It’s funny how we tend to forget the true nature of things as we are taken down the disconnected arteries to the far end. Sure a brisk piece of entertainment is always a necessity, life cannot be strictly thought provoking, even though it really would be very exciting. It would take its toll eventually and by a certain age the whiskers on our face would turn frigid and gray. However the mindless, soulless, thoughtless contraption has completely taken siege of one of our most vital organs. It is reflecting on this that I wish to devote a tiny piece of blogging to the more enlightening and refreshing cocktails of the hour and hours past. To take a closer glimpse at realities, set aside those spittle inducing time killers, and of course last but not least put down our rock hard cocks and buckle back that up/down motion for just one evening.         

I begin with David Lynch and his film Blue Velvet.

A small exercise… Just start writing the first idea that pops into your head then keep on going without worrying about order or meaning… Then have fun trying to make sense of it all…      

The cool ones are out and the festive shades of the bristle sprouts conveniently step on the mushroom tops.

Our heads are shaven and clean, we sit under roses and gleam at the table tops, gleam at the merchant’s carts, wondering if existence can be sold and bought.

The equator is full of lose headed goats that never cross over to open up the doors of their happy homes, they have such happy homes, places to eat, and children to take care of, never a wonder and never a thought as to evils that we currently bath in.

No, no, no more tears from you, you don’t have to win to lose, or was it lose to win? Truly it has nothing to do with the matter, experience is clear when nothing at all matters, because nothing is ever truly at principle and no topic is ever crudely inapprehensible, because in the end it evaporates into nothing.  

The eye opens and the parcel gives itself a quick thrust shut, now he is free to tamper with his soul.

He is free to regain a doubt of consciousness, a double standard, a trick of trick-less ability into the mind of a noble heart stead, thus the wind blows and the diamonds glow, with a radiance not far from that radiance discovered in the hostile battlefields of the broken minds which for take further anguish than the broken hearts. He whispers into his wife’s ear, a farewell, a distant going, no longer will he sit and sip his glass of vodka, his glass of rum, no more will he partake in the inhalation of any sort of illegal substance.

The man took pride in his decision, and felt a cold shiver run down his spine, if consciousness was coming, then what was leaving, for there must always be something for nothing is never as simple as an unheated stove, an uncooked fish, or a slaughtered village of Eskimo children.

The pride he felt was not one that was admirable to any other human but himself, no other soul could appreciate the dexterity of his plan, the sheer cunning of his actions. He took the last bottle of Scotch from the liquor cabinet and with much theatrical showmanship, tossed it into the canal forgetting its existence, and recalling his own.

The last bus rode off into the sunset leaving behind it a trail of bundled babies, each rolling out from under the bumper of the large vehicle. The babies would cry and yelp but no pedestrian would so much as turn a back to face the sea of infants, all was forgotten in this town, no soul was more important than any other important less being, nobody was better and nobody was worse, because nobody was.

Such a selfish life should be put to death, thought the pastor, but he was in turn taken to the highest hill of the town and tossed down several times, after being beaten by the town stompers, with huge boots of reeking glory, boots that put to shame the devilish heels of the mythological protectors of holy mountains, the boots stomped on the pastor’s face and left a mess of a man, after this he was taken by the balls and swung round and round then launched into space by the most burly villager known to date.

So the town was witness to a catastrophic event, the slaughter of innocent infants and they could not care, they could not give reason to hold any sort of town meeting to arrange for the tiny bundles to be adopted, or even buried properly, they were instead simply made into cobblestones for the roads. Such was the nature of man; such was the nature of woman. Ticking away the thoughts of glory, ticking away the wondrous joys once taken for granted now left simply as a modification to something that once was stones brought only to be stepped on. These at least carry resonance that still warns the just of a just less situation in a just less town. 

He was in his early thirties. He was a doctor. He was, in fact, one of the only doctors in the entire city we speak of in this fable. He had on him a strong and sturdy beard; a few lightly seasoned gray hairs and a grin that called itself a lord. On his head was a firm gentlemanly bush, again lightly sprinkled in gray. The only trinket he carried, the only knick-knack of his youth was a small silver earplug on his left ear. He had this placed when he was seventeen and never considered removing it. It was far too precious, a reminder of the youthful, spontaneity that once defined his very character, his very persona, now that persona had transformed, devolved, in a sense, to a more structured, fearful old tart. He was no longer the sweet passionate young man of the days of firecrackers. He was harsh, and often critical towards his patients who did not desire to follow exact medical procedure, he thought himself better than them. He thought himself more worthy of acceptance into the afterlife, and if one did not exist, as was certain, he would be remembered as the greatest man in the medical profession, greatest man to touch another human body with a scalpel. However none of this was warranted, he was a simple doctor, one who worked in a town more famous for being a tiny piece of Americana than anything else. The population has always been and will most likely always be, 35. Thirty-five? You ask in astonishment. Yes thirty-five, and the reason it will remain thirty-five is because of the precise measurement the town mayor Harold Gore has enforced. One month, in the entire year, is devoted to procreation, another month, in the entire year, is devoted to elimination of the inefficient. Let us call the month of sexual intercourse, February, and the month of murder, October. February equates to love, October equates to death. Naturally, being the town doctor Harold was a prime overseer of both events. He conditioned the exterminators, and made sure the procreators remained in prime condition.

            One evening, while he was in his hour rest, He was awoken by the sound of a goat bleating. He flung open his window and became a witness to three goats bitching about a pain in the groin, he knew nothing of goat testicles, but knew that diagnoses would not suffice so he send them off with some horse tranquilizers and they passed out under the bridge where the drunken troll sat with his over priced pygmy monkey. The troll was awoken by the sound of the snoring goats and began to complain to his pet.

            “Why must these humans always give us their trash!? Have they no more suitable location to dump things?… What, what is this? Goats? Goats are not trash, what have these humans done sending me goats!”

            The monkey spoke in an eloquent manner comparable to an educated British brat, of course he was one coming from the highest branch of his monkey family tree, his story is one for later discourse. “Have you no eyes? No intellect to match them? Apparently not, you have failed at grasping the simple concept!”

            “What have I failed to grasp this time?”

            “These goats have no business here, they have obviously committed some heinuious act, we should devour them immediately!”

            “I am not hungry! Besides I see only trouble in eating these goats.”

            “Trouble? I see a wonderful meal! Let us feast you buffoon, besides when are you not hungry you cow.”

            “I am a Troll, not a cow!”

            “And I am a monkey not a human, yet I speak, and more fluently than most humans. So what have we?”

The two hippopotamus grabbed the three goats, sat them by a fire, and let them cook. Of course the horse tranquilizers had done them in before they where eaten, but the slight sensation of pain did enter one of the goats, the younger one, just as the sharp metal teeth of the troll sunk into his thigh. 

            The next morning came swiftly and the two buffoons lay passed out under the bridge, their belly’s inflated, their lips sponged with blood, the troll’s beard had collected bits and pieces of goat fat. Yes, they were satisfied with their night of goat feasting, and blood drinking, and had decided to call the next day, this day, the day of relaxation.

There is no such thing as the Orwellian “boot stomping on the human face forever…”, it is a nice image for those who are trying to sell rebellion,but it is far from the truth. The reality is that we are no longer being opressed by an iron hammer,at least not in the United States, no our iron hammer is an ipod weilded by Ronald McDonald. Many would counter with red faces and a shower of saliva”Would you rather live anywhere else!?” My answer is, no obviously not, but that does not make my statement hypocritical. One does not have to live in the perfect country, and one most definatly should not accept the flaws and leave them at a status quo just because pride and patriotism have been rammed up the ass since birth. Then of course you have “the rebels”, who frankly need to wake up and realize they too are products of a seperate label.

Where do I stand then? Nowhere I believe that, that is the best place to be,of course this is exclusive to my subjective experience. You could agree with the optimist,or side with the iron clad “anarchist”, to each his own. If you can give me a valid reason why you spend twenty-four hours of your day watching celebrities self destructive lives then more power to you. I see no pro to this, I see no pros to living the life of a multimillionare, sure it would be nice to have my own island, my own car for every day of the week, an unlimited amount of drugs and no worry about where touse them, but there is something essential that is missing, hmm, what could it be? I believe our generation is too wrapped up in the superficial,too dense to the unaccustomed, too pressed for time, yet too eager for success to get anywhere,to accomplish anything that will be notable to the history of the planet. How to change that? I say we shut-up, buy less crap, watch less crap, eat less crap, and start breaking down our ideas of religion, our ideas of politics, economics, family, friends, and of course ourselves. I say we shatter any convention we see as normal and start something new. Most importantly I say we use our minds, for a tool like that is a commodity only the living are privledged with.

Homelessness in America is an issue most people will not admit is a problem, they will shrug off these impoverished people and dismiss them as masters of their own fate and “hey, they put themselves in that shit.” is the most common utterance of our privledged flock of seagulls. My reply has always been a tad condescending and vilefully sarcastic, “Yeah, they totally just choose to live in a fucking hell-hole, they choose to be mentally unstable and starving, this is a common trend amongst those people” a few get me and shake their heads in compliance while the bigots grit their teeth in excitement. However it has always shocked me that those who remain silent on the issue yet still agree that the conditions are bad and getting worse do nothing, say nothing, and will never be any sort of catalyst, and the reason is simple, it is a scary thing to do.

My economics teacher in high school came out with a rather outlandish and frankly, excuse the language, fucking blindsighted statement. “There are no poor people in America…” There are no poor people in America? Sure you can pull down the graphs comparing us to Africa, and South America, but for the love of Jesus H. Christ! No poor people in America? Oh, yes our great country’s economic system is so flawless, so impecable that it lets those who have the will, and only the will to succeed truly succeed, those who have earned their shillings shall receive them ten-fold, there are no cats in America! Yeah, then why are there so many little mice lying next to gutters, sleeping in years old sleeping bags, stealing for food, trying to pull through the day just to have a bite for their children to eat. Why do so many little mice come up to me while I’m cruising the streets and beg for change, why do so many of them offer to clean my window at the gas station? Why is there a little skinny mouse dancing and talking to herself directly in front of me at this restaurant? There must be some cheese fucking them in the smallest of holes. That cheese is, the invisible hand. Yes economics is always the most subjective of sciences and I love the fact that those who use the hand to finger the mice always find it necessary to try and justify their little sexual violation. Not only does the hand penetrate through the older mice, but the offspring get screwed too, they get a double screwing!

So what are we to do? What can be done to make this horrible situation a tiny bit better. There are those who are helping and we should all aplaud their efforts, but I believe in order for anything of this nature to change we must enlighten the minds of those who can afford to throw away countless dollars on large trucks, little gadgets and gizmos, extra wiring for their gold platted dildos. If we are truly going to be the best country in the world, fuck that, if we are truly going to be human beings that respect and care about one another then let’s really get rid of all the cats and make sure that there truly are no poor people in America, or the world.

Please, for the love of Christ stop purging yourselves on things you think make your life that much more profound than others… I can have an epithany to Radiohead as well, I can jerk tears at Wes Anderson’s beautiful compositions… One thing I cannot do, however, is watch Juno and praise it as an all knowing true to life thump in the face… I fall apart when a film is made and thousands flock expecting to be put together again by all the king’s men… the king, in this case, the spiritually enlightened filmaker has not come to terms with the fact that he is creating cinema which is art… Unless art is felt first, it will not provoke any further emotions… Do not churn out a tragedy or a heart warmer the way one picks up a fully mutated cow sandwhich at Ronald’s Free for all Fat Palace… please spare us the John Williams symphony in shoe strings D and give me a double shot of Tru-foeacy…     

Yes, modern art is confusing… A bunch of dirty laundry piled up together infront of a kitchen sink, an old lamp nicely surrounded by color appropiate textiles, the beautiful lighting in a well painted room, a urinal neatly turned over… Of course it will not sell like Brito, or a Kincaide, but at least it is art that can clench its own nut sack and yell at the top of its lungs, “Sweet Mary Mother of God, thou art a scrawny whore!” and not face the ”right” direction, not even for a fleeting second.     

this is a blog… it will feature some stuff… stuff about film, movies, or cinema…other stuff not related…stuff about politics… music… art… and of course daily rantings on everything and nothing, because of course as we all know everything is nothing, therefore nothing is worth everything…