Friday, September 16, 2011

equal opportunity scythe

I go to sleep, and I dream of massive car accidents. Unwarranted hostility and chaos. Sometimes, the images are positive >>> I dream of living somewhere else, with lots of space, a big house, different environments, a different life. Someone else's life.

At least here, in the Northeast, density of population is no joke, and I can't even muster up the energy to shrug and laugh it off anymore. When I can't leave my home without the assurance of some degree of a bad time, I become agoraphobic, and I am slowly morphing into a textbook case.

Do I really want people to die a fiery, painful death? Sometimes. Mostly I just want them out of the way. I have bore witness to other ways of living than what we have here, and I'm about ready to actually be the person who receives the visit, rather than the visitor, on temporary leave from the chaos for semi-good behavior.

Anyone wanna take me in? I require somewhat more care than a houseplant, some what less than a puppy or an infant. I'm full of funny things to say, natural charm, barbed cynicism, and good taste in all things. The barbed cynicism would naturally diminish gradually, as I flourished under your care.

I am at a loss as to where my next stop on this green globe should be, though I know I don't much care for humidity. Hooray for long pants, jackets, and a cool breeze. At 47, I am in ways older than my years, beaten down by time; in another sense, I never developed internally past 19—and why should I?

As one can tell from the above, I'm through playing it cool, not being "too personal," 'cause that would be "TMI." I need, we all do, and yet we devote so much time to acting as though we don't; we're good, and everything's copacetic. I am fucking lost, and as much as I persevere and I get things done, the person inside is deeply unhappy and dissatisfied. It's this inner turmoil that grows, like a snake with no limits, into a pure, seething hatred of humanity—but that's not where I want to be, necessarily. There are other options, of course, but they require financing, and/or the "kindness of strangers."

Are you a kind stranger?

Until such an encounter drops from the sky, here I am—cutting through the populace like a thresher, cleaving the radio dial like a sabre to butter. I'll burn out fast, spontaneously combust, leave an admirable legacy, if you make me—but I could do SO MUCH MORE.


The heroes of our continuing saga this week were >>> Sissy Spacek, Violent Pink, Good Stuff House, Kjeld, Daniel Menche & Anla Courtis, Pregnant Spore, Andrew Quitter, Decimus and Demonologists. All relatively new releases, should be easy to look up, assuming one has an Internet connection and the will to research...I am so very weary of linking everything, and have even read that links within a blog article can distract from, and diminish, the key points, and the last thing I want to do is cheat myself out of a cool drink on YOUR porch, as a welcome breeze blows by.

It's far too late for the all-seeing eye in the windshield, but it will nonetheless take you to the archive and playlist for this week's horrorcast. Thanks again for listening.

Next week, not to be missed—Seed Stock Records co-hosts My Castle of Quiet, same bat time, and that's a hickory baseball bat, leaned protectively near the front door.

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