So, yeah, you get stuck on this asteroid, right? And it gives you a great view, as you zing around the sun...But the asteroid is crammed full of belligerent primates, and they're doing their level best to talk YOU into being a primate, so you can get along.
But primates aren't much company, and even the smarter ones tend to talk past each other. So you sit there, wondering how the hell you got there, and wondering if you'll ever get to go home...Back to that East coast island where they had real people, people who felt so isolated by their environment that they NEEDED to relate to each other.
Of course, that island is gone now, absorbed by the monoculture, so even if you could get THERE, you'd still be HERE, if you know what I mean. The Strand is long gone, it's some kind of hipster joint now, and Chess's Fish & Chips (closed for lunch) has been replaced by McDonalds (open 24 hours). The woods behind Winnipeg Street are all gone, it's strip malls all the way to the airport, and the unarmed and rather friendly police have been traded in for big fucking spiders with mob guns and eyes made out of flint.
So you really have no place else to go. There's a freedom in this, of course, as you can write or say or create anything you want, and the monkeys hardly ever kill you over it, at least anymore. No, it doesn't even register on them, and therefore you can grind out your frustration and your loneliness in any way you choose, in perfect safety.
So I think the best thing to do is sit tight, ignore the primates in the same way they ignore you, and just do your own thing. And if you miss Hank and Johnny and Toichi, well, you can't have everything, right? You can have all the super-sized shit you like, you just can't have any companionship. Learn to deal with it. Take your pills, they will make you feel better about things, at least for a while...Let you forget that you're a million fucking miles from home, and you can never, ever go back again.
I'd write a symphony, but nobody is here to hear it.
I'd write a manifesto, a scathing indictment of the asteroid, but nobody's around to get mad.
I'd write my congressman, but I'm pretty sure I'm not actually one of his constituents, for I am on an asteroid, not in a penthouse.
I'd do something, anything, but it's only for my own benefit. I'd scream, rant, rage, stomp around puking blood, but it would only be a narcissistic, self-indulgent emo howling. Curly and Payne are dead, and I think The Machine™ is actually answering my letters, telling me what I want to hear. It's not hostile, after all. Happy cogs last a little longer, less downtime.
I honestly think that I have nothing left to add, in this rant or otherwise. Empty space has no appreciation for that sort of thing, and neither do the monkeys that I one day dreamt of training.
So when you see a shooting star, think for a minute about poor old Dok, stuck up here. And then go back to whatever it is you were doing...Just one more aging malcontent in a very contented universe, indeed.
Okay for now,
Dok
:sad: I can't really think of any response, other than that.
Sometimes I think an asteroid would be more peaceful. Fewer screeching, grabby primates...
Quote from: Luna on September 27, 2011, 05:32:06 PM
Sometimes I think an asteroid would be more peaceful. Fewer screeching, grabby primates...
nm
Quote from: Doktor Howl on September 27, 2011, 05:33:13 PM
Quote from: Luna on September 27, 2011, 05:32:06 PM
Sometimes I think an asteroid would be more peaceful. Fewer screeching, grabby primates...
nm
I hear it, Dok... I do. Good stuff, my head's just in a different place this week.
I'm saying it wrong.
Quote from: Doktor Howl on September 27, 2011, 05:16:46 PM
So, yeah, you get stuck on this asteroid, right? And it gives you a great view, as you zing around the sun...But the asteroid is crammed full of belligerent primates, and they're doing their level best to talk YOU into being a primate, so you can get along.
But primates aren't much company, and even the smarter ones tend to talk past each other. So you sit there, wondering how the hell you got there, and wondering if you'll ever get to go home...Back to that East coast island where they had real people, people who felt so isolated by their environment that they NEEDED to relate to each other.
Of course, that island is gone now, absorbed by the monoculture, so even if you could get THERE, you'd still be HERE, if you know what I mean. The Strand is long gone, it's some kind of hipster joint now, and Chess's Fish & Chips (closed for lunch) has been replaced by McDonalds (open 24 hours). The woods behind Winnipeg Street are all gone, it's strip malls all the way to the airport, and the unarmed and rather friendly police have been traded in for big fucking spiders with mob guns and eyes made out of flint.
So you really have no place else to go. There's a freedom in this, of course, as you can write or say or create anything you want, and the monkeys hardly ever kill you over it, at least anymore. No, it doesn't even register on them, and therefore you can grind out your frustration and your loneliness in any way you choose, in perfect safety.
So I think the best thing to do is sit tight, ignore the primates in the same way they ignore you, and just do your own thing. And if you miss Hank and Johnny and Toichi, well, you can't have everything, right? You can have all the super-sized shit you like, you just can't have any companionship. Learn to deal with it. Take your pills, they will make you feel better about things, at least for a while...Let you forget that you're a million fucking miles from home, and you can never, ever go back again.
I'd write a symphony, but nobody is here to hear it.
I'd write a manifesto, a scathing indictment of the asteroid, but nobody's around to get mad.
I'd write my congressman, but I'm pretty sure I'm not actually one of his constituents, for I am on an asteroid, not in a penthouse.
I'd do something, anything, but it's only for my own benefit. I'd scream, rant, rage, stomp around puking blood, but it would only be a narcissistic, self-indulgent emo howling. Curly and Payne are dead, and I think The Machine™ is actually answering my letters, telling me what I want to hear. It's not hostile, after all. Happy cogs last a little longer, less downtime.
I honestly think that I have nothing left to add, in this rant or otherwise. Empty space has no appreciation for that sort of thing, and neither do the monkeys that I one day dreamt of training.
So when you see a shooting star, think for a minute about poor old Dok, stuck up here. And then go back to whatever it is you were doing...Just one more aging malcontent in a very contented universe, indeed.
Okay for now,
Dok
Ground control to Major Tom, they said.
We all know Major Tom's a junkie, they said.
Major Tom was the only motherfucker having any fun, is the only one who ever will have fun. And while he loves his wife, he loves his spaceship more.
Also, an update for Roger: I'm not dead yet, though this part of the highway is looking mighty familiar. I'm sure Curly
must be just around the bend.
Ain't no lost highway. It's just cracked concrete on the ruins of a dead planet. This here is the lost spaceway, like when you come out of twist, only you're not where you were supposed to be, you're in one of those sideways places because maybe the drive failed, and Curly? Ho ho! Don't look to closely at that deflated spacesuit drifting by, kids! Nothing good for you there!
And in these sideways places, things are just a little...off. Like maybe you're in the universe next door, some horrible fucking place where rationality was abandoned, and everyone went trudging back into the mire of superstition. Where the obvious thing to do about shrinking resources isn't to go get MORE, it's to burn up what you have, trying to take what the other guy has. It's a nowhere place, and it has no future...But the drive is broke, and there's no way home. All you can do is keep recording, in case someone finds your log, so you keep recording until the battery runs ou
Quote from: Doktor Howl on September 27, 2011, 05:53:00 PM
Ain't no lost highway. It's just cracked concrete on the ruins of a dead planet. This here is the lost spaceway, like when you come out of twist, only you're not where you were supposed to be, you're in one of those sideways places because maybe the drive failed, and Curly? Ho ho! Don't look to closely at that deflated spacesuit drifting by, kids! Nothing good for you there!
And in these sideways places, things are just a little...off. Like maybe you're in the universe next door, some horrible fucking place where rationality was abandoned, and everyone went trudging back into the mire of superstition. Where the obvious thing to do about shrinking resources isn't to go get MORE, it's to burn up what you have, trying to take what the other guy has. It's a nowhere place, and it has no future...But the drive is broke, and there's no way home. All you can do is keep recording, in case someone finds your log, so you keep recording until the battery runs ou
There is a soul to the desolation. A twisted, putrid, betentacled soul to be sure. But it is there.
And
we are I am it's Chaplain.
We've lost The Lost Highway have we? I think not, it's just ALL Lost Highway now, as far as the eye can see. Except, really, it has
always been that way to those who travel it. Let him with eyes to see, and all that hippie shit Jeshua ben Joseph was always banging out.
I am The Mission, Doktor. Or I will be as soon as I can find Curly to play my John the Baptist.
There come these horrible moments where the asteroid your shooting through that empty space appears to go where you want it to go. I say horrible because who you when you're straining your eyes at a million blinking lights, connecting each one into some pattern that looks pleasing and ending up familiar, you start to think you need to end up there. Maybe you do. Maybe there's a million blinking miracles in those millions of tiny dots.
So you steer your adorable, quaint little rock towards them, and after you keep jamming levers that MUST be big enough to get the job done into what ends up being your own backside you begin to feel that you're succeeding. And that's the trap. You're not hurtling though space in any direction you weren't already.
You are still circling that giant, hideous, blinding light despite all your efforts to imagine that this isn't the same ride it was before, same song and dance, same cold void despite that FUCKING light.
And that's OK. Until its not.
I guess what I'm saying is I know something about howling on my little rock.
I know what rocks are for.
Stoning the heathen, or standing on while you preach The Word.
And a rock is a rock.
What if some of us think we can reach our own conclusion without being "trained" by someone else?
Aww is there someone out there preventing you actualizing your potential?
/
:hosrie:
Seriously though, what the hell are you talking about?
Quote from: Alty on September 27, 2011, 06:59:38 PM
Aww is there someone out there preventing you actualizing your potential?
/
:hosrie:
Seriously though, what the hell are you talking about?
"I honestly think that I have nothing left to add, in this rant or otherwise. Empty space has no appreciation for that sort of thing, and neither do
the monkeys that I one day dreamt of training."
No, no one is preventing me from anything.
Damn you, you figured it out. This is a deep cover training facility. Due to your tenacity you will be contacted soon and will be sent through paramilitary training.
/
:genius:
Oh, you don't want in. In that case just stay right where you are. HIS mind lasors need to adjust their focus...
You'll love it here, it's so warm...
Quote from: The Rev on September 27, 2011, 06:51:56 PM
What if some of us think we can reach our own conclusion without being "trained" by someone else?
Well then you're either NOT a monkey or, more likely, you're one of those monkey's who's just clever enough to THINK he's not a monkey and is therefore quite dangerous.
Also, addressing the bolded part of the question, how many of you are there?
Quote from: The Rev on September 27, 2011, 07:05:41 PMQuote from: Alty on September 27, 2011, 06:59:38 PMAww is there someone out there preventing you actualizing your potential?
/
:hosrie:
Seriously though, what the hell are you talking about?
"I honestly think that I have nothing left to add, in this rant or otherwise. Empty space has no appreciation for that sort of thing, and neither do the monkeys that I one day dreamt of training."
No, no one is preventing me from anything.
Just a tiny bit of terminology before go very downhill:
There's monkeys, and there's bipeds. Is two different things.
If you're busy trying to reach your own conclusion about everything, you might just be a biped (though not necessarily).
Monkeys as a metaphor doesn't always mean all people on this world, everywhere.
Some people are always on the look for a guiding hand, whether there's one or not, so they can follow it.
Some people are always looking for a guiding hand, whether there's one or not, so they can bite it.
They're the actions of the same sort of mind. One obsessed with obedience one way or another.
Though in all fairness I should disclose that Chuck fucking Phalaniuk told me I had a chip on my shoulder.
Alty nailed it.
Quote from: The Rev on September 27, 2011, 06:51:56 PM
What if some of us think we can reach our own conclusion without being "trained" by someone else?
Then you're probably a human and not a monkey.
I fail to see the conflict, here.
No pain, no regret, no need to apologize to myself or anyone else for the actions of others. This is my Goddamn asteroid and those are my Goddamn monkeys, and if anyone doesn't like that, or feels the need to manufacture some form of insult out of what I've said, that's simply not my fucking problem. Go get your own Goddamn asteroid.
Nothing makes sense here anymore! We're always headed to something else and it really is something else, but it's never by choice.
A cop took my license a bit ago, I'm forced to have my significant other drive me around and that person doesn't exactly fan the flame in my heart 99% of the time. A couple days later I tried to buy a pack of cigarettes, but forgot I had no ID. I know, I know, it's just an excuse to hold a lighter close to my face and try to suck in some hot shit through a tube filter and call it soul food, and sometimes a cigar isn't a cigar. That all got shot down by a case of bad timing and an unpaid court fine. It's like he descended on a string, deus ex machina style, and just stamped DENIED on my pack of unlit matches, drenching them in red ink. By law my flames are kept at bay.
Anyway, my partner is driving to work with a learner's permit, so I must go as a hand-holding chaperone, and we pass a corner store, windows plastered in wrinkled papers, a perfect insulation of old-time convenience, only now the A-shaped sign outside doesn't just advertise phillycheesesteaks but tacos and burritos and pupusas, hot and fresh for the latino construction workers who are building the upscale townhouses next door. I feel so out of place.
Across the street from the tiny spit-wad of a shop are huge multi-level houses, half-naked, waiting for some rich family to move into them, only to leave every day for an hour-long commute to an even bigger steel building in D.C. or Tysons Corner or McLean depending on just how rich they intend to be. I feel so out of place.
The insulation is exposed on these future-houses. I guess I feel like this is where I belong, I just don't want to. In a sense that I will end up there no matter how uncomfortable it makes me. I feel like I'm stuck between a rock and a hard place, either way it's shit. This rock is getting harder to see, it's getting covered with composite materials, plastic, steel, and tar, spires propping up daily like cold hard cocks, (not even that, more like dildos,) challenging the sky, challenging my comparatively tiny body, no matter how warm it promises to be to the people around me. The world is transforming into something with an alien geometry.
Who wants me where I am? Who wants me where I plan to go? I want to go to Colorado, not just because weed is legalized (another excuse to suck a hot stick into my body like it will really actually melt my heart for real this time) but because I get free tuition at a college there as a member of a Native American tribe. My land! Only it's not our land, it's their land, and they took it from us in exchange for free knowledge. Like I can build a house out of college credits and make a bed there at night. Maybe I can if I play the game for enough years.
I am unemployed. I am 22. My partner can't afford our rent. I don't love like I did before. My dad died around Christmastime last year and my family has dissolved into our own individual poverties. I don't quite know what world I'm living in anymore.
Well, a rock is a rock until it decides to just be an asshole and build some psychic armor so you forget what it was to begin with. Then it's just a hard place all around. Whatever that is supposed to be. To me, our asteroid turned itself into a spaceship a long time ago, and no one is at the controls (or maybe someone is but it's not me), and it gets harder and harder to resist going into a long-term hibernation like some other passengers have. Are we waiting for some kind of autopilot evolution to just spring up on us, saying "thanks for waiting, primates, welcome to heaven!" What's the difference between that and waiting for death? I have to DO something before then, definitely, but I can't seem to get to the place where I actually want to do it.
In the meantime, the landscaping company here is TOO good at their job! They come in with leaf-blowers by the hour to sweep away the leaves and tin cans and rubble so I can't see it anymore. Space travel, 21st Century Style, is by definition supposed to be clean as a whistle you're not allowed to blow.
I wonder what tomorrow will bring. I plan on staying awake for it in case I find a rock to trip on for once, because it sure isn't here. There are no gates of hell to trip at anymore, but people like to think there's still plenty to flip out about. Does any of that make sense? I'd be surprised if it did, because to me nothing makes sense here anymore.
Quote from: Fuck You One-Eye on September 27, 2011, 07:32:01 PM
Quote from: The Rev on September 27, 2011, 06:51:56 PM
What if some of us think we can reach our own conclusion without being "trained" by someone else?
Well then you're either NOT a monkey or, more likely, you're one of those monkey's who's just clever enough to THINK he's not a monkey and is therefore quite dangerous.
Also, addressing the bolded part of the question, how many of you are there?
At last count, no less than 10 distinct and different personalities! :D
Quote from: Doktor Howl on September 27, 2011, 09:57:26 PM
Quote from: The Rev on September 27, 2011, 06:51:56 PM
What if some of us think we can reach our own conclusion without being "trained" by someone else?
Then you're probably a human and not a monkey.
I fail to see the conflict, here.
AH, I missed the distinction.
Quote from: Triple Zero on September 27, 2011, 07:48:52 PM
Quote from: The Rev on September 27, 2011, 07:05:41 PMQuote from: Alty on September 27, 2011, 06:59:38 PMAww is there someone out there preventing you actualizing your potential?
/
:hosrie:
Seriously though, what the hell are you talking about?
"I honestly think that I have nothing left to add, in this rant or otherwise. Empty space has no appreciation for that sort of thing, and neither do the monkeys that I one day dreamt of training."
No, no one is preventing me from anything.
Just a tiny bit of terminology before go very downhill:
There's monkeys, and there's bipeds. Is two different things.
If you're busy trying to reach your own conclusion about everything, you might just be a biped (though not necessarily).
Monkeys as a metaphor doesn't always mean all people on this world, everywhere.
Not sure if I'll ever get promoted to biped. Some days I just can't decide whether to scream like a monkey or to shit in my hand and throw it. :)
Excellent OP!