Tree On Fire
This entry was posted on Thursday, February 23rd, 2006 at 10:18 pm by Stuart Davis
Song Of The Day: One Man Guy / Loudon Wainwright
Word Of The Day: Noctivagant / To rove or wander at night
This is a tree on fire with love, but it’s still scary since most people think love only looks like one thing instead of the whole world.
The Utility of Fevers
This entry was posted on Thursday, February 23rd, 2006 at 10:15 pm by Stuart Davis
Song Of The Day: Hallelujah / Leonard Cohen
Word Of The Day: Scelidate / Having legs; legged
I’ve been sick. Two days, flat on my back. As always, got it from my daughter. In that regard, daughter’s are like LSD. My dot hit me with a dose of sick so severe it induced those fevered hallucinations normally adminsistered through illegal means. But this was free. Prostrate, temperature of 104, I had a nice long chat with Bjork. For real. All I remember from the exchange is Bjork’s squeeky little pixie voice telling me
“Stuart, you’re mirageing”.
I was like, “Word is ‘mirage’. It’s not a verb. You can’t…”
“That’s because you’re mirageing. You don’t have the senses about you, with all this mirageing.”
“Mirage.”
“-ing.”
“Whatever.”
I happen to like fevers for exactly this reason. They are a singular oddity in the pantry of altered states. High fevers carry a quality, an X factor of perspective shift that is magnificent. Of course they’re unpleasant, but it’s a weirdly agreeable unpleasantness. There’s no synthetic drug, no organic property, that will produce an equivalent. And what makes a fever cool is not so much the events that transpire within them, but the atmospheric awareness. Ever notice how when you have a really high fever, consciousness becomes diffuse and non-localized? It is a field, and you its reaper. In the course of my life in fevers (there have been many), I’ve been fortunate to have numerous insights, eurekas -a few genuine Kenshos- in the fevered state. The problem is the insights do not translate, not to my normal healthy states. They don’t apply to *this* perspective of reality. But they are legit, nonetheless. I’m talking about meta-apprehensions, where awareness GETS IT. Not a delusion, not a phantasm, but a real, enduring insight. Then, the fever breaks, and I’m left holding a million dollars of fever money in a fever-less economy. I can’t spend the windfall in this reality.
BUT. Here’s what’s cool. One of things that does translate is the understanding that even though I can’t spend my fever insight here and now, in this reality, I will definitely rely on them again in the future. At the time the Essential Self departs the human biological machine (in the words of E.J. Gold), a much, much wider reality opens again. Those insights will be germain when I’m dead, and I will recall them. That’s another wild thing about fevers, in fevers I recall the insights of earlier fevers and they are still as profound, still as relevent, still as true. But they’re not thoughts, not ideas, not conceptual insights. It’s more like you put your foot back in the river and go “Oh yeah, that’s what water feels like.”
I am a fundamentalist.
This entry was posted on Monday, February 20th, 2006 at 10:14 pm by Stuart Davis
Song Of The Day: Across This Antheap / XTC
Word Of The Day: Undigenous / Created or generated by water
Oh, you gurhlz. What can I tell you? Sometimes I go on a bender. Love hurts. Yesterday’s blog came from a very hot place inside me, and while I do not shrink or apologize, nor qualify what I said, I want you to know my heart is bigger than that. Yesterday, literally as soon as I got done writing that tirade, that flaming diatribe, I went inside the house and my wife told me that my mom had just called. She was letting us know that my dad, who has cancer and is in the midst of his third round of chemotherapy, has contracted pneumonia. Not good. And my mom had fallen and broken both of the major bones in her arm. And the fire in my belly softened, and melted, and I was put back into my place. Not that I don’t stand behind what I said, but I also don’t really believe it. I don’t believe the beliefs, even my own. But I know what I experience, I know what it feels like in my belly and my chest to love someone completely, like my mom and dad, and know they are hurting, and going through very rough times. I wish I could take away my dad’s pain, and my mom’s pain.
My mom and dad are christians. The fundamentalist kind. They adhere to the fundamentals of the faith. And they do indeed live in integrity, meaning there is a perfect correspondance between what they believe and how they live. And they gave me the absolutely perfect childhood, they’ve always loved me completely unconditionally, and as you witnessed yesterday, that is not always easy. I forget sometimes how monumental, how incredibly expansive and unconditional their love must be, and I forget what it’s like to inhabit those other World views -permanently. Of course we can all crawl inside of them. I do identify with all the levels of myself, including the fundmentalist, but I forget what it’s like to live in that village forever. My wife reminded me yesterday that everything’s perfect, and part of that perfection is our striving to improve and discover new facets of its magnificent, painful puzzle. My mom and dad are fantastic human beings, they have done nothing but try their hardest since I was born to insure I got all the love, safety, and support I could ever need. I owe them my life. Their deep conviction in their faith is something I deeply admire, truly respect, the way they live in accordance with the principles of their religious convictions is something I want to achieve in my life as well. And that’s all I’m trying to do. Be present and authentic to ALL the parts of me, not just the ones that are palatable to everyone else, not just the ones that make me or you comfortable, not just the ones that are socially or culturally acceptable. I am ALL the selves. I am ALL aspects of humanity. Not because I think that’s romantic, or fun, or interesting, but because truly, in the deepest expanse of our native endowment, that is simply the WAY IT IS, in our experience. And that brings us to an interesting question.
What’s funny here is not that I care about the stuff I wrote about in yesterday’s blog, but WHY I have such a furious reaction to it. Obviously, there is some shadow action in there. And that is what I GET today, and what is so funny, I have such a furious reaction to Mythic Fundamentalist Imperialist Religion, because I AM a mythic fundamentalist imperialist. I mean, let’s face it. I ascribe a whole lot of qualities to the Mystery, I perceive this Kosmic Theater of What IS going on, and I think there’s some implicit injunction to it all : Wake Up. Awakened Awareness. And I disown the part of me that so feverishly thinks it’s RIGHT, not only that it’s right, but that it’s Absolutely RIGHT. I am a total fucking fundamentalist, a humorless tight-assed fucking Deity freak with such intense opinions and such a volcanic personality, and I don’t want to own that. So I suppress it, bury it, hide it, marginalize it, and it is then forced to come out me in weird, fucked up ways (yesterday’s blog, yo’). So let me just state for the record:
I am a fundamentalist. I am a mythic fundamentalist imperialist religious zealot.
There you have it. That’s part of what I am. I can’t disown that part. I can’t dissociate from that part of my Heart. Knowing it’s ME, how do I work with it? How can I include and engage that part of me in a useful way?
Yesterday at dinner, I told my daughter I am the Pope Of Ego. She laughed, pointed at me and said “Pope Of Ego!”
I laughed and laughed.
Fucking Nondual Fundamentalist Buddhism
This entry was posted on Sunday, February 19th, 2006 at 10:13 pm by Stuart Davis
Song Of The Day: What God Has Done Is Rightly Done / Bach (Cantata 99) as performed by Christopher Parkening
Word Of The Day: Eesome / Attractive or gratifying to the eye
I’ll tell you what’s attractive or gratifying to the eye; Two ‘e’s at the beginning of a word. That’s eelicious. I’m eerect.
I know Christopher Parkening is faggy, but his fagacity turns me on. I wanna suck his cock. Music doesn’t get much faggier than that piece -What God Has Done Is Rightly Done- and man does it make me hungry for a gentlemen’s member. Please, take me now, in the pew. Thump me like a bible, Cardinal. Oh, you know it’s happened. They don’t call them “indulgences” for nothign. Listening to What God Has Done Is Rightly Done you can practically see adolescent acolytes with stiff boners leaping and bounding across golden meadows, their hairless ball sacks knocking morning dew off of wheat sprigs as they endeavor to cleave each other’s ends over and again. Oh, gentle young men.
Speaking of religion. Why Buddhism? Why am I Buddhist. It’s so obvious. First, the obvious. Buddhism is right, all other religions are wrong. Just kidding. All other religion’s are sort of like a Buddhist harem, they wait around in silken garb to lower grapes into our Buddhist mouths. Just kidding.
I’m Buddhist because of emptiness. First of all, I believe in all religions. That’s what I have in common with all religions. But I do not believe my beliefs. That’s where I part ways with all religions. I actually don’t think Buddhism (in its authentic formless form) is a religion. Or a philosophy. It’s a simple imperative. Want to wake up? Do this. The reason I’m Buddhist is #1, I don’t believe my beliefs. That is to say, I regard beliefs as useful, as relevant, as germain to the work-play of the Mystery while I’m in human form, but let’s face it, beliefs are constructs. They’re the fluxing content of social swells in humans. They have a beginning, and they will have an end. They’re predicated on some fundamentally flawed assumptions (duality, for starters. To believe in something, you have to assume there is a subject and an object, a person believing and a thing believed in.) They’re appropriate features of developmental waves, but they have no intrinsic reality. They only exist because we sustain them. They’re part of our stories, our dear precious fucking desperate stories. Drama Drama Drama. But in experience, that is experience without filters, without assumptions, we realize that Reality has no opposite. Reality has no opposite. Once more, for Maezumi: Reality has no opposite. What is there to “believe” in? There is. There’s plenty to believe in. But don’t make the fatal, outrageous, ridiculous mistake of believing your beliefs. They’re just transient, impermanent features of an ever-fluxing IS that has nothing but What to show for itself. And that’s just how it’s not. Gotta love it.
And so, what can I tell you? #2, I’m Buddhist because it’s my experience it’s all empty. Emptiness. God is empty, the Devil is empty. Cars are emptiness, sex is empty, fullness is empty. Emptiness is fullness, and so WAHHHHHHZUPPP?????? I don’t really “believe” in Buddhist teachings. Fuck beliefs. I hate to say it, but fuck beliefs. No, wait, I was wrong, I actually love saying that. In fact, Butt-fuck beliefs. Yes, sodomize all beliefs in the name of What. Let’s face it, all religion is just Ego sucking its own dick, medicating its own paralyzing fear of demise through a charade, an anthropomorphic circus of delusion so perverse it would make Marquis De Sade blush.
Beliefs are for conventional robots and pre conventional anal pears. Religion -the religion of beliefs- is the vestigial organ of life on Earth. No one -NO ONE- will be seen in a “church” where people “worship” in ten thousand years. No one. It will be as relevent as the stone flint axe, and I am not fucking kidding.
Now, I know that’s not an integral to say. It’s not post-conventionally correct to make such outlandish, devisive statements. An integral view is one that includes (and transcends) all perspectives, all developmental levels, all states and stages of religious experiences, all varieties of the ever-manifesting miracle of God. I’m all for that. But an integral perspective doesn’t mean an endlessly tolerant, pathologically patient, utterly permeable, flaccid fucking wet noodle of a dick approach to religion. You know what? Mythic Imperialistic Religion -the kind we are experiencing RIGHT FUCKING NOW IN AMERICA, the kind that 70% of the World’s population is under the sway of in manifold variety- THAT developmental level of interpretation of “God” was appropriate, perfectly appropriate TWO THOUSAND YEARS AGO. When the fucking Roman Empire held sway, and humas were just getting the hang of order, rules, doctrine, and a mythic conception of divine right. The FUCKING ENLIGHTENMENT WAS THREE HUNDRED YEARS AGO. I’m not rational emperical maniac but GOD DAMMIT. I mean literally, if there is a Mythic God, please damn these regressive fucking monkeys into hell. Mythic religion, while wonderful and appropriate for a girl scout, or a boy scout, or a lemur, or a baby elephant, or a remedial dolphin, is the Auto Immune disorder of our collective soul.
Listen, when your kid is ten years old (which by the way, is about the age when a Mythic Rules-Order stage of development is appropriate in an individual, not when they’re fucking fifty, or sixty, and not when they’re the God Damn president of the fucking United States Of Imperialist America) ahem. When you’re kid is ten years old you WANT them to act like a ten year old. You WANT them to access the World view, the lens of reality that is healthy, whole, and right for that stage. When you’re ten, LITERALLY when you’re ten years old you need to get your Mythic Rules-Order jones on, you need that mojo to be healthy and cool before you can move into the next (more inclusive, more expansive) level of development. But HEY, if you’re ten, and you’re locked in a Mythic Reality, cool. If you’re fifteen and you’re locked in a Mythic conception of reality, not so hot. If you’re twent, if you’re twenty five, thirty, forty, and you’re still locked in a MYTHIC conception of reality, and you now can fire nuclear missiles, and scramble bombers, and ruin economies, not to mention fucking PROCREATE and imprison other innocents in your deluded retardation (I mean that, clinically you are retarded) then that is a SERIOUS fucking liability to the rest of the planet.
And ladies and gentlement, it is not appropriate. It is not right for grown ups to act like ten year olds. It’s not healthy for ten year olds to act like two year olds. There is a lot of room for variance, but some things are just down right fucked up beyond all measure and I will tell you what one of them is: Living on a planet held hostage, bullied, persecuted, and paralyzed by a Mythic World view that should have faded from power in the court of humans when the Roman Empire did. I understand fully that each human being recapitulates development, that no one skips stages. Don’t you see that’s MY FUCKING POINT. We are collectively absolutely retarded. We have never summoned the escape velocity necessary to move beyond this pre-pubescent stage of our humanity, much less our religious life, and it makes me want to hurl.
One of these putrid days, I am going to develop humanity’s first case of tri-kaya bulimia. That’s right. I’m going to simultaneously puke out my gross, subtle, and causal bodies.
If the Over-soul had access to a Kosmic throat, it would fucking wretch its brains out, watching the bi-peds on Earth. It’s like a planetary version of The Nanny that never gets past the first ten minutes when the kids are still complete little assholes, tantrum throwing monsters ravaging their luxurious, privileged lives. Every fucking loser Mythic Imperialist religious idiot is just another monkey throwing feces.
Now how long are we supposed to sit back and “Understand” while ten year olds run the planet, while adolescents ideology in grown up bodies with Techno-industrial weaponry rape and ravage this miraculous planet? I don’t get it. FUCK THAT. Call a spade a spade. The first fucking thing conventional and preconventional stages of development do with democracy is vote in undemocratic, theocratic regimes. Nice. Hamas. Nice. President fucking “God is on my side” Bush. Nice. What are we? Nine? Ten fucking years old? I am so, SO sick of this shit, and you should be too. These arrested adolescents are pissing all over the altar. Does any one else think it’s time the post-modernists move beyond their pluralistic bullshit, their flat relativistic all-inclusive liberal kamakazee suicide? Uh, nothing’s at stake … ‘cept civilization.
Let’s not kid ourselves. We are a BLIP. An experiment, even on the temporal scale of this planet. (not to mention the Kosmos). The planet is not in jeapordy, WE are. Check the record, you’ll see we haven’t been around long, and we are definitely, certainly disposable. Evolution will come up with other fun things to do if keep shitting in our own bed. Mythic Religion is total fucking bullshit, it’s time has passed, it is not developmentally appropriate for anyone over the age of ten anymore, and every day we permit it to continue its terrorizing tantrum is another shit sandwich in the mouth of Love. In the name of Love, let’s stop believing our beliefs. I’m NOT talking about nihilism. I’m talking about a rich, vibrant, dynamic, direct experience of What IS. That’s all there is anyway, everything else is a phantom puppet show. That’s why I’m a Buddhist. A fucking nondual fundamentalist Buddhist.
Rostropovich Vs Soviet Union
This entry was posted on Thursday, February 16th, 2006 at 10:12 pm by Stuart Davis
Song Of The Day: Prelude, Bach’s Suite No. 5 In C Minor For Unaccompanied Cello / Mstislav Rostropovich
Word Of The Day: Balnearii / People who steal clothing for public baths
Something tells me I would dig Rostropovich the person too, the dude. His music is undeniable, but I have to genuflect to one as punk as “Slava” (as he’s affectionately known by his Russian country-kin, a diminutive form of the word “glory”). He fucking pissed off the Soviet government by being so flagrant in his pursuit of cultural and creative freedom. When they cracked down on him, he got louder, he was like -Uh, Soviets, you wanna get up in my grill? You think you want some ‘a this? Nyet, moi blaho droog. Nyet.- and he started waving his cello bow in their face, which is the international sign for “fuck you” in the orchestral World. The Soviets were like, “Uh, we’re the Soviet Fucking Union. YOU fuck off Rostropovich. Stop being such a bohemian shit and suck the Red Dick.” Slava came back with “Dude. The only dick I’m sucking is the creative phallus-font of my dear compatriot in the arts, the bad ass Solzhenitsyn’s. Check it.” The Soviets were like “What? What the fucking fuck- you’re hanging with Solz? OH Noh yoo dih’ ehnt! You’re fried, mofo. You are OUT- OUT of the Red house.” Slava was like “Good, I hope I AM out of the Red House.” Soviets were like “Good, you’re not a citizen anymore. Leave.” Slava was all “I’m going to America, I’m a big star, and I’m going to plant so many cross-cultural seeds of love the furtile field of my issue will envelop and subsume your nasty communist socialist bullshit.” Soviets were all “You’re fucking LUCKY, Slava. You’re lucky you’re a star, cuz you know what? If you weren’t so good with that gargantuen faggety-ass fiddle, we’d cart your ass to the Gulag faster than you can say ‘pros`tite’.”
And then WE got ‘em. That’s right. Slava’s ours now, and I would rub that in the face of the Soviet Empire if there still was one. Oh, how quickly empires fall. Ever notice? Empires are like fucking Pontiacs, they’re lethargic, untenable aggregates of industrial-economic shit that collapse under the weight of their own corpulent clutter, the degenerating necrosis of insatiable craving to acquire, expand, acquire, expand. But not our empire, you guys. This time, it’s different. The United Imperialist States of America will last forever. Why? Because God’s on our side. That’s right, and while a lot has changed in the last three thousand years socially, culturally, technologically -it’s nice to know God hasn’t. He is still the same Mythic-Imperialistic temper-tantrum throwing adolescent Diety who’s personally obsessed with the political and governmental affairs of one administration, of one government, of one country, on one continent, on one planet, in one galaxy, out of the infinitely, inestimably vast expanse of space and time that is the Kosmos. Just as only we can prevent forest fires, only we can keep God happy. If we don’t blow stuff up, Jesus will cry. God cares. God cares about America, and Americans. For the first time EVER, an empire has the sanction of Divine Right. That’s right. Think of the Pope with Nukes, and you’re getting close.
Rostropovich
This entry was posted on Wednesday, February 15th, 2006 at 10:12 pm by Stuart Davis
Song Of The Day: Courante from Bach’s Unaccompanied Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major, BWV1007 / Mstislav Rostropovich
Word Of The Day: Fideism / Reliance upon one’s religion instead of reason for beliefs and truths.
Today I woke up and all I wanted to listen to is Rostropovich. Just Rostropovich, unaccompanied, no orchestra, no chamber ensembles, not one single thing besides him. I think he’s my favorite cellist of all time. If I could only listen to one instrument for the rest of my life, I think it would be the cello. I’ve thought about that question my whole life, and I’ve always “thought” the right answer should be the human voice. Of course, you’d want the human voice, right? But if I look deeply and sincerely and answer honestly, it’s the cello. Who knows why. Intellectually I realize I should say the human voice, but I have never in my life sat around listening to an a cappella singer. In contrast, I’ve spent hundreds and hundreds of hours listening to solo cello. I spent several months listening to nearly nothing but cello when I was in college. Today I woke up and it was weird. Do you ever get sudden, instant, undeniable cravings for some odd item? Like a pregant woman, I woke up at 2:30am this morning, desperate to hear cello. I meditated till 3:30am, and could hear it the whole time I was doing zazen (I am not the music in my head. I am the empty awareness in which all music comes and goes.). Which makes you wonder what the fuck is music?
Why can I hear music when there is a total absence of sound? It’s not memory. I write music even where there is a complete absence of sound. What the hell is music if it does not require sound waves?
My friends (mainly this one dude) who are very often in subtle realms of experience tell me about the music there. Music of the spheres. It really blows their minds. It’s a higher mode- to follow a logical extension- of vibration. Somehow the “sound” emitted from a being corresponds perfectly to its level of awareness, awakening, etc. Angels make angel music, so to speak, Dakinis and Bodhisattva’s make Buddha music, demons and hungry ghosts make their music. Makes sense, we’re all just vibration. Of course God tunes them all, plays every note, is the instrument, the performer, the performance, the audience. God has access to all notes, all frequencies, all instruments, all performers, because that’s what What is. Is. ?What is music?
Distinguishing Denmark / Dutch / Holland / Danes / Netherlands
This entry was posted on Wednesday, February 15th, 2006 at 10:11 pm by Stuart Davis
Song Of The Day: U.B. Jesus / David Byrne
Word Of The Day: Hamartophobia / Fear of sin or sinning
People the World over confuse the Dutch with the Danish. Do you know which is which? I didn’t, for years when I was a kid it fucked with my head. I thought I was a freak, an international dyslexic. Then I noticed, steadily over years and decades, that virtually all Americans are confused about the Dutch and the Danish. They may as well be the Olsen Twins to us. People just fucking don’t have a clue where the Dutch and Danish keep their respective roots. It seems to our American ears for some inexplicable reason, that “Dutch” should go with “Denmark.” When confronted with the following options: Dutch Danish Holland Denmark Netherlands, we link those two (Dutch+Denmark) as the most probable pairing. Confounding us further, The Netherlands is also Holland. Even though we call ourselves America and the United States (to everyone else in the World America is a continent, not a country, but oh well) we get confused. We only know the U.K. has something to do with Britain and England because we went to war with them and then the Beatles, yadda yadda. I was on tour in Holland (The Netherlands) and that’s how I found Copenhagen.
But let’s get this straight
for once and for all,
the Dutch are from Denmark
and thus, Danes are called…
NO!
The DANES are…
the Danes are not Dutchis.
There is not a suchis!
For easy remembrance,
simply recall
Den Haag’s not in Den Maark
it lies to the South, so embark,
Copenhagen is never
inside of dear Nether
lands
it’s rather in Northernlands
and Denmark is the Holland of Danes,
but not much for Dutch,
who are North-East of Great Spain
(just like the Danes)
the level of Sea,
the Dutch are below
right next to the Sea,
the Danes live and grow
the Dutch have great shores
and ports for their ships
the Danes do as well,
and both favor trips
if still you fail
telling great Dutch from Danes
then make love to each
and divine from the stains
a Dutchman will poke you
and smoke you
like hash
but a Viking will plunder
and punish
and pillage
your ass
and your face
’till they burn
like a village
Lastly,
nations are known
by the flags they have sewn
rectangle, bespeckled
with zigs or with zags
guess from the two
taking your pick
which one is that , which one is this
then you’ll know which
one to wave, which one to stitch
on your pants when you hitch,
hike or bike
through Pakistan.
Five Stages Of Spell Check
This entry was posted on Thursday, February 9th, 2006 at 10:07 pm by Stuart Davis
Song Of The Day: Raspberry Beret / Prince
Word Of The Day: Obnubilate / Darken, dim, or conceal (as) with a cloud; obscure.
Yo gurhlz, today I was in hissy fit, because the fucking lame-ass spell check on my awesome-ass Mac did not know the word “obstinate”. (Never confuse the infallible Mac with its constituent properties. A Mac is beyond reproach. Its components, however, may need improvement from time to time) Wha? What the fuck planet am I on, that the word “obstinate” is not in the spell check of my Mac? At first I deferred, cuz it’s a Mac, so I must be wrong, right? I must be addled from my morning absynthe-enima. I tried spelling “obstinate” a half dozen ways to appease the robotic task-master in my silver Powerbook.
Obstinite? No. Obstanate? No. Obstonate? Obstanite? NO NO NO!! It screamed at me. I SO wanted to smack the little fucking bitch, I was like “HEY, you don’t talk to me that way. I may not know how to spell Ob-staahhh-nnnaaaeeet but I’m still the author here, I am still the boss. You know what, YOU’RE obstinate, you little shit. You need a time out” I told my Mac, and I sat it down in the corner.
Then I got up and gingerly made my way to my Oxford English Dictionary. BOTH volumes. Yeah, I did. Then I pulled out volume two, flipped to page one thousand nine hundred and seventy, column two, and whaddya’ fucking KNOW, third entry down is the word
Spelled ex-act-a-fucking-ly like I had spelled it the very first God damn time. Initially, I swooned with…
Denial. This can’t be right. My Mac wouldn’t mock me that way. My Mac is my rock. Mac wouldn’t…it couldn’t… be ignorant of a word as simple, as basic, as “obstinate.” Then, denial shifted to
Anger. You twisted Mother FUCKER!!! How DARE my Powerbook G4 give me the ‘what’s for’? The NERVE, the bravado, the impudent gall. I should smash that silver smart ass into a billion bits, scrap that crappy lap top. But anger, my friends, is not a core emotion. It’s a decoy. I yanked its mask from my heart, and to my dismay, discovered a truer ache. Desperate, I began to
Bargain. I bargained with Steve Jobs. If I could only have another lap top, another Powerbook, one with an expanded spell check, Word, if I were given one …more… chance, I wouldn’t blow it. How could I have been so cavalier? Please… I’d give anything, I’ll donate my penis to science, I’ll stop eating beluga (so much), I’ll never rape another kitten, I’ll… but then just as soon as the bargaining had begun, it faded too. And I was left in a gaping hole of
Depresssion. The dark night of the technological soul, a linguistic leviathan, casting an occlusion so sweeping, not even the memory of light remained. I wept. I cried. I self-medicated with anal digital stimulation. Then, a crack. No, not my crack, but a dim beacon in the distance, what… what was it? God? An angel? A train? Friends, it was my very own
Acceptance, come to brighten my being with its simple, groundless awareness. Acceptance, of reality as it is. My Mac does not know how to spell “Obstinate”. But you know what? That’s OK, that’s the way it is. I am bare acceptance, simple awareness. I have a defective, piece of shit, deficient spell check. I am not my defective, piece of shit, deficient spell check. What is this acceptance, this infinite equanimity that I AM? Always, already awake. I am unborn, but I perform abortions. I have no qualities, but I fucking dig the Design Within Reach catalogue. I am unmade, but I make people sick. I can’t be acquired or gained, but a thank you now and then couldn’t hurt, you sycophantic sucklings. My tits are sore from lactating pearly nourishment into your undeserving gullets. How ’bout a little something back at me? Godhead wants a boat. Get on it.
United Nations Of Interpersonal Relations
This entry was posted on Wednesday, February 8th, 2006 at 10:06 pm by Stuart Davis
Song Of The Day: Insane In The Brain / Cypress Hill
Word Of The Day: Cophosis / Deafness.
OK, I concede. Food preparation IS an art. Now, would the chefs of the World please stop killing themselves?
Today, I’m going to elect my United Nations of Interpersonal Relations. My friends from around the World. This is the official Who’s Who to Stu on Earth (and beyond?). There’s no limit to the number of people I can appoint from each nation, but for today I’m going to start with just one from each sovereign state. These are not necessarily people I’ve met, or even had sex with, but nonetheless, they are “Friends” in my book, for reasons enumerated below. Drum roll, bitches.
From the great nation of Ukraine, meet Filatova Elena Vladinmirovna. Think you’re cool? Think you’re hot? Think again. This woman’s hobby is driving through CHERNOBYL and its surrounding (depopulated) radioactive regions. Her site, her life, her philosophical take on the nuclear accident is fascinating and compelling. One of the best sites I’ve come across in a long time, I spent hours pouring over her photos, engrossed in her work. Check her out. She’s my #1 Friend from Ukraine. Filatova, please take your honored place as the first inductee into the assembly of souls in our great structure-less building, our formless Hall of Humanity.
Next, I’m fucking happy to announce the annunciation of my favorite Brit, Rupert Hine. PIck your 100 favorite pop songs of all time. Chances are Rupert produced many of them. He’s the shit. He makes England look awesome. I always find myself longing for London after a scoop of Rup. Shoop, shoop.
My favorite Roop quote is “Steady. Steady.” (with a wicked English accent). Also, I love it when he says things like “Right, then.” He also taught me to say kisses (Bee-zooz) in French. And we have indeed kissed, but you know, like Europeans. Like mafia. Like school girls. Like horses, monkeys. When you’re sexually integrated within yourself, it really opens up your masculine relationships.
More! More! They clammered. And they were sated, with
My Canadian exempler: Rollie. You gurhlz I wish I could give you a photo on this one, but he’s too hot. If I show you the visage of Rollie, you will think of nothing but sex. I want you to move into a deeper dimension with Canada. Rollie is the guy who kept me from declaring war on Canada when they kicked me out for a year (true). I looked into his azure French Canadian eyes, and all was forgiven, then forgotten. I can’t stay mad at you, Canada! C’m here! Rollie, our envoy from the arctic tundra (more or less) is a contemplative christian cat in the great tradition of Father Thomas Keating -who’s not a Canadian.— you guys, check out how fucking LONG this next parenthetical thought is, I want to submit it to Guiness Book of Records, here goes: —(Father Thomas Keating is not a Canadian according to the occult method of nationality-divination I INVENTED which I named Flinch-omancy. It’s simple, it’s infallible. I determine your country of origin by scaring the shit out you and “reading” your reactioon. TRY THIS AT HOME. I employ a variety of rigorously tested, empirically proven Flinch-omancy triggers. I might start you on fire, I might wire an air horn to the lever on your toilet so stentorian that when you flush after crapping you’ll crap after flushing, i might slip some acid in your altoids and show you the ending of Eraserhead WHATEVER the means, I will divine your nation of origin with the stunning 43% accuracy rate that has brought me noteriety in cross-cultural circles. Take my friend Rollie. Rollie was no exception. I clamped a car battery to a screw driver, touched it to his testicles, and as the ensuing confusion of brutal fear seized his face, I leaned in close, gazing into his frantic, desperate eyes and in that instant I KNEW he was from France. No?… wait, wait, don’t tell me. Spain? No?…Sweden! You liar. You’re as Swedish as Abba. OK… Icelandic? Ajerbijani? Fuck! What are you Martian? Moroccan? What? I can’t understand you, you drooling paroxsym of gesticulation. You’re mouthing… “Ca” “Ca” three syllables, first syllable, sounds like “man”… Man-a- …. Man-a…. “duh” you’re hitting your head like…you’re telling me “duh”. Man-a Quebec! You’re Quebecai. A Quebie. Quebecanite. Yah!! Put one more check in the “evidence for psi phenomenon” column. Take that, skeptics.)— WEEE!! that was one MOTHER FUxxING parenthesis. Speaking of cross-cultural pollination, why aren’t parenthesis in the Olympics? I’d sweep. Yes, I’m still talking about Canada, and Rollie. If you thought Montreal was the beginning and end of Canada, you’re WRONG. There’s Vancouver. Beyond that, it would all be wolves and moose if it weren’t for my Canadian friend Rollie. How Canadian cool is he? We stole him and put hid him in America. America, we wanted Canada inside us. Deep, within. I like it when Canada pushes so far, oh, a little too far. I’m tender there. Canada, that’s my cervix. Don’t stop, just slow down.
And so is called to order the first assembly of Stuart Davis’ United Nations of Interpersonal Relations. Canada, meet Ukraine. Ukraine, meet England. England, you know Canada of course. Canada, England. No need to genuflect, those days are over.
I want to get in France’s pants.
This entry was posted on Saturday, February 4th, 2006 at 10:05 pm by Stuart Davis
Song Of The Day: Harpies Bizarre / Elvis Costello
Word Of The Day: Snoach / To speak through the nose
I want to go to France. Learn to speak French. The thought of French kissing makes me feel like I have French bread in my leotard. I’ve never been to France, but I sense an affinity with its populace. The cool remove, the deification of food and art. Because food, my friends, is not art. Nor is its preparation, nor its presentation, and however refined the palate, it’s just a necessary EVIL. I mean, how fucking gross is it that we put matter in a hole in our head and mash it into bits, then pass it through the mucoid membrane of our g.i. tract until we produce a cylindrical sculpture of fetid waste from the least inventive musculature of our body? That’s where the French and I part ways. I have always said, “Food is proto-poop.” Sorry. At any rate, I imagine the French do not like Eddie Money. And I mean I bet they don’t like HIM. They hate his music, that’s a given, but the French are just the kind of people to expand an artistic grievance to include the person, the source. I bet the French feel a bad work of art is synonymous with a bad human being. That’s hard on French artists, and probably hard on Eddie Money. I love to generalize about the French, which one must do, especially when speaking French, as it contains a paucity of 100,000 words. English? Almost a million, depending who you ask. Ask me. It’s a million. I like an even number (remainders are naught but numeric clutter) and while 100,000 is a nice even number, it is precisely one-tenth as good as 1,000,000. English, you’re winning, and with a lead like that, you might as well treat yourself to some booze and a whore. The French don’t have many words to choose from, but those intended for Eddie Money are not flattering. They hate the Money, but they LOVE the Great Dane. I am fucking Jacques Brel times Jerry Lewis over there, friends. What’s that worth? For starters, I could be the bridge between Money and France. I’ve slept with both, prefered neither. That’s right, Eddie hates the French, but that little piggy’s snout is no stranger to my truffles. Me: “Listen, Parisians, give Eddie a chance. He’s got no control. He’s like the Marquis De Sade of Akron, Ohio. Listen, Eddie, give the Louvre a chance, it’s like a church of art or somethun.