Praise Be

She had blue back ink scratched into her lower back, said “Damn right he’ll rise again.” Yeah damn right you’ll rise again.

As anyone who knows would know, I’m a big fan of religion. I’ll debate theological philosophy until the second coming of Christ or the ninth coming of Buddha. Passionately.
But I guess up until very, very recently, the only religion I’ve not been greatly interested in was Christianity. It seems like if you grow up with it all around you and everything it says seems so massively stupidly wrong, you tend to just get bored and disillusioned. I was trying to get away from that kinda scene.
But the thing that has changed my perspective somewhat is naturally my other great love in the world: Music. We’ll start by looking at the Hold Steady, who the opening quote is taken from. Lead singer Craig Finn has the kind of abusive real-life dogmatism that only comes from the converted-but-cynical. Now here’s someone who doesn’t like to make a big deal out of religious beliefs, but understands the power of the symbology, the stories and force of faith. And he uses it without preaching at all. It’s just part of the mix.
And that’s what I think the main detractors of Christianity and Islam need to contend with. Whilst they fully understand the concepts and precepts, I think for a long time I, and many others, missed the awesome power that it still wields.
On that note, the second musician that got me thinking was Kanye West. I just bought The College Dropout, which among other excellent tracks has “Jesus Walks”, his breakthrough hit. So it got me thinking about the fanatical American bible belt, and the lonely beautiful strength which an embellished and misinformed image of Christ and Christianity gives to poor people around the world. Which almost makes Christianity a forgivable sin. For all the damage and hate, for all the stupidity and cringe… well… maybe it offers some really useful beautiful stuff as well, like stories and support and other nice little things in brown paper packages tied up with string.
The point I’m trying to make is that by no means am I… well, no… what I mean is that no one should ever degrade anything that has influence, nor underestimate it. We might hate the ringtone downloads, but they cannot be ignored, and the clever people can make a lot of big changes about everything from such things. Christianity is like that in this utterly secular age. We’re ignoring a creeping vine of ivy just because we don’t like it.

Now I’m watching Answered By Fire, and it’s really good. I like things that deal with… well, issues now. None of this WW2 crap, this kind of thing is happening now, commenting on the now and the recent. I’m disappointed that entertainment can’t be more like this, and less like Big Brother. Bad example – excessive. I wish it could be more like this and less like channel 7 News.
I would rather die, than not be relevant. You don’t have to be right, you just need to be relevant.

Terima kasih

Domo arigato, Mr. Row-boat-o

Ok, it’s a premature judgement, but I’m pretty damn certain I just sat through not only the best, but indeed the ONLY HALF DECENT episode of the O.C. for season three. It was AWESOME. Just when I’d completely given up hope and resigned myself to crap writing and dumb plot lines that really pushed the boundaries of realistic occurrences, (see Johnny plotline in its entirety, ahem) we get tonight episode. Someone FINALLY hired a decent writer and director for the damn show. It was seriously almost back to the old days of season one, where Seth says funny things, Ryan brawls and Julie makes risqué remarks.

ENOUGH! Lest my praise be premature and the one-off nature of this glory taint the crap-fest that is season three.
I could tell you about my week, which in no particular order involved Ross Noble, Gnomeville, reversing into trees, buying tampons, hearing Khe Sanh over 40 times, a dead body, Pearl Jam’s latest album and the smash Queen musical We Will Rock You, but I’m sure that would just bore and confuse you.
Instead, I’m going to talk about Haruki Murakami. He’s my new favorite working author now that I did my Houellebecq phase, and he’s magic. Just plain gorgeous with words. It’s like poetry and prose and wistful nostalgia in a thrilling story, half dream half cutting take on advanced capitalist life.
Most likely illegal, I’m going to reproduce a paragraph or two here, just to give anyone who cares a sense of what he’s like. This is the opening few sentences of “Dance Dance Dance”.

     I often dream about the Dolphin Hotel
In these dreams, I’m there,  implicated in some kind of ongoing circumstance. All indications are that I belong to this dream community.
The Dolphin Hotel is distorted, much too narrow. It seems more like a long, covered bridge. A bridge stretching endlessly through time. And there I am, in the middle of it. Someone else is there too, crying.
The hotel envelops me. I can feel its pulse, its heat. In dreams, I am part of the hotel.

And so there you have, my latest thing – Murakami. Oh, and need I say it yet again dear readers: JACK TREVOR STORY. Buy this man’s work! Sure, he’s dead, there’s not much we can do, but he deserves at least to be posthumously recognized, like all great artists, unappreciated in life… seriously, ask for him at your local. Bookshop I mean. That’d be kinda weird if they had him on tap in the ’Deen.

Well, as usual lately, I have nothing productive to say really. I’d update more but I’d just be talking aboiut myself, or some inconsequential anecdote… when I have an opinion, damn right you’ll hear it. Until then, I’ll just keep moving forward in my Ryan Atwood life pathway: Musicals, Dark Broody Period, Unrequited Love, Awkward Love, More Brooding, Refusing to go back to the bad burbs, Love Fails, what next people? I need to walk the line. Because you’re mine. And never will be again. Well don’t think twice, hon, cos it’s allright. I love you all, in a shallow way, for the stepping stones you provide me. Get fucked otherwise.

Deep Blue Blackness

Empty empty empty empty empty empty empty wrong. The whole of me is like there’s some massive big thing and I don’t know what the massive big thing is but it’s so big it’s pushed out everything including itself and I feel empty, but it pushed itself out and now I can’t know what it is.

Pop-ups, not the internet kind but the people kind, or the problem kind, I’m the lucky one millionth visitor to some wanker’s private emotional hell. If I answer some simple survey questions “should I break up with him/her” then they’ll send me a free iPod. NOT FUCKING LIKELY.

Bought some posters and a 120 watt amp the other day. MMM, yeah, that’s right, 120 watts. Fecking massively loudly awesome. Blasted my dog clear across the room; power chords, say hello. Fourplay do this classical violin cover of Reptilia by the way, it’s amazing, you have to all download it and then sorta dance-sing-along and appreciate the glory that is gritty NY rock become 19th century. I’m happy, I’m feeling glad, I’ve got sunshine, in a comment on my blog. Repressed irony urges.

I made a joke in Latin the other day. I felt so proud. No one cares. I’ve never understood why latin America is called that.  I mean… that’s a whole shitty useless comedy who hasn’t heard that before line. It’s everywhere, pervading, crappy clichés nothing to say I hate it hate it empty empty jangle Jagged Johnny Jagger look at Keith he’s in hospital for an head injury… NOT AN O.D., A HEAD INJURY. I swear to god if he dies of natural or accidental causes, I will laugh myself stupid.
Johnny’s dead people, I don’t think you understand, Johnny’s dead. DEAD. That means now I don’t look like ANY O.C characters, and worse, that means there’ll be some crappy new plot, and the happiness is ruined, and the one character on that show I could actually relate to is a corpse which means I’m relating to a corpse, which is morbid, and now I feel dark, and I hate feeling dark, and now I hate the writers of that show for the crappy seth does dope plotline because it’s totally jumped the shark, in fact it did so when Jimmy Cooper left, I think that’s well clear, bring back Anna you lowly sons of bitches, why don’t you all die falkling off a cliff JOHNNY IS DEAD.

As Haruki Murakami would say, “Extremely, irrevocably dead.” I just finished a GREAT book. Onbe of those truly awesome reads. It didn’t change me like some books, not truly awesome like that, like Watchmen or East of Eden or Steppenwolf, but awesome like you know you just read a REALLY good writer, like Houellebecq, or Le Carre.
So the few who know what I’m talking about don’t give a shit, and those who do give a shit, have no fucking idea what the hell I’m saying.

David seems to be thinking about love, and its endurance capabilities… I’m really trying hard to engage with that, but failing miserably. Ok, there, I just did engage, see, I care. Oops, that must read fragmented. Mate, if you could e-mail me the MSN transcript I’ll post it up… or who cares. Love is nice. Let the readers do their thing. I won’t hoist my ideology rudely on to your carapaces.

I read Kafka’s Metamorphosis today… thought about am lot of things, none of which had really anything to do with the text. Like for instance Lepsie… and that afternoon in the library writing Metamorphosis Man issue one (and only, I think). I got so nostalgic. I wonder if or when I’ll run into the bastard again. I hope to L. Ron Hubbard that I see him again at all… :D Couldn’t resist. Everyone gets to touchy about the scientology thing. I love it. It’s like when I converted to Islam last year. I don’t get people. People don’t get me. We have an understanding. We sit and smile and walk in long arcs around each other. It’s not dislike, it’s general awkward avoidance, like just not putting in the effort would be so much easier.

I feel punch-drunk. No one ever responds to the issues I raise. They think I’m kidding. Or that I don’t care… or something. I’m not kidding at all. I said what about Breakfast at Tiffany’s, she said so I saw that film the other day and it’s really really good. I really did kinda like it, and I really felt a rapport with Cat. Of all the characters in that movie I relate to Cat the most, so I have to read the book now to see if it’s in there, and I can gain a deeper understanding of my fuck it all, there are bigger apples to bob for. I’ve done my associating, Cat it is, screw everything else. Decision made, next please, inbox wading.

I have an early lecture and a major assignment due tomorrow. I’m a bit worrie dbecuase I haven’t done a lot. I’ll do some now. I’ll talk to you all now. I want to get back into making speeches. I miss debating. I miss audiences. I need an audience. This blog is a piss poor excuse for a soap-box, let me out of the cage, I’ll have a salmon bagel, without the sour cream thanks.

I’ll have life, without the sour cream thanks. The lemon wedge is quite sour enough.

Bent: get.

In Tents

I hate writing by popular demand… it’s never as deep or spurlock of the morgant. But I am indeed a man of the people, and in the interest of keeping you screaming baby birds happy, regurgitated worms are coming right up.

I really don’t think anyone at uni gets me. And K-lo, if you’re reading this, and I know you’re junkie smiling now, then I’m sorry about spoiling your hard worked for classes…kinda. Everything’s more fun with peripheral knowledge. But yeah, sorry, everyone just thinks I’m plain nuts. I assume. If I’m doing my job right, then yeah, everyone thinks I’m plain nuts. You think starting a conga line, or interpretive dancing my way through year 12 maths was my zenith, you was wrong, bitches. I just don’t know… I try so hard. Oh well, one dya they’ll get me. Or hopefully not, and I can remain a kind of Mark Twain for the new century.

Talking to Paul right now. Kinda busy… all that feeling was supposed to go into this. Too much typing, not enough attention.

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter… Carson McCullers. That… that book. Carson is a woman by the way. And it is! The heart is a hunter, not a victim, it isn’t broken, it does the breaking. The spearing.
Live lonely sweet lover of my night, your hacked-up rose bush will live on.

So I’m slowly making sure everyone I know has heard the Hold Steady. I maintain… Separation Sunday is THE album of 2006. I mean that it’s not only the best, but thematically it IS this year, this generation at least for New York, it is the mixture of right-wing religion and hard-core drugs, the conservative with the subversion, it is US. It is 2006.

I love nights. And days actually. I meet so many new people every day. I don’t meet anyone new but different myselves at night.

I am drinking tea.

There are many directions, but only three dimensions. Of course there are more, but for day-to-day purposes, for practicality, there are only three. What I’m saying is that means we have the illusion of infinite choice and direction, whilst actually being very limited. I think that’s very appropriate. We simply need to define dimensions of philosophy and time and such, as in, fate. Because I think destiny is like that. An infinity of choice and options, yours free to make, but of course only within a limited confine.

I guess maybe I should give in and commit to a relationship. It’s not it’s for lack of opportunity. Sigh… a little longer, please, just to relish my novel.
Steppenwolf, everyone, Steppenwolf.