A somewhat carefully curated sequential presentation of cultural output [work] and/or decontextualized ephemera from various internet-based sources.
If I found myself watching the sun rise
there is a significant chance that I
would kill myself
or postpone the sun
until I would watch the sunrise with you
one day I will post my last facebook status
that will probably be
relatively close to the same day I die
one day I will be older and I will log on to facebook
and I will read the final status updates of deceased people I care about
click on some photos or something
and I will hang my head very low and cry for a very long time
I want to go around all of the internet
and collect each last one
make some sort of meaningful composition from all of them
definitely not a coffee table book
something that makes sense, but emotionally
is the equivalent of
stitching each one together into a giant quilt by hand
it will take one year or more to finish it and when I am done my hands will ache
and then I will wrap myself in it
and I will hang my head very low and cry for a very long time
as I get older I feel more like crying
not specifically because I am sad
but more specifically because of
heartwarming moments on reality TV
a byproduct of overexposure to the intimate details of others lives
or an exploitation of inherent empathy?
the asshole of reality TV is a visionary
a revolutionary, the whole idea is to not be a part of the product
but this asshole is a marketed revolutionary
so not one
but what if the revolutionary’s acts are true
to disrupt the cycle of reality TV
but instead, is only marketed
what anti-social acts would a reality TV revolutionary have to commit
in order to break through and no longer be a marketable one?
"this is the opportunity of a lifetime"
"this is my dream in real time"
"I’m not here to make friends"
I can’t wait until
I can text you, but with my face
instead of :-*
(a feeble-minded continuation of Girard Freeloader pt III <— that is a link)
It had been three years and they were still hanging out. It was probably somewhat important that he no longer felt like the freeloader he did before, but for the sake of continuity, he decided that this belonged with all the others
They went to the place that looked like Germany and she showed him
things from her old life when she lived here and she was a child. He found them interesting and he squinted at her school and imagined her inside.
She said that at that school a retarded girl falsely accused a teacher of rape, but then admitted that she had lied and there was no rape. He said something like ‘I always feel like that is questionable, maybe she was coerced to say she lied, or maybe she just lied. Is weird to think that has definitely happened in the past.’ She said ‘She definitely lied, but yeah, that has definitely happened at some point.’ They walked a little bit in silence because the world is weird.
They walked to the mall and she used to be there a lot but all the stores had changed and it sort of felt like a whole lot of nothing.
She said something like ‘I feel like I have closure here, just like when I went back to Kh———-. I had been dreaming about this and now I’m here and now it’s over and I know that.’
Then they argued cause they were ‘hangry’ and went to a diner. He said something like ‘sometimes my job sucks’ and she said something like ‘you do your job too much’ and then they ate cheeseburgers and went home and it was a very long way.
Later they were going out and he looked at her and thought that her skeleton was still amazing and hopefully she still liked his pumpkin and it was weird that they were the same things that they were then the first time, back when one could argue that they barely knew each other.
I never met him IRL but because of some stuff we were organizing,
I added him on facebook
He accepted and then he liked my status and then he died
At last count I have eight friends on facebook who are dead
it is going to be weird when
the number of dead people
becomes similar to the number of alive people
I like poetry so I went to a poetry
reading but there was this cat
licking its ass and then the poetry
was over and I had only watched
the cat lick its ass
I recently unearthed some sketches I wrote while brainstorming ideas/concepts for my album [Wolf Like a Stray Dog] and its accompanying booklet (comes with vinyl purchase, you can get that [here] or as a .pdf from free digital downloads at our [bandcamp]). These are the notes that eventually became the title track of the album.
There are dogs in the street, they all look a little like wolves, they walk about and beg and look sweet, but people yell and scream and tell them to go away, and their ears are probably ringing at the most often screamed tone, tendonitis from yelling Russians. Stray dogs are foreign to me, are they dangerous? I’ve been taught that loose dogs are dangerous but these seem to be beautiful and somehow well behaved even though they have had no training. Sometimes you see them in small packs, walking about rummaging through the trash, trying to find something. They always look like they are saying “I’m going to get me some of this and some of that” whenever they look at whatever food you have in your hands. “there are so many smells here.” “Do I look cute enough for you to give me free food” I guess all food is free to dogs. I wonder if domestic dogs realize what a hard-earned meal is like. Do they know what it means to catch something and for it to be effectively theirs? Even humans have to work for their food (eventually). Maybe food tastes better to stray dogs. Maybe life is better for stray dogs. I wonder what they do in the cold, do they all huddle together or do they find a warmer place or do they just sleep under the snow and hope that they don’t freeze to death? And how long does it take for a stray dog to die without eating, and what is the success rate of stray dogs vs. stray humans. Who gets more food in a day? Have stray dogs given up on life the way we are led to believe that stray humans have, or do dogs really feel as though they’re getting the most out of life because every day is about what they do, and not what they’re given. I guess begging is natural and shameless in a dog’s nature, but not in a human’s, because I’m sure that the stray humans of the world feel shame on most days. I would, at least for a while, at least until I got over it. Is it wrong to refer to the homeless as ‘stray’?
It’s interesting to see these notes in their raw form, as I would sit by myself in the [square near my apartment] in Tomsk, Russia where I was living at the time, and observe the behavior of the wild dogs. They transport me back to that time and place. Nostagia, even. The large swaths of alone time, the inability to communicate well (via my broken Russian), seeing so many stray dogs for the first time, the weird moment I woke up every day before remembering that I was in SIBERIA.
Then I consider how I haven’t done this since being back in the states, where everything is normalized for me. This outside view makes me desire to think more critically/observationally about what I see here everyday, the drug use, urban blight, and odd beauty that is the American City. It makes me want to have fresh perspective, to try to re-approach what I see every day and try and make new observations and have new thoughts. It’s also frightfully revealing of how callous I am to so much sadness