had a day of it. Then I drank wine too early, and then that made things all the worse. I go to my grave early, and pray it is not a portal to further absurdity.
NPR is something that reigns supreme in our day and age, which is neither here nor there. Tonight, "World Cafe," (which is a rip-off of a community radio show from my home town of Madison, Wisconsin), played a little Bob Marley, One Love. One Life. It took me back to days of wonderful community protest, in Ye Olde City, in Madison, and as far as Chicago, Philly, NYC and WDC. We was fab. We meant well. Bob Marley was what I loved, and my friends remember those days from my Bob Marley. God bless us all. But this. Nothing much has changed. Feel alright. The fleeting moment called rock and roll.
Back before I sensed that gluten was bad for me, along with everything else, I was online on LJ and was something of a phenomenon, because everything was new back then, as you may recall. Big deal that anyone cut any kind of memorable profile, right? Ashley came along and played into my narcissism, while I drowned my lifelong loss in wheat beer. This unlikely pair became one, in some sense. Some kind of one that sticks on a soul I will take to my grave, (see above). It was all just more sickness. Feel alright.
I was endeared to Ashley in many ways. The way she reminded me of Drew Barrymore. The way she was inanely insane about Buffy and Spike. The way she was secretly, creepilly obsessed with peeeling the lables off of her bottled of Bud, just like in the Sheryl Crow song, it turns out. It turns out. How much of who we know is really beyond anything ever learnt via the media? MY difficulties with Ashley first began when she began asserting her love of Foreigner, and such, over actual, music, lol. Foreigner?!? That's like saying Cher is Indie music. Why choose something so past tense when you've got things like Black Keys out there. Or whatever. Anyway, we all go through all this stupid nonsense. It means nothing. Nothing more than the meaning that compels us each to breath.
Tonight, before, "World Cafe," played Bob the Marley, they played Sheryl Crow, "All I Want to Do Is Have Some Fun." Right? That is where Ashley got the whole thing about peeling labels off of bottles of Bud. Just like a lot of Indie people got their own ideas from Yo La Tengo, Belle and Sebastien, King Missile, Bongwater, Morrissey, XX, or earlier Liz Phair. What difference does it make? We choose each other because of wisps of music or particular moody dance moves, and proceed to make more people out of them, as if we know what we are doing.
I thought of Sheryl Crow, and how she appealed to Eric Clapton, and had reflexions of George Harrison in her music, like the twangy singy guitar, the jangly guitar, the I'm-in-a-box sound which was perfected by Jeff Lynn, and so on - not to say that she didn't have her own and other influences, which she did. But, if you thought about it, her relationship with Clapton could start looking Weinstein perverse. If you had the bother to go that far.
Really, who the fuck cares if you peel the labels off of Bud bottles, other than someone else who is also stuck in the Sheryl Crow song with you? What does anything ever really mean?!...
Otherwise the bar is ours, the day and the night
And the car wash, too, the matches and the
Buds, and the clean and dirty cars,
The sun and the moon...
Do you hear that? The sun and the moon. They are ours.
I got a couple a people to think about me and my illness - a coupla people to sorta understand. I got nobody loving me, feeding me, bringing me home dead sheep. I kinda let go all of those boyish hopes of ever owning the moon in this thing called love but there are those out there who do persist. I gotta tell you. Those who do succeed in this? They so far have been the greater part of our race. And look at our multiplicitous situation now. What we see and beleive is not always what is right and real.
"The sun and the moon..."
Have I not written about how people yak about the planets and the weather, like they owned them, only to blame these influences on the evils of each other, like ants beneath some burning magnifying glass?
"The sun and the moon..."
Here is another person who will die and turn to bone and eventually be forgotten with all of civilisation, singing like she owns the sunshine - or the moonlight.
But, look at this. Take a needle, onto a map of the globe. Stick it where Sheryl Crow is. You can barely even see the prick. Even if you could see the other pricks she has influenced, you can barely see the prick called Earth, in comparison to our distant star called the Sun. Big fucking woop. Some little peep telling other pointless peeps all about the sun and the moon, when they are as big as NOTHING. NOTHING! Little NOTHINGS singing about IMPOSSIBILITY! How is this even possible? How is there even meaning here?
There is a cold wind blowing through the window and it will not include you or me - it just happens. It will happen whether or not you or I talk or sing or extrapolate about it. It will happen whether or not we even have the ability to know it is happening. The Sun. And the Moon. They will happen no matter what we do. And they need not carry the names we have projected on to them, for them to do as they will.
Our voices are vastly, vastly diminutive and unimportant.
The Entropistic philosophy of Existential Transcendentalism says that we must completely own up to this.
Paradoxically, we get to live our own stupid, meaningful lives. In that perspective:
The universe exists for our peeling of labels off of bottles of Bud.
Preferably Bud Light.
I talk about the universe being shaped like a Maltese cross - I am talking BIG here. Big galaxies clustered together with millions of big galaxies in big clouds of massive stuff which look diminutive compared to other clouds of massive other stuff. All together, it forms a Maltese cross, so we say. Somewhere, somewhere to be found in this silly little X is our own supposedly vast galaxy, and then our own little world, which we are killing with pollution, and wherein we extend all our meaningful gripes. Ad infinitum. We lucky apes who paint our toes.
How, I ask you, how shall I ever convince any among any of you, that the horrors of my ignored illness are superhuman? Believe me, today, I have had a day of it. Then I drank wine too early, and then that made things all the worse. I go to my grave early, and pray it is not a portal to further absurdity.
NPR is something that reigns supreme in our day and age, which is neither here nor there. Tonight, "World Cafe," (which is a rip-off of a community radio show from my home town of Madison, Wisconsin), played a little Bob Marley, One Love. One Life. It took me back to days of wonderful community protest, in Ye Olde City, in Madison, and as far as Chicago, Philly, NYC and WDC. We was fab. We meant well. Bob Marley was what I loved, and my friends remember those days from my Bob Marley. God bless us all. But this. Nothing much has changed. Feel alright. The fleeting moment called rock and roll.
Back before I sensed that gluten was bad for me, along with everything else, I was online on LJ and was something of a phenomenon, because everything was new back then, as you may recall. Big deal that anyone cut any kind of memorable profile, right? Ashley came along and played into my narcissism, while I drowned my lifelong loss in wheat beer. This unlikely pair became one, in some sense. Some kind of one that sticks on a soul I will take to my grave, (see above). It was all just more sickness. Feel alright.
I was endeared to Ashley in many ways. The way she reminded me of Drew Barrymore. The way she was inanely insane about Buffy and Spike. The way she was secretly, creepilly obsessed with peeeling the lables off of her bottled of Bud, just like in the Sheryl Crow song, it turns out. It turns out. How much of who we know is really beyond anything ever learnt via the media? MY difficulties with Ashley first began when she began asserting her love of Foreigner, and such, over actual, music, lol. Foreigner?!? That's like saying Cher is Indie music. Why choose something so past tense when you've got things like Black Keys out there. Or whatever. Anyway, we all go through all this stupid nonsense. It means nothing. Nothing more than the meaning that compels us each to breath.
Tonight, before, "World Cafe," played Bob the Marley, they played Sheryl Crow, "All I Want to Do Is Have Some Fun." Right? That is where Ashley got the whole thing about peeling labels off of bottles of Bud. Just like a lot of Indie people got their own ideas from Yo La Tengo, Belle and Sebastien, King Missile, Bongwater, Morrissey, XX, or earlier Liz Phair. What difference does it make? We choose each other because of wisps of music or particular moody dance moves, and proceed to make more people out of them, as if we know what we are doing.
I thought of Sheryl Crow, and how she appealed to Eric Clapton, and had reflexions of George Harrison in her music, like the twangy singy guitar, the jangly guitar, the I'm-in-a-box sound which was perfected by Jeff Lynn, and so on - not to say that she didn't have her own and other influences, which she did. But, if you thought about it, her relationship with Clapton could start looking Weinstein perverse. If you had the bother to go that far.
Really, who the fuck cares if you peel the labels off of Bud bottles, other than someone else who is also stuck in the Sheryl Crow song with you? What does anything ever really mean?!...
Otherwise the bar is ours, the day and the night
And the car wash, too, the matches and the
Buds, and the clean and dirty cars,
The sun and the moon...
Do you hear that? The sun and the moon. They are ours.
I got a couple a people to think about me and my illness - a coupla people to sorta understand. I got nobody loving me, feeding me, bringing me home dead sheep. I kinda let go all of those boyish hopes of ever owning the moon in this thing called love but there are those out there who do persist. I gotta tell you. Those who do succeed in this? They so far have been the greater part of our race. And look at our multiplicitous situation now. What we see and beleive is not always what is right and real.
"The sun and the moon..."
Have I not written about how people yak about the planets and the weather, like they owned them, only to blame these influences on the evils of each other, like ants beneath some burning magnifying glass?
"The sun and the moon..."
Here is another person who will die and turn to bone and eventually be forgotten with all of civilisation, singing like she owns the sunshine - or the moonlight.
But, look at this. Take a needle, onto a map of the globe. Stick it where Sheryl Crow is. You can barely even see the prick. Even if you could see the other pricks she has influenced, you can barely see the prick called Earth, in comparison to our distant star called the Sun. Big fucking woop. Some little peep telling other pointless peeps all about the sun and the moon, when they are as big as NOTHING. NOTHING! Little NOTHINGS singing about IMPOSSIBILITY! How is this even possible? How is there even meaning here?
There is a cold wind blowing through the window and it will not include you or me - it just happens. It will happen whether or not you or I talk or sing or extrapolate about it. It will happen whether or not we even have the ability to know it is happening. The Sun. And the Moon. They will happen no matter what we do. And they need not carry the names we have projected on to them, for them to do as they will.
Our voices are vastly, vastly diminutive and unimportant.
The Entropistic philosophy of Existential Transcendentalism says that we must completely own up to this.
Paradoxically, we get to live our own stupid, meaningful lives. In that perspective:
The universe exists for our peeling of labels off of bottles of Bud.
Preferably Bud Light.