A Vacant Dance
November 2014
It’s not serious. It’s privileged. A waste. Fraught with barely pubescent thinking and the hypocrisy of a 14-year-old girl. Mom, I hate you. What time is dinner? Well asshole, all it needs to be is sincere. And that’s what we’re doing. What we’re living. That’s what we are. We are our reality, whatever that happens to be. Well, what is this? We humans are disgustingly linguistic - thanks for reminding me - we castrate the fruit of our minds out of desperation to get outside of them. Making love to label makers. Where has the power to arrest the senses - as Harald Szeemann said - gone? Blood lust. Lay waste. Attach jumper cables to nipples. Resuscitate. That sounds an awful lot like murder. Good observation. It is. If you aren’t already dying. You think we are? You think things are that bad? We’re dying? Yes. Check your pulse. It’s lagging. It’s so slow you can’t keep the rhythm. The rhythm is gone. There’s nothing to tap a toe to nowadays. There’s no reason to dance. I dance. Yeah, without a purpose. A dance of nihilism. This will be the contribution we’re remembered for. In a hundred years almost everything of today will be available on demand in the highest of definitions. And all that will tie it together - our then ancient bundle of splinters - will be that dance. That pointlessness. That nihilism. Our flailing movements we justify with the idea that there’s no meaning to be found except for in the vacancy of it all. Unless. Unless what? Unless we make our meaning. Inject each other with more than Botox, apathy, and full frontal nudity - the ails and elixirs of our age. I can agree there. We pray and masturbate with the same hands. And the same mind is behind each act. Mental health problems abound. We’re sicker than we know. Does it matter which cable goes on which nipple? I don’t think so. Not at this point.
November 2014
It’s not serious. It’s privileged. A waste. Fraught with barely pubescent thinking and the hypocrisy of a 14-year-old girl. Mom, I hate you. What time is dinner? Well asshole, all it needs to be is sincere. And that’s what we’re doing. What we’re living. That’s what we are. We are our reality, whatever that happens to be. Well, what is this? We humans are disgustingly linguistic - thanks for reminding me - we castrate the fruit of our minds out of desperation to get outside of them. Making love to label makers. Where has the power to arrest the senses - as Harald Szeemann said - gone? Blood lust. Lay waste. Attach jumper cables to nipples. Resuscitate. That sounds an awful lot like murder. Good observation. It is. If you aren’t already dying. You think we are? You think things are that bad? We’re dying? Yes. Check your pulse. It’s lagging. It’s so slow you can’t keep the rhythm. The rhythm is gone. There’s nothing to tap a toe to nowadays. There’s no reason to dance. I dance. Yeah, without a purpose. A dance of nihilism. This will be the contribution we’re remembered for. In a hundred years almost everything of today will be available on demand in the highest of definitions. And all that will tie it together - our then ancient bundle of splinters - will be that dance. That pointlessness. That nihilism. Our flailing movements we justify with the idea that there’s no meaning to be found except for in the vacancy of it all. Unless. Unless what? Unless we make our meaning. Inject each other with more than Botox, apathy, and full frontal nudity - the ails and elixirs of our age. I can agree there. We pray and masturbate with the same hands. And the same mind is behind each act. Mental health problems abound. We’re sicker than we know. Does it matter which cable goes on which nipple? I don’t think so. Not at this point.