Here is the first five in a collection of videos I recommend watching in a consciousness as close to the mind of a dog as possible. See if you can cultivate a state of consciousness where, while being aware that there is something being SHOWN to you and something to look at, you're not able to process it on the level of language, information, content, etc. If you can't summon that up naturally, try watching these immediately after waking up, or after sitting and staring at the wall for a few hours, or while very very sick, or after taking pyschoactive drugs, or while gray-skinned aliens examine every orifice of your body. I also recommend trying to watch these without judgement (moral judgement, qualitative judgement, and so on).
Maybe you'll find that other realities emerge from these videos! Everything you think you know can leave you, and then the stuff that rushes in to fill that empty space creates strange, wonderful worlds of screaming snails and incomprehensible languages, and weird weird weird faces and horrifying laughter.
In a few weeks now CNN and The New York Times will declare the end of a decade, the BBC will dream demons in our clots: the towers and MJ and pig warriors taking out recyled cans of tuna fish from poopy grannies diapered along fluorescent corridors and wars and graphs of melting icebergs from pamphleteers preaching to funky college kids and the coronation of Saint Barry and the ratfaced Rahm Emmanuel and Hillary Clinton's cunt and insufferable commentary about the role of women in Muslim society all reduced to viral videos to send to your friends on the other moons with your free mobile phone!
We'll see it all very soon! The end of a decade! Countdowns and top ten lists!
This is called "Paris 2030", it's a variation on a theme (Paris 2020). Recorded live at the Odéon Theater with a surprise celebrity appearance by Hallis Chinkyfat!
And this is the music they sing in church in the Paris of 2020. God is dead and they're all huddled together in the sewers while the world explodes singing "Babe, it's alright, I know...".
My submission to Le Monde newspaper's "Paris 2020" competition, describing my dream of the Paris of the future. Foreign language entries are welcome and a few will be both included in their original form and carefully translated into French by Le Monde staffers eager to share visions from around the world of Paris as it was, as it is, and as it will be.
Higher and higher the towers of the shrieking spinsters weaving a world of bone and chalk and all of it still flesh screaming louder still in the exquisite brightness of the purple searchlights cutting even the tendril spaces between the shadows of taloned angels ripping up the first layers of the earth to reveal colosseums and let out the yawning maggots rolling their eyes on porcelain thrones sitting shitting out cuts of alien cows ruminating on marsian flowers and watching themselves in trick mirrors while the purple spotlights laugh at them in the comfort of smokey rooms where hairnets chase butterflies from the heads of painted spinsters shrieking profane wisdom down into the maggot sewers and under the shining darkness of purple flashlights scratching it on the walls of stone theaters where once they dreamed together of what they never could have dreamed of this the maggot butterflies blasting spunk across the spongey archipelego here and there hitting land and planting the seeds of more flesh and bone and chalk until again the hatching larvae slobber at each other unborn across islands and every day a colosseum is pulled from the dynamite tunnels of a new metro line.
I want to make an album called "Songs For Children From Mars" full of sloppy, noisy stuff like this.
I fucking love hearing a harpischord jamming with an out of tune 3/4 size acoustic guitar! I can't sit still in my seat listening to this kind of thing. You need headphones for this, it won't work coming out of computer speakers.
some boys you know they'll love you a lot boys they'll love you just the way you're not but that's alright with me cause me girl i love you just the way you are girl i love you like i love the stars they're bright enough for me some boys they'll tell you that you're out of key boys they'll tell you that your lost the beat but that's alright with me cause i know it's painted with unnumbered sparks girl spitting out across the dark there's light enough for me some day they'll talk you into doing it their way they'll talk you into being scared afraid of you want to be but me girl i think i love you enough girl enough for the both of us and that's enough for me
Here it is as just an instrumental song, so without the oppresive vocals. I might try a third version to reconcile the musical stuff and the screaming.
Yesterday, after 23 days of keeping them warm and taking care of them, my chicken eggs hatched! 4 goddamn little chickens. It was very wonderful to see them hatch. They've been stumbling around in confusion and screaming for almost 24 hours now, which I'm told is normal. Life, apparently, is hell. Today we're going to try to talk a hen into adopting them. Woe. Yesterday I also drove (!!) to a very beautiful place, an island called Åkerö with rocky beaches and forests.
An old man forgetting to bend his knees misses the log and drives the axe into his ankle. It's stuck in there real nice and he can't fiddle it out. He decides to walk back to the house and let Ruth try to fiddle with it. "Damnit, Ralph," says Ruth. "It's stuck in there real nice." She's his wife. He suggests they call Randy. It's one of those rare September days when it still feels like summer. But you've already tasted autumn and you know these days won't last forever. The whole thing has such a sadness to it! Among the first things that Randy says when he arrives is, "Shucks, you're both made of wood." He's the neighbor, a broad brush stroke of a man who helps them with chores from time to time. The things nobody knows about Randy: you could write a book. Ralph and Ruth discover to their astonishment that they're both made of wood. Moreover, enormous taxidermied fish with glazed eyes are floating across the sky like slow-motion darts, silently drowning the world in shadow.
Why I sleep 'pon hard-cold floor? Pardon me, I forget all memwry. Your indulgins please to hear my pleas? My memwry's naught, so have I forgot my meaning and intent in these, my most unfortun'd cot.
Is not true there lie this warm-soft bed beside me? Is not this bed of greater comfyrt? So it is, and YET do I lie, as a dog does lie or as a man such as I am (is steve) does lie, 'pon stone floor! Is smell badly these floor, in addition to.
Woe, do I FORGET myself? Why, glory be, I not place my steve (is me) 'pon where 'tis soft and fluff? Who I think I am, hey?! Noble Monk-Fellow of defy all comfort?! Bloody martyr of renounce all bed?!
Fie on my ass-etiquette! Surely my folly be lie my greater wreason when I be lie 'pon such unwreasoned beddings when just beside, my bed do bid me bide my head!
My tit is flea-bit, my breast is crest-fall, and OH! but I would my salt water droppings drip still faster than they do this present --- then would they wave me away as the sea to soft beds of cotton, perchance to dwreem of mem'wries forgotten!
As per usual, dire assitance require 'pon your earliest convene.
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