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Now that you're here, it's only fair to warn you that this is only the beginning. Having said that; good morning, Neo. I must say I am pleased at your decision; we were in dire need of your help. You have quite the road ahead and you must prepare yourself. We are up against an enemy unlike any before our time. You must trust in your abilities. You must understand that you are the final hope of this, our world. Forget about Prometheus and George Baker. Forget about Jesus and Jim Jones. You are "The One" who will save us.
Marry me! carry me. I think I drank too much at Forgery. Forget about me. You can still have fun. Just don't flim/flam over everything. Congratulations! You've been chosen to sell a grandiose and freakishly brooding newspaper place has to open up the closet to let out the gays are strollin' down 5th Avenue with a flaming bust of Caesar. Seize her! Nab it in the butterflies can be so beautiful when they don't know you're watching. I need to sit. My butt hurts. Forget about it. This might have been a waste of time. Lemme start over. Marry me…
We come (I'm not sure how, so don't bother) to "Farm: Totalitarianism". Who numbers plenty, works hard for almost nothing and best of all is easily lied to? Sheep. The hard working population are sheep, literally tripping over themselves to hear what [the pig(s) tell them] they want to hear. The stupid animals blissfully dance and sing as "Old Major" Marx speaks of a much needed over through the major feudalist government. "Yes this is what we need", they spout with asinine glee. "Then we will finally be happy." But the happiness just a lie and the pigs live luxurious.
I was a destined ruler, but now I realize that I am but a lowly powerholic. Good morn, all. My name is King Richard Plantagent III. I was a destined ruler, a super hot lover, and a great swordsman. All I wanted was to do a better job at rule than my worthless, forgiving farther. He had to learn that sometimes sacrifices must be made to gain the respect need to be a great king. So a few people died… OK. So I killed a few people. Did I really have to die? I wasn't that bad a guy…Was I?
Modern people respond to a modern culture created by modern art. The majority of today's population doesn't respond to the elder works. The kids of recent don't think much of Charlie Chaplin or "Carrie". The statistics have spoken and we say it's just not relevant anymore. We don't want depth and point and charisma. We want quick-fast, in-out, get-grab, bonk. Smooth faces, big names and sexy bodies. Who wants to read about a moving romance when you could just watch porn? It's fast, easy and requires no thought (‘cept maybe the push of a button) what-so-ever. Capitalism, be our hero!
"Now! Inhale. Blow it out. Boy, doesn't that ever get the blood circulating?"
A policemen screams megaphone style, "If you do not cooperate, you will be placed under arrest" and Tear Gas begins with an obnoxiously happy groove and funky beat/bassline. Throughout the 36 sec track, you hear explosions and large crowds of people yelling, screaming, coughing, fighting to stay alive. "breathe oghhh… breatheout. BREATHE OUT" a crowd member alerts.
The funk continues.
The crowd quiets.
The police man says in a calm, cop voice "Get ‘em out. Get them all outta here"
A choir screeches in harmony.
When industrial music began, with the bug-eyed freak Genesis P-Orridge, its emotion was normally (an oxymoron) achieved through pungently acidic, synthesized musicologies. Trent Reznor is an Industrial Artist. "At the heart of it all" is the title and meaning for a track made to be (in a way) a parody on his (and industrial rock as a whole) entire career and musical soul. As you could imagine, it is, at its core, so mutilatingly scratcccchhhy and mindlessly repetitivepetitivetitivei'vegonetoofar,
that that when it ends, after eight minuets, with three chorused trumpets blaring and slowing down to two then one, it's brilliant.
Before the fingers of one, Thom York, lay life to the keys of piano, quaint sounds of kitchen work (banging dishes, cooking, etc.) set an open-air tone for the soft and idle "How I Made My Millions". Though the meaning of the song I don't know, when his sweet, feminine voice breaks ground with the words
"I was…bed-der. I was…strong-ger" I can see how the title completes it. The aptly titled track reminds the listener (and by listener I mean me) of the natural origin of creativity not beginning in lavishly hi-tech studio but in someplace simpler; somewhere more comfortable.
Voice is one of the most important instruments in human history (not confusing it with a lizard's history). It's used to swoon and even to mentally instigate. KRS-ONE is by no stretch, one of Rap's most prolific and mind inspiring teachers to emerge from the streets of the ghettos of…anywhere, with "Sound of Da Police" sitting at the top of his enlightenment list. With a single verse he breaks down the idea of what it means to be a "watchdog" under government commission.
"Need a little clarity? Check the similarity."
Well? Check it!
By reading this you are now a discordian priest. As long as you [This is a religion] are somehow not totally related to and/or with the Bavarian Illuminati (They were centuries before us but we were first) you are hereby protected [This is not a religion] by the Erisian Magic Ritual of the Turkey Curse. Believe in the Sacred Chao. Your new goddess [DRUGS], Eris-the goddess of Chaos, Discord and Confusion hath revealed to you that the all of reality is composed [not] according to the Law of Fives. Respect the void. This is the "Principia Discordia". Gobble. Gobble. Gobble.
If ever there was an earned use of the cliché "By the time you read this, I will already be dead", this is it. With chapter titles like "Dying? Throw a house party" and "Death. The Ultimate Trip!", Timothy Leary's final words lay an optimistic light on a subject more abhorred and dodged than the size and depth of Eva Braun's vagina. It is a little bizarre and surrealistic (and then again discouragingly humorous) to note that he actually held every intention of dying before the date of the books release. Timothy Leary is DEAD. Prostate cancer killed him. TMI?
What is it you desire? What holds value for you? Is it an idea, a cause, something a bit more material? What makes it so important? Is it because it [helps] you in some way (your family, a cell phone or a car)? Or is it because of its rarity (some artwork, a soulmate or a nice car)? Or is it because you can't imagine living sanely and peacefully without it (entertainment, a soulmate, privacy)? Is it because it [gives] you something in return (money, a soulmate, religion)? And more importantly, when you find it, what will you do then?
It's "The Hand". After he has fallen into rest (like a last, unconscious attempt to comfort), he slowly drives it under her body. She can't understand how she has gone so long without noticing the beauty perspiring from this god-like appendage. This large, masculine hand warms her, protecting her as she lies awake, contemplating the river of connection she holds for this her man. Her every possible feeling is intercepted into his being by it. The hand quivers to her breath. The hand responds to her body. The hand knows her thoughts. And in the morning, he's holding a knife.
In the beginning, there was the word. Any word will do. Then there was God. No. Wait. I think (S)He came first. Forget it. Then God made stuff. Included in this stuff was a guy named Satan (or was it Michael). Anyway, some of this stuff was alive and the rest was just kinda sitting there but Michael had too much salt put in his corn and started to ruin everything for everybody. And I mean EVERYBODY. People killed people. Laws were made. More people killed more people. God killed a bunch of ‘em. And now we have Home Depot.
Sex. Sex. Sex. Who loves sex? Solomon loves sex and apparently loves to write about it just as much. The Song of Solomon is awash with fetish talk of feet and hair and breast and legs and whoring. And it's not even all that good. Imagine having your teeth compared to a heard of sheep and your nose to some tower in Lebanon. For the s*it this woman puts up with (fending off constant rape and all) when someone does soften up, he comes on with all the allure of falling off a cliff onto a stretch a jagged rocks.
As of this books gratuitous use of the number seven, I've chosen to use exactly seven sentences in this journal. That being said, Revelation has got to be just the best ending to an epic fairy tale ever. And not because it's so chalk full of meaning. It goes completely with the rest of the book as it's nothing but a cycle of blather-babble. Stephen King must be proud. But--There is a lesson to be learned from all of its bollocks. "If you're writing a prophetic tale, try keeping your acid hits to a lean 10 hits a night."
Humans are naturally unfulfilled intellects. You would think with as short as we seem to realize our lives are, we would stop wasting so much of it, but…eh, wuddaya gonna do?
"A Study of Reading Habits" is a great presentational look at what it means to find a release in something, but not in any spiritual sense. No, definitely not. [S]he has found a vice in the capricious world of fantasy and fiction and spends hir entire childhood escaping this way until concluding that all the fantasy is lost or is no longer relevant and is better just getting drunk..
The fish was majestic, old and worn; he was tormented, tossed aside and still not bitter. Proud enough to be in the pain of human child birth and to not give it a first thought. It was just another day in the life of a hero, our hero. He hung there, like a cuffed ex-con confidently awaiting a trial that he knows is going to be beaten–hung there, playing the catch like a game–there laughing, smirking in the face of its captor, silently screaming "Do you really think I'm going to be afarid of you? LOOK at me."
Creaping noises take turns traveling in and out of your head. I've said this before. In the front, it all seems to play like nothing more than some pleasently perplexing love song, beautiful until the midlde (where I end and you begin). A new bassline begins the second half, where the song begins to take strange turn. Synthisizer yellings and muddled human rantings start to take over. Something is being said but can't be made out. Luckily it keeps repeating till the end, where you find that it may not have been what you wanted.
"i will eat you alive"
If you've been paying attention, you should be able to understand by its title (We suck young blood) how it's not that surprising to come after "Where I end and you begin". Even though it does start a tad on the slow side, the style of the sound being absorbed leaves you at complete disregard. It continues and you get used to it over time. As with a severely large number of Radiohead's releases, Mr. York's speech (assuming you haven't already been studying the lyrics in the booklet) is hardly clear cut.
And now, a return to normal life.
They live "55 miles to a gas pump". Tell me how you get better than that? On second thought…don't. I love it–terrific title, curious characters and a crack plot (hehe). It's sweet, short and everything but stereotypical. It's obscure, confusing, even a bit emotionless but in the end it's altogether comprehensible. And the best part is you never see it coming. The author has your expectations are purposefully enticed and exploited. She knows this is the only way the ending can have its proposed, glorified potential. It's not even short on the humor. Why doesn't everyone write like this?
It is an aspiration that has yet to meet its match (in my eye, of course). Its purpose is to alert people (humans) that faith is not a necessity for life, nor should it be vice-versa. We learn not from fancy fables but from experimentation (and LOTS of it). Humans (dubbing ourselves higher beings) hold an immense responsibility to everything in existence [on this planet as well as others] to live as ethical, understanding and developmental beings. Nothing is the responsibility of anything except itself.
This is our Humanist Manifesto.
It is not a bible.
It's our way of life.
With a little bit of well-versed, well-placed humor, you can make the most excruciatingly pointless plot (which can't possibly lead to anything but more pointlessness) somehow worth while. There's a play (excellent work) called "Four Hundred Wasted Meters". The play in three (or is it four) fits and guest starring Sir Isaac Newton. It's a play about nothing; not like Sienfeld. I couldn't find a definite plot in the entire thing. A group (a very poorly cast group) of 35 similar "cosmic and disentransitionally farce" beings (including the 26 ever-growing Alphabet Ducks), from perpendicular dimensions 5-8, make up it's lineup.
"From Science to God" is one great wasteland of captivatingly incisive talk, Peter Russell Breaks down what it means to become on with God [scientifically]. The basis of the bulk of the book is trying to get the reader to understand the "relationships of" and "differences between" what we think we experience and what actually IS. Then moving beyond that (which, for some, could understandably be a task in itself), he reminds the reader that the separation is the reason behind the impossibility of "knowing" ANYTHING to include your own existence. Plus, there's bunches of other stuff about white holes.
A sestina is a poem with six six-line stanzas and a three line envoy (ending) where the lines of each stanza end with (in varying order) the same ending words of the lines of the first stanza. The "All American Sestina" does its work by toying with the sestina formula while revealing the complete backwardsosity of American life and values by using numbers in the poem's repetition. Only, they appear at the line beginnings, not at the ends, where they belong. The first line can say a lot with "One nation, indivisible". Why is an "indivisible" nation divided into states?
Judith Hays is the "Happy Heretic". She writes monthly articles usually reflecting on what it is to revoke your need for religions, dogma and the like. Her latest, entitled "I was born right the first time," is one of her numerous "stand downs!" to the True Believers that continually ravage her with hat[e]-mails. She breaks down the reasoning of why anyone would even feel the need to pay attention to what she says as opposed to simply writing it off as more "apostate propaganda". To her (and yes, I agree) it all moves through three ideas: anger, self-doubt and denial.
The drawing has no set title, but its meaning is now very much alive (and continuing to grow). It was leaning towards something like "Chaos & Nature", but now, thought is moving too much to tie down to any singular [group of] word[s]. It is two (humanoid) faces, one representing disorder/chaos/the real, the other being the face of natural (sensual) perception. But their implied beauties are being separated by inverted alien eyes [human alienation from god -- false "piece of mind"]. The nose of the alien is cut with the 8-pointed star, creating and leading to the "Tree of Life".
A great "triad" of instrumental illustration is the ending of what could be one of the intelligent and culminating albums of history, Lateralus. The album ends on the chief idea of a conscious transition (becoming a true part of something/everything) that is necessary to achieve such an understanding and working knowledge of our world/realm. The three songs, titled (in order) Disposition, Reflection, and Triad, intently cascade one after another connecting their ideologies (despite "Triad" being wordless). The beginning, Disposition, is sonically smooth but speaks of changing weather. Moving through Reflection (above) to Triad, an onslaught of instrumentation representing conscious release.
Folk flock from the deep.
They carry on and meet.
Now the action's too high. Yes, the movement too steep.
They want "Order in the Streets"
So they send out a jeep.
In the snap of a phone call, they haul out a fleet
Chanting "1, 2 and 3" as they march to a beat.
Watch their guns pump in heat.
Watch the people retreat.
Watch innocent fall nameless like pieces of meat.
Clear the bodies before they begin to reek.
Who in power would stand for political defeat?
They keep "Order in the Streets"
so the innocent can sleep.
Art imitates life initiating art. Everything is up for grabs. I did not choose to be here, but, "here I am". All the sights and sounds screech "Pay attention to me. NOW!" creating thoughts, overwhelming our concentration. We want them. We need them to survive. But there are too many—too much. There's no control. This is not life. If you can't understand me, don't tell me about it. Neither do I. Beauty is in my eye. Everything belongs to music. Sound is Music. Music is art. Art is life. Life is being. Being is sound.
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