Songs of Lament

School's kinda starting to freak me the fuck out. Ugh. So much to do. I'll probably spend the remaining 14 hours of the day reading. Goddammit.

On a humorous note. My anthropology professor gave a fifty minute lecture today about why not to warm up your car. Hah.

School is seriously stressing me the fuck out, man. Seriously.

Fuuuuuuck....

Awake when the world turns over
you wait, hold your breath steady,
start the whole sky into the sky again
around a new day.

With your heart you could stop it-
not even breathe, make the birds
waiting for morning not wake.
It will happen. It has to. Some day.

Once upon a time, the captain and the mates of a ship grew so vain of their seamanship, so full of hubris and so impressed with themselves, that they went mad. They turned the ship north and sailed until they met with icebergs and dangerous floes, and they kept sailing north into more and more perilous waters, solely in order to give themselves opportunities to perform ever-more-brilliant feats of seamanship.

As the ship reached higher and higher latitudes, the passengers and crew became increasingly uncomfortable. They began quarreling among themselves and complaining of the conditions under which they lived.

"Shiver me timbers," said an able seaman, "if this ain't the worst voyage I've ever been on. The deck is slick with ice; when I'm on lookout the wind cuts through me jacket like a knife; every time I reef the foresail I blamed-near freeze me fingers; and all I get for it is a miserable five shillings a month!"

"You think you have it bad!" said a lady passenger. "I can't sleep at night for the cold. Ladies on this ship don't get as many blankets as the men. It isn't fair!"

A Mexican sailor chimed in: "¡Chingado! I'm only getting half the wages of the Anglo seamen. We need plenty of food to keep us warm in this climate, and I'm not getting my share; the Anglos get more. And the worst of it is that the mates always give me orders in English instead of Spanish."

"I have more reason to complain than anybody," said an American Indian sailor. "If the palefaces hadn't robbed me of my ancestral lands, I wouldn't even be on this ship, here among the icebergs and arctic winds. I would just be paddling a canoe on a nice, placid lake. I deserve compensation. At the very least, the captain should let me run a crap game so that I can make some money."

The bosun spoke up: "Yesterday the first mate called me a 'fruit' just because I suck cocks. I have a right to suck cocks without being called names for it!"

It's not only humans who are mistreated on this ship," interjected an animal-lover among the passengers, her voice quivering with indignation. "Why, last week I saw the second mate kick the ship's dog twice!"

One of the passengers was a college professor. Wringing his hands he exclaimed,

"All this is just awful! It's immoral! It's racism, sexism, speciesism, homophobia, and exploitation of the working class! It's discrimination! We must have social justice: Equal wages for the Mexican sailor, higher wages for all sailors, compensation for the Indian, equal blankets for the ladies, a guaranteed right to suck cocks, and no more kicking the dog!"

"Yes, yes!" shouted the passengers. "Aye-aye!" shouted the crew. "It's discrimination! We have to demand our rights!"

The cabin boy cleared his throat.

"Ahem. You all have good reasons to complain. But it seems to me that what we really have to do is get this ship turned around and headed back south, because if we keep going north we're sure to be wrecked sooner or later, and then your wages, your blankets, and your right to suck cocks won't do you any good, because we'll all drown."

But no one paid any attention to him, because he was only the cabin boy.

The captain and the mates, from their station on the poop deck, had been watching and listening. Now they smiled and winked at one another, and at a gesture from the captain the third mate came down from the poop deck, sauntered over to where the passengers and crew were gathered, and shouldered his way in amongst them. He put a very serious expression on his face and spoke thusly:

"We officers have to admit that some really inexcusable things have been happening on this ship. We hadn't realized how bad the situation was until we heard your complaints. We are men of good will and want to do right by you. But – well – the captain is rather conservative and set in his ways, and may have to be prodded a bit before he'll make any substantial changes. My personal opinion is that if you protest vigorously – but always peacefully and without violating any of the ship's rules – you would shake the captain out of his inertia and force him to address the problems of which you so justly complain."

Having said this, the third mate headed back toward the poop deck. As he went, the passengers and crew called after him, "Moderate! Reformer! Goody-liberal! Captain's stooge!" But they nevertheless did as he said. They gathered in a body before the poop deck, shouted insults at the officers, and demanded their rights: "I want higher wages and better working conditions," cried the able seaman. "Equal blankets for women," cried the lady passenger. "I want to receive my orders in Spanish," cried the Mexican sailor. "I want the right to run a crap game," cried the Indian sailor. "I don't want to be called a fruit," cried the bosun. "No more kicking the dog," cried the animal lover. "Revolution now," cried the professor.

The captain and the mates huddled together and conferred for several minutes, winking, nodding and smiling at one another all the while. Then the captain stepped to the front of the poop deck and, with a great show of benevolence, announced that the able seaman's wages would be raised to six shillings a month; the Mexican sailor's wages would be raised to two-thirds the wages of an Anglo seaman, and the order to reef the foresail would be given in Spanish; lady passengers would receive one more blanket; the Indian sailor would be allowed to run a crap game on Saturday nights; the bosun wouldn't be called a fruit as long as he kept his cocksucking strictly private; and the dog wouldn't be kicked unless he did something really naughty, such as stealing food from the galley.

The passengers and crew celebrated these concessions as a great victory, but the next morning, they were again feeling dissatisfied.

"Six shillings a month is a pittance, and I still freeze me fingers when I reef the foresail," grumbled the able seaman. "I'm still not getting the same wages as the Anglos, or enough food for this climate," said the Mexican sailor. "We women still don't have enough blankets to keep us warm," said the lady passenger. The other crewmen and passengers voiced similar complaints, and the professor egged them on.

When they were done, the cabin boy spoke up – louder this time so that the others could not easily ignore him:

"It's really terrible that the dog gets kicked for stealing a bit of bread from the galley, and that women don't have equal blankets, and that the able seaman gets his fingers frozen; and I don't see why the bosun shouldn't suck cocks if he wants to. But look how thick the icebergs are now, and how the wind blows harder and harder! We've got to turn this ship back toward the south, because if we keep going north we'll be wrecked and drowned."

"Oh yes," said the bosun, "It's just so awful that we keep heading north. But why should I have to keep cocksucking in the closet? Why should I be called a fruit? Ain't I as good as everyone else?"

"Sailing north is terrible," said the lady passenger. "But don't you see? That's exactly why women need more blankets to keep them warm. I demand equal blankets for women now!"

"It's quite true," said the professor, "that sailing to the north imposes great hardships on all of us. But changing course toward the south would be unrealistic. You can't turn back the clock. We must find a mature way of dealing with the situation."

"Look," said the cabin boy, "If we let those four madmen up on the poop deck have their way, we'll all be drowned. If we ever get the ship out of danger, then we can worry about working conditions, blankets for women, and the right to suck cocks. But first we've got to get this vessel turned around. If a few of us get together, make a plan, and show some courage, we can save ourselves. It wouldn't take many of us – six or eight would do. We could charge the poop, chuck those lunatics overboard, and turn the ship to the south."

The professor elevated his nose and said sternly, "I don't believe in violence. It's immoral."

"It's unethical ever to use violence," said the bosun.

"I'm terrified of violence," said the lady passenger.

The captain and the mates had been watching and listening all the while. At a signal from the captain, the third mate stepped down to the main deck. He went about among the passengers and crew, telling them that there were still many problems on the ship.

"We have made much progress," he said, "But much remains to be done. Working conditions for the able seaman are still hard, the Mexican still isn't getting the same wages as the Anglos, the women still don't have quite as many blankets as the men, the Indian's Saturday-night crap game is a paltry compensation for his lost lands, it's unfair to the bosun that he has to keep his cocksucking in the closet, and the dog still gets kicked at times.

"I think the captain needs to be prodded again. It would help if you all would put on another protest – as long as it remains nonviolent."

As the third mate walked back toward the stern, the passengers and the crew shouted insults after him, but they nevertheless did what he said and gathered in front of the poop deck for another protest. They ranted and raved and brandished their fists, and they even threw a rotten egg at the captain (which he skillfully dodged).

After hearing their complaints, the captain and the mates huddled for a conference, during which they winked and grinned broadly at one another. Then the captain stepped to the front of the poop deck and announced that the able seaman would be given gloves to keep his fingers warm, the Mexican sailor would receive wages equal to three-fourths the wages of an Anglo seaman, the women would receive yet another blanket, the Indian sailor could run a crap game on Saturday and Sunday nights, the bosun would be allowed to suck cocks publicly after dark, and no one could kick the dog without special permission from the captain.

The passengers and crew were ecstatic over this great revolutionary victory, but by the next morning they were again feeling dissatisfied and began grumbling about the same old hardships.

The cabin boy this time was getting angry.

"You damn fools!" he shouted. "Don't you see what the captain and the mates are doing? They're keeping you occupied with your trivial grievances about blankets and wages and the dog being kicked so that you won't think about what is really wrong with this ship –– that it's getting farther and farther to the north and we're all going to be drowned. If just a few of you would come to your senses, get together, and charge the poop deck, we could turn this ship around and save ourselves. But all you do is whine about petty little issues like working conditions and crap games and the right to suck cocks."

The passengers and the crew were incensed.

"Petty!!" cried the Mexican, "Do you think it's reasonable that I get only three-fourths the wages of an Anglo sailor? Is that petty?

"How can you call my grievance trivial? shouted the bosun. "Don't you know how humiliating it is to be called a fruit?"

"Kicking the dog is not a 'petty little issue!'" screamed the animal-lover. "It's heartless, cruel, and brutal!"

"Alright then," answered the cabin boy. "These issues are not petty and trivial. Kicking the dog is cruel and brutal and it is humiliating to be called a fruit. But in comparison to our real problem – in comparison to the fact that the ship is still heading north – your grievances are petty and trivial, because if we don't get this ship turned around soon, we're all going to drown.

"Fascist!" said the professor.

"Counterrevolutionary!" said the lady passenger. And all of the passengers and crew chimed in one after another, calling the cabin boy a fascist and a counterrevolutionary. They pushed him away and went back to grumbling about wages, and about blankets for women, and about the right to suck cocks, and about how the dog was treated. The ship kept sailing north, and after a while it was crushed between two icebergs and everyone drowned.

© Ted Kaczynski, 1999

I was going through my Myspace blog, and came across some shit I'd posted that I thought was pretty awesome. So I'm gonna post it on LiveJournal. This is my way of delaying the need to be creative. I'll post like one a day or so. Because they're sweet. Remember, some of them are kinda old and no longer relevant to my life anymore, but yeah. Whatever. Woo!

WHAT IN THE FUCK IS WITH PEOPLE KICKING YOUR FUCKING BIKE OVER ON THE BIKE RACK TO MAKE ROOM FOR THEIRS????!?!?! GRRR....

Seriously. How fucking difficult is it to gently maneuver their shit over a few inches, and gracefully slide yours in? Jesus Fuck.

If you have not seen The Unbearable Lightness of Being, I highly suggest that you check it out.  It's one of the most inspiring, sexy, sweeping, heartfelt, and otherwise moving films I've seen in some time.  It's really quite good.  It's one of those movies that makes you think about a lot of things for sustained amounts of time once it's over.  I think I'm going to look for the book (by Milan Kundera).  Really, 'tis amazing.  Take my word for it.

Also, on a completely different level of amazing altogether, the Butthole Surfers never disappoint.  "Rembrandt Pussyhorse" is a totally kickass album.

I wrote a song last night!  Well, basically.  The chorus needs some fine-tuning, but the melody and verses are done!  Woo!

Dancer In the Dark is the saddest damn thing I've ever seen.  I adored it.

1. Top thick slices of country bread with fresh goat cheese. Sprinkle with herbs and bake until crusty; serve to everyone but Jeff.

2. Vegetarian friends? Try veggie rumaki: wrap a strip of imitation bacon around a water chestnut, spear with a toothpick, and broil—but instead of imitation bacon use real bacon, and instead of a water chestnut use veal.

3. Steal Cheryl’s famous potato-salad recipe. When Cheryl asks, “Why did you steal my recipe?,” say, “I don’t know, Cheryl, why did you break my heart?” Then laugh so she knows you’re just kidding.

4. Blend fresh crabmeat with diced avocado, scallions, and a dollop of mayonnaise for a canapé topping so delicious that it will take your guests a full minute to realize that they’re eating it off dog biscuits. Once they catch on, act mortified and stammer that you must have “mixed up the boxes,” until everyone calms down. Then start crying because the biscuits remind you that today marks exactly eight weeks since you had to put down Buster, and you just miss him so much.

5. Tell Marissa that you appreciate her concern, but in the two years since Cheryl broke off the engagement you’ve grown up a lot, and you’re really in a much healthier place now. Then say, “Speaking of fiancés, how’s Peter’s alcoholism?” (Note: This is not technically an appetizer.)

6. For a taste of the U.K., fry up mini-servings of fish-and-chips. Take it to the next level by wrapping them in small pieces of newspaper, which, oddly enough, all seem to be printed with unfavorable reviews of Jeff ’s novel.

7. Have you ever noticed how sun-dried tomatoes and top-grade peyote look exactly the same? Not a suggestion, really. Just saying.

8. Another one for the vegetarians. If they think they like tofu, wait until they sample your delicious mock tofu—all you need is chicken fat, puréed pork loin, and five cups of piping-hot tallow. Cheryl will never know the difference.

9. Tempura makes great finger food, and the batter locks the flavor of just about anything in a savory, opaque crust. Impress your friends with creative choices, from squash blossoms to mislaid car keys to the two-carat engagement ring that Cheryl gave back to you after she “reassessed things.” Surprise!

10. Guests getting antsy? Head them off with a big bowl of steamed mussels. No one can resist mussels, not even emotionally stunted ex-fiancées and their new poorly-received-novelist boyfriends. Besides, disappearing into the kitchen will give you a chance to collect your thoughts and also to go slash Jeff ’s tires.

11. Homemade sugared almonds make the perfect sendoff, sure to please all your guests, even the ones who would be bludgeoning you with a tire iron if Peter weren’t standing between you. Good old Peter. He may not be the brightest or the handsomest person, but he’s very large.

12. As the party disperses, your guests might seem a little ungrateful, calling you an obsessive sociopath or pelting you with sugared almonds. Don’t worry, it’s probably the peyote talking. Just stand on the porch as their cars pull out, your eyes brimming with tears, and shout, “You know, I try, I really do . . .”

13. Add, “My dog died! He died! And he’s never coming back!”

14. Hepatitis! (Note: This is not technically an appetizer.)

Hahaha, I'm using LiveJournal.  That's funny to me.

Goddamn.... So, I just went back and deleted a bunch of fucking crazy shit outof this thing.  That was really intense looking back at how fucking nuts I was.... almost embarrasingly so.  Wow.  Thanks for putting up with me back then.  Jesus.  If me two years ago came up to me now, me now would probably slap the shit out of him.

Aww... people should use LiveJournal again.  I forgot that Myspace still does suck.  And Myspace blogs are GAY.

Hello, LiveJournal.  It's been a long time.  Nobody uses this bloody site anymore, I see.  It's probably for the better....

Not much is new.  Life is altogether meaningless lately.  And I don't really mind.  And that kills me more than anything.  That I cannot feel the grey shroud of lifelessness engulfing me.  It sucks.  My emotions are muted.  I am having trouble caring about things. 

In other news, life drags on as usual.  Work is a bitch.  That girl still haunts every corner of my mind.

I need a break.

There is a sort of subdued pandemonium in the air, a note of repressed violence, as if the awaited explosion required the advent of some utterly minute detail, something microscopic but thoroughly unpremeditated, completely unexpected. In that sort of half-reverie which permits one to participate in an event and yet remain quite aloof, the little detail which was lacking began obscurely but insistently to coagulate, to assume a freakish, crystalline form, like the frost which gathers on the windowpane. And like those frost patterns which seem so bizarre, so utterly free and fantastic in design, but which are nevertheless determined by the most rigid laws, so this sensation which commenced to take form inside me seemed also to be giving obedience to ineluctable laws. My whole being was responding to the dictates of an ambiance which it had never before experienced, that which I could call myself seemed to be contracting, condensing, shrinking from the stale, customary boundaries of the flesh whose perimeter knew only the modulations of the nerve ends.

And the more substantial, the more solid the core of me became, the more delicate and extravagant appeared the close, palpable reality out of which I was being squeezed. In the measure that I became more and more metallic, in the same measure the scene before my eyes became inflated. The state of tension was so finely drawn now that the introduction of a single particle, even a microscopic particle, as I say, would have shattered everything. For the fraction of a second perhaps I experienced that utter clarity which the epileptic, it is said, is given to know. In that moment I lost completely the illusion of time and space: the world unfurled its drama simultaneously along a meridian which had no axis. In this sort of hair-trigger eternity I felt that everything was justified, supremely justified; I felt the wars inside me that had left behind this pulp and wrack; I felt the crimes that were seething here to emerge tomorrow in blatant screamers; I felt the misery that was grinding itself out with pestle and mortar, the long dull misery that dribbles away in dirty handkerchiefs. On the meridian of time there is no injustice: there is only the poetry of motion creating the illusion of truth and drama. If at any moment anywhere one comes face to face with the absolute, that great sympathy which makes men like Gautama and Jesus seem divine freezes away; the monstrous thing is not that men have created roses out of this dung heap, but that, for some reason of other, they should want roses. For some reason or other man looks for the miracle, and to accomplish it he will wade through blood. He will debauch himself with ideas, he will reduce himself to a shadow if only for one second of his life he can close his eyes to the hideousness of reality. Everything is endured- disgrace, humiliation, poverty, war, crime, ennui- in the belief that overnight something will occur, a miracle, which will render life tolerable. And all the while a meter is running inside and there is no hand that can reach in there and shut it off. All the while someone is eating the bread of life and drinking the wine, some dirty fat cockroach of a priest who hides away in the cellar guzzling it, while up above in the light of the street a phantom host touches the lips and the blood is pale as water. And out of the endless torment and misery no miracle comes forth, no microscopic vestige even of relief. Only ideas, pale, attenuated ideas which have to be fattened by slaughter; ideas which come forth like bile, like the guts of a pig when the carcass is ripped open.

Henry Miller ~ Tropic of Cancer

What the Hell happened to LiveJournal? Nobody uses it anymore... :(

So, I'm pretty sure this job is mine. I just need to keep harassing the man in charge. All of the employees want me to work here, but the boss is kind of an asshead. They're all telling me to just keep showing up every morning, and that I'll probably get hired.

I may be helping my uncle paint his house in Bend, OR.

Tommy is, without a doubt, the all-time greatest Who album of all fucking time.

I'm so tired. No sleep last night. I'm gonna try and get some real sleep tonight I think.

I may have gotten a job as a barrista in a cafe in SE Portland. Hurrah.

Elvis Costello makes me happy. Thank you, Eldon. :)

Hello, all. I am currently kicking it in San Francisco (East Bay Area).... lots of cool people, coffee shops, music... I am currently sitting in the World Grounds Cafe, drinking chokingly strong coffee, and missing the smoking patio at the cafe in Tucson.

Spent all of last night hanging out with a good friend from years ago. Funny how little meetings like that affect you. One word: cosmic. Takes me back to another time....

I've been sleeping in the car just out of convenience. The weather here is fucking fantastic-- sleeping in my car has never felt so comfortable.

I will update more, but for now, I must attend to all those life-affirming visions I've been trying to harness.

Parking in San Francisco is a psychological torture game.

The Taurus hasn't broken down yet. In case you were wondering....

I miss you guys.

Next update..... Portland.

"The Way It Will Be" ~ William Stafford

Awake when the world turns over
you wait, hold your breath steady,
start the whole sky into the sky again
around a new day.

With your heart you could stop it-
not even breathe, make the birds
waiting for morning not wake.
It will happen. It has to. Some day.

"Somewhere between watching a rerun of "Gilligan's Island" and being branded with a hot poker is a torment called anal pain."

This is a quote from a medical advisory website. No joke.

Worked with Rhino over at the El Conquistador today. Then closed the cafe. And soon I'll have a third job involving costume and acting and theater shit. Which should be fun. Three fucking jobs.... Jesus Christ. Whatever, I could use the money.

Been running every day, and I feel worlds better than I have in a long time.

Everything's kinda surreal right now, I barely slept this past week, and I'm looking forward to a solid eight hours or so tonight. W00t.

'Night.