What does it mean that I appear, exactly as I looked about 4 years ago, in this video for 'Travolta (quote, unquote) by Mr. Bungle, at 02:04, then again at 1:23? I'm not kidding, It's fucking me.
I thought it clearly must be a cosmic message, so i checked up on the lyrics.
All behold the spectacle A fleshy limbless rectangle Sitting on a pedestal So nasal handicapable
Sniff and remember silver ball Contortions that he can't recall The torso on a trampoline The happiness melts into dream
To talk is an enunciated sneeze To taste is some foul air to breathe
One thought it lasts a day and at that rate he'll most likely live forever! He's a bird in flight, a hermaphrodite And he fucks himself as he fucks the world
His twitching brain can dance within Gyrating more like gelatin A secret means of ecstasy Acute and very olfactory
To see is colors crawling in the nose To hear is stinking highs and lows
He's got an itch but nothing with which to scratch the itch - so wish it away
With his mouth sewn shut, he still shakes his butt Cuz he's Hitler & Swayze & Trump & Travolta
Smell, Sweat, Movement. Everyone's dancing. Disco. Dimple. Fading. Darker. A subtle fragrance. Faint. Everyone's dancing without him. Where did it go? Dark. Odorless. Nothing.
Adulthood, what they call 'Maturity' is all about the irreversable. You're not really a grown up till there's no way back. That's why batchelors over a certain age, childless women and R.E. Teachers all share a certain desperate, indeterminate over-enthusiasm, while the rest of us are consigned to the tranquility of resignation. Once you have no choice, life becomes a lot simpler, and so do you.
Sorry, friends, for my recent reticence... after a tricky few months at the end of last year we're back on track. Them witchy Alabama 3 enthusiasts will, I hope, be pleased to know that after being apperently dead in the water this time last year we've snatced some kind of victory from the jaws of defeat, and somehow managed to record the best album we've done in 10 years. Paradoxically the most lush, overproduced record we've ever done has been made on the smallest budget we've ever had (A trifling £50K). We're playing a few festivals over the next month or so, then we tour in September. Anyone wanting a squeeze for any of these gigs (or just wanting a squeeze) don't hesitate to ask. LJ users get special prority. The dates are on the new, re - tarted A3 website. I've also started a woblag, as I believe they're called, on the same electronic interwebpostspace:
I have some friends.... at least I think they're friends, although i never actually speak to them... you could say we inhabit the same plane. Or our worlds intersect. But there is an important difference betwen their world and mine. In their world ( the world of the friends who I never actually see ), apparently you can fly and cast magic spells! You can travel through time! My friends are warriors... they fight with axes and wands. I admire them. They weave spells by means of strange dancing. They are mystical choreographers. Perhaps it sounds silly, but its alright... it's just a game: they don't really mean it... Or do they? They seem to take it so seriously... it's confusing. Do they even exist? Maybe it's just a side affect of my medication... x
Tell my family about swans. Give up girls. Become a better faliure. Drink four glasses of courtney every day. Backup my cronemberg regularly. Admit my true feelings to 3_nic.
Those who like to inhabit The Realm of The Flush and The Flop might want to keep the evening of the 19th December free, when I will be hosting a poker table for Maud's end of show party at the Horse Hospital. Flamboyant clothing is mandatory, especially along the lines of Wild Frontiersmen and Calamitous Jane. Stakes will be civilized (I cant speak for the conversation or the clientele).
London is burning. Cut the atmosphere with a knifie.
I've been living in london on and off for nearly 20 years... but i've never known this kind of pressure. There used to be places to hide... or is it me?
Apologies everyone for my prolonged silence... ever since the print my Father gave me of St Eustace lept off a shelf with glass smashed to smithereens on the floor, I've been dogged by misfortune. The print features St Eustace being visited by Christ in the form of a stag in the forest. Any of you brilliant amateur theologins who feel like offering a spiritual diagnosis please feel free. God knows I need advice. As far as I can work out, the implication of this rather crass omen is that i am to be boiled alive inside a giant brass pig, which, i just can't feel good about, whatever spin I put on it.
like ramonaramone, I have also forsworn alcohol and narcotics for a month. It's Just an experiment... I'm only playing with sanity. I get up at 8.00 am, meditate, work on the flat all day, cook, then work on music on my computer till about 3.00 am. I'm fully aware that this behaviour is a form of psychological avoidance, symptomatic of some mid - life flavoured crisis.
(which seems to share all the chatacteristics of every other nebulous climacteric i've endured since i was 12.)
That's what middle-aged men do. Thats's all theyre allowed to do. except for most of them its the other way round; they sit at computer all day and work on the flat all evening. And they drink. Not me; my mood is genrally placid, punctuated by sudden angst and swearing. I drink massive amounts of water. I look like shit. I visit a Tibetan shrine in Waterloo and stare at a golden Buddha for an hour...As i breathe deeply, It's shadow turns into a pair of enourmous breasts and It's black hairpiece into a policeman's helmet.
The band that's kept me out of work for the past ten years is collapsing... theres no money left to pay our wages. My attenuated adolescence may have worn thin. The Buddha said "the universe will provide". It certainly provided for the tiger that killed and ate him. x
This morning I woke up at 10 am and thought to myself 'the last 10 years of my life have been a complete waste of time.' I opened a phone bill for £184 pounds and an electricity bill for £132. I had a cup of black cofee, got the Independent magazine and read an article about a north Korean concentration camp. I tried to learn how to play 'I am the Walrus' on the piano, then watched sadomasochistic porography on the internet for two hours. Then i went to the Tate Modern, sat on a leather sofa and did some buddhist meditation. I looked at some Soviet Russian propoganda, then i went back to the flat and ate an egg. Later on i called my not-quite-appropriately young Irish girlfriend on the telephone and discovered she's been seeing someone else behind my back. God. She's been secretly going to Mass on sundays. I asked her what she was up to tomorrow, and it just slipped out. I'm not sure what the implications of this development are, but its disturbing. I'm not kidding. tomorrow I'm going to ask her how long she's been seeing this 'supreme being'. And she'll tell me that its not a serious thing, he's just a friend, it's not a physical relationship...
After the gig Olivier, the red-haired Austrian violinist looked me straight in the eye and said 'tell me, have you ever worked with contemporary dancers?' I didn't know weather to smile demurely or punch his fucking lights out. 'er....no...not really...i mean... i dont think so...w...why do you ask?' he giggled and said" well...it's just that you seem so...free" "my girlfriend works in contemporary dance" he added with a conspiratorial smile" he was quite a charming boy...we exchanged numbers. x
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