Degradation is always in the texture of everything

…especially pop culture… not //real// pop culture as in grassroots culture, the evil pop culture created by magnates so that kids can have their consumer rebellions in place of real ones.  I don’t mean that they are rebellious consumers, but that they buy rebellion and naughtiness/evil as some sort of lame imprimatur of independence while they work their shit jobs or watch shit TV and eat shit food in their shit bedrooms.  The ugliness of the t-shirt slogans I typed up in my previous two posts is just yet more proof of how vapid and awful popular culture is now.

Subway ads: does it get worse? Horrible pig/bear monsters, fake shiny trash women in bandage dresses, vicious mansports, miserable dystopias… now and then the relief of an SVA ad or a museum exhibition ad…

Degradation is always in the texture of everything

Then in order to feel more “free” I watch a TV show about a prison.

No…I binge watch tv shows about prison.  I can’t get enough of prison prison prison prison prison.

Life has taught me that we are in a snakepit.  The beloveds put on wigs, for example, so they look like humans, but in fact they are snakes.  Some snakes leave their pregnant wives for little blondes…but WHO CARES? Because degradation is always in the texture of everything!

Accepting this, I am beginning to think, will just make my body and mind work better.

As I type this, kids in Japan with blue hair are pretend shooting pretend enemies in arcades, there is a whirl of metallic sounds, they are stamping and clamping.  Degradation…the orange hair of the hosts, their strange pointy footwear like the strange pointy footwear of the snakes.

In order to feel more boring I binge watch a TV show about a beautiful drug dealer. Dante licks his own back.  I binge watch TV because I want it to swallow me up, to get away from the pictures of Richard Nixon and the hellbeast pigbear in the subway.

Some days the world is my oyster, I wallow around in the oyster, its slimy flesh, for example on the bus from the reversible destiny loft to Kichijoji, thinking this is a kind of freedom and I have had a lot of tea, the world is my oyster, my matcha, my gomoku kamameshi, my kaiten zushi, I can just let it spin before me and take the most tantalizing tidbits, ah.  But I am reveling so hard in being there that I am almost not really being there, I am focusing more on the reveling. This forces a kind of amplification of  and effect-imposition on experience, as if I were using some kind of WAWA pedal:  the druggy, passionately appreciated moment…it extends out in time…becomes burned into memory as a sense-impression.

I remember when I used to feel accountable to this blog.

I thought that if I didn’t blog my world would wither. Of course this proved not to be true, but there is something in me that wants it anyway. I don’t care if you read it. It is just a place to put things. In a way, I’d rather you didn’t read it. No, I don’t care.

And now it is 9:46 and being in front of a bright screen is a bad thing.

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