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
#1
levelheaded and dreaded by dudes who’re wedded, wives panties wetted, cuz everywhere I get feted and headed and breaded, regretted. unleaded at the pump and dumb, boy you know I’m a chump. you know I ain’t vote for Biden. you know I always be hidin. open DMs? I be slidin. are y’all jellyous of those? they be a rebellious house, with a cat and a mouse. what did I say about your spouse?? sorry no disrespect, I just haven’t had sections of skin folded over again. language can be so strange. strange, don’t you think? over again? and what more could we, wielding a pen, ask for? an errata is left in, the critics are flexing, art’s anorexing, yes it’s all so perplexing: why continue this task, there’s no everlast, when the work is as prickly as smilax?
emphasis the blogger’s
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
Aldous Huxley on sacrifice
There can be no communism except in the goods of the spirit and, to some extent also, of the mind, and only when such goods are possessed by men and women in a state of non-attachment and self-denial. Some degree of mortification, it should be noted, is an indispensable prerequisite for the cration and enjoyment even of merely intellectual and aesthetic goods. Those who choose the profession of artist, philosopher, or man of science, choose, in many cases, a life of poverty and unrewarded hard work. But these are by no means the only mortifications they have to undertake. When he looks at the world, the artist must deny his ordinary human tendency to think of things in utilitarian, self-regarding terms. Similarly, the critical philosopher must mortify his common-sense, while the research worker must steadfastly resist the temptations to over-simplify and think conventionally, and must make himself docile to the leadings of mysterious Fact. And what is true of the creators of aesthetic and intellectual goods is also true of the enjoyers of such goods, when created. That these mortifications are by no means trifling has been shown again and again in the course of history. One thinks, for example, of the intellectually mortified Socrates and the hemlock with which his unmortified compatriots rewarded him. One thinks of the heroic efforts that had to be made by Galileo and his contemporaries to break with the Aristotelian convention of thought, and the no less heroic efforts that have to be made today by any scientist who believes that there is more in the universe than can be discovered by employing the time-hallowed recipes of Descartes. Such mortifications have their reward in a state of consciousness that corresponds, on a lower level, to spiritual beatitude. The artist—and the philosopher and the man of science are also artists—knows the bliss of aesthetic contemplation, discovery, and non-attached possession.
The Perennial Philosophy, Aldous Huxley
he’s toxic
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
conversations with friends (notes on the disappearance of counterculture)
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)
“tame cat,” ezra pound
"it rests me to be among beautiful women. why should one always lie about such matters? i repeat: it rests me to converse with beautiful women even though we talk nothing but nonsense, the purring of the invisible antennæ is both stimulating and delightful."
deep breath in, and release
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.
bitter, as lime peels
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.