matthew and the lovely tamsin (sp?) here and jet-lagged or sick of me quick for they were disappeared 'fore even i rose and i'm like daddy rising earlier and earlier as i get older presumably so i can get a head start on being crazy through the day. fuck it. i can come up with shit as murderously loony as that motherfucker poindexter but i have made myself a nigger-work career out of staying out of the damn establishment machines that would be capable of implementing such madness. daddy. he never get his ass off the fence. hung there like a fucking scarecrow. i remember about '90 daddy firing off letters to british leyland castigating the scum for their poor marketing of range rovers among them new england bobos and such. sure enough daddy looks at the problem and soon you can't move for the range rovers all over yuppieland. so what'd he think gonna come of this? he think them suits at leyland gonna send him a thank you note or something? he holding leyland paper that it makes any difference to him? poor silly man.
one of the things you might read in marx, if you want to read that way, is that machines turned people into machines. or rather pieces of machines. it's that being turned from a whole thing into a piece of something that is the heart of alienation. maybe. the memory of humanity that a star trek borg (sp?) might feel eating at you off in a corner of your mind you can't seem to locate. but once we start thinking machineishly, why it's hard (maybe impossible) to expel them sprocket and fly-wheel viruses, and we look back at the time before machines and nevertheless every thing still looks sort of mechanistic...
when swift wrote 'letter to a young clergyman' it was still possible for him to justify his faith in terms of reason but remember swift could still reasonably suppose the world to have been in spin a mere ten thousand years. in the nineteenth century all of culture did a big conceptual doobie hit and time flew. whoa.
in 1937 satchell paige and cool poppa bell and josh gibson went down to the dominican republic to play ball for the new dictator trujillo. that was the house i started building but then i decided that house would look better if i moved it over to the roiling font of death what is my poor native state and gave it a radio station and a whorehouse. you can still see them satchell paige posters if you look up under that other trash that's accumulated. those charts of the history of brazil and dogtags tm. and whatnots.
do you think jesus was a good carpenter? or do you think he was a nigger rigging close enough for jazz shoody ass builder like me?
tell you something: i don't need a house for shelter. hell, i can stand pretty comfortable in a storm. lightning and i are old friends. i just need walls to hang pictures on.
10:53:22 AM 
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