'not everybody is absolutely stupid.’ —Morrissey
so, earlier this week, I had this total rant about the song Meat is Murder. and now I feel kind of weird about it. because I don’t actually hate it. but I kind of panic about the cow noises (which—okay—is totally the intention). and the logic void between ‘death for no reason is murder’ and therefore meat is murder is totally distracting.
I have a lot of philosophies and issues regarding human/animal stuff, and I’m working through them. number one. number one. I don’t understand how people believe that there is actually a difference, that there is something fundamental and innate that separates humans and animals. idek.
this song … we abuse animals in so many ways, in so many industries … by just existing, being dominant, and taking up space. constructs of human existence as we know them are predicated on animal abuse (which is ‘justified’ by our ability to engage in it).
regardless of whether or not you eat animals: by participating in society, you validate a context in which meat isn’t murder. I don’t know what that means. it certainly doesn’t mean ‘stop trying to do nice shit’.
this is a really big thought and more than my head is able to process just now.
back when being a library meant housing a collection of books.
back when you could hide on a windowsill at the end of a row of bookshelves. when you could sit so still that the lights would go off and you could be alone and silent at at peace with Berger or Vasari or Bourdieu.
well now there aren’t so many books and I sit in the entrance in one of the chairs with arms so long that you are trapped, cross-legged at the desk. but the soap in the bathrooms is hot pink. superbly.
gar. my life right now threatens flat and tumbles and Morrissey. the same places the same promises. doing the same thing but expecting a different result. these are typical symptoms of one of my frequent Smiths binges…
sometimes listening to the Smiths is what I imagine dealing with a drug addiction must be like.
in the beginning it makes you feel good, but gradually it leaves you numb. the longer you do it, the more you want to and the less you feel you can stop. nothing else in your music library gives you quite the same kick.
but eventually you must stop.
otherwise you kill yourself.
and so I will ignore the tumbles and remember to be made of sunshine. and to define myself.
these are the things I am looking forward to:
not eating meat; the next gin and tonic; learning Spanish with Biko; money for words; art show; playing with new camera; the air near my fingers; haircut; full-time employment; wine with cheese and company; sleeping through the night; buying a new bike with wheels that go all the way around; saving to travel through Russia in the winter and then defrost in Spain; finding a heroin to ease my Smiths withdrawal; new Foals; arms in the night; understanding myself; running away to live in Edinburgh; the things I cannot think of or plan for
so I’ll start with the job. the job. and then the rest can fall into place. as they said in the good old days of mind maze:
you are a master of your own destiny: choose a door and a question will appear.
and oh dear I saw Mitchell in Civic today. he even checked me out. practically flashed some fang. I love it when the general public is complicit in my fantasy. (that’s an in-joke…)
and another thing. I wish people wouldn’t put massive clowns in their front yards. I’m scared of them and I’m sick of them.
tryhard. but it never seems to come back. fuck karma.
still. made of sunshine.
I have the prints from my asahi. first I revelled and now I can’t look again. because it is as if the lens is my lens and its inability to focus on both the person in the foreground and the person behind them is my own. and I wish that they documented a vision to which the world would have to conform and twist. but art and time and reality never seem to merge, except in my mind. and to see it physical and visual makes my heart break. and I am sick of heart break. so I threw three pictures into the bin at the breakwater as if it was a release. because they said only how change comes like a fucking heatwave and you can’t avoid it or escape it or ignore it. it seeps into you so completely that you can’t remember what it was like to need the covers pulled up all night, or have another body twisted protectively around your own. it seeps into me so completely that I can’t understand my own thoughts or remember how it was I thought them. and here are 21 high-colour, matte testaments to a freedom that I don’t know how to reclaim.
forgive me my opinion, gainfully unemployed as I am…but I have had a job in the past.
apparently, on average, Australians work an hour a day overtime. in the article, Josh Fear (a research fellow at the Australia Institute) claims that “it’s not immediately obvious why [workers] do that…why they would work an extra hour a day?”
I don’t know what the Australia Institute is like as an employer. but I wonder. if you don’t get your work done, you aren’t doing your job. regardless of how realistic it is that work gets done within set work hours. I’d rather work an extra hour a day than loose my hypothetical job.