Things are getting interesting. They always have been, ideally in a harmonic progression, a linear path to a larger future. Perhaps time refuses to move to our expectations, however verified they are by us verifying our instruments, our orchestra of science and reason, with so many people coveting the conductor's position. These are contemporary times, being as it were, in the now. History is amazing, it is like a varible point of reference in understanding some of the nature of the passing of time. There's a lot of bloodshed out there, written in those books, spoken from those mouths, those deeds done and done again. It goes on.
I feel the future is threatened. There, I said it, I'll step away from there. No, rewind, rethink: I feel the future is threatened. What I've done there is distanced the "me" from the occaison... I feel the future, in some ways a weakening of how it is that I feel the future is threatened. That's the is-of-identity there, personifying the future here, as something that exists, an entity in and of itself. A secret identity. The future is always threatened, because there's a constant dynamic of change, running through the world. Change changes. It does. The way things change, change. This is my theory of relativity. Everything is related in that they all differ. A tertiary connection with binary statements, a redemption of the Question Question.
And I say, get down with the LAWD, 'cause he's one funky motherfucker.
It is established that things are going wrong. I am trying not to speak specifically here, about what is wrong, and I'd get a different answer from every last being on this planet (if I were to ask them). But every little thing gets mentioned in a tirade of details, every little death being its own protest. Against what, I'm not sure any of us know any more. There's music out there, though, music that tells the tales, leads the armies, disarms the head.
In times of turmoil, are we allowed to make motions for personal gain? Funny that this word, allowed has come up, it exposes my own subconscious mind, a mind that fears a Greater Power, one who may make arbitrations regarding my own morality. How has this personal front gotten so askew? I can't think a thought any more without thinking a thought about a thought, creating patterns like (-)(+)(-)(-), (as in negative thought, positive thought, negative, negative) and then thinking about the pattern, just as I've outlined.
The actual thinking never gets done. I'm stuck in meta. I'm lost in autumn.
My mind is duller than a door nail up God's imaginary butt.
I seem to be obsessed with self-diagnosis. It's the internet age thing to do you know. Schizophrenia, I've been there. But not for long. Schizoid personality disorder: my mind walked down those roads. Gestalt thinkers: I will elevate and levitate me to higher hights than ever before. I've made generalizations, I've made overgeneralizations, I've made systematic upheavels of every thought process I could identify in my brain. I've done lube jobs, testtubes, tomatoes and garlic. I've even tried education. But what am I heading all this towards? This world is insane! It's time to take the next stop off the subway, reorient my life on the viable.
And as much as I think I
detest duality, I cannot help but see positives and negatives. There is always the inbetween, though, and that's enough to almost destroy duality.
My diagnosis for the world right now is beyond politics. Politics are child's play compared to the dice being thrown on the board. I'm thinking about planning for the future, but I'm not sure if there's going to be someone on the other end of the line. So in the eye of such uncertainty, what worth now is any artistic construction I'd set out to create? At what point is it time to lay down our sorry attempts, in the face of a world that seemingly could end any moment?
What is to be done?
I could go on writing my unpublishable quasi-political metaphysical, reality-bending, subversion of the narrator, postmodern, archetypical, WACK short stories and novels, thinking that I am making a difference with my little protests. I could go on making these weird experimental music compositions, sounds that don't really seem to interest anyone but my self, keep on insisting that there are narratives at work within the music, summarzing the entire state of the union, communicating with the great collective unconscious and all that bullshit I've thought of and maybe even believe. Or my current project, setting the same music to a "movie" using stock footage and pirated software, but all of this, I fear, will amount to nothing. If I do have anything useful to say, no one's ever going to hear it. And even if they heard it, it's not likely they would take anything I'd say to heart, not that I'd have anything to say to take to heart. Limitation. Elimination.
Suppose you juxtapose those, you take the world of light that you long for, you take your pretty little girlfriend, you take your kittens and your G.I. Joe figurines, your pepsi cola, your Philip K. Dick books, and your iBook and you march into the caves, like Osama Bin Laden (funny, I don't think I've ever said or types that name before in my life), you set up your own pirate radio station. What do you do with it? The technology is limiting. No one listens to radio anymore. There's got to be a better way to communicate. Even Dick was short-sighted sometimes in his envisioning of the technological future, as if he couldn't get his brain over the idea that much of what existed for contemporaneously would be completely revitalized.
And can you believe that I have an outline for everything I've been saying? I wrote it out while sitting in my Fyodor Dostoevsky class. Wrapping up, I was left with a few more questions: In contemporary times, the gestalt of our current age, the superimposing of EVERYTHING on everything, is it still valid to search for a personal identity? How can it be justified? Sure, there's a several billion people in the universe, and if you personally aren't looking out for them, some one else will, but one can never be sure unless it's them doing the looking-out-for. At the same time, despite observing and hoping one could help out, in all likelihood all efforts would be moot, and thus developing your life in the light of helping others becomes an unobtainable pursuit, whereas the search for identity could have at least felt progressive.
I keep getting stuck here. The terrain occaisonally looks different, but my mind stops. My output stops. I am petrified. I am transparent. I am in moratorium, and I want out, but as long as I keep greasing the bricks and setting the stones, I'll never get out, I'll just be looking out the window, waiting for it all to end, missing my chance: The Times are always changing: I feel I've already become obsolete as a writer. As a musician. That I missed my window of opportunity of relevence with my generation, that I've been wasting my time in college while I could have opened doors of communication with the world, but now at twenty-two, I'm already a fossil, I already represent something that is dead and isn't coming back again.
GESTALT.