i'm not sure exaclty why i am writing this, to be honest its been awhile since i last wrote something that wasn't slapdashed and pieced together from broken pottery off my hard wood floor. its been awhile, things do change but it seems like they don't usually change latterally as people want to believe, but change in all sorts of angles and projections, inside, upside, thru the walls and down into the now almost frosty ground.
i guess i got inspired, jack has done it again, him and his excommunicated "Beat" label have just takin me and my mind on a trip down all too familiar streets. but the streets (like life i seem to have thought up just in the last sentence) doesn't move very linearly, and my path isn't the same as jacks. i can't type out or its just not very fashionable (thats the word) long, unendless ribbons of uncoinciousness on typewritter paper, dirtying my room up with secluded, intruded, uprooted semiconciousness jabber, rather i write, or type on a black and white and blue keyboard, on a machine whose only limits are the amount of memory that can be given to the non-flickering glowing screen. i'll never need to put new paper in, my parchment roll can fit a thousand books stored in my shaky hand, so the extend of my writing now has nothing to do with spacial capacities of the outsiode world, but of the breath my mind wants to blow.
am i coming out as a ti-jean incarnate a ti-jean wannabe or just another admirerer to someone thats own work lead to his destruction? but i'm not him, nor will i ever be one of his road trip adventures, in a jazz joint at 3 in the morning litening to the people going "yes yes yes" and nodding to the ubiquitous beat. the world has twisted and convoluted straight down as far as i'm concerned and the adventures so permisquous to the beats are now just a starting point to even richer tastes of food of the gods, too strong as to permit anything but total submission to the chemical, the materialistics the self indulgent desires.
perhaps i look at that and care not to take part on any, but to find my wind from the bottom of my feet to pick me up from drab with little push from anything unatural as to be sterile, because it seems as a culture is as trite as , been there, done that and our attitude is to try to emulate what we see and not to further investigate the ideas and logical but to follow both the main road and the road less traveled, as the latter isn't much more than a shade of the first, its hard to see the difference, if you don't investigate it at about 6 or 7 in your mourning. but it can be the summer solstist and the duality is as hard as the pavement is midnight. i don't know where the new "generation" is going or coming or leaving. every scrap of new is just too easily packaged to fit under my christmas tree the moment it is lit, and i'm that person who wets their fingers and sizzles the flame, but without any light i have trouble finding my`matches. it helps sometimes to go back to the flint and steal and then mutate and shape to the burning fetishes of todays world. but how far back do i have to go? hasn't every style symbolized by my parents and their parents been emulated to the point where right now, no one is really sure which style and trend happened first.
and no one cares cause it comes all back to the jingle (or lack of jingle) in my pocket, the check on the first and fifteenth, the icon that symbolizes security and accomplishment and that very one thing that i cannot except as the root of it all, but lying to myself about the world that has surrounded my insides doesn't make it go away, as the child thinks turning on the lights will repent the serpent (or alien as its now fashionable to procreate). but we'll never be quick enough to turn on the honesty of 6 billion people to see the fault, and starting a circut in one end might just burn out another one across the our very fine house.
it seems that i trip alot on the idea but i never fall, i don't get too far before something else makes me turn back in whiplash to examine my ideologies and erase the mistake i made, not to submit but to start over to figure this world out all again. but what is ther to figure out? that the world isn't what i exaclty invision? is it what anyone invisioned? maybe god-
well maybe your god had the audacity to try something a bit different this time, a bit tired of the critical and planned and just took what was on the superficial floor, sweeped it up and throw it into the trash i'm now within with the reast of you and humanity.
but its a plasmatic world, i don't wear checkered shirts and work boots, and don't feel the need to instigate that much of a quest in idolarity in some frenchy drunk. i can listen to punk on the street of boulder colorado and pick up the beats of that, punk coming from blues and therefore, holy in americanism, or unamericanism as it turns out, the genre turns its back on what it comes from and splits the wound of its mother in hopes others of similar frustration will do the same switched oedipus act. but blues wouldn't be blues without its cousin jazz and i still get confused at the record store looking for a miles davis jazz cd entitled "a kind of blue" cause they both give me the same feeling, but blues in the form of street punk, anyone can play and in that way is more like just writing with a pencil and paper, they're aren't much rules, but DIY and make it sincere, cause it just gets blotted and incomplete if you read from a thesaurus, and as long as i'm sincere, something i just wanted to scribble down like today, full of errs will resist being called a comedy.
