Staring At The Sea

You can scan through your brain, past the short-term memories; what you ate most recently, the source of the intermittent high-pitched noises on a local pedestrian street, the number of times you stared at that same photo (for the record, 17) longing for someone while you're supposed to be doing something else. You can get caught up in a melody or a rhythm and lose all track of time, and then as soon as you think you're getting somewhere you look around and forget everything that's just happened. The simulacrum of the internet promises nothing more than what it is, a pooling of information, while you might spy a baroque soliloquy on plateauing you could also click on the links within that article and tune out.

I recently read Tom Wolfe's "The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test" for the first time recently; I think I understand why it's so goddamn highly recommended by everyone, and my mom; Wolfe was never on the bus, but he understood what it meant, and that it couldn't be expressed with words, that's some shit. There is a critical moment when Kesey and co. go to Berkeley, California for a serious anti-war rally/march in to Oakland. His takeaway message for the bright-eyed left-leaning youths of yesteryear? "Fuck it." Couldn't agree more, at some point we have got to all say, "fuck it", if we're ever going to get out of this crisis mode bullshit.

As far as I can tell, repackaging is the crux of America's ascendancy and probably it's rebirth in this time of tumult.

Fill My Heart

So, why stop a good thing?

I rambled yesterday about the merits of dropping one's pretensions about the perceived coolness of music, and in that vein, attempting to embrace the randomness/emptiness of discovery.

With that in mind, why not listen to some Bob Zimmerman?

John Wesley Harding was the last album Bob Dylan released before breaking his neck in a motorcycle accident that for some reason revealed the beauty of christian grace from the bleakness of his hospital bed. BOORING, but at least this is a good listen.

I just finally noticed how many songs are described in his early catalogs as dreams, fucking cool.



BD-JWH

A slight sigh of blessed relief

Hooray David Brooks.