posthumously from days after the fact these words like explanation have worked their way out of this odd mind of mine built up after years of this daily occurrence where everyday it all changes no matter how potent the ritual take ahold of us in our mechanical quizzicality as has made us the ever-evolving casualty a mutation of self consciousness, tradition masks the ignorance and insecurity that is derived from up-keeping these disguises so well distracting away from the personal search for the meaning of life as we mutilate our hands and our lands and our minds to fit the efficient paradigm that eats away like decay at our souls when we have fatally sold out our last strand of sense that could save us from the authority of oblivion, and the knowledge that rhythm and melody can help …
‘… The journalist is driving, ignoring his passenger who is nearly naked after taking off most of his clothing, which he holds out the window, trying to wind-wash the Mace out of it. His eyes are bright red and his face and chest are soaked with beer he’s been using to rinse the awful chemical off his flesh. The front of his woolen trousers is soaked with vomit; his body is racked with fits of coughing and wild choking sobs. The journalist rams the big car through traffic and into a spot in front of the terminal, then he reaches over to open the door on the passenger’s side and shoves the Englishman out, snarling: “Bug off, you worthless faggot! You twisted pigfucker!…’
~ David Foster Wallace on addressing a deeper cause to rid pain.
‘… “Jesus, look at the corruption in that face!” he whispered. “Look at the madness, the fear, the greed!” I looked, then quickly turned my back on the table he was sketching. The face he’d picked out to draw was the face of an old friend of mine, a prep school football star in the good old days with a sleek red Chevy convertible and a very quick hand, it was said, with the snaps of a 32B brassiere. They called him “Cat Man.”
But now, a dozen years later, I wouldn’t have recognized him anywhere but here, where I should have expected to find him, in the Paddock bar on Derby Day… fat slanted eyes and a pimp’s smile, blue silk suit and his friends looking like crooked bank tellers on a binge…’
‘poet, as dreamer and artist, takes the simple cosmic gestures to heart as yet another lock and key formulaic state residing within each of us even as our states of being sure of this concept are divided in complimentary symptoms to beat back this systemic infection… fascist age learning curve purging of the hatred and all that attending ignorance that has us pointing raping fingers in political correctness at each other to better our worst enemies of course not the ones within ourselves making others into victims in oblivious pursuits to individual happiness’
~JG Ballard on the superfluous role of the fiction writer.
~David Foster Wallace on fiction, art and the meaning of being human.
~Abbie Hoffman on reaching people.
~Jean-Paul Sartre on the modern cruelty of fascism.
‘The results were always unfortunate. I warned him several times about letting the subjects see his foul renderings, but for some perverse reason he kept doing it. Consequently, he was regarded with fear and loathing by nearly everyone who’d seen or even heard about his work. He couldn’t understand it. “It’s sort of a joke,” he kept saying. “Why, in England it’s quite normal. People don’t take offense. They understand that I’m putting them on a bit.”
“Fuck England,” I said. “This is Middle America. These people regard what you’re doing to them as a brutal, bilious insult. Look what happened last night. I thought my brother was going to tear your head off.”…’