I’m in despair as a writer. Absolute despair. I no longer believe that my books will find a readership. I no longer believe that humankind will survive the next generations, and I am certain that anyone who DOES survive will be decidedly illiterate. That’s the good news; now, for the bad:
I’m just joking —
I don’t have any bad news.
§
I wish I knew a great
deal of congresspeople. I wish that the President of the USA would ask me to
visit the White House. I wish that young people would approach me and ask me to
step aside because I’m in the frame of an oil-portrait they’re trying to paint;
for then I could reply: “Why don’t you just imagine me out of the picture? And
why are you using oils — you should be using tempera!”
§
I sometimes think
about making music, using my old four-track recorder to create weird new songs.
Then I remind myself: There is no future in audio or visual media — these
realms change too much with what the businessfolk call “improvements” in
technology: if you spend your energy there, it will be lost.
I’m sad about
something and mad about something: Why aren’t musicians able to make money by selling
albums? I’ve heard that the only decent pay is in live performances. This is
stupid. I myself could count the number of live performances that I’ve ever
attended, on less than two fingers. That means that I could get certified as a
carpenter, like Jesus did, and start a new career as a handyman, and misuse my
saw during my very first job, like Jesus did, thus accidentally severing three
of the fingers from my left hand, as Jesus did, and I’d STILL be able to use
this mutilated appendage to tell you the number of live musical performances
that I’ve ever attended; also, conveniently, I’d even have the midmost digit
left over, to give you the bird, as Jesus did. (I refer to the popular hand-gesture;
also recall that the Holy Ghost appeared in the form of a dove, during the
baptism of Jesus, when John double-dipped him.)
My point is that although
live music shows are good, they’re too ethereal. Once you’ve finished performing
your concert, the sounds all evaporate into the air and return to their home. Nothing is saved. No future generation gets to hear what has
been played. Whereas, with a studio album, everyone from all eons is able to
remain on the same page and in-the-know. I don’t give a hoot about perfection:
you can make your album as crooked as you like — in fact, I prefer the crooked
roads of genius to the smooth roads of improvement, and I think that perfection
lies in the heart of the beholder — but at least when you’ve committed your
soundwaves to vinyl (singles/LPs) or metallic tape (cassettes), your art has a
chance of withstanding the ravages of clocktime.
“Yes, but, what
if we capture a live recording of our rock band’s concert?” says a mean person
who has no right to exist. “Recordings of live rock concerts,” I answer,
“belong to a genre that has not once ever tickled my fancy. Now please run
along and go pleasure yourself while thinking of a celebrity who repulses you.
I’ve had enough of your heckling.”
§
I’m really into
crackers, recently, too. I mean, as a snack. A flat, dry baked food typically
made with flour. Thin, crisp wafers.
I’m going thru a
phase, at present. My last phase was mixed nuts: salted almonds, cashews,
pecans, etc. According to my Detective Notebook, I ate a serving of mixed nuts
every evening, as a bedtime snack, for seven years straight. Then, one day, I
woke up and felt zero attraction for mixed nuts. My love had waned; the thought
of consuming more mixed nuts sickened me. So I meditated briefly on a possible
substitute, and I came up with crackers. So I acquired a box of the standard,
most popular brand, and the taste was tolerable. “Eureka!” I said.
Crackers can be
eaten on their own, without any topping — that’s how I prefer to partake of
them. I never drape other food items over them, such as cheese or meat
slices; I never douse them in fruits or
dips, or soft spreads like jam, peanut butter, pâté, or mousse — fuck that
shit: I eat mild crackers, plain. Not as a palate cleanser, but for the sake of
their innate worth. I do not crumble them into soup.
Crackers come in many shapes and sizes, such as round, rectangular, triangular, or irregular. They are nothing like human beings, who all share the same soul.
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