all I want in ever (just now) is to be some place with fairy lights and boys wearing Morrissey, where they serve the Cure and we can dance and love and create awesome things. and then, to go home and get some sleep.
stained glass windows keep the cold outside while the hypocrites hide inside …
'Economic injustices, including ”the hoarding of goods on a great scale”, may create “a climate of growing hostility and even violence, and ultimately undermine the very foundations of democratic institutions”.'
stuck in that place where she’d look at her feet and pull all the shapes, because she wants everyone to be happy. but the DJ is some dick truck driver they found in the restroom. and there’s not much left. hardly much left.
she’s an isolating kind of intensity. and it’s not like she could’ve healed them all anyway. so she breaks her soul.
because there’s nothing so democratic as middle-class white kids protesting for the rights of everybody-except-like-Andrew-Forrest-and-Rupert-Murdoch (is he even an Australian resident for tax purposes?)
the worst is that discourse surrounding the Occupy protests (even in Australia) explores some important stuff (particularly the reality and limit of our representative democracy) … but this is totally overwhelmed—even weakened—by the patent naivety, or arrogance, of the central message.
that said, I enjoy the 1/99% line, and am glad they didn’t let Australia-having-demographic-stats-all-of-its-own get in the way of adopting it. think of all the memes that might not have been generated. it’s flawed, of course, as it addresses statistics over philosophy (if 1% of the population is evil-and-all-that, it doesn’t follow that 99% are blameless victims.)
and, I totally understand, because only-having-an-iPhone-3 and not-being-able-to-afford-gig-tickets are absolutely signs that someone is in serious need.
it’s neither the depth of prose, nor the brilliance of idea.
we are misdiagnosed, misprescribed, misinterpreted. there is a gap. we fill it with dreams. we fill it with caffeine and sugar and desire. we fill it with alcohol, with emotion. we sustain ourselves with stimulants.
there is no method in this, no ritual.
there is no future in it. but, hopeless, we hope.
we sustain ourselves with stimulants. stimulants like love.
you can live of chocolate soy milk and falafels, right?
because that’s all I’m eating for the rest of forever.
that, and gin and strawberries and those heart lollies with the dumb phrases on them.
been lusting over Other People’s bikes all day. and planning an EPIC POST. and my tattoo. and this mad zine. and rearranging my room. and finding Gimlet’s taste in music. and—oh yeah—that uni work thing.