Well yesterday I wasted my second day in a row trying to communicate with a dead computer. I normally save all my work in duplicate copies: one on my computer's memory bank, and a copy on an external memory bank. But the external bank failed a couple months ago, and I planned to replace it, but those things are costly, so I procrastinated (this is what I'm now kicking myself for — it was inevitable that I'd need to get a new backup bank, so I should've just done it immediately: I gained nothing by waiting) and then my computer failed. Or rather its operating system forgot how to wake up; in other words, its memory was intact, but I had to access it in an unnatural way, like a graverobber stealing the brain from a corpse. Now listen to how boring it sounds to explain what I did:
I used a command prompt to navigate to the drive that contained the operating system, then I told the "Notepad" program to execute. Once "Notepad" was running, I requested to open a file; so the program presented me with a map of my computer's innards, expecting me to indicate the file that I wanted to open, but, instead of doing this, I navigated to my folder labeled "Backup", which contains all my work, and I commanded the interface to "COPY" this folder; then I navigated over to the image on the computer's map corresponding to the new external memory bank that I purchased yesterday for 100 smackaroos, and I told the interface to "PASTE" at this locale the afore-copied folder. Then I walked away from my computer while it made ticking and whizzing noises for exactly four hours. When I returned and squinted at the screen, I was pleased to note that all 683 gigabytes of data had transferred successfully.
Would you believe that I've never read Comte de Lautréamont's LES CHANTS DE MALDOROR? It should surprise you to learn this about me, because I'm so interested in the movement of Surrealism, and MALDOROR is considered a central precursor. I'm only finally remedying my ignorance; for I checked out a copy from my library recently and have been perusing it while performing sacrilege on my broken computer. I'm duly familiar with other pre-Surrealist authors, like Alfred Jarry and Raymond Roussel, but for some reason I never tackled MALDOROR. Actually, that's not true: I tried reading it many years ago but didn't find it interesting; so I tossed it aside. I was transfixed by Roussel, and I idolize Jarry; but Lautréamont seemed lacking. I think that's because André Breton and the other Surrealists absorbed whatever it is about MALDOROR that's of worth, and they charged their own productions with this magic; so, since I'm familiar with the students who learned to overthrow their teacher, the teacher simply leaves me cold. But, like I said, I'm now giving the book a second shot, and I'm not entirely disliking it; tho I'd far rather be reading something else. Maybe Lautréamont was too young when he wrote this text: he was apparently in his early twenties: about the age that Joseph Smith was when he wrote THE BOOK OF MORMON, which suffers from the same type of authorial immaturity (as opposed to Smith's KING FOLLETT DISCOURSE, which is sublime). There's little flashes that I like, however, in MALDOROR — here's a snippet that I read yesterday with pleasure, from Song 2, where the antihero is trying to get started again after his initial foray; this happens just before God bloodies his forehead with a lightning bolt:
«. . . I grasp the quill with which I shall execute the second canto . . . a plume torn from the wing of some ruddy sea-eagle. But . . . what ails my fingers? Their joints are paralyzed from the moment I commence my labors. Yet I desire to write. It is impossible! But I repeat: I desire to write down my thoughts. I have the same right as another to submit myself to that law of nature. . . . »
I really love that last idea. Anyone who has a mind can compose his thoughts. And that brings us to the great problem: No one is actually required to read what you wrote.
And now I'm thinking about the notion of human rights, because of that phrase "I have the same right as another". Do we all truly have a RIGHT to write down our thoughts? Can we say that we have ANY rights at all? What is a right? It's something that must be granted, no? So it's no better than a prayer. For instance, when people say, as I myself do, that "health-care should be a human right", we're making a suggestion; we're praying to the powerful: for the embarrassing obverse of this statement is that certain humans lack health-care at present, because whoever has the power to grant this to them has denied this to them. It all depends on cooperation. "Rights" are different from what we call Nature's "Laws". Even if the rich and powerful disagree with gravity, they cannot stop it from acting. Not even a trillionaire can convince gravity to stop being itself. Does gravity have a RIGHT to make things feel attracted to each other? No, gravity has no right to exist: I, as a very wealthy man, say that gravity is illegal — but my proclamation is disobeyed because gravity has lobbied Reality more effectively than I can. My point is that instead of concerning ourselves with human rights, we should all be striving to master the art of bribery. Learn Reality's price, and pay up.
In other news, over the last couple nights, we members of the Bryan Ray Movie Club re-screened two great films: BRAND UPON THE BRAIN! (2006) and MY WINNIPEG (2007), both directed by Guy Maddin. I really love each of these titles and I recommend them highly.
But parents in the world today need to think twice about telling their children to stay away from bad influences. Maybe in the past it was intelligent to steer your kids in the right direction, but nowadays there's no life-path that does not lead to doom. Therefore, let your children do what they want. If you try to guide them, you'll only make them your enemies.
Let me expand on that last idea. If you tell your child "Don't become a drunkard," your child might ask you "Why?" Now, traditionally, a parent could answer this tough question by saying "Cuz you'll fry your brain! Alcohol is fire-water that impedes one's mental development!" However, consider how the world has changed in the last few decades: No longer is it desirable or even possible for one's mental development to remain unimpeded: the poisons are everywhere, whether one likes them or not. (Modern poisons are not vampires: they do not need to ask permission before entering the holy temple of one's body.) Another way of putting this is: Smart folks get slain, because they inevitably cross paths with the gangsters who run everything. For gangsters own the whole globe. This is a recent development. So, in conclusion, just let your children bake their brains in whatever nerve-dimming substance they prefer. You yourself should go and take up knitting or something, as a hobby to occupy your time, so that you don't worry about the inevitable degradation of your children. Your kids will be fine: they'll remember how to die, when the time comes to do so.
Sorry about the depressing proclamations. Up to this point in this entry's writing, I've tried to remain honest. Now I think it's time to shut the honesty valve...
First we bake some pepperoni pizzas. Then we ride our cows to the nearest watering-hole. We dismount and marry some prostitutes. We then become priests. We build a bridge to the Indian Ocean. We harvest grapes. We purchase a school bus and fill it with houseplants: one per seat. We then buy a strong magnet.
What do you want to hear — that there's a story that overarches everything, or that it's all random? If you got thrown in jail for no reason, would you rather shrug and expire or fight to get out. And then when you are finally released, you're more than seventy years of age. What now? I guess you could purchase an ice-cream truck and drive it into a...
I'm sad that painters still exist in the Internet age. Online, there are electronic images everywhere. A painter paints a canvas and then hangs it on a wall; but the wall is not connected to the Internet, so this artwork remains unseen. Isn't that sad? Why would a person want to paint something that turns out invisible? It seems like a waste of effort. But if you want to make your painting available to the realm of e-commerce, you need to take a digital snapshot of it. Now this photo that you captured ends up being presented in the same fashion & at the same size as all the visual detritus that floats about online (ads and whatnot ); plus, your painting now glows gaudily, because it's displayed upon a screen. It looks different than it did when we were eyeing it in person, in either natural sunlight or the carefully lit domain where you normally display your creations.
I urge artists to exhibit their work in my funeral parlor: the general populace remains unaware that it's not a museum. Here, both art and people rest in peace.
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