The animals are going absolutely mad from my energy lately. At night, when I'm up and roaming the house, they follow me like a mini-stampede. I wish I could shield them somehow from the shards of my psyche; little tin-foil suits, perhaps?
Birthing anything is hard, and you don't need a Samantha Eggar-type brood-mother to tell you that. A painting, a piece of music, a love affair, a friendship, a business venture, a human being—all birthing is simply bubbling over with excitement, anticipation, and the most fragile of human emotions.
After a solid year back on the air at WFMU, I've lived a whole set of good and bad experiences I would never have had otherwise, because of my radio show, Web presence, and also my genuineness, my shitty temper, unmanageable sex drive, weird writing, coffee abuse etc. I've gained valuable allies, and been painted villainous in the eyes of more than a few others. I've lost people I didn't want to lose, simply put.
Ideally, I say, a man wants no haters—let everyone love me. I am, to be loved, finally, as I was born in the month of August, and lions like to bask. Understand, I DO FEED ON YOUR HOSTILITY, BECAUSE IT TASTES SO MUCH BETTER THAN MY OWN, A FLAVOR GONE STALE IN NEARLY 46 YEARS. I SPEAK TO THEE. Then, referring back, even if the ratio is 3:1, allies:foes gained, those are still terrible odds, near unacceptable for this child of the sun and fire. Perhaps I should have stayed at home last June. But, ah! What has been birthed CANNOT BE UN-BIRTHED.
Extra-special Castlehead boners on the playlist for The Birthday Party, Scorpion Violente, Flesh Coffin, Fecalove, and Treriksröset.
Click on the shotgun-blasted Brood kid to access the playlsit and audio archive of last night's horrorcast™.
Next week --- Hoor-paar-Kraat CUTS YOU UP.