I hate America.

It is time for another one.

Die, capitalist pigs, die.

“early in the mornin’
rise up to the street
light me up my cigarette and i
strap shoes on my feet
got to find a reason
reason things went wrong
got to find a reason why
my money’s all gone
i got a dalmation
i can still get high
i can play the guitar like
a motherfuckin’ riot.”

alice . in . chains

“Hey, I ain’t never coming home
Hey, I’ll just wander my own road
Hey, I can’t meet you here tomorrow
Say goodbye don’t follow
Misery so hollow

Hey you, you’re livin’ life full throttle
Hey you, pass me down that bottle, yeah
Hey you, you can’t shake me round now
I get so lost and don’t know how, yeah
And it hurts to care, I’m going down

Forgot my woman, lost my friends
Things I’d done and where I’ve been
Sleep in sweat the mirrors cold
See my face it’s growin’ old
Scared to death no reason why
Do whatever to get me by
Think about the things I said
Read the page it’s cold and dead

Take me home”

–

Four things essential for my sanity, in no particular order:

– Guitar
– Paintbrushes and canvas and wood
– Pen and paper
– Camera

Right now I have two of four. As a consequence, I am precisely 50% sane.

—

I have been called a “genius” to my face more times than I can count. Counselors, I.Q. test administrators, relatives, child psychologists, blah, blah. Aside from the fact that it puts one in an impossible, awkward situation (what in god’s name do you say in response?), they’re all lost. Genius is in motivation. I have none.

The rest is nothing more than masturbation.

I am not a genius, I am a nihilist. I make a good priest, not a good luminary.

I just saw a full-on picture of fall, with leaves turning red, falling, white skies, damp sidewalks… I nearly fucking burst out crying. It has been two years since I had a proper fall or a proper winter. I have to have them. I have to return to somewhere with seasons. All of my strength and everything that I am come from fall and winter.

I am impossibly, impossibly sad and full of longing for the seasons of the hearth. I can’t bear to be awake right now or to look outside these godforsaken windows and see nothing but fucking palm trees, the liars’ liars. I have to get away.

Bewildering. Truly.

—

In western modernity, no-one has integrity. It is simply not valued. In fact, it is roundly mocked and despised. Those few of us who do our best to have it…

…are forever at risk.

—

Oh, and California is a self-important, sad, impoverished place. I don’t mean financially. I mean ideologically, intellectually, and experientially. Californinans have developed an insular culture that believes that there are only three joys in the entire universe — sun, sex, and cash. All other things in the world and gone out of it as well are, to Californians, punishments and disasters.

Ninety-nine percent of the beauty of life is lost to them, and the trick, while you are here, is to avoid being tricked into becoming one of them.

I, myself, will be snow camping weekends and living in old cities weekdays soon enough. And it suits me.

—

Ich fühle nichts. Ich glaube nichts. Ich bin nichts. Es ist nur so.

Ende.