H.A.L.T. Much

What is your fucking problem, Billy?

I want to tell you, friends, why I cannot relax. And why I cannot chill out. I guess I don't have a very good reason. I feel like chicken little.

I am pretty much done for the most part with these crackpot theories in which I explore (explore implies going somewhere unknown when I know exactly where I'm going and what I am looking for) the roots of this deep-seated anxiety. But I am still interested in boiling this down to it's conceptual elements in hopes of the problem revealing it's answer to me. Play the tape backwards and we hear that John is Dead.

So the basic premise had been that everything would probably be okay, good even. A number of counterclaims had been made through various measures and means but it has not swayed dramatically from what the world seems to confirm for us: put on a happy face, chill out. It'll be okay. And it has almost entirely been thus. But in a distinct point of time it's become necessary to re-evaluate the basic hypothesis of the game. In order to make sense of a situation, to have the outside and the inside syncopate in the same rhythm.

There is this basic fundamental disarming that happens. I'm reading Kathy Acker and getting really into it (again) and it's striking me as alternately desperate, romantic and hilarious. Come to think of it maybe this is why I can't stop freaking out. It's a book but I wish it were a YouTube clip so I could have anyone with an iPhone look it up I could say "See? See what I am talking about?" and there'd be another set of eyes. WHAT I AM TALKING ABOUT IS KATHY ACKER WRITING: "When love dies, there's nothing and this world is only horror. Perhaps love has not died. Perhaps there's never been human love. Perhaps all that humans have ever meant by love is control." I might agree, I think. What's happened is that with fistfuls of scorched earth our hero is left with that awful, burnt matchtip conclusion. I am so sorry to have to tell you and sorrier to know as well that your worst fears can be confirmed, articulated beyond your wildests, babe. Your weaknesses can be exploited and the lowest common demoninator is sometimes true. I mean, not always, but sometimes. Which can be okay. I mean: these things happen we've all been there or done it to someone else or whatever. We all know that the thing they are hoping will not happen is actually happening right now and we have to be the one to tell them. That is unfortunate but it is understandable.

What's upsetting, though, is the taste in my mouth afterwards. I've often referred in my writing music blogs zines dances performance blood sweat shoes to the image of sucking on coins. There's a very specific taste of dirty metal (not, you know, blood-- blood has nothing to do with this). It leaves a bad taste in my mouth and I bet I'm making a face. So now the thing is that we know that there is the capability for calamity, that these things can and do happen and now that you've seen it you can't stop seeing it and then everything starts folding in onto itself and we're noticing the heartbreaking desperation of those around us eager to help us engage in our own power plays and we're noticing ourselves doing it too and it's like someone took the cover off of a cash register and it's gory.

Toi qui, même aux lépreux, aux parias maudits
Enseignes par l'amour le goût du Paradis

Thinking of ways to make it, prettier, better.

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