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repeat.after me.beyond my.control
geez. 'i' finally formed my collective ass into an organization, got off it,
ass, that is, and in unison, went to an event.
tangentially, it was even music. odd, at and that.
so craig baldwin seemed -at least honest- about his limitations as an artist.
he was articulate and has a strategy. yeah. quoting nineteenth century
folklore, dada, and situationism, he is skeptical of originality, though
he didn't speak to origins. low fidelity is his version of culture jamming.
i think i could spend the whole day attempting to clarify my thoughts about
_sonic outlaws_. but then, i'd still be no closer to clarity and would have
said nothing that has not been said since time immemorial, where the origins
might have been. i'd prefer the luxury of that futility, but i have lesser
things to do. this film, for me, was the perfect pairing for the week with
_synthetic pleasures_. one seeks to justify the alteration of the ecology
of the interior landscape, the other, exteriority. as art is wont to do,
both fail, as they prefer a delined form of goy and elect, but provide a
lot interest along the way.
anyway, things i got: a) folk art need not be naive, b) access to art
rigidifies and commodifies it in the service of the aristocracy, c) culture
jamming, as practiced by would-be avant-garde technocrats, is already so
boozhwah that its effect has become desensitized. also, it felt really good
to experience that film with bo there.
>>that hdtv at the fair was just unbelievable, near photographic in quality.
>>>yeah, but i wish for a medium that degrades quality.
>>uh-huh, that's always my argument for lo-fi, to expose the fetish.
>>>well, i'd have a hard time arguing with you on that.
>>yes, unfortunately though, proponents of fidelity -want- the substitute.
that said, more squadrons would just make pretenses to better literature.
well, if there's more than luck that would help you, please lemme know. say
hi to good amy for me and that i unnerstand about clean breaks. everything is
music and literature, the 'goodness' filters in one's head just don't let
one appreciate this. maybe we keep expecting some fidelity of pleasant aches
to penetrate our shrouds.
>>oops. i said 'good'. i meant, i liked it.
>>>well, that's good.
if i don't show up for gumption, you can bet, it's for a very 'good' reason.
-good reason-, being nothing more than preference, it seems, well, i'm not
going to pass the blame. i -could- have left her there at home while she was
feeling poorly. i mean, she will go to diadelameurtos without me when i am
feeling so. but, i'd have broken her so far spotless record for attending
gumption shows if i'd insisted on her company. and the hopelessly crushed
out slobbering puppy in me urged me to make sentimental choices. these
motives, you see, they are at odds, and i can't imagine efficient art.
this is my problem, ok, no reflection on you, i suggest.
ok, i prefer you to ramble. this is the good reason of music and literature
for me. culture jam good reason and hipster hegemony.
and yes, it is funny how one can be doing something. i put those signs up
everywhere.
i appear to hope you may get happy and make it past the end of your street,
irrational a story as that might tell.
i prefer crush stories. heartbroken as i was over the hardback, lixndix
(the nomology at apparent end, thank yriou) more than makes up sense.
any old bar is cool if it's packed with your friends. your friends follow
'good' art onna walls, a 'good' wine list, a 'good' late night menu, and
a kitchen full of locally famous musicians. funny, in durham, that's bare
green plaster, pbr, and pickled eggs at the green room where no one is
famous.
there -used- to be shufflepuck in chapel hill.
"we're a blue collar team. we earned this without any egos."
- joe torre, former atlanta brave and 31st yankee field manager
fuck life love you too. i miss the unclean and several other events.
postrock penetrates the mainstream: rasputina. a former village voice
editor and a parsons grad. fuck spelling love you too. kurt ralske and
corsets. nirvana without instrumental voice. uninspired covers of
uninspired songs. so. what. ever. regis and kathie lee, that's what.
wipeout xl. not so john spencer. ok, someone talk. sure.
whatever. yousay. i could be hearing.
c.e.graves? is this the feller who asked that long question without a question
mark? j.robbins was taking notes. ross was delivering a robert mitchum
discography. somebody has some teeth in a plastic cup. one was calm and
assured. the other was sweating bullets. the up man has still.not.come.
i am a corporate nomad, sometimes in tighty whities, sometimes hanging loose.
we are sorry. this system sensed. the request may have been inadvertently sent.
it must be never working ever, i haven't read the message about not working.
technology on strike. we had planned on it a little too much. it went on too
late. geeks, poseurs, same difference. we pretend to play with four hands,
automate success. i want to see all shows. this is my problem. i can't
guarantee where i'll be except on same dang list. like, i might be at a
do-over house party. or i might be in greensboro, where dance is king. or
i might be in charlotte, with all my fellow poseur artists. or i might
be at home, poor and sick, of it. we will be in blacksburg, she said.
i prefer loveable antics in the confines of home sweet home. but public
space will rear its ugly head, visually rob experience.
bring food. always good advice. tonight, bring beer, though, to the drive-in.
support your local concession stand. buy lotsa chili dogs while you apply
for your gun permit. no glass, please. cans make better targets.
anyway, i think post-earnestness has been appropriately decoded as
faux-cynicism and this warms me, makes me believe some tiny appearance
of significance was successfully, if inefficiently, transmitted.
especially warmed by the unexpected recipient. sometimes appearances
reflect as dull thunks. sometimes sharp pings. i'm toying with
constructing wooden percussion instruments, an appreciated note from
roscoe. and not finally, i believe i'm alive as long as there's an
'it' i don't get over, through, or around. unscratchable.
3.2.3