Today I went back to work after three days of freedom. An office job. Static. Cold. A joyless trudge through the brightest hours of the day. It brought me right back down into the dirt. Where I know what's real. Where I realise how much time I'm wasting with my belly in the trash. While the universe spits and spins outside. Where I can't reach it. I know I shouldn't paint such an ugly picture of my PRISON OF DOOM, as I spend 40 odd hours there a week...and there are far worse existences to be had...but I can't help it. I feel tied and gagged in that place. My feet tapping distractedly while I bite my nails and scratch my head. Day dreaming about all the possibilities for me out there.
I'm thinking about spiders glitching in and out of existence to the sounds of live electronica. I'm thinking about hypereal horror movies, personal music players with tempo control, clothing linked to your bio-electrical fields to change colour depending on mood, girls with removable porcelain limbs, Boxheads forced to dance at gunpoint, visceral badger fights, the hypocracy of everything, gorillas beatboxing under a full moon, the beauty in the chaos, everything I'll never know, feathered Velocoraptors, Um Bungo, Frank Sidebottom and the Gingerbread Scam. I'm thinking about this Blog thing. I'm wondering why I'm doing this? Why DO people feel the need to share ther irrelivent opinoins and bad speling?
Why do I feel the need to have this Blog? I guess all creativity stems from the same urge. To GET IT THE FUCK OUT OF OUR HEADS (whatever IT is, it's all the same)! It's why the reluctant friend has to sit through the barrage of moaning when we've had someone do the dirty on us. When we're articulating the intangible emotions caused by two animals attempting a symbiotic relationship in a world with too many distractions. It's why Jackson Pollock threw paint at a wall. It's why Maynard James Keenan has to sing. It's why we went to the Moon. It's why we pray. Confess. Scream. Write. Draw. Dance. Kill. Creativity is a by-product of the overactive imagination which also leads to invention and taking our destiny into our own hands. It's this imagination, that which supposedly sets us apart from the other creepy crawlies, which will drive us into the core of Earth and kill all that we ever were. Because we can't just sit the fuck down and CHILL. Fuck it. That doesn't even make sense. There's that hypocracy again.
I'm going to bed.
Got work tomorrow.
2 comments:
The static span in his head. Universes glitching in and out of existance. His mind free to wander through the drudgery of the brightest hours of the day. Spiders playing live electronica, eight legged dj's changing colour to the sounds of the paint hitting the wall. Working, the clicks creeping, crawling. Belly's aching. Pushing. Pulling.
In a hyperrealistic world everything stems from the same urge. The current one. The here, the now. The personal by-product of an overactive tempo, plugged in and tuned away from the irrelevance of inventions of destiny.
The weight of his head, pulls him down to bed, as he stretches to succumb, to the pain from his tum, from the feeling of the dirt, the horror, the work, the screaming, the dancing, the dream.
He spits and spews as he admires the picture of ugliness that IS HIS palace of DOOM. Beauty in chaos. Gorilla's dancing in the mist. Feathered Frank Driving US to the core of the for the gunpoint dances of badgers and distractions of scratching nails. The possibilities are endless, but we can't even sit down and fuck it. CHILL THE FUCK OUT.
Consciousness is an evolutionary tangent. TO GET THE FUCK OUT OF OUR HEADS.
Boxheads, blogheads, clothed in visceral sounds and infected with a barrage of freedom... and there are far worse existances to be had.
Nice. :)
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