(no subject)
if you plan on dancing for 6 hours at 180bpm+, i recommend you take some drugs. having had nothing but wine, water and bread (oh how catholic!), i think i can safely be labelled as "really rather exhausted". it's quite early in the morning and the walk home was, as always, longer than expected. i've got a face like a happy monday and my feet look ready for slicing on the deli counter.
i have never ever seen a dancefloor do what the one at blaze did this evening when masochist dropped. i was almost expecting to see people start crowd surfing. these english kids, they go utterly nutty for the australian drum&bass. i've got a pocket full of secret phone numbers to call for directions to a warehouse rave in manchester. how very 1991.
earlier, whilst a bit drunk, i wrote a livejournal entry. having re-read it, i wish to apologise to anyone who might have had the misfortune to ever deal with me while drunk. urgh. what a wanker. but i'll post it behind an lj-cut in small type as a warning to myself not to do it again. please don't read it.
i shouldn't be using my laptop. it's evidence - the CSI kids are coming to fingerprint anything with a shiny surface that's been moved. but i'm quite relieved the old thing still works so what the hell. if they find the guy's prints then find him with a broken leg it'll only lead to more trouble anyway.
it's 9:30 and blaze (with a 2hour andy c set) starts at 10. i've got no ticket and there's only a 300person capacity. are there 300 people in this city who're into drum&bass? if i don't get distracted writing here i might bother to find out.
i'm a couple of mouthfuls away from finishing a bottle of my favourite wine - reassuringly overpriced after an epic voyage from south australia. housemate shiBAZ! has a large stain on the carpet under his bed as testament to my body's inability to appreciate red wine for more than an hour or so. but we'll see what happens. at present i'm happily drunk and convincingly pissed off with the world. it's the intersection where psychology and philosophy meet that always causes problems.
so i got some new trousers today. carhartt. they fit wonderfully and are just what i was after. they're the first carhartt garment i've ever worn, after many years of umming and ahhhing about their aesthetic in minimal skate appropriated work wear. as soon as i got them home i felt compelled to get the knife out and remove any visible branding, as i have tended to do for some time. but these are the first branded clothes i've begun to take a knife to since reading pattern recognition. i'm not much a fan of thrillers, much less thrillers involving hackneyed russian mafia conspiracies, but i found myself relating more than i should to a protagonist stuck in the "mirror-world" unable to tolerate brands. so do i unpick and look like some lame william gibson fanboy? or forever be conscious of the little tag on my right buttock advertising the approximate amount of cash i'm willing to spend on my trousers? is my claim that i've been tag-picking since before this novel was published even believed?
fuck. the pants are almost exactly the same as the stussy pants that were part of our high school uniform. my connection with the world at large is at present limited to what i absorb through livejournal, nightclubs and drum&bass magazines. i just put everything i bought today on at once and i look like a fucking crack dealer from brixton (or perhaps a middle class student's idea of what a crack dealer from brixton looks like).
i want to have an unqualified, unquestioned thought. i want to be able to think something along the lines of....
"damn that john howard. how can the australian public have voted him back into power after all the damage he's done?"
without also thinking... well, something quite the opposite that i'm unwilling to share in this kind of forum for fear of being branded anything other than a quasi post-modern liberal.
too worried about what people think. that's the whole problem. and too isolated from any community to be able to bury myself in group care. the conflicting desire to be individual and unique and be utterly at one. how do you find a way to balance the death you cause and the life you bring?
voices, inside my head. echo, things that you say. (watch the paragraphs become shorter as mind-finger fatigue sets in.)
i've mentioned it before but i'm going to mention it again:
WHAT THE FUCK AM I GOING TO DO WITH MY LIFE?
i've only got a few more months of being an officially government recognised "young person". i'm not married. i haven't got a credit card or even a proper bank account, let alone a mortgage. i'm a citizen of two countries and vote in neither - haven't a passport for the one i love but no debt in the one i hate. i'm 98% of the way through a degree that i'll likely never finish, a couple of majors in nothing in particular. i've no pets. a suitcase of clothes. i gave away everything i'd accumulated since adolescence (save for a cardboard box of documents and vinyl being minded by the ever lovely nicsta) before leaving for the uk. i own nothing. i can list as hobbies only those things that are symptoms of everything i despise: contemporary art, clubbing, and shooting small defenceless animals. i yearn desperately for a sense of community yet cling to an arrogant self-absorbed way of life.
but i know exactly what i want to do with my life. i'm just worried you'll think i'm some kind of sad fucked up hippy if i tell you.
anyway. it's 10pm. if they'll let me in i'm gonna go dance to some jump-up, darkside and/or liquid funk. and be nowhere.
i have never ever seen a dancefloor do what the one at blaze did this evening when masochist dropped. i was almost expecting to see people start crowd surfing. these english kids, they go utterly nutty for the australian drum&bass. i've got a pocket full of secret phone numbers to call for directions to a warehouse rave in manchester. how very 1991.
earlier, whilst a bit drunk, i wrote a livejournal entry. having re-read it, i wish to apologise to anyone who might have had the misfortune to ever deal with me while drunk. urgh. what a wanker. but i'll post it behind an lj-cut in small type as a warning to myself not to do it again. please don't read it.
i shouldn't be using my laptop. it's evidence - the CSI kids are coming to fingerprint anything with a shiny surface that's been moved. but i'm quite relieved the old thing still works so what the hell. if they find the guy's prints then find him with a broken leg it'll only lead to more trouble anyway.
it's 9:30 and blaze (with a 2hour andy c set) starts at 10. i've got no ticket and there's only a 300person capacity. are there 300 people in this city who're into drum&bass? if i don't get distracted writing here i might bother to find out.
i'm a couple of mouthfuls away from finishing a bottle of my favourite wine - reassuringly overpriced after an epic voyage from south australia. housemate shiBAZ! has a large stain on the carpet under his bed as testament to my body's inability to appreciate red wine for more than an hour or so. but we'll see what happens. at present i'm happily drunk and convincingly pissed off with the world. it's the intersection where psychology and philosophy meet that always causes problems.
so i got some new trousers today. carhartt. they fit wonderfully and are just what i was after. they're the first carhartt garment i've ever worn, after many years of umming and ahhhing about their aesthetic in minimal skate appropriated work wear. as soon as i got them home i felt compelled to get the knife out and remove any visible branding, as i have tended to do for some time. but these are the first branded clothes i've begun to take a knife to since reading pattern recognition. i'm not much a fan of thrillers, much less thrillers involving hackneyed russian mafia conspiracies, but i found myself relating more than i should to a protagonist stuck in the "mirror-world" unable to tolerate brands. so do i unpick and look like some lame william gibson fanboy? or forever be conscious of the little tag on my right buttock advertising the approximate amount of cash i'm willing to spend on my trousers? is my claim that i've been tag-picking since before this novel was published even believed?
fuck. the pants are almost exactly the same as the stussy pants that were part of our high school uniform. my connection with the world at large is at present limited to what i absorb through livejournal, nightclubs and drum&bass magazines. i just put everything i bought today on at once and i look like a fucking crack dealer from brixton (or perhaps a middle class student's idea of what a crack dealer from brixton looks like).
i want to have an unqualified, unquestioned thought. i want to be able to think something along the lines of....
"damn that john howard. how can the australian public have voted him back into power after all the damage he's done?"
without also thinking... well, something quite the opposite that i'm unwilling to share in this kind of forum for fear of being branded anything other than a quasi post-modern liberal.
too worried about what people think. that's the whole problem. and too isolated from any community to be able to bury myself in group care. the conflicting desire to be individual and unique and be utterly at one. how do you find a way to balance the death you cause and the life you bring?
voices, inside my head. echo, things that you say. (watch the paragraphs become shorter as mind-finger fatigue sets in.)
i've mentioned it before but i'm going to mention it again:
WHAT THE FUCK AM I GOING TO DO WITH MY LIFE?
i've only got a few more months of being an officially government recognised "young person". i'm not married. i haven't got a credit card or even a proper bank account, let alone a mortgage. i'm a citizen of two countries and vote in neither - haven't a passport for the one i love but no debt in the one i hate. i'm 98% of the way through a degree that i'll likely never finish, a couple of majors in nothing in particular. i've no pets. a suitcase of clothes. i gave away everything i'd accumulated since adolescence (save for a cardboard box of documents and vinyl being minded by the ever lovely nicsta) before leaving for the uk. i own nothing. i can list as hobbies only those things that are symptoms of everything i despise: contemporary art, clubbing, and shooting small defenceless animals. i yearn desperately for a sense of community yet cling to an arrogant self-absorbed way of life.
but i know exactly what i want to do with my life. i'm just worried you'll think i'm some kind of sad fucked up hippy if i tell you.
anyway. it's 10pm. if they'll let me in i'm gonna go dance to some jump-up, darkside and/or liquid funk. and be nowhere.