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LiveJournal for Pastel Greene.
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| Friday, May 2nd, 2008 |
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Shed Your Love by the Helio Sequence Drank the dark wine of the New York Night/My shattered mind across the borderline/Spent the night in someone else’s arms/Shed your love, shed your love/Shed your love, shed your love/On a subway train before the dawn/The ride was short but my thoughts were long/Couldn’t figure what got in to me/Shed your love, shed your love/Shed your love, shed your love/Headed out to leave it all behind/Escape it all to see what I could find/Told you on the phone across the sea/Shed your love, shed your love/Shed your love, shed your love/Fell off of the plane in Amsterdam/Shop the streets to find out who I am/Came on back to me, reality/Shed your love, shed your love/Shed your love, shed your love/Home again to find that you were gone/On a subway train before the dawn/Said that you couldn’t stay and wait for me/Shed your love, shed your love/Shed your love, shed your love/Drank the dark wine of the New York night/My shattered mind across the borderline/Spent the night in someone else’s arms/Shed your love, shed your love/Shed your love, shed your love/Shed your love, shed your love --- I love this song because the word 'shed' has a great number of meanings and the song doesn't exclude any one of them. It could mean to spread outward (like shedding light) which would be a call to give out more love. It could mean to jettison (like shedding skin) which would mean song is a plea for someone to stop loving. Even then, its not clear if its a call to stop loving the singer or someone else. Its just very melancholy, and its quite late-night subway feel grabs me. It very much reminds me of someone I care about a great deal. Shed your love. --- I spent an hour sitting in the dark listening to music this morning. It was a very cleansing experience. It allowed me to get in touch with my identity again. I feel like my inner identity is constantly under assault by my own lack of memory. I get caught up in nonsense and who I am begins to slip away a little and it becomes necessary to ground myself. I listened to a mix CD I made a long time ago which included very Chardarkcentric tunes like Daedelus, the There Will Be Blood soundtrack, Serge Gainsbourg, Fantomas, the Mary Onettes, Francois de Roubaix, and other stuff I am unique in liking. I feel safe in saying that no other person on this dirt ball that we call our planet has the same taste in music. --- I wonder if anyone else is existentially frustrated by devoting their entire existence to something they are not a master of. 
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| Wednesday, April 30th, 2008 |
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I've stopped talking about how shitty politics are in this country. People seem to be more aware of it than they were four goddamn years ago. The specifics of our discourse incense me less and less while my opinion of humanity gets lower and lower. I seem to be reaching a new level of maturity where I no longer feel the need to rant about these things. We all know that George Bush wants to kill American babies and feast on their livers. Thats old news. We all know that Dick Cheney throws acid on newborn puppies. No one would dispute that John McCain forcibly sodomizes paraplegic illegal immigrants at gunpoint. Again, people know these things. However, I feel compelled to rant about a specific issue because I made the mistake of turning on CNN and hearing a few sound bites. The specific issue being discussed was health care. Obama was basically giving a few points from his middle-of-the-road but helpful health care plan. Hillary's plan involved magically insuring people in insurance pools that I think were probably managed by Unicorns and Leprecaulns. John McCain took time out from buggering helpless foriegners to talk about how his plan did not create any new "entitlements". This term, "entitlements," makes my blood fucking boil. Its a term used by conservatives on every continent to describe any program that keeps human life from silently slipping away in the night. Margret Thatcher used it to decry her country's policy of making sure that children had food and shelter. I've heard John Howard in Australia talk about how his country is bogged by "entitlements" for Native people, immigrants, and the poor. Today, I had McCain on my TV talking about entitlements. The problem is that these people have absolutely no respect for human goddamn life. These "entitlements" are there to preserve human life. Living things have certain requirements that must be met for it to continue. Food, shelter, and health care are necessary for us to exist. Because of the fucked up nature of capitalist forces, these requirements for life are in no way guaranteed. Without a government to protect the sanctity of human life, mankind is essentially thrust into a brutal situation where citizens must compete with each other for the right to live. Because not everyone is employable or economically empowered, people will die. This is especially true in bad economic situations such as we are currently in. There is absolutely no difference between this scenario and Neanderthals crushing each other's skulls with clubs. Instead of competition for survival based on athletic prowess, survival is based on economic fitness. Someone gets their head bashed in. Industrialist overlords love this shit because workers will essentially race each other to see who can work for less. There exists a class of very powerful people in this country for whom this scenario is in their best interest. Surely they don't have any influence on our political discourse! What politicians refer to as "entitlements" are actually just what the word means; they are indeed things people are entitled to, by virtue of being born as a human being. I believe that people are entitled to education, housing, food, and medical care once they are brought into this world as a Homo Sapien Sapien. I believe these are human rights that are every bit as fundamental as the right to free speech and the right to profit by one's own labor. Without the ability to LIVE ONE'S LIFE, no other rights matter. I could give two shits about my ability to speak my mind if my lungs are being devoured by malignant tumors. To be secure in one's own body is far more goddamn important. Of course its an entitlement. As a human being you are entitled to receive society's aid in continuing your life. "Entitlements". What a jackass. These are the same people who hate birth control and want everyone to have eighty-thousand babies. They won't be happy until we are drowning in under-nourished, plague-bearing human flesh. I am not looking forward to the next 50 years.  Image by ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} yowsah
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| Monday, April 28th, 2008 |
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Ancient History I took his boots so he couldn't follow me through the forest Some hired tough, some nobody Doing the bidding of someone doing someone else's bidding I felt bad for the guy because I had stabbed him maybe three or so times He had a sturdy gut and would make it through it if I let him I bet a lot of people would have killed this guy in my situation He had information on me, he knew my face, he was a liability But instead of bashing something vital I took his boots, sending him on his way Just his boots 4/28/08 --- Jesus, my emotional life is a sliding scale between anxiety for the future and nostalgia for the past. Last week, it was full on anxiety. I kept thinking "The future is going to suck for all of us". Global warming and biotech are creating worldwide famine that hasn't been seen since our great-grandparents lifetime. The Baby Boomers are pissing our future away on bullshit Middle East adventures. The artists will all burn and love won't save the beautiful. Recently the nostalgia has been hitting me hard, shrouding the horrors of the future in the mists of self-centered bliss. I think back to times when I was half my age and the things that occupied my mind-space. God, it was all so wonderful wasn't it? Was there truly nothing wrong? Of course it wasn't some sort of long-gone paradise. Intellectually, I understand that it was just as bad as it now. I spent my time swooning over girls who couldn't keep enough distance between me and them. I was actively hated by most of the people I encountered, peers and authority alike. And yet, I cannot help but feel positive about that time. Not just positive, but filled with a sense of general happiness. I can only assume that this is some sort of brain alchemy. Its some sort of product of being made of meat that thinks. Rationally, I must dismiss these feelings. I feel the need to negate this source of pleasure because of its lack of substance. Intellectually, there is no reason to feel like I do. I just end up retreading the same familiar experiences, perhaps redrawn in happier light each time. --- By request, something "scathing" about America: You arrogant bunch of self-important punks! As long as you see yourselves as a beautiful unique snowflake among nations you are doomed to fail. You think of yourselves as the biggest dog on the block, infinitely capable and utterly without accountability. This is largely because this veiw has been drummed up by those whose interest it serves. Demagogues want everyday people to hold these nationalistic ideals because it disguises matters of substance. Instead of viewing your nation like a rational adult, you view it like a pre-literate child views their parents: infallible and omnipotent. Imagine then, this child makes every household decision, from food choice to family finances. Even if the child was perfectly rational and adult in every respect (except for the mistaken view of their parents as benevolent god-beings) that household would be doomed. The same holds for this country; our democracy is in the hands of idiots with infantile ideas about our place in the world community. Global warming? No problem, we'll just come up with some Super Duper technology that'll make it not suck for us. We're America! Dictators? String them up, ten at a time, regardless of the billions it costs us. What do we care? We are America! Insurmountable debt to China? Who gives a shit! If they get uppity, we'll show them just how American we are here in America! This attitude guarantees our failure in any matter of real substance we face as a culture. 
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| Sunday, April 27th, 2008 |
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I can't figure out the lyrics to this song. The entire first stanza is an incomprehensible mystery (like much of punk music). All entries for it online are flatly wrong (or at least, not the lyrics on my MP3). Allmusic.com says the song is 2:37, which is exactly as long as this song. If this isn't the song, can someone let me know? Or if it is this song, can someone actually find me the real lyrics? --- "Soap Opera" by Screeching Weasel from the album "Kill the Musicians" ??? ??? ??? ??? Take another bite And count the tears you cry Sleep on the couch tonite And wonder why nothing ever seems to turn out right Everything must be an issue Grab a tissue and wipe off that snot Melodramatic and histrionics Just makes you look silly so why don't you stop? Take another a bite And count the tears you cry Sleep on the couch tonite And wonder why nothing ever seems to turn out right We know about all of the stupid things you do We've seen a zillion of your temper tantrums too We just ignore your antics 'cause they're nothing new Don't worry 'cause we don't expect too much from you ??? ??? Take another bite Take another bite And wonder why nothing ever seems to turn out right 
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| Wednesday, April 23rd, 2008 |
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Coffee doesn't even do it for me any more. I need so much of it for it to get in my veins and give me the surge of "Give-A-Fuck" I desire. There isn't enough coffee in my vicinity. I need all of it, in my veins, energizing me to do SOMETHING. If you aren't shakin', you ain't drankin'. Or something that actually rhymes. --- Uh oh. I'm getting more and more middle finger oriented the past few days. I had to once again unlearn the instincts I had learned in high school, namely, to embrace everyone unconditionally. I grew up in an area I would describe as "culturally hostile" and we had to hunker down with anyone willing to do so. It didn't matter what brand of 'outsider' you were, I would open myself to you without reservation. It wasn't until I was in college that I learned that this was unnecessary and maladaptive. Suddenly, I found that I didn't have to simply associate with anyone who wanted to. I could actually, you know, do a benefit analysis and determine whether or not this person was doing anything for me. I've told a number of people to get out of my life and removed twice that number from my life without comment. I find it strange that almost all of them were addicts of one type or another, particularly alcoholics. I have no patience for such people, as they are walking bundles of personality disorders. I find that there are far more people in this world who seek to destroy that which they enjoy than you would expect. This personality type is acidic. The more good times you have with such people, they worse they will get. I suspect that many of them seek approbation while deliberately sabotaging such possibilities. They want to be given friendship unconditionally. They test the limits, always going further and further to see how much damage they can do before the friendship dries up. When they do harm others and are forgiven, it gives them an orgasm of acceptance. Even at their worst, someone will accept them for who they are. People like my high school self are solid gold for these people because the thought of ending abusive friendships is completely alien to them. They can be forgiven again and again. Friends forgive one another, right? Wrong. I have no patience for people whose idea of friendship is a perversion. I have no desire to engage in such "one way street" relationships. These self absorbed, self hating, and self ignorant personality types do not need to be shown compassion. They cannot handle it. I suspect that a small percentage of them might eventually get themselves in a healthier state, but 98% of them won't. I'm not willing to take those odds and reconcile. In fact, after I remove someone like that from my life I always find that my healthy relationships are sufficient. I never really needed a drama-fraught, uneven, uncharitable friendship to begin with. It fucks with my head, though in some ways. I always want more friends in order to justify myself. Its very therapeutic for me having been an outsider for all my life. It always tears me up inside to shun someone. It rails against my essential nature. I second guess myself continually. My heart rate jumps as I hit the "ban user" button on AIM. I hate doing it. Years later, I find myself wondering about the old acquaintences who I tore from my life. Would they still like me? Could they help me find a job? Are they emotionally healed? This is always unnecessary. Its academic. I'll never reconcile with anyone whose friendship I tear from my chest. I am, at my core, a rationalist and rationally I understand that these things can never be. Good riddance! 
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| Tuesday, April 22nd, 2008 |
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People on the internet are dicks. Bails of hay have been made over and over again about the nature of anonymity and not having face to face accountability. I'm not going to make those arguments here because its done to death. All you need to understand is that people are dicks on the internet. Case #1: I post an image of industrial decay on my journal, taken from the Livejournal Urban Decay list. Here, photographers, often professional, post images of civilization's decay. I often save these images to my hard drive to use them as a visual reference for descriptions in my writing. When the time comes around for me to post images on my journal, I go to the directory where I save every image I own and pick ones I find appropriate. Sometimes this means something copywritten gets thrown into the mix accidentally. I have every desire to attribute an artist when their work appears on my journal, but thats just not possible very often. So I post this image and the artist gets wind of what I have done. A reasonable human being who is not at all an assclown or vicious, uncharitable fleasucker would have mentioned something first and contacted Livejournal about copyright infringement second. Instead, this housebound, knicker-wearing pinhead decided to go nuclear right off the bat instead of treating me like a fallible human being. I have no respect for copyright law or even copyrights as an institution. I believe that media is no longer a commodity at all and that the only defense artists have against massive obsolescence is making a name for themselves. Thus, I have no respect for what people have deemed as their "intellectual property" (read: make-believe commodity), but have profound respect for the act of creating art and of self-promotion. Had this individual but asked, this post would be in praise of their art with links and proper attribution provided. Instead, this post is there to decry their meanness of spirit. Good work, guy. Case #2: I talk to a guy fairly regularly and we've met in person once. Suddenly, out of the blue he starts harassing my real life friends on Livejournal. There is no provocation or reason to this. Basically, hes just out looking to fuck with random people for kicks on my journal. I expect this sort of behavior from 14 year old B-Tards but not from self-possessed adults. Then, he starts posting things personally insulting to me, somehow weaving in jabs against his own ex-girlfriends like some drunken 3 am rant at some random neighbor's window. I understand how people can assume that the manifestations that the internet conjures up can seem unreal. I understand how someone could conveniently forget that there are real human beings on the other side of the screen, but at a certain level of repeated garbage it becomes untenable. I have no desire for people in my life who lack a certain baseline of empathy (see Case #1 for another example of this). These events are doing nothing for my misanthropy. 
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| Monday, April 21st, 2008 |
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I have too many groups of friends. I wish my life could be a nonstop party with everyone always together and in harmony. No one would argue. No one would be a dick. People would just stay chill and do what I want them to. I would be their riteous dictator, fostering understanding and equality with an iron fist of placidity. There would be no dissent. Just nonstop indie-rock, IDM, shibuya-kei, and friendship. Enforced friendship. In this utopia, everyone would wake up at 3 pm because they would be forcibly kept up until 6 am, which is when the party officially ends. They will be awoken by the daily playing of Mum's "Ballad of the Broken Birdie Records" on loudspeakers which will be mandatory in every bedroom. Then, we will assemble at a designated location and have a party in celebration of how fair and thoughtful I am of others. Then, everyone else will have to clean up after it. We will do this every day and anyone whose temper flares will have to spend some time in "Genital Torture Therapy" until they calm down and learn the value of friendship. Also, the value of doing what I tell them to do. Because I am, deep down, the best friend anyone can have. At gunpoint. 
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| Monday, April 14th, 2008 |
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Today, I'm as mad as a hatter. My psyche is twisted this afternoon not by thoughts of failure or turmoil, but rather, by an unhealthy obsession with something that is most likely dead and gone. My favorite VHS tape as a child was a production of "Alice in Wonderland" from Britain. I suspect its origins were in the 60's, but on this fact I have no corroboration. I take it on faith that others have seen this version and that it would have a presence on the Internet. Apparently, this assumption is erroneous. It is maddening to me that I will not be able to find this golden bit of nostalgia to torture/stimulate myself. It is like the Holy Grail of previously enjoyed media for me. Yet, its gone beyond the veil of time and disappeared completely. It seems obvious to me that we do not live in the age of instant media as previously advertised. Of what value is this vast infrastructure when I cannot, without delay, summon up childhood images and the phantoms of long gone moments of pleasurable repose? I aim to negate the present with the past. Why can't reality comply with my demands? Edit: Success thanks to a number of goodly Internet Folk. It turns out my search parameters were totally incorrect. I should have been searching for "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland". Totally not intuitive. But, thankfully, my obsession is sated and cleansed. Thanks Internet(tm)! PS. You can watch the whole thing on Youtube with the link provided. 
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| Friday, April 11th, 2008 |
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There are times when I'm American. Suddenly, with a change of music, I'm Russian. I spend a lot of time being Japanese (anata wa nihon-jin). This past week, I've been very French. I can't help it. I find myself substituting French phrases in ordinary conversation using the cadence and deep affect of Serge Gainsbourg. Person: Whats the difference between treading water and swimming in place? Me: C'est la meme chose! Person: Hello! Me: Comment ca va? Person: I love you. Me: Moi non plus. Person: You just ripped my arm off with the force of ten thousand demons! Me: C'est la vie, bitch. Of course, all of this is the responsibility of Francois de Roubaix for capturing my ear for a full week. I cannot stop listening to 'Le Monde Electronique de Francois de Roubaix'. I've even sent out a few MP3s to random people to see if its one of those musicians who only I seem to appreciate. No word back on whether or not its listenable to anyone else. 
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| Friday, April 4th, 2008 |
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François de Roubaix est un grande genius. Il est mort. Perhaps because of his autism the man cared about two things; scuba diving and music. Diving is what eventually claimed his life, as he drowned in 1975. However, he did manage to write the music for 'Chapi Chapo' a year earlier. That single is one of my all time favorite pieces of music. Add N to (X) sampled some of his music for the song "Barry 7's Contraption," which in an odd turn, is the song that made me fall in love with Add N to (X). I had no idea that what I loved was de Roubaix. Adieu François. 
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| Tuesday, March 25th, 2008 |
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There are parts of my room that are unknown even to me. Its not that its messy. Well, it is messy. Cluttered. But not filthy. Sometimes I'll find some long lost artifact of the person that I was and remember that person like an old friend who moved away. "What a great person I used to be" I'll think while looking over a folded up piece of art. "I used to be someone" I'll think as I find a roleplaying supplement I wrote for. There are things in the clutter I would find useful now if I knew they were there. There are clothes that I would have loved five years ago. Although unused, their value has faded even if their integrity has not. A pog. An unglazed bit of pottery. Pencils by the thousands. A terrible painting given to me by a casual acquaintance whose sexual advances I was flattered by but also rebuffed. A jewelry box. The Exalted playtest packet. Sanrio receipts, entirely faded. Trading cards. There are lots and lots of girly things, some mine and some that have simply come into my possession. A girl's hoodie. A girl's sweater. Hair clips by the dozen. Allergy-inducing fragrances. Lip flavoring. Hello Kitty necklaces. Dried glitter nail polish (that says it all right there). Who was I? There are oddities, too. Mysteries. I found a DVD case with unlabeled burned CDs. Two of the three were MP3 CDs I burned in 2002 when I owned a MP3-compatible CD player. Thats gone. The third CD is pure enigma. It is an audio format CD of bad country music. I have never heard it before in my life and I cannot account how for how it got into this DVD case along with my MP3 CDs. It makes me feel like I don't know the person I was in 2002. Will I remember the wretch from 2008? There is a letter that begins "Hello darling. Its 7:35 and I miss you already." There is a box marked "Jungle Boots" filled with things that make me feel human again. One particular item, a container of lipstick, never fails to activate smell and taste memory. Whenever its near me I want to put some on my tongue and remember what kisses should taste like. But I don't. There isn't enough left for such frivolities. The Marilyn Manson tape I find inside is sacred, so I can't play it on my car stereo even though I desperately need "new" music. It doesn't belong to me. It has to be kept safe inside my cardboard reliquary. I found a different collection of tapes, however. One is unmarked and half played. I'll discover what this is another time. One was a tape of the Spawn soundtrack, circa 1999. One was a Garth Brooks tape someone gave me a gag birthday present. The last one is another goddamn mystery. Its a tape of Seo Taiji, abhorrent Korean pop music. I must have gotten it from one of many Korean friends I had in high school, but for the life of me, I can't remember why they gave me it. Intellectually I can piece together the animal I once was. I wasn't terrifically different from what I am now. I was still a socialist libertarian. I listened to a lot of the same music. I had the same talents and joys. The differences hit me with a nostalgia that I have trouble contending with. I had once enjoyed museums as one of my highest passions. That same passion would require me to have money. I once dreamed of being in academia, whereas now I have contempt for much of it. My visual art once centered on the highly mythic. Now, it centers on the organic. My writing once spoke of passions and victory. Now, my fiction is devoted to cynicism and defeat. I have this feeling, irrational and petulant though it is, that my life has been a process of slowly souring. This is the essence of nostalgia, however: negation of the present by the past. This is why I must trust in my mind rather than my heart. My emotion tells me that my best days are gone and wasted. My mind, on the other hand, tells me that my best days are yet to come. Either one might be true (I can't see the future) but I must trust in one over the other. To believe that there is nothing better would lead me inevitably to abject nihilism. 
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| Sunday, March 9th, 2008 |
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The nature of sleep is reincarnation. Serotonin doesn't just magically appear. It comes through the action of sleep. Those who deprive themselves of sleep deprive themselves of this wonderful and necessary endorphin. It is literally necessary for one's nerves to properly transmit information. When it is deficient, our minds collapse under themselves and pain is never far. But I hate sleep, as do many people. Denial of the senses comes too close to a sort of "training death". The brain shuts down, runs on fumes, and generates the stuff that gives quality of life. I hate that this mechanic of regeneration is so intimately tied to a period of unproductive senescence. However much we might dislike this process, it is a necessary one. Like the tired comatose old man of some mythologies who would be better off slipping into his next incarnation, the sleepy person would be better off simply giving up the ghost and passing on to a new day. When we needlessly fight to extend our days, we devalue those days. The reincarnation metaphor is quite apt (even if the actual concept of reincarnation is a load of sentimental garbage). A fresh start is sometimes worth a temporary death, I suppose. 
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| Saturday, March 8th, 2008 |
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I awoke today, flying from my bed, assaulted by screams that were not real. I thought for sure that I had heard a scream and then a thump, as if someone had fallen off the roof. I rose with a speed I have never matched before to find that nothing of the sort had transpired. In fact, I had not even been dreaming as I had been awake for a few minutes fighting off the morning's light. There was nothing. No carnage. No broken bodies. No compression fractures or pulped skin. It was an ordinary afternoon. 
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| Thursday, March 6th, 2008 |
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The two titans had spent a thousand years locked in mortal combat, throwing themselves across the landscape. Over the course of that time, they destroyed just about everything worthwhile or useful. Eventually, their struggle became so dire that they held each other in strangling holds to immobilize one another. They both succeeded wildly, stopping each other from thrashing or indeed moving anything at all. In time, they sank into the mountain they had stopped upon and became part of its features. In time, people returned to the area and were astounded by the statues of immense size that had been carved from the mountain, which were in fact immobile titans. Since neither could move (the ground had mostly swallowed them up) miners set up camp around and within them. They cored out their circulatory system like minute parasites. The titans wailed, but could not move or frighten off their tiny captors. They were now just a simple commodity.
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| Tuesday, March 4th, 2008 |
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"When I was a young boy my father took me into the city to see a marching band. He said 'Son when you grow up would you be the savior of the broken, the beaten, and the damned?' He said 'Will you defeat them? Your demons and all the nonbelievers? The plans that they made? Because one day I'll leave you, a phantom to lead you in the summer, to join the black parade." I hereby renounce my indie cred! Like the fallen angels who precede me, I deny the rightful order of the universe! I spit on virtue! I shit on art! I deny every ounce of goodness! Thats right. There is a My Chemical Romance song that I like. And for that, I shall pull God from his throne and cast him into the lake of fire! 
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| Thursday, February 28th, 2008 |
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Another great song with no lyrics listings. Criminal. Another Internet first. --- Already Gone (The Whitsundays) 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12,13 Are you fine when your mind keeps turning on a dime Or does it start to make you spin Somethings wrong after spinning all day long But I'm trying hard to hide the shape I'm in And when I close my eyes I feel I'm falling like the setting sun How can I pretend that your the only one that I love When all my love's already gone Go You and me seem to be way too consciously A little different from those days Maybe so but I'm watching as you grow old 'Cause it hurts more when I try to turn away But when I close my eyes I feel I'm falling like the setting sun How can I pretend that your the only one that I love When all my love's already gone I've always loved the sound, second to you I never thought our time would ever end so soon Waiting for these days, now these days have just begun And I'm already gone 
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| Friday, February 1st, 2008 |
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A preface: So much nostalgia hitting me. It seeps into every pore of my mind and crushes my ability to recognize the existence of time. It harms every perception of the present and drains the present (itself half dark and all dull) of all its colors. It makes one wistful for what can never transpire again. I just finished watching "Wizards", an old Ralph Bakshi production. I saw snippets of this movie the night Joey Ramone died in 2001 (April 15 for the record) and have been trying to actually see it in its entirety since then. Not because it is a good movie (elves versus mutants?), not because it is entertaining (endless rotoscoped padding), thought provoking (technology is BAD?!), or even for possessing of an ounce artistic greatness (its Ralph Bakshi). I watched it for pure nostalgia. Not even authentic nostalgia. No, my intentions were far worse. Nostalgia for the old days of nerd culture (not that I participated; I didn't exist until late 1980). The days when no one knew what an 'orc' was. The days when nerds had a reputation for being sad and lonely because they were sad and lonely because they didn't have the Internet. The good old days. In fact, there needs to be a name for nerd culture circa 1969 - 1988, so lets call it "fantasy culture". I didn't choose those years arbitrarily. Led Zeppelin released their first album in 1969, with Black Sabbath following shortly behind in 1970. The roots of what I would like to refer to here as fantasy culture begins with the end of the hippie movement. Although hippies would continue to exist until the present day, their movement fractured after 1970, but not before spinning off fantasy culture. Hippies and former hippies were drawn to fantasy literature in droves, especially the works of Tolkien, in part because of a renewed interest in imagination and in part because that shit is just trippy. Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath would both include references to traditional fantasy images such as wizards, death, and Gollum. Led Zeppelin could very easily be the soundtrack for the good guys in the Fellowship, while Sabbath could be the soundtrack for Sauron's forces. The mid-70's could arguably be described as the Golden Age of the fantasy culture movement. It had not yet been watered down by large scale media productions and was still counter-cultural. This is the advent of roleplaying and when Dungeons and Dragons first appears. I suspect that their was an element of the "tune in, drop out" to fantasy culture until 1988 when Willow came out. I use the release of Willow as the end point to this Golden Age because it was, as far as I know, the first fantasy movie to be given not only huge media attention, but a budget to match. It seems to my mind, more mainstream than counterculture, whereas "Wizards" is some seriously hippy shit. Fantasy is hardly counterculture at all anymore. Its a huge fucking industry. The world I am nostalgic for has no Magic: the Gathering cards and the idea of a Lord of the Rings movie seems absolutely ludicrous. This nostalgia won't leave me. Writing about it has failed to purge me of it. I keep, in my mind, remembering the many things that belonged to that culture; Bard's Tale, Dark Crystal, oldschool RenFest, Rogue, Conan, D&D, The Hobbit cartoon (also Bakshi), Elfquest, the first six Elric novels, the art of Ian Miller, and Heavy Metal Magazine (the movie, too). Additions to the list would be GREATLY appreciated. I predict that lordbleys will have at least one for me. Everyone should share in this whiff of nostalgia.Again, I was not an active participant in this "golden age". I was born in 1980, but despite that, my childhood was spent in the belly of the beast. My father was a graduate student of English during my childhood. I don't think you can even begin to imagine the volume of wanna-be medieval scholars driven to the discipline by stories of wizards and elves. I remember bonfire parties at Stone Mountain that seem more like RenFest than the 80's. I can imagine that wanna-be scholars of Japanese literature similarly swamp academia from the anime phenomenon. Honestly, I wish I was able to experience these old things without the reflexive thoughts about how shallow and trite it all is. I have written fantasy professionally and casually, each time actively fleeing the influence of Tolkien and Frazetta. Their themes are hollow, trite, and maybe even pointless. I didn't always feel this way, though, and I wish I didn't feel it now. Moments and zeitgeists pass and are never felt again. This is one of the reasons I admire art: it is the same experience every time and can be relied upon for the same experience. I suppose its impossible to unlearn what you know to be true, just as its impossible to experience a moment that has passed. 
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| Wednesday, January 30th, 2008 |
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Man, I get so annoyed when music I like isn't supported by the Internet Establishment. For instance, there are literally no lyrics listings for Swedish 80's revival group the Mary Onettes. They've got this whole Duran Duran thing going on and while this kind of music normally makes me wince a little, these guys make it seem very "now". Ironically, its distance from the Cheese Wave music of the 80's gives it more authenticity. Imitation is the new sincerity. Anyways, since no one has seen fit to publish the lyrics to this song and since I won't login in to post lyrics on other people's site, I'm posting them here. An internet first, folks. Slow Its only you tonite Lets stay out here for a thousand years Like if we haven't learned to learn To bring out in the light (out in the light) I won't change if you won't change So I need you to fall again I won't leave if you won't leave I can't make it on my own I have a slow heart to speed up I don't need your history We won't give up with all our pasts Its a slow heart to speed up I don't want your history We won't give up with all our pasts Whats in your heart tonight? Would you let the darkness get inside? How many broken dreams can show me light? (show me the light) You know I need, I'll need more time So I want you to keep in mind That I'll be gone if you are gone I can't make it if you run I have a slow heart to speed up I don't need your history We won't give up with all our pasts Its a slow heart to speed up I don't need your history We won't give up with all our pasts I will give it back to you, now Slowly goes my heart We should never be apart Slowly goes my dreams How can we forget it all? I want to do it some more I want to feel it again If I end it with you Oh such a beautiful end Slowly goes my heart We should never be apart Slowly goes my dreams How could we forget it all? (Slowly goes my heart, Slowly goes my heart) Slowly goes my heart (Slowly goes my heart) Slowly goes my heart (Slowly goes my heart) Slowly goes my heart (Slowly goes my heart) Slowly goes my heart (Slowly goes my heart) 
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| Sunday, January 27th, 2008 |
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Shes Not Reading (by me) In a bleak place where sulfur ever lingers There is a girl who isn't reading this Her voice is carbon monoxide incense It is the warm comfort of perdition We all need an excuse to bring on harm I kill two birds with one efficient stone My self-hurt disease is its own cure A cycle of treatment and infection It seems to me there is not enough room For absence and nothingness together I love the bloody gut-wound in your side But no reciprocal expectations We'll return to the old happinesses Like unanswered cat calls in old parks Walking the wintry gray streets of DC Or hating on those who can sleep soundly But we will forever silent linger On the blood-flash times when trauma ruled us When beautiful boys were put in dark graves And anxiety was ubiquitous There is, however, an alternative To the blood soaked halls of our narrative If we but had the prescience to cease And fight off the comforts of inertia My hate has become our chief source of mirth At my own expense (with my approval) Its cliche to despair but lacking hope Makes every victory miraculous How did such a sad sack of cynicism Find its way into the arms of a girl Whose every movement was young beauty? What hell-born world fractured this lost embrace? What hell-born world will make it whole again? Are such inconsistencies possible? I doubt seriously that life is kind Or that lovely girls escape atmospheres But if, somehow, she were to orbit me I would shake the heavens that betrayed us Put every star on a leash and crush them And give her that terrible world to rule 1.27.08 --- Pictures of Success (by Rilo Kiley) build your own television receiver staying home can't be that bad for me cause i'm not scared but i'd like some extra spare time easily earn me big money i'm a modern girl but i fold in half so easily when i put myself in the picture of success i could learn world trade or try to map the ocean when you're dead in hospitals and freeways when you're dead in resting homes and clinics when you're dead it must be nice to finish when you're dead i've had it with you and mexico can fucking wait and all of those french films about trains cause i'm not scared but i'd like some extra spare time i'm not scared but the bills keep changing colors when you're dead in hospitals and freeways when you're dead in dress shirts and neckties when you're dead in apartments and on beaches when you're dead --- All I Need (by Radiohead) I’m the next act Waiting in the wings I’m an animal Trapped in your hot car I am all the days that you choose to ignore You are all I need You’re all I need I’m in the middle of your picture Lying in the reeds I am a moth Who justs wants to share your light I’m just an insect Trying to get out of the dark I wanna stick with you, because there are no others You are all I need You’re all I need I’m in the middle of your picture Lying in the reeds It’s all wrong It’s all right It’s all wrong It’s all right It’s all wrong It’s all right It’s all wrong It’s all right It’s all wrong It’s all right 
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| Thursday, January 24th, 2008 |
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Well, I just finished watching Nightbreed. Normally I hate Clive Barker (I didn't know he directed the movie until I was done with it), but this had some merit. In fact, the only reason I watched the movie at all was because Danny Elfman did such a fanfuckingtastic soundtrack for it. I was happily surprised by its creativity and liberal faggot commie tolerance message. Its very 90's. Hoooooboy. This movie is so 1990, I can't even begin to describe. Our hero wears a leather jacket. Our heroine wears black polka dots on a red dress. Yes, her hair is frizzy. Intentionally. You can tell the good guys because they have nose piercings. Oh yeah, its set in Canada. WTF? But the virtue of this movie is pretty obvious. Maybe virtue is too strong a word. The elements of the movie that make it an important historical document are obvious. It flopped horribly at the box office because it was marketed as a just another slasher pic (it isn't). Despite this, I can see that it was probably very influential. For those fans of White Wolf (like myself) you'll see about eight million things that make you think back to the old days of the original World of Darkness. Those guys must have worshiped this movie. How the hell did my White Wolf friends not introduce me to this like they did with Sisters of Mercy? The story is basically that there exists a class of undead, the Nightbreed, who have existed since mankind has and has been hunted to near extinction. They are a sort of mishmash of every movie monster; vampire, werewolf, demon, wizard, mummy, etc. Our hero becomes one and sets off a chain of events that leads humans to once again try and extirminate the Nightbreed. Also, there is a sexy one who shoots poisonous spines. A long time ago I came up with the idea of having a "90's dark cinema" movie marathon. This would certainly go on that list along with Darkman, The Crow, Dark City, and Batman. Could anyone survive that much goth revival? I know I could. 
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LiveJournal for Pastel Greene.
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