The dark is a magnificent place to contemplate Everything. Alone in the Dark is almost incomparable as an experimental realm . . . I'll warrant.
Being Drunk in the Dark and Alone is almost a physics/anthropomorphic experiment in itself. Just look at the legions of data that can be extrapolated.
Used to be, being stoned in the dark was worth something. Being stoned in the dark and alone was huge . . . a monumental mindfuck. Drunk in the dark/ hmm. That seems to be an extremely common situation that is somehow underreported. For whatever reason.
But God only knows what has been written in the wee hours . . . Samuel Taylor Coleridge comes to mind . . . but fucking A, no doubt Hemingway woke up to polish off the third half of a "tequila-monde" several times a night, only to record the moment drunkenly in his latest "book."
Samuel was interrupted by the "Man from Porlock."
Okay. I'm waiting for my man.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Monday, January 2, 2012
Oh Yeah . . .
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| Let's get this year underway, Flock! |
2012 and the year of the new Reckoning. Just can't wait to get underway! Maybe I'll take that memorial Titanic cruise to celebrate the 100th year since its passing. Then again, maybe not. This time the entire country of England might just go down with the ship.
Anonymous: I Like 'Em
First, read this.
Then think about how this bunch of blowhards have actually become a force to be reckoned with, not just some late-night teens in an IRC chat room. I like their style. I like how they like to take the wind out of REAL blowhards (as illustrated in the article). I like the idea of the Hive Mind watching the fences, so to speak, with no one physically at the helm to take down, because there IS no one physically at the helm, no Queen Bee, no Fuerher. Assassinate one who takes on the role, a dozen, no, a thousand take her place.
No Osama bin Mama here.
I used to hang out on IRC in the 90s . . . #macfilez, to be precise -- and let me assure you, they're still going, and I'll bet all the oldsters are still tuned into that channel 24 hours a day seventeen years after it was created, even though their former wisps of bum fluff on their chins are now long grey beards . . . they never give up, these people, and I'll be a standing witness to that. Long after Usenet is just a term on Wikipedia, there are people in the alt forums, still trading little bits of obscure movies and talking their obscure alt talk.
And they are continually being replaced by neunauts (pronounced "noy-nawts"), to possibly coin a phrase -- a vanguard of anonymous dustbusters who have been given the Power of the Internet -- a very real, physical power that can have very real, physical consequences, something that didn't seem to occur to the science-fiction writers who instead conjured up a "rise of the machines" to be our next Armageddon.
Instead, it's a rise of those responsible for the machines; us, of course. Things that can mutate will mutate, often in entirely unexpected ways, and that is what is happening right now with sub-Internet hives like Anonymous.
One just has to hope that the mutation will largely be benevolent, that when it begins to flex its muscles and realizes its true powers, it doesn't just decide to do away with everything that isn't necessary to its existence.
Because just like the Terminator, in fact, far more likely than any assembly of machines, the day will come when the Majority just grows tired of the Minority, and hopefully for all, will mass-merge Humanity in its entirety into the Collective, for its own damn good.
Yes, I like Anonymous. Now: how do I become one?
Then think about how this bunch of blowhards have actually become a force to be reckoned with, not just some late-night teens in an IRC chat room. I like their style. I like how they like to take the wind out of REAL blowhards (as illustrated in the article). I like the idea of the Hive Mind watching the fences, so to speak, with no one physically at the helm to take down, because there IS no one physically at the helm, no Queen Bee, no Fuerher. Assassinate one who takes on the role, a dozen, no, a thousand take her place.
No Osama bin Mama here.
 |
| The Face of Anonymous? |
And they are continually being replaced by neunauts (pronounced "noy-nawts"), to possibly coin a phrase -- a vanguard of anonymous dustbusters who have been given the Power of the Internet -- a very real, physical power that can have very real, physical consequences, something that didn't seem to occur to the science-fiction writers who instead conjured up a "rise of the machines" to be our next Armageddon.
Instead, it's a rise of those responsible for the machines; us, of course. Things that can mutate will mutate, often in entirely unexpected ways, and that is what is happening right now with sub-Internet hives like Anonymous.
One just has to hope that the mutation will largely be benevolent, that when it begins to flex its muscles and realizes its true powers, it doesn't just decide to do away with everything that isn't necessary to its existence.
Because just like the Terminator, in fact, far more likely than any assembly of machines, the day will come when the Majority just grows tired of the Minority, and hopefully for all, will mass-merge Humanity in its entirety into the Collective, for its own damn good.
Yes, I like Anonymous. Now: how do I become one?
How Do You Sleep at Night?
In this case I think John Lennon was very misguided, because I'm pretty sure Paul slept pretty well at night. In fact, Paul probably barely had a thought about John at night. It was JOHN who wasn't sleeping at night.
But what it brings me to is, how do YOU sleep at night? Wouldn't life be a toss in a cotton field with faeries and angels giggling and and throwing you to each other through sun-filled corridors scented with chrysanthemums and silken pillows that rollicked with fun? Wouldn't that just be everyone's dream?
Well, we know it isn't, don't we, sorry for the hard landing.
ALL THE PEOPLE WHOM YOU'VE EVER MET IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE are, like it or not, standing in a LONG LINE to be remembered and recognized. That lowliest waiter in that long-forgotten restaurant . . . hey, you may have forgotten him, but MAYBE HE NEVER FORGOT YOU.
Maybe you're the person in his "Yeah, it was really funny, one day there was this guy . . ." and that would be YOU.
All those old girfriends. What. You think they magically disappeared you from their minds? Are you fucking crazy? Forget girfriends. All your friends. Everyone who ever knew you. Yes, going back to the tiniest time you can remember. Do you think they all forgot you? Did you forget THEM?
Never mind how you sleep at night. Who do you think of at night?
But what it brings me to is, how do YOU sleep at night? Wouldn't life be a toss in a cotton field with faeries and angels giggling and and throwing you to each other through sun-filled corridors scented with chrysanthemums and silken pillows that rollicked with fun? Wouldn't that just be everyone's dream?
Well, we know it isn't, don't we, sorry for the hard landing.
ALL THE PEOPLE WHOM YOU'VE EVER MET IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE are, like it or not, standing in a LONG LINE to be remembered and recognized. That lowliest waiter in that long-forgotten restaurant . . . hey, you may have forgotten him, but MAYBE HE NEVER FORGOT YOU.
Maybe you're the person in his "Yeah, it was really funny, one day there was this guy . . ." and that would be YOU.
All those old girfriends. What. You think they magically disappeared you from their minds? Are you fucking crazy? Forget girfriends. All your friends. Everyone who ever knew you. Yes, going back to the tiniest time you can remember. Do you think they all forgot you? Did you forget THEM?
Never mind how you sleep at night. Who do you think of at night?
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Why Montreal Doesn't Matter
Montreal is light years away from competing with this hype. Let's all try to keep it that way.
Thoughts on Death
No really, not just idle conjectures and rambling theories. My wife's mother died about two weeks ago. About a week before that, I was drinking Arrack at her residence home, a bit bored while Brigitte arranged her room. Her mother just looked a bit bewildered, but happy that we were there.
I wasn't a bit bored when I saw some burly young Quebec men on a gunmetal-grey day lower her coffin into the ground.
But what actually happened to Brigitte's mother? I only use her example here because it was the newest, and closest example of human death that I've experienced. I know what Brigitte went through. What did I go through? Total bewilderment mixed with some sort of grim resignation -- some odd thing that always kicks in when you hear of anyone you know who has died. It's always a very scared feeling, such as: oh my god, how is that going to effect me/us/anyone? And then always the odd feeling of pity for the deceased, as if they needed to be here more, that they didn't want to go, that they didn't DESERVE to go . . . and that always, there's that quantifying scale we always seem to come up with, based on a complicated formula of age + deterioration + expectedness (or lack thereof) that no one wrote any books on yet we all seem instinctively to know.
But what actually happened to her? And to my father, and my brother, both gone now many years? They still exist, fiercely so, in my mind, in photos, in videos, in other people's recollections . . . but they're not here. It's still hard to wrap your mind around the fact that they never will ever be here again, in any way, wish or form.
So what happened to them? They, I'm sure, would be the first to want to know.
The thing is, deep inside, I know what happened to them. All of them. As I know what is going to happen to me. They simply stopped. Why is it so hard to grasp that? They stopped, but not in a Place. There is no Place where they stopped. If you really think about it, where were you before you were born? Before you were a sperm or an egg among trillions and trillions who never made it, where were you? Are you afraid of being in that place again? Of course not. Because there wasn't a Place, and there was no You.
In fact, as far as you're concerned, there was no you before your first-ever memory. Are you afraid of that place, where you were before your first-ever memory? Of course you aren't. Other people were aware of you, but you weren't.
And that is where Brigitte's mother is now. In a place where she isn't aware of herself, but other people are. She doesn't know other people love her, but other people do. Just like your cat doesn't really know you love her . . . but you do. Pat your cat and think of that.
There, see? Not too much to be afraid of.
I wasn't a bit bored when I saw some burly young Quebec men on a gunmetal-grey day lower her coffin into the ground.
But what actually happened to Brigitte's mother? I only use her example here because it was the newest, and closest example of human death that I've experienced. I know what Brigitte went through. What did I go through? Total bewilderment mixed with some sort of grim resignation -- some odd thing that always kicks in when you hear of anyone you know who has died. It's always a very scared feeling, such as: oh my god, how is that going to effect me/us/anyone? And then always the odd feeling of pity for the deceased, as if they needed to be here more, that they didn't want to go, that they didn't DESERVE to go . . . and that always, there's that quantifying scale we always seem to come up with, based on a complicated formula of age + deterioration + expectedness (or lack thereof) that no one wrote any books on yet we all seem instinctively to know.
But what actually happened to her? And to my father, and my brother, both gone now many years? They still exist, fiercely so, in my mind, in photos, in videos, in other people's recollections . . . but they're not here. It's still hard to wrap your mind around the fact that they never will ever be here again, in any way, wish or form.
So what happened to them? They, I'm sure, would be the first to want to know.
The thing is, deep inside, I know what happened to them. All of them. As I know what is going to happen to me. They simply stopped. Why is it so hard to grasp that? They stopped, but not in a Place. There is no Place where they stopped. If you really think about it, where were you before you were born? Before you were a sperm or an egg among trillions and trillions who never made it, where were you? Are you afraid of being in that place again? Of course not. Because there wasn't a Place, and there was no You.
In fact, as far as you're concerned, there was no you before your first-ever memory. Are you afraid of that place, where you were before your first-ever memory? Of course you aren't. Other people were aware of you, but you weren't.
And that is where Brigitte's mother is now. In a place where she isn't aware of herself, but other people are. She doesn't know other people love her, but other people do. Just like your cat doesn't really know you love her . . . but you do. Pat your cat and think of that.
There, see? Not too much to be afraid of.
The Only One Awake
Yeah, I guess I'll commune with this LCD screen as the last seconds of 2011 tick by. Here in Oakland, CA, that's always marked by gunfire. Here we go . . . all the fucking lunatics. Merry Fucking New Year, you sons of bitches. I'm proud to have been a part of it. For the last time.
Never fucking again . . .
Never fucking again . . .
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