More Fire for the People
3rd July 2007, 01:40
I had hoped to illuminate the darkness about mankind only to realize that men do not have eyes — only hands to feel and grasp. I see nothing, therefore I feel everything; converse, if I were to see everything, I would feel nothing. Being unable to set about describing the spirit of life I felt content to set about describing the textures of life: and as note I discovered red has a feeling as does blue, green, yellow, and black. Only white feels like nothing and therefore I can see white. Thus, I have no feelings for white.
I have dreams — no, wait, sorry, they are delusions. The difference being dreams are predicated on the basis of sex and thirst; wait, never mind, they were dreams. I have this dream that one day I will leave this place — these trees, these god damn trees everywhere. More trees, chickens, and cows than people: chickens are fucking terrible conversationists.
I am white — at least I appear white, pale white. Since I am white I can see myself but I cannot feel myself: I wish I were black or brown, then I would be able to feel myself in the midst. I have this dream that one day I will leave this place for Brooklyn. I have never been to Brooklyn, or New York City, or anywhere for that matter. I once went to Kansas City but that was only to an amusement park.
I have this recurring dream — it’s a lucid dream. I’m on this subway — I’ve never been on a subway — and I’m talking to this beautiful black girl. She’s the dream. I can count the black women I know personally on one hand. She’s like me though. Not in that we look the same — I cannot see black, only my own dull whiteness — so I feel her: we are both poor, both lost, both eclectics — we both fit in and we both stick out, we both love to talk and are too shy to talk. I invent this charming and dashing statement to say to her: but I just sit down and glance at her like an idiot. Lucidly speaking I am incompetent.
Some days I want to be an anarchist because red and black feel good and because I want to have fun. Other days I am a nihilist because I have no culture, no home, and no life. I intoxicate myself with independent films, existentialist literature, caffeine, and various prescription pills. I like pop culture — I think it’s fun and entertaining but I think the only reason why I can genuinely rather that artificially enjoy it is because I am as acquainted with the underground as well. Sometimes I feel like I am a bad communist. I don’t have the courage to speak and even if I did what would I say ‘workers of the world…’ fuck… do I know any workers that would listen to me?
I’m an atheist — I still go to church regularly. I hate most of the people I know or at least I can’t get over their personality flaws. I once saw some middle class black women commentate about how they would never date a white man but later I saw a broke ass black dominatrix talk about her attraction to white men. More than once I’ve seen Mexican Americans wonder if they have any Native American ancestry: I have a relative who was in the klan, he was mixed race. Supposedly my grandfather was a bootlegger in the 1920s — he was eight years old.
I miss the 1920s. Maybe I would fit in there — the black girl from the subway would like it too.
I have dreams — no, wait, sorry, they are delusions. The difference being dreams are predicated on the basis of sex and thirst; wait, never mind, they were dreams. I have this dream that one day I will leave this place — these trees, these god damn trees everywhere. More trees, chickens, and cows than people: chickens are fucking terrible conversationists.
I am white — at least I appear white, pale white. Since I am white I can see myself but I cannot feel myself: I wish I were black or brown, then I would be able to feel myself in the midst. I have this dream that one day I will leave this place for Brooklyn. I have never been to Brooklyn, or New York City, or anywhere for that matter. I once went to Kansas City but that was only to an amusement park.
I have this recurring dream — it’s a lucid dream. I’m on this subway — I’ve never been on a subway — and I’m talking to this beautiful black girl. She’s the dream. I can count the black women I know personally on one hand. She’s like me though. Not in that we look the same — I cannot see black, only my own dull whiteness — so I feel her: we are both poor, both lost, both eclectics — we both fit in and we both stick out, we both love to talk and are too shy to talk. I invent this charming and dashing statement to say to her: but I just sit down and glance at her like an idiot. Lucidly speaking I am incompetent.
Some days I want to be an anarchist because red and black feel good and because I want to have fun. Other days I am a nihilist because I have no culture, no home, and no life. I intoxicate myself with independent films, existentialist literature, caffeine, and various prescription pills. I like pop culture — I think it’s fun and entertaining but I think the only reason why I can genuinely rather that artificially enjoy it is because I am as acquainted with the underground as well. Sometimes I feel like I am a bad communist. I don’t have the courage to speak and even if I did what would I say ‘workers of the world…’ fuck… do I know any workers that would listen to me?
I’m an atheist — I still go to church regularly. I hate most of the people I know or at least I can’t get over their personality flaws. I once saw some middle class black women commentate about how they would never date a white man but later I saw a broke ass black dominatrix talk about her attraction to white men. More than once I’ve seen Mexican Americans wonder if they have any Native American ancestry: I have a relative who was in the klan, he was mixed race. Supposedly my grandfather was a bootlegger in the 1920s — he was eight years old.
I miss the 1920s. Maybe I would fit in there — the black girl from the subway would like it too.