Teaching has adversely affected my ability to read, as the latter becomes pointless once one loses one’s faith in one’s species. All I do is sit around watching shit on YouTube, like Action Bronson shoveling food into his face in episodes of Fuck, That’s Delicious. Celebrity’s influence on our culture troubles me. What is life-writing’s purpose amidst the sheer ubiquity today of modes for self-expression? As if needing a reminder, I submit to Benzokai’s “Sentient Sapient,” thus allowing the ontological uncertainty of being to successfully reassert itself. Dining on wine and cheese last night at a friend’s place helped me let go of some anger left over from a run-in I had earlier in the day with an open-carry asshole. Less than a week since the mass shooting in Las Vegas, and this dumb NRA motherfucker proudly wears a handgun on his hip while picking through the bins at Goodwill. This man’s existence fills me with a rage that lacks any kind of meaningful outlet. Get high and weedy with the guitar sounds on Suburban Lawns’ “Flavor Crystals.”
These trance-scripts form a construct based on the totality of everything I know. Doesn’t mean I have it right. Drink poison from a cup of gold. Doesn’t mean it’s right. Don’t yell at me: I don’t have a corner on wisdom. How about nothing? How about silence? A silence interrupted only by the echoes of my mind, as Harry Nilsson would say, especially as when decoded by the dear departed Harry Dean Stanton. Errare Humanum Est. “Drink deep,” adds Pope, “or taste not the Pierian spring.” If I play my cards right, Suburban Lawns can become Joni Mitchell’s 1975 album, The Hissing of Summer Lawns.
Trance-Scripts 