Imagine this: You wake up, drink some coffee, check your emails and put on some quality tunes- for me right now, it's Clams Casino- and go about doing what it is you do before you step out of your house, maybe chill hard, maybe work on a painting, maybe smoke a cigarette and talk with neighbors or roommates, maybe do some stretching, and all the while that music is still playing behind you, filling the spaces of thought that- if absent- would reveal a precipice... This creates your day, at least in a brief microcosm, and it becomes apparent that we've collectively designed and integrated these kind of technologies to allow us to not only observe our multi-faceted, fractal-sensory lives, but to contribute to it on a regular basis, creating for ourselves- on one side- a sense of personal fulfillment and peace, and also- conversely- a crippling, paranoid psychosis- convincing us that we're autonomous beings, incapable of truly understanding each other in any sense.

In prior epochs, humans had to fight for the ability to maintain their sense of self-image with art... Now, we brush our teeth as art fills our ears. We take pisses in public restrooms and Beethoven serenades us. Instagram allows us to place automatic filters on all of our photographs, giving them a false sense of time/place, as if we're still living in an era of flawed processing or analog unpredictability. Homogenization occurs in this sense, as we all wake up and do the same exact thing, and we imagine our autonomous lives as being separate and totally exclusive, yet when we turn on to the outside world, we are subjected to the same images, the same sounds, the same clothes, the same social gaps, the same inequalities... This is the capitalist snare, "creating out of itself its only fruitful opposite," (Sloterdijk) the life of negation and self-will, fueled by the schizophrenic tendencies and shame from participating in such a corrupt formation of world politics, feeling like we have little to no choice but to create a multitude of artificial choices to conceal our innate lack of freedom.

The universe is beautiful because it is horrible and treacherous.

Have a nice day.

Ok... so what does it mean?
Get home from a night of drinking, after a night of swearing off drinking, sleeping till 2 in the afternoon, waking in a heap of darkness, the rugs clouding any sunlight, and I dream of so much more, then diving into the unfathomable recesses of boredom, intermingling with those I don't care about, pretending I care, those I don't want to bother with. They are humans, and for that I applaud them. Yes, they feel the way I did, yes they are worthy of everything, yet I have nothing to give them, nothing to accord their trials, no advice to give them. I have no words of wisdom, save perhaps those precious moments of silence where perchance I might be able to impart that non-sensical portion of my psyche, the inanimate lion resting in me, the beast that quests forward, marauding every domain yet encapsulating none. The rock seeks to understand the stream flowing overhead, yet inevitably remains a rock. When asked "What do I stand for?" I have no reasonable answer, save for my work, which at the moment seems stunted by limitations of the most cosmic proportion.
I'm not complaining though.
I suppose we all seek the most effective methods of catharsis, and mine might be in fact a stew pot of amalgams, brought up on christianity, turned atheist- anarchist, decomposed into that grey spot of discontent, where nothing makes sense anymore, where the home you were raised in is no longer a place to feel at ease, where relationships feel more like dangling meat than real, tangible events, yes I dwell in a habitat befit for beings of the darkest order.

As I type, I feel more and more like a chimpanzee, less hair maybe, more encyclopedic knowledge, otherwise pretty much the same. Music fades in and out, a heavy organ droning left to right, Bobby Beausoleil- maestro behind Lucifer Rising, straight from prison, he fucking tears my heart out with this music, and I've maybe shared it with one or two people. What do I do with the rest of this energy? What I experience, what I love about the world, what do I do with that? Where does that energy go?

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

Bukowski- Blue Bird