8-29: written in Chamblins
Do you believe in the hype?
I want to say something;
I got something to say.
want to tap more into my subconscious.
I want to hear the things I
know, the things that are buried in the Security Clearance Only vault.
Now this... this is a place I like to be.
Earphones in, pencap off
really want to believe that there will be time for this sacred ritual
in the later more matronly days of my life.
Will my poetic heart survive
the suckling youth?
..Ok even I rolled my eyes at that.
also curious about that constant stream of self-deprecation and stupid
jokes I’ve got going on. It gives me cause to wonder how many hours of
“family friendly programming” I sat through before I had this
infomercial style of language memorized. How long it took for all of the
rimshots and plastic laughter out of a can to work its way into my ways
if even in my most private of pages I am unable to take off the
microphone. As if I’m always addressing someone with these coffeeshop
an interesting thing to note how, in many ways, I am the product of
everything I hate. Do I hate it so much because I know there’s not a
single part of my personality that hasn’t been affected by this giant
monolithic plastic television that I hold with such hostile regard?
course I can’t explore that train of thought without remembering that,
in all actuality, I’m pretty in love with myself, about 80% of the
time... and logically it would then follow that I have to love my
corporate overlords that so carefully designed who I should be and what I
Cue brain explosions. Jesus Christ. Fuck you, logic. Fuck you and the weird alleyways of thoughts you lead me down.
I suppose that if I had to have a manufactured life (joke is most
definitely on me)... this isn’t such a bad one to be stuck with.
I choose to accept the food from
the hand that feeds
and also to bite
have to say that I am most proud of myself when I prove that TV is not
necessary for my life. That moments with only the slightest bit of
technology are absofuckinglutely delightful.
that note... why do so few people create anymore? I’m talking an
everyday kind of creation, an expression. It’s strange to be strange, I
guess, at the heart of it all.