“Isn’t most of our lives an illusion?” “Well, everything in the past is memory…and everything in the future is imagination. Those’re both illusions — memories are unreliable and we just speculate about the future. The only thing that’s completely real is this one instant of the present - and that’s constantly changing from imagination to memory. So, see? Most of life’s illusory”
Have you ever seen someone peacefully dozing in the morning light? The sun is rising and the birds are singing and they look so wonderfully serene. In that moment you can believe in a higher being, you can believe in love and fairy tales and innocence and peace. In that moment everything is achievable and everything is real, and the tooth fairy doesn’t seem so far-fetched. And then they start to wake, almost always with a smile, almost never in a rush, almost perfect, these moments are. Have you seen the sunset? The fragmented blues and reds and purples, and the warmth that courses through you, and now suddenly the dread, you see that magnificent luminous ball, see it dip and hurry beneath the horizon. How beautiful the scene. How nice to you. How nice to me. Have you witnessed this splendour? And when you witnessed it did you seek answers? Or did you find them?I believe in the absolute wonder of the every day. I believe that knowledge has saved and ruined us. I understand the need for an explanation and I question the value of a scientific one. I want for everything and I know that that means I really want for nothing. I believe that ignorance is bliss, and that bliss ignorance is an ideal condition, because nobody wants to know the truth about everything. I believe that truth is relative and that lies are sometimes more honest than facts. I believe in magic and deception and I believe that one day a lie will be told that is so profound it will bring the whole world to tears. I believe in a higher truth, I believe that nothing is real and everything is imagined and that the ultimate honesty lies in our mistakes. I believe in opening your eyes, to see. See the mountains and valleys of virtuous nature, and the perfect grandeur of an uninterrupted skyline, see snow falling through windows and the sun set over the ocean, see fog veil the early morning light. See you. See me. See the furious glory of a shared yearning, a yearning to be free, free of plans and goals and rules and structures, limitations all, limitations of the mind and spirit. Have you felt that harsh grip of the shackles that bind us? That blind us?
i'm moving to sydney next week to start a new university course. so ima be busy sorting myself out here and there over the next few weeks and thus there won't be much posting going on. here are some words and songs and moving pictures to keep you sated.
I can believe things that are true and I can believe things that aren’t true and I can believe things nobody knows if they’re true or not. I can believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and Marilyn Monroe and the Beatles and Elvis and Mister Ed. Listen - I believe that peope are perfectible, that knowledge is infinite, that the world is run by secret banking cartels and is visited by aliens on a regular basis, nice ones that look like wrinkledy lemurs and bad ones who mutilate cattle and want our water and our women. I believe that the future sucks and I believe that the future rocks and I believe that one day White Buffalo Woman is going to come back and kick everyone’s ass. I believe that all men are just overgrown boys with deep problems communicating and that the decline in good sex in American is coincident with the decline in drive-in movie theaters from state to state. I believe that all politicians and unprincipled crooks and I still believe that they are better than the alternative. I believe that California is going to sink into the sea when the big one comes, while Florida is going to dissolve into madness and alligators and toxic waste. I believe that antibacterial soap is destroying our resistance to dirt and disease so that one day we’ll all be wiped out by the common cold like the Martians in War of the Worlds. I believe that the greatest poets of the last century were Edith Sitwell and Don Marquis, that jade is dried dragon sperm, and that thousands of years ago in a former life I was a one-armed Siberian shaman. I believe that mankind’s destiny lies in the stars. I believe that candy really did taste better when I was a kid, that it’s aerodynamically impossible for a bumblebee to fly, that light is a wave and a particle, that there’s a cat in a box somewhere who’s alive and dead at the same time (although if they don’t ever open the box to feed it it’ll eventually just be two different kinds of dead), and that there are stars in the universe billions of years older than the universe itself. I believe in a personal god who cares about me and worries and oversees everything I do. I believe in an impersonal god who set the universe in motion and went off to hang with her girlfriends and doesn’t even know that I’m alive. I believe in an empty and godless universe of casual chaos, background noise, and sheer blind luck. I believe that anyone who says that sex is overrated just hasn’t done it properly. I believe that anyone who claims to know what’s going on will lie about the little things too. I believe in absolute honesty and sensible social lies. I believe in a woman’s right to chose, a baby’s right to live, that while all human life is sacred there’s nothing wrong with the death penalty if you can trust the legal system implicitly, and that no one but a moron would ever trust the legal system. I believe that life is a game, that life is a cruel joke, and that life happens when you’re alive and that you might as well lie back and enjoy it.
"And then there was him. Without words, he told me I was all needed. He transformed my entire outlook on life. He made me believe again. And just like that... I was whole."
"I was on to something. I knew there was more. Before there was nothing. With him I had all."
THE BULLITTS:
Monogram hologram, Seeming realistic in a dream, My phonogram, Analogue emotions in a stream, Wave radio, Beautiful fire gasoline my love,
Running like railroad train. Whistle like wind in rain. Bitter moon and sun exchange a glance, Turn away...
Close your eyes. Radio lies. Here's dynamite sonic in real-time. This is your life. Cradle and knife. Everything grow until die.
Here we go, stereo. Turning volume down again. My merry go, Mystical reflections call a pen, Write heat explode, Falling nearer to the end my love,
Running like railroad train. Whistle like wind in rain. Bitter moon and sun exchange a glance, Turn away...
Close your eyes. Radio lies. Here's dynamite sonic in real-time. This is your life. Cradle and knife. Everything grow until die.
Jay Electronica:
Have you ever had that feeling like you been falling for weeks in a well? I was on the verge of dying like E.T. in the bald spot in the forest, right next to the speak and spell...Tryna phone home but the signal wouldn't reach the cell...Tryna hold on a little longer teeth and nail without a hand to wipe the tears away from my cheek when they fell. When I couldn't get peace from a pipe or chiefing an L, I thought of the words of pastor Dunn when he said;
"Son, at first they screamed hosanna on the highest then turned around and crucified the christ after a week in jail"
Stick to the script like paper clips and coffee stains, Never let a seed of doubt deter you from your lofty aims, The will us much stronger than the flesh, And it only grows stronger when you're going through duress, Imagination is the factory that makes legends...Close Your Eyes and dream B.I.G like Faith Evans.
When Zarathustra arrived at the nearest town which adjoineth the forest, he found many people assembled in the market-place; for it had been announced that a rope-dancer would give a performance. And Zarathustra spake thus unto the people: I teach you the Superman. Man is something that is to be surpassed. What have ye done to surpass man? All beings hitherto have created something beyond themselves: and ye want to be the ebb of that great tide, and would rather go back to the beast than surpass man? What is the ape to man? A laughing-stock, a thing of shame. And just the same shall man be to the Superman: a laughing-stock, a thing of shame. Ye have made your way from the worm to man, and much within you is still worm. Once were ye apes, and even yet man is more of an ape than any of the apes. Even the wisest among you is only a disharmony and hybrid of plant and phantom. But do I bid you become phantoms or plants? Lo, I teach you the Superman! The Superman is the meaning of the earth. Let your will say: The Superman shall he the meaning of the earth! I conjure you, my brethren, remain true to the earth, and believe not those who speak unto you of superearthly hopes! Poisoners are they, whether they know it or not. Despisers of life are they, decaying ones and poisoned ones themselves, of whom the earth is weary: so away with them! Once blasphemy against God was the greatest blasphemy; but God died, and therewith also those blasphemers. To blaspheme the earth is now the dreadfulest sin, and to rate the heart of the unknowable higher than the meaning of the earth! Once the soul looked contemptuously on the body, and then that contempt was the supreme thing:- the soul wished the body meagre, ghastly, and famished. Thus it thought to escape from the body and the earth. Oh, that soul was itself meagre, ghastly, and famished; and cruelty was the delight of that soul! But ye, also, my brethren, tell me: What doth your body say about your soul? Is your soul not poverty and pollution and wretched self-complacency? Verily, a polluted stream is man. One must be a sea, to receive a polluted stream without becoming impure. Lo, I teach you the Superman: he is that sea; in him can your great contempt be submerged. What is the greatest thing ye can experience? It is the hour of great contempt. The hour in which even your happiness becometh loathsome unto you, and so also your reason and virtue. The hour when ye say: "What good is my happiness! It is poverty and pollution and wretched self-complacency. But my happiness should justify existence itself!" The hour when ye say: "What good is my reason! Doth it long for knowledge as the lion for his food? It is poverty and pollution and wretched self-complacency!" The hour when ye say: "What good is my virtue! As yet it hath not made me passionate. How weary I am of my good and my bad! It is all poverty and pollution and wretched self-complacency!" The hour when ye say: "What good is my justice! I do not see that I am fervour and fuel. The just, however, are fervour and fuel!" The hour when we say: "What good is my pity! Is not pity the cross on which he is nailed who loveth man? But my pity is not a crucifixion." Have ye ever spoken thus? Have ye ever cried thus? Ah! would that I had heard you crying thus! It is not your sin- it is your self-satisfaction that crieth unto heaven; your very sparingness in sin crieth unto heaven! Where is the lightning to lick you with its tongue? Where is the frenzy with which ye should be inoculated? Lo, I teach you the Superman: he is that lightning, he is that frenzy!- When Zarathustra had thus spoken, one of the people called out: "We have now heard enough of the rope-dancer; it is time now for us to. see him!" And all the people laughed at Zarathustra. But the rope-dancer, who thought the words applied to him, began his performance.
she's a salvador immigrant, head through a thin wall.a frail hooker, holding her carnal walls.gleaming sky scraper bunker he looked down.laugh hysterically and then he spread around.on hoover street, then he must be alone.the precious little kid cashed the woes.salvadorian girl, she kind of made you spill.her brother mario got shot 4 times in da head.now see poor mario, he caught a hot one. through the lung, now he's done so God bless the man.cocaine moved through that system, like a river forever winding.to the last party of the lower class.even distance, just a bunch of kids who don't wanna finish last.now see the market place has changed the weight of the scale.you either get out and die or go to jail.and your best intentions splinter and frail.and a few weeks of promises and attempts to fail.it's a glass-pipe murder.glass-pipe murder.oh yeah .glass-pipe murder.it's a glass-pipe murder.oh yeah!!! (oh yeah!!!)(oh yeah!!!)(oh yeah!!!)they kick a bottle of beer and a letter.simple things made mario feel better.you see it falls on you and it falls on me.Self-annihilation, catastrophe .two packs of cigarettes for two dollars and seventy cents and a bottle of wine that's been opened and he said, "why do i do this?" a shiver through his body like a bottle of CC.not encouraging reality or me.he said, "It's who I am baby, back to it." off the deep end the record changed .you see, no one stood up and cheered for him .everyone sat down with something that happened.began... to happen.it's an old school dorm mystery.and the handcuffs bleed... it's a glass-pipe murder.glass-pipe murder.oh yeah. glass-pipe murder. it's a glass-pipe murder. oh yeah!!! (oh yeah!!!) (oh yeah!!!) (oh yeah!!!) who was the killer?... it's in the....
As I was in full and celestial flight of my mid-youth I heard a voice to say that it was my fate to lose all that I had made or won just to sink into an unforgiving grave. I doubted this like any other rumour of youth and carried on so far above all others whom I now know dealt in death so poorly - all of them accepting the servitude and not the mastery of their own peril. They were so convinced, in fact, that they would have me believe it too, to spread their wicked fates more thinly and thus less hard to bare and conspired, as plague, to rob me of my very life which was so bounteously alien to theirs. Their phantom lies of life and death proposed so confidently sung -- a choir of idiots - handing out pilfered lessons from a cardboard box. Live! Die! they wail, missing teeth. I refuse to live your folded life and die in the flames of your own death because I do not accept them! I am the master of my own creation. I am my own crooked messiah; I have saved myself from simmering damnations in a sea of sodden fools and I do not reside above or below your conjured rivet-less stage. I am too far away for that. You are the string-less puppets of my own ordained screen and you are performing very well indeed. Play on! Play on! Touchstones, play on!
Have you seen the motorcar magazines? If that is a metaphor then it is a sad one. I will be a tyrant of my own proclamations and a pike-man at Bannockburn. I will sell you jack rabbits a'shack Mississippi Moon sky plain full of night-less wonders. Sweet tasting super juice among reeds and the skirt of a young banished girl flying wild in technicolour plumage high on a cool Delta red moon breeze. The same brook breath that chimes in and wrestles with the branches of trees and the fur of prairie creatures. The dust of the bedroom floor is the dust of the road too. The wolf is a good friend and he travels too through the night. Hiding in shadows of the faint moonlight spread like a quilt over the parched hot earth. He is well adjusted to this world during which most are asleep and elsewhere; his soft pads caress sand and stone and fibre and his sobriety seeks and feels each thistle hair, each hidden player of the cricket choir, the course and the current of the wandering air and all others, the beetles hopscotch journey through hell; architect of sand like mountain boulders, and though he is not of man, he knows there is something lurking in the dark, some thing that makes him tread quickly over the open road and peering down a heavenly corridor of corn and suspect the worse, then spooked, moves on. Stalked by some unknown enemy behind the darkness and beyond the light of red dawn. With a single breath, he knows the majesty of our unreason.
The small Red Indian girl's neck and breast makes me swell with love, with night, with her grey brown ancestors. I taste the pines and conifer needles beneath her skin, the icy spring and fresh pools full of glimmering trout. If they do come looking, tell them this is where I lie.
And to those who are do not play at theatre; the malcontent, the malevolent, the mad. I beseech you to toss off these tailored robes that fit your rounded shoulder too well and pick up your drum to beat out the sound of the death of everything before their vacant eyes. Everything that is plain, that is grey must perish. To make your humble creator proud that when you fell bloodline to the stars and inherited the sky, the earth and the heart of all that is that you sounded the first call to arms. The call to bring on the death of everything so that we will no longer have to conjure our own illusive heavens.
All songs and artwork are the property of the artists, and are posted only in the interest of artist exposure, please use only for personal enjoyment. Support the local music and art scene by buying albums and pieces.
send/take down music
I love hearing new music and promoting good music so if you've got something to share please email or comment.
If you're in Sydney or Australia feel free to email news of local up and coming events/parties/bands/artists and i'll try and help get the word out.
Also if you need a file taken down, email me with the name of the song and i will remove the link and or post ASAP.
