Tuesday, March 30, 2004

Street Spirit (Fade Out)

I supposed I'd like to say this again: Radiohead is still kicking my ass.

I am pretty out of it today. I've noticed I cannot even concentrate or think much anymore, I hate thinking about things and understanding them so much. Another thing to credit school with: it has taught me that instead of worrying or thinking or understanding something, I can just half-ass my way through it, because in the end I don't really care--well, I don't care on some big extent that I care enough to actually care about something I'm doing in school.

I feel pretty burned out. You know, a candle that's lost its flame, that can't burn on the whick. Or maybe it's that my candle's almost out of wax to burn, and I'm scared to burn the rest of that wax, because the rest of that wax is everything I've ever had that's actually me--not something else anything wants me to be.

I could be writing stories. I just don't have the will. Now, anyway, I don't.

I don't even do my homework anymore. It's gotten so monotonous and annoying and a waste of time to me that I sort of zone out as I do it. I can't think about the homework. I can't think of what I'm doing at some point in time. I just can't.

And when I'm learning in school I care but I don't care. When it gets to the point of something I care less for, I just act like I'm listening but I end up zoning off. When I'm zoning off it's all blank, too. I don't think anymore. I used to think, you know. I used to think. Not anymore. Now I just am shoved education down my throat, and I listen to it and I hear it, but I don't really heart it. What I learn means nothing to me.

Instead of learning, I'd rather be experiencing. . .something. I'd rather be doing something that makes me feel like I'm going somewhere. Because doing schoolwork and homework and all this same crap each and every day, it feels like I'm in a circle. If you know anything about a circle, you know a circle is three hundred and sixty degrees: 360. And you can walk all over it and inside its area and on its perimeter, but you're still on the same circle. You can walk all over the circle, but it's still the same scenery, it's still the same number of degrees in it: 360, and you are pretty much just a "drop of water in an atmosphere," you are just "dust in the wind," you are just a person, walking in a circle, that is lost, that doesn't understand why it all must be a circle, why it must be so mechanical, why it must be understood. You're forced to traverse this circle, but the more you learn about it, the less you know.

The more I learn the less I know. I think it's ironic. We sit here and learn all this stuff each and every day, we analyze things until we can no longer analyze them, we make things and understand how they work.

But learning and coming to understand something only leads things to be more verbose; more complex; more harder and bigger and larger. Things get out of proportions, and you no longer know how big or small they are, all you know is that a circle has 360 degrees in it, and that its diameter spans the center, and that as you walk you keep going over the same things, no matter how much more you know about it. It seems less greater and more complex and harder to understand when you can't even cognizance what you're trying to find here in this circle.

Spin, spin, spin: that's all you do. You walk and journey and span and find and seek and search, but you're still stuck to the circle, like a hampster stuck to a wheel, spinning endlessly, perpetually; still stuck to the wheel like an axle holds a wheel to a car and makes it, hard, stay there; still on the circle, like the Earth and how it orbits the sun, how grabity handles it all, how all the planets orbit, too.

The further I go the less I know. When I was littler, that was when I knew the most.

It's the children of the world who know the most.

The rest of us are just dead, decaying tissue. We're dropping like flies, and as we're dropping more and more each day, we have to procreate, we have to give birth: we create maggots. Maggots which think they are so divine and beautiful that their image of beauty isn't brainwashed into them. Maggots who, when they look at themselves in the mirror, see something beautiful, when, in fact, they aren't beautiful at all. When they are fools.

How is one a fool if one doesn't know what a fool is and that one is a fool? How does a child know he is a child when he doesn't know he's a child?

Ah, but would I were a maggot, sucking most sweet divine. How many of you know what I mean by that? I explained it to Michael here, and he said it was pretty damn awesome.

Well, what I mean is just what I've said: we as so-called "adults" are such fools. The children, they are the one that keep our race going, keep it alive, and are most alive, while we are dying more and more each day, while we learn more and know less in the process.

"Be a world child
Form a circle
Before we all go under."
-Radiohead, "Street Spirit (Fade Out)"

The children make a circle, and when they see what they've been making their whole lives, they try to grow wings; the maggots try to grow wings and fly out of the circle, way up to the skies, like a space rocket sojourning to the stars, the heavenly bodies, those beatific loves that glow so softly smooth int he light, those ethereal realities.

And the children find that the circle is only 2-D. That the vision of us as humans is only 2-D. Everything is in bits and bytes and jagged and obtusely askew. To them it is. But to the adults, it is normal.

When the children try to fly, they learn the rules. And the rules are bitches. And that is how the maggots turn to flies. This is why I say, "Would I were a maggot, sucking most sweet divine."

Our whole lives is maggots turning into flies, and when we're flies we eat feces, and as we're dying and decaying each moment, the children are handed what's dying and forced to eat it, regurgitate it, and grow from it, until they are truly born into this world.

It's amazing that stars even exist. That dreams even live in my skull, this insipid, useless flesh. It's amazing I even try sometimes.

Optimists are those who think the best is yet to come.

Pessismists are those who think the best happened long ago, and was torn from them, and raped from them, and coerced from them.

I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which I'm dying
Are the best I've ever had.

That can be taken two ways, for those of you who don't think. Don't think like I one day won't either.

Dreams has two meanings.

There are those dreams we dream in our sleep. And there are those dreams we dream in reality.

I find that the two aren't too different at all. The dreams we dream as we sleep are just as fictional and unreal as those dreams we dream in reality. They're just as useless. They're just as frail. As fragile. They aren't too different from one another.

One who dreams in reality dreams in his sleep, for in dreams there is nothing. In dreams there is nothing but decay. The reek stench. The dying.

"I can feel death
Blue hand is touching me

All these things into position
All these things we'll one day swallow whole

Fade out
Again

We'll fade out again

This machine will
Will not communicate
These thoughts and the strain I am under

Be a world child
Form a circle
Before we all go under

And fade out
Again

Fade out
Again."

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