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Abstract beatz, math rock, intelligent Techno, proper Drum’n’Bass, these clever genres for stupid people resurrect the premodern opposition in which the mind is bizarrely superior to the body. By frustrating the funk and impeding the groove, clever music amputates the distributed mind, locks you back in the prisonhouse of your head. Far from being futuristic, cerebral music therefore retards you by reimposing a preindustrial sensory hierarchy that shut up your senses in a Cartesian prison.

More Brilliant than the Sun: Adventures in Sonic Fiction

We heard a similar point from a more global perspective this spring at a conference in London on inclusive capitalism organized by my friend, Lynn Rothschild, who’s here with us tonight. Mark Carney, the Governor of the Bank of England, offered what we in America might call straight talk….

Hilary Clinton, in a speech to Deutsche Bank, 2014

in the days following intensive stretching, I felt like shit. like, flu-like fatigue, lower back aches where my kidneys sit, gastrointestinal discomfort. I’m skeptical of anyone that touts “detoxification,” unspecified, as a benefit for any practice, and the idea that “toxins” stored in the body are released by massage or yoga seems dubious, but it is true that people often experience malaise following deep tissue massage, and at this blog we’re actually not sure if we totally believe Western science. my symptoms were lessened when I drank more water, suggesting that my kidneys were working overtime and therefor in need of fluids. it’s possible excessive strain actually creates toxins in the body, with the trauma causing spillage of metabolic wastes created by injury–extreme instances of this are called rhabdomyolisis, which my piss was never dark enough to actually suggest. muscle tightness and knots are caused by excessive build up of lactic acid, so stretching, which increases bloodflow and therefor lymphic filtration, it would seem, might promote the body’s natural detoxing, though I’m also seeing that lactic acid might not be the culprit. rest effectively reduced the malaise, and exertion, ie walking on the beach, greatly increased it. who knows, I might have been unwell independent of my stretching, in which case I did nothing to prevent spreading a potentially infectious condition. feeling better now though, so idk

when thinking over the sociopolitical situation, one must always recall what Deleuze says about how while the discipline society is symbolized by the tunnels and chambers of a mole’s nest, the control society is better symbolized by the coils of a snake.

any stance counter the present culture, which is defined by surveillance and control, will necessarily involve secrecy and unpredictability.

further, no counterculture ever afforded anyone an easier life—thinking otherwise is the bitterest dregs of the last viable counterculture, the victory of which lay in how effectively its aesthetics, drained of revolutionary desire, runs cover for the machinations of power.

the problem of the hypocrisy of “so-called” radical thought originating in bourgeois circles is considerably lessened if intellectuals are forced into a lower class by deteriorating material conditions and a drought of well-paying options—that there are increasingly few lucrative avenues for artists and writers is a blessing to any intellectual hoping to transcend mere provocation for genuine subversion.

Whiteness may preclude, or at least make very difficult, true participation in any counterculture opposing the AmeriKKKan Cultural Empire, colonizer par excellence.

Media & Technology pose a dilemma thanks to the friends you made along the way (love you jordan sam chris chellsey ken)

something I evidently believe with my whole being is that continuous effort is required not only for success, but for existence. the evidence for this belief is the degree of tension held throughout my body, mostly concentrated, unconsciously, in my hips. I occasionally semi-deliberately exert energy, flexing at the neck and shoulders, walking gingerly on tensed tip toe, as some kind of proof of existence to myself, in times when it feels as though I need to prove to some hitherto unseen observer that I am here. subperceptual muscle tension seems somehow related to the unfolding of the Tao through human life, and the fact is I often am unconvinced of my presence in the world.

therefore, of course, I am not very flexible. I never have been, even when a competitive swimmer, despite the stereotypical lisomeness of that set. least of all in my hip girdle. if ever to prove the point I attempt a sideways split, groin barely stretched obtuse, someone will inevitably, hoping to make me feel better, point out that I’m attempting the pose in jeans, which tend to prevent use of a full range of motion. “I assure you, the jeans are not limiting my mobility even slightly. this is all me, baby.”

whence this constant wincing in anticipation of some yet-to-be sprung ambush I don’t know. as though constant vigilance is a healthy, open-hearted way of encountering the unexpected. as though rigidity ever promotes the supple spontaneity required to grapple with whatever will next be throw from an angle unaccounted for.

this morning, and last night before bed, I did a few yoga asanas focused on loosening the hips, which, to be fair to myself, are often a place people store their tension. I have attended many yoga classes where the instructor warns prior to entering poses that stretch the hip girdle that such movements sometimes overwhelm yogis, not merely physically, but emotionally, revealing buried worry and despair stowed out of mind. it sounds wonderful to break down and cry from yoga.

now I feel like, legit high. like. stoned as fuck. positively soporific, baby. at the same time, aches appear in response to a new distribution of strain–knee slightly sore, left side dorsal oblique mildly smarting. my legs feel like they’re going to fall off. my body is unused to being comfortable in relaxation.

not sure what to make of that, but I do know that all the increased blood flow through my hip area sure gets my dick hard.

Andre couldn’t even say what he was missing out on. People populated the bar’s wooden deck. Conversations, here polite curiosity, there intimacy, everywhere boisterousness: a warm ambience in minor protest against the gloom. Moments prior, considering where his head was, he decided against having Maria order him another drink, a beer this time, what with work the next day being an obstacle to the good times he imagined. Every day he had off approached in his mind as pure possibility, another chance to….something, he couldn’t exactly say, least at the end of the day, when whatever it was he hoped for ultimately, inevitably, failed to happen.

With Maria inside, Andre sunk into the margarita he’d practically chugged. He spent many afternoons on this deck, reading Flaubert or Henry Miller, but that was a few years ago now. Since getting a promotion, and therefor working twice as much, he no longer had days to fill wandering about town, fancying himself a flaneur. He needed the money, of course, so there was never any choice about accepting the position, but that only made it worse. In the months leading up to the first round of pandemic quarantines, Andre managed to establish a growing network of acquaintances and drinking buddies. But then the lockdowns, the mandates, the shuttered establishments: major buzzkill. By the time things uneasily reopened, he was working forty hours a week and much less inclined to spend Tuesday night making an ass of himself at karaoke or following strangers home for half-remembered trysts.

Was that what he missed? In a sense. On certain nights, girls kept scantily clad long past sunset by the summer heat, the World felt a great carnival, norms upholding the order of things apparently dissolved, much as his inhibitions were by drink. This of course wasn’t true, another rosy reminiscence. But sitting there, Friday afternoon becoming evening, Andre pined for the nights when cute bartenders served him drinks for free, and every new face could potentially change his life forever.

Not that he always used that free time to good ends. In fact, by any karmic accounting, Andre blithely allowed minutes, hours, days of freedom to slip by him entirely uncapitalized. Structure was good; obligations keep him honest. Whatever romanticizing he might do by idolizing bohemians belied what he knew to be true of himself, namely that he didn’t trust himself. Benjamin Franklin cliches floated through his head. Early to bed, early to rise. Idle hands are the devil’s playthings.

There are those who believe the Devil to be man’s true steward, for he taught us that even divine prohibition may be ignored.

This week though, Andre merely slept off his sour mood.

I just think it’s curious that science, the thing that was supposed to banish the demons of superstition, ended up in the same place as religion, scrying omens and prophesying The End of the World

some jobs higher up the organizational hierarchy opened up that I feel no choice but to apply for. this on the day I sent out a newsletter that I’m proud of but feel conflicted about, since no one cares, I’m just spinning my wheels getting no where, barely scratching the surface of what I’m capable of because any greater commitment would make it too difficult to stay on keel enough to maintain the normal obligations of a typical middle class existence. (bourgeois coward). it would be easier to feel empowered diving into the derangement process of literature if I didn’t believe doing so would only cause me difficulty and psychic instability for the sake of self-aggrandizement. like, maybe if people were already waiting to hear from me (a cushioned ego), or if I had a good literary agent (bourgeois respectability). both of those, obviously, catch-22, require that I already have work published. but the work required to get writing published is all self-aggrandizing, self-branding, self-promoting, and the pathways so esoteric to me that even if I were less scrupulous with my egotism I wouldn’t know where to start. and that’s getting worse, not better: I made a new Instagram account, thinking I would use it to promote the music I’m posting to my Soundcloud and YouTube channels, but after three days of compulsively opening the app despite there being nothing to look at, I realized I can’t handle social media any more. so that’s one fewer “democratic” means for distributing my work. but if I don’t want to do the bullshit that might maybe no guarantee probably not actually give me a chance to make art full time, then I’m left keeping a day job, and looking at my resume, thinking about further embedding myself in an organization’s structure, the decades stretching out before me like an American highway, straight, flat, and with no discernible end….there is a plot against me getting this writing done. Guilt, Embarrassment, Fear, Sloth, Pride, these conspire, contracting Agents of Distraction and Discouragement, many of whom have invaded my mind…the task must be in ferreting out these rats, these accomplices of the Organization working to steer me away from the path of righteous splendor…..

Thomas Pynchon, Emily Dickinson, Patricia Highsmith, Shirley Jackson, Samuel Beckett, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Diane Williams, Francisco Goya, Cady Noland, Mike Kelley, Henry Miller, Henry James, Henri Matisse, Robert Henri, Philip Guston, Mariah Carey, Harmony Korine, Sylvia Plath, Gustave Flaubert, John Cassavetes, JPEGMAFIA, Jay Adams, Tony Alva, Lydia Davis, Baruch Spinoza, Félix Guattari, Gilles Deleuze, the Relentless Picnic, Stan Brakhage, Amalia Ulman, Bunny Rogers, Molly Brodak, Paul Thomas Anderson, Zhuang Zhou, St Francis of Assisi, Walter Benjamin, Franz Kafka, Plato, Kanye West, Remy LaCroix, Nick Mullen, Raymond Chandler, Raymond Pettibon, Édouard Manet, David Lynch, Lenny Bruce, Remedios Varo, Frida Kahlo, Charles Bowden, Britney Spears, Maya Deren, Bunny Yeager, Ezra Pound, Toni Morrison, Jack Kerouac, Black Sabbath, Black Flag, Oscar Wilde, DJ Shadow, David Wojnarovicz, MF DOOM, William S. Burroughs, Friedrich Nietzsche, Sigmund Freud,  Sonic Youth, Tim Heidecker, Gary Larson, Herman Melville, Dane Rudhyar, Federico García Lorca, Nina Hartley, Laboria Cuboniks, Mark Fisher, Lord Byron, William Blake, Prince, Rainer Maria Rilke, Charles Baudelaire, André Breton, Leonara Carrington, Max Martin, Marcel Duchamp, the Marquis de Sade, John Coltrane, Kathy Acker, Djuna Barnes, the Wu-Tang Clan, Buzz Osbourne, Alfred Hitchcock, Mel Blanc, Wikipedia, Dopesmoker, Jean-Paul Sartre, Hugh Holland, Aristotle, Richard Feynman, Voltaire, James Joyce, Vladimir Nabakov, Fyodor Dostoevsky, David Foster Wallace, the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, Rocko’s Modern Life, Jimi Hendrix, Aeschylus, Ovid, Doris Wishman, Eric Stanton, John Willie, Bertolt Brecht, Dōgen, Br’er Rabbit, Karl Marx, Art Bell, Albert Einstein, Robert Graves, 808 Mafia, Francis Bacon, John Milton, Jacques Vallée, Vince Staples, DJ Screw, Sylvia Sleigh, Robert Altman, Frantz Fanon, Georges Méliès, Dante Alighieri, J Dilla, Anaïs Nin, Erich Fromm, Comte de Lautréamont, Ishmael Reed, Alexander del Mar, David Ray Griffin, Russ Meyer, Mikhail Bakhtin, Gil Elvgren, the Gospel of Thomas, Carly Rae Jepsen, Niccolò Machiavelli

sometimes it is impossible for me to extend the kind of generosity of spirit that usually makes me excessively empathetic and understanding–it’s like that well is just dry, and so I grow paranoid or indignant that whomever I’m interacting with only wants to stake further claim on a dangerously depleted resource of mine. I can be irritable, bitchy, nitpicky, belligerent, huffy. it is not attractive.

I need to give myself permission to express these feelings without concern for offending people or for not being understood. not like, go out of my way to be mean spirited, but I’m allowed to create an artistic space for those feelings to be sublimated into so that I don’t feel subjected to them without agency. this can produce interesting and worthwhile material, but only so long as I accept the consequences.

basically I’m trying to get to the Sontag place of going to the keyboard as I would go to a machine gun.